Hollowed Fairstep Monastery.

Fairstep monastery was once a glade in an aristocrat’s forest. Alder trees stood tall, and common flowers decorated the land. When we resided here, Abbott Blake ordered Ealhstan to cut down most of the trees. Without its shade, the flowers wilted. We chased away deer, foxes, wild boar, and geese. Fairstep became a shaved clearing of grass littered with stumps–the only testament to its once beautiful landscape.

The thick clouds that blocked the sky were few at first, and only like a thin sheet that made a few rays possible to pass through. But then it grew darker yet did not rumble or streak with lightning. They were just there as if a giant sky sheep hung low. Without light and rain, the grains and other harvests withered. Without warmth, unnatural chills seized fragile bodies with strange sicknesses.

As Ealhstan built the monastery, the skies turned grey with heavy clouds. Ugly, bruise-colored thick clouds hung low on the horizon, obscuring the mighty mountains and hills. With the absence of bright flowers, without the different patterns found in furs, the landscape was left dull. Finishing the monastery was uneventful after that. Working the land was uneventful. Raising the villagers was uneventful. Until it wasn’t.

___

When I stepped out onto the monastic grounds, there was nothing but quiet and the low rustle of dying activities. Boots sloshing through mud. The sound of wooden staffs bumping against one another. Crusted palms brushing against linen. It was different from former monasteries, where there were faint sounds of laughter or noise from the livestock. It was eerie.

Swithin stood like a statue at the center of the monastic grounds, facing the entrance. Only when I was near enough did he turn around. He held out his hunter’s bag to me, the dried blood of wild animals splashed on the cloth. “Fresh catch. Not enough for the week.” It did look light, the shapes of fresh dead meat not even meeting the center.

He turned his head back again to the dark trees far in the distance. “The forest can give no more, little Ryne. The people would eat foxes and wolves soon. No more burrowing rabbits in the soil. No grunting wild pigs. Deer and bear is for king. The forest, she is warning us. But Knox told me to hunt for more.”

Swithin’s eyes were large; the iris had a curious shape like those of lizards crawling on brick walls. “Many dangers outside, little Ryne. Men with no homes. Tribesmen abandoning their tribes. Wars against brothers. Sisters stealing from sisters. Children kept from playing. Shepherds carve their shepherd’s staff into spears and hide in the shadows to ambush.”

Before I could say anything, he placed the bag in his mouth, crouched down on all fours, and hunted, keeping to the shadows. He was gone in an instant, racing through rough terrain like it was nothing. He must be conflicted. Back at Trushire, he had strived to protect whatever wild animals lurked in the forests. I had a feeling that he escorted them to their new homes, too. It must have been pointless now that he was ordered to keep hunting. There wasn't any balance anymore.

The infirmary in Hollowed Fairstep was closer to the villagers’ huts outside the brick walls. The huts were back to their small, humble state; made of dried mud and twigs instead of stone. From having seen more spacious dwelling places, these ones looked cramped and stuffy. At least the pigs and sheep settled comfortably in their pens. I suppose living without predators nearby was the only thing good to come out of overhunting. As I passed by those grey walls on my way to the infirmary, I noticed the twisted spikes glaring from above. The walls themselves were higher so that the people could not see the fields nor any one of us wandering within.

Ealhstan was at the corner, adding more defenses to the walls. The men who were still working in the outer fields frowned at him. No children went to Ealhstan this time; he must ache to give them joy. From the beginning, the villagers of Fairstep did not like us. Even with provisions of food and medicine, they continued to be distrustful. They did not even attend Knox’s masses during Saintsday.

A farmer spotted me and nudged his friends nearby. I know them; the trio who always stepped forward with defensive stances whenever one of us monks appeared in their field of vision. They were often the figures on the night patrol.

I pretended not to look, easier now that my long hood obscured my face. They grouped together, pitchforks and farm tools in hand, forming their own wall. Guarding their huts and people. One of them whistled a curious tune, and all the little children that were not working the fields hid inside and called their mothers, squealing; some with genuine fear and some with a tinge of excitement and curiosity.

