Shadow in the Dark Read online

“Wake up,” it said again.

  He opened his eyes.

  A black robe leaned over him; hands held him firmly by both shoulders. He pushed hard against the robe. “I don’t want to die!”

  But as he pressed into the angel of death, his hands touched tenderness, not bone. The black robe retreated from him, taking two steps back, as though it had been startled.

  He closed his eyes and opened them again. This wasn’t right at all.

  The trees were gone. The trail was gone. The hole was gone.

  He wasn’t on hard dirt; this was soft cloth. He lay in a bed.

  How had he got out of the forest and into this little room? Light gleamed through a narrow window in a stone wall. A wooden desk stood in a corner with a tiny stool.

  There was no hideous creature, no angel of death—only two men next to the bed. They wore black robes with long, hooded cowls. Sleeveless vests draped over their robes, and belts encircled their waists.

  They gaped at him and at each other.

  Maybe it had all been a nightmare.

  The younger man—the one he’d pushed away—leaned a bit closer to speak. He was thin and clean-shaven, but his eyes were different colors: one brown and one blue.

  “I am Brother Andrew,” he said in the angel’s gentle voice. “Be at peace, my son.”

  The man bowed in a gracious gesture, revealing a head shaved in the style of a tonsure, with a large bald area on top and a narrow ring of hair encircling it. Someone had once told him why some men shaved their heads this way. If only he could remember the reason or who had explained it to him.

  “We are Benedictine monks,” said the older man, who stroked a well-groomed white beard. A large belly pushed out his robe in the center. “You are recovering in the infirmary here at Harwood Abbey. I am Father Clement, the prior of this abbey—second only to the abbot himself.”

  Harwood Abbey. That name sounded familiar. He might have been here before.

  He tilted his head to take in the whole room, but pain shot across the back of his neck. What was wrapped around his skull? He reached to touch his hair only to find cloth bandages. Something must have happened to his head. And that nasty smell in the air must be his own stench. How long had he been stuck in this bed? And how had he gotten here?

  The monk with different-colored eyes—Brother Andrew—nodded. “Aye. You were injured, child. Do you remember?”

  The hole; the creature; the angel. Nothing else. He shook his head just barely.

  The monk seemed disappointed. “No matter,” he said, patting the boy’s arm.

  “What are you called, boy?” the prior asked. “Your name?”

  He cleared his throat to speak, but his voice still croaked out like dust. “I am called . . .”

  What was he called? The question was simple enough. Everyone had a name.

  “I am called . . .”

  The monks exchanged a glance.

  “Do not worry, boy; you are probably just famished.” The prior patted his own generous belly. “You have been recovering here four days. Do you wish for something to eat?”

  He gave a pained nod, though his growling stomach had already given the answer.

  “I will go fetch you something,” the prior said, stepping from the room.

  That left Brother Andrew, who pulled the stool next to the bed and sat, smoothing out the wrinkles on his robe. It was long and dark, like the robe of the angel of death.

  The boy’s face tingled and grew cold.

  “Do not be frightened,” the monk said, looking intently at him. “All Benedictine monks wear black robes. ’Tis why they call us the ‘black monks,’ you know.”

  He must have been staring too hard at the monk’s robe.

  “There are also the ‘white monks’ of Citeaux; they wear white robes.” The monk gave a mischievous wink. “Our robes are better than theirs.”

  He forced a smile for the man, who was trying so hard to cheer him up. The monk must feel sorry for him, lying with bandages on his head, not even able to remember his own name.

  The prior returned with a wooden tray. On it was a small wood plate and cup that held beans, a loaf of dark bread, and some water.

  “Take, eat,” the monk said.

  He sat up. Dizziness. He paused a moment before speaking. “Thank you.”

  He attempted a few bites of the dry bread, but chewing caused pain to shoot up his cheeks. The bread could barely get moist enough to swallow. He took a sip of water, joyously wet and sweet. He started eating faster, and Brother Andrew started talking faster.

