Shoreglass Monastery.

My early days when I joined the brothers were like murky water on my cupped hands, droplets of days falling through my fingertips. I did not know when one day ended and when one began. All I remember was blackness, then cloudy gray skies, then the brothers. They all blended together; black billowing cloaks, and red, brown, silver hair.

Wilbur was the first I remembered. He was always gentle with me, and his kindness and patience cleared the thick fog distorting everything. His encouragement coaxed the courage I had thought absent in me.

Slowly, I recovered. When my lips could hold words, it was his name that I spoke. When at last my arms had the strength to bring spoon to mouth, he dined with me. He cooked my meals; hot pottage with fresh crops and milk. When at last my legs could carry my frail body outside, I followed him. Hidden at first, but gradually helping him attend to his many patients.

I began to make sense of the world I lived in, how my brothers differed from the rest of the people, and how I differed from the rest of my brothers.

There I saw how people warmed up to him. Woodrow would be the most favored monk in all the monasteries we’ve inhabited because of his beauty and charms–his power to captivate and seduce grown men and women with the bat of an eye and some soothing words. But the affection villagers had for Wilbur was genuine. He did not force the trust people had for him, and so it was stronger. Seeing him soothe the injured and ill in a different manner, seeing him calm them with his gentle hands, him healing them of countless harms and hurts… I trusted that he would care for me too.

There was a night I remember when I began to become his shadow, clinging to his cloak every chance Abbott Blake allowed me small snippets of freedom.

It came after a particularly hot day. The old women’s faces crinkled into more lines as Wilbur approached them, holding the tray full of bottles of medicine and food and cold drink. “Bless you, brother monk,” they said. “Bless you.” They patted his face and hair with their gnarled hands. Some of the bolder ones even pinched his cheeks and Wilbur smiled, almost blushing.

The children played until sundown, rowdier than ever, confident that Wilbur could patch them up quickly. They abandoned their fear of scrapes or broken ankles. “Wilbur is here,” they chanted. Though Wilbur himself along with their mothers were quick to scold them, nonetheless.

When the blanket of night hushed the noise, Wilbur dined with me inside my cell. He brought warm pottage with bits of carrots and peas. His other arm carried honeyed bread and cool springwater.

“Someday, when you get stronger, I shall take you with me and show you my garden. And then maybe, you could help me with taking care of everyone, if you want to.”

He bit into his bread and dipped it into the pottage. He almost dropped it when I spoke for the first time.

“I would like that,” I said. I raised my brows to his surprised face. His brown eyes were lighter than the rest of the men working in the fields. They greeted everyone in the nearby village warmly. “Are you truly my brother? Wilbur?”

He blinked at me. Wilbur’s wide smile was a rare treat, I would learn. So I was glad that I was mostly the one that made him reveal it. “Yes. If you want me to be.”

I smiled back and finished the meal in warm silence.

I always felt the most comfortable when I was in his infirmary. It was the warmest place in the monastery, certainly warmer than the open cloisters and the simple cell that was my room. Warm like his eyes. Though it housed the sick, it was also often used as a general resting place for women and children, especially when strong Brother Ealhstan was repairing or building their huts. The brick walls sheltered them; gave them rest and reprieve.

I was soon given the name “gray child” for my dull features and for my shyness. I made sure to keep my face covered, as was instructed and kept close to Wilbur. But people can still see my hands and some parts of my face at certain angles. My skin was not pale like my brothers’. It was the pallor of decay.

Still, those first few villagers in Shoreglas allowed me to touch them, to examine them. “You’re warmer than your Brother Wilbur, little novice,” they said to me.

Wilbur was always with his satchel. From deep within its contents he grabbed his many medicines and supplies. There were even small tools used for cutting cloth and slicing skin. The old leather bag was as part of him as his hands and legs.

Man, woman, and child presented their arms and limbs, showing blisters or wounds, colors of red and purple. I noticed each time Wilbur was frustrated when dressing the wound, smearing tinctures, and dressing it with gauze. I did not know the names of his medicines yet, and whenever Wilbur told me I quickly forgot.

The fresh wound he applied with a liquid that was dark copper color that dried and disappeared with the breeze, quickly leaving a scar. While the blood he wiped and smeared with a black-gold thick paste. To the blisters of farmers working in the fields and children playing, he cooled with ointments gathered from his garden. Mint, I think it was. Mint and yellow petals and a pleasant-smelling but strong transparent tincture.

Sometimes our patients would return a second, third, and fourth time with the same ailment, and Wilbur and I would be ready to patch them again. But when the seasons changed, as the trees shivered away their summer gown for the shade of autumn, our patients lessened until there was no need for our infirmary. Wilbur was glad of that.

“The purpose of our work is to make sure fewer patients enter these doors. Give them food and medicine so they become strong and healthy.”