Ealhstan noticed and turned around. He saw me walking towards the infirmary. He watched over me until I turned a corner. I’m glad he did not need to threaten them by crushing stones or lumber. He knew it would not help the growing tension. Before I turned around, though, I noticed him still looking at the villagers’ quarters, at the tiny ugly huts and the clumsy fence made of spiked branches and sharp twigs. Knox had forbidden him to waste resources on them, to just give them all a small shelter considering the dwindling resources. Ealhstan slumped back onto his work.

The Fairstep infirmary was built differently, too. Since the villagers did not dare step foot on our grounds, Wilbur had asked Ealhstan to build the infirmary at the border, where the high, spiked walls intersected it. The infirmary itself was part of the border wall, with half of its structure outside where people can enter, and half of it inside the monastery. The windows inside were at the ceiling, where Wilbur had used long rods to close or open them. There were also two front windows near the doors for people to peep inside to check on their sick loved ones. It was also directly in the line of sight of Brother Swithin’s quarters; the one we affectionately called his den; a deep burrow connected to the crypts underground.

I opened the infirmary doors and was glad for the blast of warmth and the hint of incense. I hoped that this familiar warmth and scent would always be present no matter how many monasteries have passed.

I was eager to be rid of the young trio of farmers. I had forgotten that there were other stares waiting for me inside.

As soon as I entered the infirmary, several of the mothers gripped their children and crossed themselves with the sign of the different saints. Danger away. Evil avert. Saints, protect us. Some did not even hide their suspicions and distrust. Their brows furrowed, their lips pressed firmly. A couple few simply stared. All of them drew closer to their sick children or siblings, hiding them from view.

I did not like the image before me. Not because of the hostility. But because they were packed. Wilbur’s infirmaries had never been this full. It shouldn’t be.

Wilbur was on the farthest corner of the room, tending to a boy whose cough was like a cannon. The boy’s mother was whispering into his ear, but it was only when I got closer that I realized that she was praying. When she was done, her fingers kept pinching her clothes, fumbling around like worms trying to burrow away.

“I gave him the medicine you gave to me, Brother. But it did not make him better. It just didn’t make him worse.” She said softly.

I approached them. Her eyes were only for her coughing son, sparing not even a glance my way as I went to Wilbur’s side. Wilbur’s hands shook when he touched the boy’s arms. Bruise-like patterns were on the boy's arms, chest, and neck, like blotches of faint ink. It was like the one on the flower that long winter at Trushire. The boy's hair was plastered on his forehead, his whole body covered with blankets. I wasn’t sure if his bruise-like markings were painful, but I was concerned that he did not like Wilbur’s cold touch. Especially with that burning fever.

“Wilbur… could I do it?”

The women nearby who had heard me protested. The angriest ones actually left their child and took a few steps towards us, momentarily forgetting themselves. When Wilbur, like Ealhstan, looked back, they stopped and warily looked at us, then frowned at the mother.

Wilbur took a step back as I checked the boy. He said, “He has trouble breathing and is extremely sensitive to touch, so be gentle. Keep him still and support his neck when setting him back down.”

The boy’s eyes fluttered open, large and unfocused. They rolled around trying to make sense of the shapes around him. “Mama,” he mumbled.

“I am here, Joserson,” his mother said. She held his tiny hand in hers.

Joserson did not protest or wince when I placed my fingers on the blotches around his arms. I checked him all over for lumps and felt none. Only rashes. He was sweating profusely, so I wiped his sweat off with a towel Wilbur had. I told Wilbur that I’d be heading to his garden for fresh water.

His garden was withering. It was vacant, the opposite of his infirmary, which was the opposite of what I wanted it to be. The flowers that remained were the common ones, and even they looked less vibrant. Gloomier. They needed sunlight, but the skies offered none. I washed the towel in a basin then took one of the plant dishes there, washed that too, filled it with fresh water, and went back to the infirmary.

For once, Wilbur was at a loss. He was twisting the ends of his wavy brown hair, crinkling his nose. He paced around the room, lips pursed. I could not bear it. I knew he felt horrible because this was supposed to be his expertise, the one thing he is good at, he told me, and it hurt him that he could not heal them as quickly as his miraculous gift of rapid healing.

I set the dish of freshwater on the table next to Joserson’s bed, the bucket and towel under it.