  “No doubt, you have heard of Saint Benedict. He was the founder of our community over six hundred years ago. He wrote The Rule that governs our lives.”

  This time the monk said it as though he didn’t expect an answer.

  It was one thing not to know about the monks’ founder and all their rules. Why would he know any of that anyway? But surely he must know something about his own life.

  Like his family—everyone had a family, so where was his? Did he have a brother, or sister? That seemed something a person should know. In fact, how could he know what a “brother” or “sister” was, yet not remember whether he had one or the other?

  He ate another bit of bread that he’d rolled and softened between his fingers.

  He must have a mother and father. Where were they? Did they know he was at this place?

  He finished his last sip of water.

  Brother Andrew spoke again. “My son, do you remember your name now that you have eaten?”

  He shook his head.

  “How about the name of our king, boy?” the prior said. “Or the year?”

  “The king.” He paused. The king ruled the land, of course. “His name is King . . .”

  When he didn’t continue, the prior said, “’Tis Henry, son of the Empress Matilda.”

  “And ’tis 1184, of course,” Brother Andrew added, with an encouraging smile.

  The boy shrugged. None of these were supposed to be tough questions. Something must be very wrong with him. He’d been seriously hurt, but how and where and why?

  “Please,” he said. “Do you know anything about me at all?” This talking had made his head pound with pain, his temples stabbing at his forehead on both sides.

  The monks exchanged another glance. They seemed worried.

  “Nay,” Brother Andrew said. “The abbot—our leader—is very old but very wise. He thinks you might be from Hardonbury Manor. ’Til today, we had three days of rain. Perhaps the storms have kept your parents from coming for you.”

  He’d been at the abbey for four days, and the monks still hadn’t found his parents. Even with rainy weather, that seemed a long time for his parents not to come.

  “What is the last thing you remember, boy?” the prior asked.

  He thought hard before answering, so hard that his head could burst. “I . . . I was dreaming.”

  “Aye, we heard you cry out,” Brother Andrew said.

  “I . . . I was stuck in the woodland. Then . . . then I woke up here. But how did I get here?”

  “We found you in the woodland,” said the prior. “It seems you have lost your memory.”

  That made sense in some way. “But how? Will I ever get it back?”

  “I have seen such a case once,” the prior said. “At my first monastery we had a monk who fell down the well and banged his head. He still knew all our prayers, but he had no idea how he had become a monk or where he had grown up. ’Twas a strange situation indeed.”

  Maybe that’s what happened. He’d banged his head in the woodland and now could only remember general things about the world but nothing specific about himself.

  “Did the monk ever get his memories back?” he asked.

  The prior nodded. “Eventually, after about a year. They came back all at once to him in a painful flash of light, he told me.”

  He gasped. “A year?” Even without his memory he knew a year was a long time.

  “By Ad
am, that is not good,” said Brother Andrew, his blue eye glistening in the window-light brighter than his brown one. “This poor lad cannot go about being called ‘boy’ for a year.”

  The monk sounded as though he expected him to be at the abbey a long time. Had they already given up on finding his parents? They must know something they hadn’t told him.

  The prior nodded. “Of course not, Andrew. You shall give him a name for now. And you shall tend to his needs, too.”

  The younger monk stood. “But I have my prayers, Father Clement. And my work in the scriptorium. And my duties as an obedientiary. Will he not stay in the dormitory with those other poor lads—the ones who came to us after the plague last year?”

  “Have faith, Andrew. Am I not prior? The boy will move to the dormitory soon enough.”

  The prior took the boy’s hand. “I must leave now—I am a priest and must go ready myself to say Mass. Brother Andrew will answer all your questions. And you shall have a marvelous name, I am certain.”

  But he already had a name. Surely his parents would be upset if he started calling himself something new. He wasn’t a stray dog, to be renamed by everyone who happened upon him.