We can be found in Wilbur’s gardens at sunset; the brightest and most colorful place in the whole monastery. It was located in the cloister garth, a wide space of green surrounded by the silent columned pathways we took to get around the many buildings. Wilbur’s garden was divided into two by a thick line of bushes; on one side was his herbarium full of simple herbs used for cooking, and on the other side was the physic garden used for his many medicines. They greeted me with their scents and rewarded our care with vibrant blossoms and bouncing petals. Wilbur caressed them all like they were the cheeks of children. He showed me how to water each plant, for each plant needed different requirements.

“The sun must hit this one for as long as it is in the sky. Come autumn, we must ground its petals and nectar into a paste for my salves.” One by one, he told me the properties. One by one, I forgot them. “This one doesn’t need as much light. But this curious one needs the light from the moon. Only then will the petals receive nourishment.”

But I did remember the exact way how to manage them, oddly enough. What was important was the amount of light their bright faces needed. It was not long after our first year that I realized my brothers could not stand the sunlight. Only I can. And with each monastery we built, they rejected the day's warmth more and more.

After our work in the gardens, we fed the villagers. Supper was always warm bread or pottage and milk from their cows. We made them in the kitchens within the monastery, where some of Wilbur’s ordinary herbs and spices were braided on the walls and stored in wooden pots. Brother Swithin couldn’t resist the wonderful smells, not with his keen senses. He sat on the corner, cross-legged, waiting for Wilbur to throw him a bowl of warm meal. Then Brother Ealhstan will come and take the hot pot, while Wilbur and Woodrow carried the trays to the village quarters.

Wilbur always invited me to the granges, but I was too scared to be among people. I waved to all of them goodbye, with brother Ealhstan smiling widely at me. “Next time, you’ll be braver,” he said. He always said that every night and he made me want to believe it.

It was the third year of residing in Shoreglass when we heard a commotion outside the nave’s doors. It was evening. Most of the farmers have stored away their scythes and plows, retiring for the night, waiting for their supper. Ealhstan had not come to take the pot over the fire. Curious, I joined Wilbur as he carried the trays of warm bread outside, passing the empty pews that faced the altar. In my hands was a large jug of milk.

Drops of milk spilled on the floor as Wilbur stopped abruptly before me. Just outside were children gathered close like hens waiting for corn. The villagers knew they were prohibited from entering the monastic grounds, except for elders or leaders. Something was wrong.

They pointed to the far distance. Brother Ealhstan carried in his strong arms the figure of a small boy, unconscious, a dangling leg streaming red fluid through Ealhstan’s fingers. He was blocking a severe gash, and when he showed it to us, it was like a huge chunk of flesh was chewed off him. I can taste the scent of copper.

The boy was pale, and he would die tonight if he lost any more blood.

Wilbur gave the tray of warm food to the children and told them to bring it to Woodrow. He tore a fabric from his medicinal supplies and tied it around the boy's leg.

He ran to the infirmary, Ealhstan and I right behind him. “He was in the pool of water with the sharp rocks at dusk. Foolish boy dared to climb them. Slipped and fell. He’s lucky his neck isn’t broken,” Ealhstan huffed.

We laid him in the nearest bed and propped his leg up. I lighted the candles, opened the window above him, and waited for Wilbur’s instructions.

The boy’s name was Derek, I remembered. I do not know my age, but I think Derek was younger than I am. Bigger than me and all of his friends. He was always the leader in their play-pretends.

“Ryne… I…” Wilbur’s hands were shaking as they hovered on the bloody fabric that he tied around Derek’s leg. “ I can’t,” He stammered. He looked at me wildly and for a moment his features were entirely unfamiliar. He looked like Brother Swithin when he was about to pounce on his prey. His eyes darted to Ealhstan by the door. When Ealhstan saw him shaking, he ran towards us, arms ready at his side.

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I grabbed the towel quickly from his shaking hand. As soon as I did, he snapped out of the state he was in, and faster than I ever saw him move, Wilbur ran to the corner of the room where the shadow swallowed him. Maybe it was a trick of the low light, but his irises seemed to glow. He covered his nose with his cloak and pointed one pale finger at Derek.

His voice was muffled. “It’s a deep injury. Make sure to clean it properly. Wait, no. Soak that fabric that I tied around his ankle with the alcohol. But first, make him swallow this numbing syrup.” Wilbur reached into his satchels and kicked the bottle gently towards me. He walked along the walls of the infirmary, closing his eyes. Once he was outside with Ealhstan right by him, he breathed out, “he would require stitches. I shall get some from the crypts.”

Wilbur paused, and without looking at us, he removed his satchel and handed it to Ealhstan who passed it to me. As they closed the doors, I heard Ealhstan mutter to Wilbur. “You should have fed.”

