There was no procedure for unexpected deaths in the rule-book of monastic life. If a Brother died, peacefully, in the house of God, he was of course buried with care in the unspoilt soil of the earth at the rear of the abbey. This part of land had been settling the dead six feet under for six hundred years, since religious members of the Saxon, Briton, Dane, Pict, and Celt races co-mingled in a cultural stew.

No matter what the weather, for three long nights, two brothers would sit vigil over the recently-deceased’s tomb and pray fervently for the angels of God to speed the departed soul on its way up to heaven. Those who practised this received confirmation in their prayers of the divine hand at work granting eternal rest.

Benedict held Brother Michael’s cold hand, as if imagining a miracle might suddenly occur. But it was a dead, slimy hand. It fell from his grasp. He trembled at the sight of a pale corpse, shrouded in a monk’s habit.

Benedict scraped his eyes, peeling away any dust from the night before, clearing the world of dreams from his vision, thus realising the horror of his new reality. Panic impaled his chest as he thought of how to tell the community. But, first, it was wise to seek the abbot’s counsel. Only he could lead the brothers in righteousness through the earthly realm, and therefore towards salvation above.

The abbot slept in his own chamber, a large room furnished with oak tables, golden chalices, treasure chests, and even a small oratory hidden in the alcove with hanging purple curtains half-opened onto a painted scene of Christ Hung on the Cross.

Benedict wished to be responsible and report to the shepherd before alarming the entire flock.

The abbot was up early reading his illuminated Bible. The knock came lightly on the wooden door of his chamber, so faint in fact that Benedict had to try twice more before the abbot was seriously enough inclined to rise from his studious morning stupor, hunched in divine lecture.

Father Paul.

Brother Benedict. Come in. What’s the matter - seen a ghost? It wasn’t Judas, I hope not - what have you seen?

Benedict tripped over the Roman rug and caught his balance leaning against the table.

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I do fear I have seen a ghost, abbot Father.

Young Brother, I have known you to be superstitious on occasion, like that time you foretold those three ravens on the bell tower as of great significance resembling the three dead Kings of ancient times, and weeks later, two princes of the Holy Roman Empire are cast to the bottom of the Adriatic causing more than a mild stir across whole Christendom. But that was two, Brother, not three.

Benedict nodded. He did have an inclination of a kind towards prophecy; the hero buried deep in his mind for safekeeping was of course the Venerable Bede. But his nerves now were in pieces, like the painful wreckage of an emotion held dear shattered.

Benedict collapsed, his lower back colliding with a concave leg of mahogany.

Father Paul, the ever unashamed and positively cast-in-mind abbot, did begin to appear a trifle concerned; his inward motions stirred.

Rise to your feet, Brother. Get up.

He’s dead, Benedict mumbled. Father, Brother Michael is dead in the crypt, lifeless, deader than a corpse in the grave.

Nonsense. Get up. The Devil’s caught your tongue. Go and pray, God will set you right. Go and wake your Brothers. How many times must I keep telling you to get a good night's sleep.

Father Paul, Benedict wheezed. His arms and legs were shaking. He couldn’t stand, and if he tried to, it was the weight of a moon pulling him down.

I’m sorry, Father. I don’t know what happened. But you’re real, aren’t you? This isn’t a Devil’s bad dream.

This is no time nor place for dreams, Benedict. Go and pray. God help you. God put a stronger mould around your spirit, and free your Guardian Angel from the chains of night. If you still tremble, then rest and I will peal the bells for you.

Father?

What?

Help me and I will take you to see what I have seen.

Father Paul impatiently hoisted Benedict up by the shoulder.

Show me then what spirits lie in my sacred house, and pray this ghost comes in haste that divine office may not be delayed.

The feeble Brother was dragged single-handedly by his superior's knightly strength back through the cloisters towards the abbey church.