  Still, he squeezed the prior’s hand and tried to sound grateful. “Thank you, Prior.”

  The older monk departed, leaving Brother Andrew staring out the slit window.

  The monk might be upset about caring for him. It seemed he was going to be a burden on these poor monks until his parents found him—if they ever found him.

  Suddenly Brother Andrew turned back to the bed with a wide smile. “I have got it!” He snapped his fingers. “Your name, I mean.”

  His head throbbed worse than ever, and the dizziness had returned. Plus, he didn’t know any names, so how would he know if the monk was going to give him a good name or a bad one?

  Brother Andrew sat back on the stool. “You are a hearty lad. You have battled well against a serious injury to your head these past four days. I believe I have a fitting name for you.”

  Hopefully the monk wasn’t going to name him Hard Head or Strong Boy or anything like that.

  “Alexander.” Brother Andrew suggested the name simply, with no explanation.

  “Alexander,” the boy muttered.

  Alexander.

  Pressed down by a great weight of fatigue, he allowed his head to fall back on the mattress and let the darkness come again.

  3

  Xan

  He opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through the infirmary window. He was alone.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. A constant hammering of wood upon stone sounded through the slit—workers threshing wheat in the distance.

  “Wait,” he said aloud. “How do you know they’re threshing wheat, Alexander?” He said his new name again very slowly. “Al-ex-an-der.” Such a long name. What did it mean?

  He pulled his hands out from under the warm scratchy blanket and looked at them in the chill light. There were callouses on his fingers and around the edges of his palms. He’d probably worked the fields and threshed wheat back in Hardonbury.

  His parents could tell him when they came for him. The sooner they found him, the sooner he could stop being a burden to Brother Andrew. Then the monk could get back to his praying.

  His stomach rumbled. “Time to get up, Alexander,” he said.

  A clean brown tunic lay folded on the stool. Next to it was a white rope and a leather pouch.

  He kicked off his blankets and sat up. Ouch! He needed to go slower than that to stop the pain from clobbering his head. He gingerly swung his feet over the bed into warm, morning light.

  Taking tentative steps, he reached for the tunic and inched it over his head, careful not to disturb the bandages. Then he tied the rope and pouch around his waist. The monks also had left him leather shoes under the bed. He slipped them on, steadied himself, and headed for the door.

  He collided with a coarse black robe.

  “Trying to walk about alone, you foolish child? You are scarcely healed.”

  The hard eyes of an elderly monk stared down at him, gray eyebrows sticking out from his forehead in unexpected ways. The man seemed familiar, yet certainly he hadn’t visited the infirmary last night. The monk pointed a thick, purply finger in the boy’s face.

  “Were you not told you are forbidden to walk alone in the monks’ dormitory?”

  Why was this monk so angry? The others had been so nice. “I was just—I wanted—I . . .”

  “Speak quickly, child.” The monk’s ancient face could not tame the fire burning in his eyes. He resembled the others: a tonsured ring of silver hair, a flowing black robe and cowl, and a sleeveless vest worn over top. Except the other monks had been patient and gentle.

  “I . . . I’m hungry.”

  “And I am Brother Leo.” The monk stepped out of the room.

  He didn’t move. What did the man expect him to do?

  Brother Leo glared back at him. “By Peter’s staff, I do not have all day. Follow me, boy.”

  He hurried behind the old mean monk, who led him past a small supply room and into a long hall with narrow wooden doors all shut tightly. Dark-colored paintings decked the walls. In one, a bright-eyed soldier with a broad sword and a cross in his belt marched toward a walled city—so joyful for war.

  Brother Leo stopped abruptly and turned, pointing to one of the little doors.

  “These hallways are forbidden to you, boy. These are the monks’ cells.”

  That didn’t sound like a place any monk would want to be. “Prison cells?” he asked.

  Brother Leo threw his thick hands into the air and huffed. He pressed down the handle on one of the doors. It glided open with a creaking sound. “What does this look like to you, child?”