I opened Wilbur’s satchel of medicines. Bottles parted against my hand's weight and clinked. Wilbur hadn’t labeled his bottles, but I recognized the shape and colors enough and knew what they were used for.

I turned my attention back to the thick numbing syrup. It was a good thing that we could see well enough in the darkness, but I held the long bottle against the candlelight to be sure and unstoppered it, smelling the strong scent. Wilbur had extracted these from the leaves of the numone plant, known to numb the tongue of animals and unfortunate people that snacked on them before knowing its properties. It was distilled and enhanced and purified through Wilbur’s many experiments and added with a hint of sweet honey to tolerate the taste. He explained to me that it can now pass through the body and numb the pain of the wound, and lessen the sting of alcohol.

Derek was bigger than I was even for his young age, but he shrunk in this condition. I did not know if he could hear me, but I wanted to speak to him regardless, just as Wilbur would have done to his patients.

“Derek, Wilbur’s out for a while, but we’ll manage without him. I need you to drink this syrup, all right? It’s going to taste nasty, but it will help with the pain.”

There was no spoon, so I had to carefully tip the bottle onto the corner of his mouth. I placed my hand under his neck for support. He mumbled and parted his lips a bit, allowing the liquid to collect inside. I covered his mouth quickly so that he wouldn’t spit it. He swallowed the syrup, his eyes furrowed, and he winced.

“I know, I know. But you did well.” I tried to put on a soothing voice, just like how Wilbur did.

I placed him back softly on the pillow and proceeded to clean his wound. I kept talking to him as I soaked the fabric with alcohol. He groaned and gritted his teeth. “There now, it’s done.”

His breathing was stable, and I kept checking his pulse and wiping the sweat off his brow. I did not notice Wilbur behind me until he spoke calmly.

“You did fine, Ryne. Thank you, I can take it from here.”

I handed him back his satchel and thought of collecting water from the well outside. When I returned, Wilbur was stitching Derek’s leg with a needle and thread. There was a jar of poultice nearby, where Wilbur reached and dabbed a few as he stitched. The skin was now deep purple.

“You did so well. I am proud of you,” Wilbur repeated.

“So am I,” said Ealhstan from the door. “You’ll make a fine healer someday.”

I was relieved. I did not know that my hands were clammy until I placed the cup of fresh water on the table near Derek. My chest felt a surge of strength from their words. Finally, I can be useful.

“Brother Ealhstan, could you please fetch Brother Woodrow and tell him to gently tell Derek’s parents what happened.”

We were silent all throughout the operation, Wilbur’s hands now sure and steady as if he was simply working on cloth. Then he snipped and spread a thick amount of poultice on the fixed leg, and covered it with a fresh clean cloth.

“How does it work?” I asked.

He paused and Wilbur showed me the thread in candlelight. “This is made from easily dissolvable materials like the sensitive dey plant. It is only used for grave injuries such as these. The materials aren’t easy to make.” He looked at me and gave me another clean fabric.

I took it from him and soaked the fabric in alcohol while Wilbur softly added another thick paste from his jars; this one made of honey and crystallized rose petals and a gemstone powder I did not recognize to the closed wound. I wrapped the entire lower leg this time, from below the knee to the calf muscle.

He smiled at me and touched my shoulder. He patted me on the back. Then there were footsteps and hurried breaths from the door and Woodrow, Ealhstan and Derek’s parents spilled onto the room.

“Get away from him!” the father said forcefully, his arm about to reach out and shove me away. I crouched low to the ground, but his arm did not hit.

“That is our brother you are talking to,” Wilbur said calmly. He caught the father's arm. Ealhstan and Woodrow appeared behind the door. “He took care of young Derek while I was gathering my supplies.”

Derek’s mother cradled his son, knees kneeling on the bed. Wilbur told her to not touch his leg and expect it to hurt for a couple of days if not weeks.

“He would need a staff to help walk,” he said. “And no more games and light farmwork until it heals.”

The mother nodded, looking at the wound, refusing to look at me. “Thank you, Brother Wilbur. You saved my son.”

Wilbur wanted to add my name, but I held his arm and shook my head. A while later, he said. “I’ll go get him his medicine. Expect him to get a fever tonight. Hopefully, it will be gone in the morning. He’ll be staying here until he can walk.”

“Here?” Derek’s father said, looking around the infirmary and at Ealhstan and Woodrow.

Wilbur explained further, patiently. “For a day or two at least until he has the strength to carry himself home. The body is still weak and sore and needs bed rest.”

Woodrow quickly came into the infirmary, locking eyes with the father who was too slow to look away. Beautiful brother Woodrow’s eyes glowed green for a moment and he smiled wide. When he spoke, the voice was warm and soothing like Wilbur’s medicine.

“It is all right,” he said. “No harm shall come upon him. You may visit him anytime you like after your work.”