“Please,” the mother begged me, holding my arm tightly. “Please save my boy.” Tears were spilling in her eyes. “I’ll do anything. I’ll give you anything.”

The wave of raw emotion struck my chest. I did not like it. Love was there, but so was anguish and despair and hopelessness. It was so far from the many smiling faces of those early monasteries. Shoreglass almost seemed like a pleasant dream that I was trying to hold onto. The villagers there were so confident they would be out in the world again after a brief rest in Wilbur’s infirmary. We were so confident of our skills and status as healers of the land.

I remembered who the mother was, as I looked at her tearful eyes. Not her name, but her youth. She was young and this was her firstborn. The other child she carried after Joserson died at birth. When we came into this village, most of all the children did not live past two years of their lives. And half of those who grew into young men did not live past thirteen. That's why we understood their hostility. It was a miracle to live past their childhood. They were merely protecting one another, desperate to survive.

Wilbur delicately assured her that we would not rest until we treated her son, but it was first important to discover the illness. “I haven’t seen this kind of sickness, before. And I think we would need thick curtains to… to not let it spread to the others.” He grabbed the towel and handed it to the mother. “Right now, we need to wash him.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Wilbur added to the bucket of water a wonderful pink liquid that held fragrances of jasmine, lilac and rose petals. As she cleaned him, Wilbur and I went to the little room back at the infirmary, which was his windowless office. There was no light, but I saw him well enough. There was a table at the center of the small room, and he placed both hands on its edges, his shoulders sharp, rising and falling as he exhaled.

“We have no more space to admit another patient. They need to distance themselves from each other or risk infecting one another and the healthier people. I’ve already had two mothers get sick and had to prevent them from entering the infirmary. The best that I could do for them was send them back home with medicine. One mother insisted that she’d rather be sick and not take any medicine just to be with her child here.”

He sucked a breath and spun around. He looked distressed, unraveling. “I can’t heal them, Ryne. I don’t know what to do. My plants are dying and I have to only allow the crucial healing flowers like feverflukes in the soil with special garden fertilizer. And I have to put the basic fertilizer on the crops in our granges so that we can feed them and the animals. The ores you’ve collected from Trushire are the only things that are keeping my medicines strong, but they won’t last long if this sickness spreads. I don’t know what it is! The medicines I give them just keep the basic symptoms at bay, but not cure it.”

I reached for him but he shook his head. He slapped his open palm to his forehead, angry at himself. “I had to dilute it all with spring water! Just so my medicines can reach everyone. I feel like a hypocrite.”

“You’re doing your best.”

He seemed to not hear me. “I need to collect their blood. I wanted to do it a week ago, but I wasn’t yet sure. I need you to collect it for me.” I nodded, and he gave me many glass vials. “I need just a few drops from each sick child.”

He went away and told the mothers. Shouts erupted, with the most outspoken of them already charging forward even though Wilbur was the only option they had for a healer.

“Listen, you–!” One woman demanded.

The infirmary doors banged open. Woodrow, his bright red hair and pale skin stood in the doorway. He used his powers, projecting his voice throughout the walled infirmary.

“Come now, let the good doctor do his work and let your children be healed.” Woodrow walked towards us and all the women looked at him like they always did when they thought no one was looking. He was the brightest flame in this sullen place now.

While they were staring, Wilbur immediately pricked Joserson’s finger and squeezed a few drops of the sick child's blood onto a thin sheet of something transparent and quickly pocketed it. Woodrow glided around the room, making soothing noises towards the mothers and caretakers. He reminded them that we were doing good, that they were safe, that we would help them to get better; all the things Wilbur and Ealhstan and I kept saying.

What surprised me is that he knows them by name. Each one.

While he was charming them, Woodrow motioned for me to come closer and pointed to the sick children. He meant me to collect blood samples as he distracted them. Wilbur and he must have discussed this a long time ago. Without missing a beat, I took from Wilbur his sharp tools and set to work.

Wilbur showed me how it was done. I placed a sharp thin needle with a hollow base and quickly pricked the arm of each child. They wondered what was going on with their grown caretakers, wrapped in Woodrow's charming voice. They all sucked in a breath and winced and shut their eyes tighter but they never cried. They were too sick to cry.