  Inside the empty room, a lonely bed with a thin straw mattress butted against a bare stone wall. A tiny desk and slender wood chair stood in the corner. On the far wall hung a wooden crucifix with the body of Jesus carved upon it. On the bed was a long, thin, wooden pole.

  “It looks like a place to sleep.”

  “This is my cell,” Brother Leo said, not quite meanly. “In some abbeys, the monks sleep in rows of beds in a common room. Not here. We rest and pray in our own cells.”

  He pulled the door closed with an echoing slam and kept walking.

  All that slamming and reprimanding had brought a throb back to Alexander’s head, but he continued to follow the monk closely through the labyrinth of hallways until they reached a larger door. The monk opened it and they stepped outside into cooler air. Birds chirped all around. The blazing sun pierced through branches of a tall oak, inflaming his headache even more.

  They strode along a cobblestone path, past a lofty stone building with ivy growing up its sides. Finally they passed under a tall door into a dining hall. Empty wooden tables and benches lined the floor, and paintings hung on high walls of stone. Small windows allowed the daylight to invade, but the spacious area was grayer and dimmer than the infirmary.

  “Wait here in the refectory,” Brother Leo ordered, as he marched back outside.

  He plopped down on one of the benches. What was he supposed to be waiting for? And what was a refectory?

  Maybe someone would bring him more bread. Or his parents might have arrived and were coming to meet him here. Unless they’d abandoned him. Or worse.

  The monks were not telling him everything—that was certain. It could not be an everyday occurrence for a boy to wake at an abbey with a serious head injury and no parents. Surely boys didn’t just stray into the woods and lose their memories. How had he banged his head?

  For a moment, an image flashed into his mind. The woodland. Smoke. Something held him in its arms. A black robe. The angel of death? Nay, he hadn’t died. A monk then, carrying him to the abbey. But which monk? Unless it all had been a dream.

  Someone started sweeping outside the refectory. Moments later, the door burst open.

  A red-haired boy entered, as short and s
lim as the broom clenched between his dirty fingers. The child continued to sweep but finally spotted him sitting on the bench. The boy—eyes growing wide on his freckled face—glanced in both directions before creeping to the table.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked the child.

  “I’m Joshua.” The boy spoke in a low voice, as though he were doing something wrong.

  It was nice finally to meet someone who wasn’t wearing a black robe. This must be one of the boys Brother Andrew had mentioned, who had come to the abbey after a plague.

  “Hello, Joshua.” Maybe he should have introduced himself to the boy as Alexander. Or it might be better to wait until he learned his real name.

  He must have spoken too loudly because Joshua glanced back at the door and then stuck a crusty finger to his thin chapped lips. “Did you see anything last night?”

  “See anything? Like what?”

  Joshua’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The Shadow.”

  “See a shadow?”

  “Aye, on the fields at night. ’Tis coming to take our souls.”

  “Like the angel of death?”

  Joshua dropped the broom to the floor. “So you did see it!”

  He’d seen it all right—in his first and only memory before waking up here at this abbey. This poor little boy might have had a similar nightmare with no one there to comfort him.

  “Everyone has bad dreams sometimes,” he said gently to Joshua, the way his own mother might have consoled him as a child.

  The boy picked up the broom with a stomp. “Nay! Not a dream; it was real.”

  Dreams could seem real. The angel of death that had haunted his own dream had felt real enough, but trying to explain all that to Joshua would probably insult the boy. It wasn’t his job to mother Joshua—he had his own family to find. But who else would help the poor child?

  “How old are you?” he said.

  Joshua’s eyes grew indignant. “I’m not a baby. I’m almost nine years old, and I’m not the only one who saw the Shadow. David and John have seen it, too, and they’re almost twelve.”

  So maybe it wasn’t a dream then. Perhaps a misunderstanding?

  “I believe you, Joshua. You’ve all seen this shadow, but has it taken anyone’s soul yet?”