The father breathed slowly and took in his words. His muscles relaxed, his posture calm. “You’re right. He’ll be safer here.” Then he joined his wife and stood vigil over their son, Derek’s cheeks began to bloom in color.

We left them, Wilbur adding incense from his pouch near the candle near Derek. Ealhstan would stand guard over the door tonight while Woodrow returned to the mess hall with the rest of the farmers and wives. He would charm all their worries away.

“I wonder if they would make sonnets about you,” he teased Wilbur. The glow has gone and his lips curved into a constant smile. “And well done to you, Ryne. I wonder what stories they make up about you this time." Silkily, he added, "Gray child.”

He hopped merrily away, outside the monastery gates and into the warmth of a great fire and warmer music. The people were still in the middle of supper. High-pitched voices and joyous laughter blended with flutes.

“It was a good thing that it happened in the night when I was awake,” Wilbur said. He looked down at the grass, then slowly raised one hand to his forehead. “To think what could have happened to him when I was not able to heal him.”

“Wilbur,” I began, my voice light, “what did Ealhstan mean when he said that you should have fed?” Come to think of it, in the haze of my memories, there were only a handful of times when I saw him eat food with me. He is lean, but not famished.

He did not answer. His lips parted, but instead, he shook his head and said, “If you’re ready, I shall teach you all that I know.”

I nodded, eager to be helpful. “I am ready.”

I was eager to help them, too. Even though there were people like Derek’s parents who did not trust me, especially with my appearance.

The next morning, Derek and his friends thanked me, with the boy, looking like he had not gone through a grave ordeal, pointed to the injury, telling the others that he was the first among them to have a battle scar. When he was finally discharged and limping around the fields, helping the women with the harvest, Wilbur set me to watch over him and see that he did not get himself into more trouble.

But the older women--the very same ones that blessed Wilbur and pinched his cheeks, made a sign of warding evil at me out of the corner of my eye. Some of the men who were not close to Woodrow and Ealhstan raised their pitchforks higher when they saw me. And so I retreated myself back to Wilbur’s garth and infirmary and slept.

Wilbur showed me his garden after a few weeks. In my eyes, it was already full of blooming things, but when he pointed out each property hidden in each petal, in each nectar and blush, it was like the garden became more vibrant. A growing space of wonders. Alive, and ready to give life. This small garden would be where he healed the world.

“But that’s just half of what my medicines are made of,” Wilbur said as he took me to his crypts under the church. He brought out from his pockets gleaming stones that shone in the candlelight. “Purodites, larpoits, and denzemonds. Rare stones like these are found in the different mines that amplify the effects of the flowers you see. Without these, they would just be simple herbal remedies, and we’re here to make miracles.” He winked and stowed them away.

He showed me another pouch. This time from his satchel. “He brought it closer to the candles and sprinkled a pinch onto the light. The candle instantly burned brilliantly, changing into a green flame before dying back down to its natural ember. “I crush these using the tools I have back in the dungeons. But stubborn ones like denzemond…” he showed me the sparkling silver-white powder, “this one I leave to Ealhstan’s strength. Without him, half of the treatment in my satchel would never have been made. We’re very fortunate to have him in our ranks.”

I grabbed his book. He showed charts and symbols and graphs. “My alchemy book. Records of my plants here, their blooming period and harvest seasons.”

“How long did you study these?” I looked over its pages, admiring Wilbur’s neat penmanship and diagrams. “You’re an artist, too.”

He smiled and shrugged. “I’ve been staring at them for so long. A year ago when we first started planting seeds. Then I started crossbreeding the common ones and altered their nature slightly with the lab I have in the dungeons. Some are successful. Some don’t mix. And some need just a wee bit of encouragement to thrive. Weather, right kind of soil… a lot of it is guesswork and experimentation.” He slammed the book close and stowed it away. “Fortunately, time is a lot we have of. I think. And I will not waste mine.”

He raised his arms wide. “I wish to build a brilliant greenhouse where everything thrives. And introduce these plants to the world so that everyone can have them in their garden. But as of now, they can only grow here, under our care. I tried planting some of the newer breeds and they simply wilted away. They aren’t yet ready for this world yet.”

I touched one and caressed his cheeks. “Do they have names?”

Wilbur shook his head. “Not yet, but soon. When they are ready.”

“I wish people wouldn’t be so scared of knowledge. Of us.” Of me, I thought.

“I suppose that's what we’re here for, too. Help them realize that there is nothing wrong with branching out.”

“Maybe if they weren’t so afraid of us and what we’re trying to do, they can see that we’re trying to make their lives easier. They could even learn your ways for a change.”

No more people fearing each other. The huts filled with bright flowers. Wilbur patted my head and blew out the candle. “That would be a bright world indeed.”