Once I’d done the rounds, I went back to Wilbur. Suddenly, a slender pale arm reached from behind me and grabbed the empty basin from Joserson’s table. Woodrow whispered to me. “Those two harpies by the door? The ones that seem to resist my power and have been shooting daggers at both of you since we built Fairstep? Fill this basin with their blood.” I looked at Wilbur and back to him. Wilbur nodded. Woodrow made a shooing motion. “Hurry now, before I lose focus.”

The mothers and other caretakers were already slowly blinking away the daze of being charmed when I finished with the two women, their blood thick. There was a pleasure in nicking both their presented arms when I told them that I needed bloodletting. I covered the shallow basin with a thick lid and hurried towards the office, where my brothers rushed into.

Woodrow shut the door and leaned against it. “Just place the basin at the center of the table, Ryne,” he said. To Wilbur, he whistled. “Good thing I came at just the right time, eh? Having trouble with your potions?”

“Not enough resources. And whatever strongest medicine I have won’t touch this blasted new sickness.” He held out the object that contained a drop of Joserson’s blood. “I need to study this first and analyze his ailment and whip up something from whatever I discover.”

"I meant to ask years ago, but how do you do that? To whip up something out of a sickness?"

"I have no memories of my past life, save for the years of apparent knowledge I accumulated. I know that the sickness in the blood reacts to certain elements with flowers and minerals from ores," Wilbur explained.

Wilbur also admitted to him that he had to dilute the medicines with springwater and make a lot of healing potions rather than a few strong ones to accommodate the growing patients. He waited for judgment and teasing but Woodrow merely nodded.

“That was wise. Though, right now I am struggling to charm them. Such is their fear of us. The sooner we can feed hungry mouths and the sooner we heal them, the easier it is to charm.” He cracked his neck and gave Wilbur a sympathetic smile. “I had to dilute my power, too, in a way. I had to resort to granting small favors and domestic duties like sewing a torn rag or baking a fresh loaf in secret just to keep the peace.”

He did look tired. He was going to say something else, and by the corner of his mouth, was about to say something cocky, but he shook his head instead. I had to resort to my natural looks this time around, hoping it was enough, is what I thought he wanted to say.

What he did say was, “It would be a relief to not use all my powers all the time. I noticed I’m actually putting in an effort this time. I am actually feeling the strain.” There was genuine wonder in his voice, and then it fell. “Swithin can’t find good food to provide them, too. The animals are scrawny and few. He says that the forest is starving. Predators have become prey to something wilder. Man and beast are fighting for territory and food, even amongst their own groups. There’s only half of what a wolf pack’s numbers should be with so few wild rabbits and goats.” His eyes steadied. “If we don’t fix this soon, that will be Hollowed Fairstep.”

It took three monasteries being built to remember the pattern of the way things worked. Wilbur fed them grains and healed them of their sickness so that they could learn to trust us, like how one tames wild dogs and rabbits. But this was not his primary motivation: Wilbur wanted to help, simple as that.

Woodrow was to put to rest some disagreements and squabbles, to lull them with a pleasing voice and pretty face. There’s a reason why Knox put Woodrow as the first ‘defensive measure’ inside our little communities.

Brother Ealhstan can pulverize enemies carrying swords and spears with nothing but his bare arms, while Woodrow made sure we didn’t get to that point.

Swithin scouted ahead, looking for dangers and for tiny hamlets near rivers to build our monasteries nearby. He hunted meat to feed the villagers, so their livestock could replenish their own numbers.

Knox… I was not sure what Knox did with his illusions during Saintsday, but he would allow the villagers into the nave of the church, while I slept in the crypt with Wilbur watching over me. They would always come out more obedient, more docile.

And Abbott Blake? I do not know what he looked like, but Knox was his eyes and voice. But we felt him, always.

Wilbur was, to me, the core that made this pattern work, not our mysterious absent Abbott Blake, who I had never seen, but only sensed. But I suppose our brotherhood ranked each member according to power rather than overall contribution.

Wilbur paced around again while Woodrow stood still. Both had their heads bent down, concentrating. Suddenly, Woodrow snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. It might not work, but hear me out.”

He focused on me and Wilbur. “I’m going to buy you some time. Instead of saving my power to fix squabbles, I am going to use it full force at the nearing harvest festival.” Wilbur stopped pacing and frowned at Woodrow. “You’ll be busy working on that new sickness, right? Ryne can help during the day seeing as he’s the only one that does not burn into a crisp the moment the sun shines upon him.

“The plan is to charm their worries away at a time when they feel most festive and receptive to my power. While they’re charmed, you work on the new treatment like hell. You figure out that sickness the Joserson boy has and encourage your plants to grow–yes, I’ve been to your garden looking for you. Shame what happened to the prettier ones, by the way. If not that, then at the very least make more fertilizers or potions or anything to help these poor folks. I only serve as a momentary fun distraction. You’re the one that can target the root cause.”

I liked how he was treating Wilbur now.

“People are dissatisfied,” he continued. “The grown sons of fathers are turning just like them, hating on us but afraid to leave because they aren’t sure of the dangers that lie ahead of them. If I play this right, my power can be cast at a wide range of people, and make it linger. But I need to invite them here.” Woodrow gestured around the place. “I feel stronger when we’re in the monastery grounds. With Abbott Blake. I think letting them be invited to Hollowed Fairstep might make it easier for me. We didn’t need to do this before, but I think this would be the right call now.”

“But how will you get them to come on that day itself?” I asked. “You said it yourself, they’re putting up a resistance to your powers.”

He shrugged. “Use my natural charms, I suppose.” He flashed a smile and posed dramatically, his fingers delicately touching his chin and neck. Wilbur and I rolled our eyes. “A wee bit of kindness goes a long way, too, and the influence of good food and beer to drink their worries away. Besides, I’m only using my powers to improve what’s natural.” Oddly enough, there was no hint of arrogance in his voice. He was merely stating a fact, no use denying it.

Woodrow relaxed and composed his features, offering a small smile. “There is still one constant thing that villagers crave especially during hard days. Community, and a day to allow some sense of joy back into their lives. Right now, they still have food, no matter how scarce. So they would still have reason to celebrate. And what more if we can offer them most of the food we grow here?” To Wilbur directly, he asked, “Do you still have fertilizers enough to keep your grains healthy?”

When Wilbur nodded, Woodrow motioned towards me. “Good. This is where you come in, Ryne. Since dear Wilbur here would be busy analyzing that blood and making fertilizers, taking care of the garden, and treating the sick at night, you can help us in the kitchens and care for the sick during the daylight. I’ll ask Knox to take a lesser portion of our harvests for storage in the meantime."

“I want to help, but they won’t let me touch their children,” I said quickly.

Wilbur thought a moment. “They will if I tell them how serious it is. I don’t like it, but if it means scaring them into letting you care for their children… I can’t believe we resorted to this.” He looked at Woodrow. “That was actually pretty stable of you to think of that, Woodrow.”

Woodrow’s tone was casual. “My job was easy before this. Now it’s making me plan a little.” He went to the table near Wilbur, their thighs resting on it. “I’ve been thinking about this since Ealhstan set the last brick in the monastery and noticed the people still not warming up to us.”

There was silence then. We three looked at one another with a rough plan, surprised that we made one up on the spot. They looked at me without expression. Then slowly to one another. Then at the ground, then towards the infirmary. “Hm,” Woodrow said.

Then he sucked in a breath, sharply.

I looked in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, but then looked to Wilbur.

Wilbur nodded. “Ryne, if you could excuse us, please.”

I went outside to the sight of caretakers and bedridden children, lingering just by the door to hear them. I wanted to know if there was an important mission they were trying to hide from me. Woodrow’s voice was a soft whisper. “What I am about to do… I will need to feed after.”

“I understand,” Wilbur said quietly.

Woodrow lowered his voice and I had to press my ear close to catch what he was saying. Wilbur made a startled noise which made Woodrow speak louder. “...stock up, brother. You know that. You know the frenzied state Knox warned us about when we go hungry. We can cause instant damage and lose years of hard work to keep them safe and our identity a secret.”

I did not hear anymore, only the sound of the wooden basin being moved on the table. Just before I went to check on the other sick children and endured the stares of the mothers who hated me, Woodrow swallowed air and made an unpleasant noise. “Like rotten meat. And something ickier that lingers.”