Hyran spread his arms and took a deep breath of the fresh air, so energizing compared to the mustiness of his cell, or the catacombs of the library, or the wine stores. Of course, it was raining, but that never bothered Hyran. There would be other days to allow his dark skin to absorb the sun’s rays through the first canopy of leaves, perhaps thirty feet above him.
The bell rang, three times. Time for Worship, after which it was back to copying texts. He picked up his pace, and headed for the chapel. He really preferred the cathedral, since it was a brighter, airier (and newer) place, but there weren’t enough monks here to justify lighting all those glow-worms every day.
The other monks were lining up in order of seniority. Some shook their heads in amusement at Hyran, who was quite damp with the rain, while others simply quietly prepared themselves spiritually for the Worship. Once everyone was in place, they filed in, chanting ancient melodies with uplifting harmonies. They knelt at the altar as they had done so many times before, were blessed by the Holy Azhe sprinkled over their heads, received the rededication for the day’s work. They made the Sign of the Rending, running their fingers up along their ears to the point, and straight down to the floor. No one knew anymore why, only that the Great Master himself had been killed by a sword which had sliced his head in half.
The service ended, and Hyran moved back through the rain to his cell to continue his copying. This time, he kept his hands and sleeves as covered as best he could, lest they get wet and smear his ink. Once he entered the library, his old (fair-skinned) mentor chuckled at him. “Ah, now there’s a proper stance for walking in the rain.”
Hyran straightened from his hunched over posture. “The Word is far more important than my enjoyment of rain. You’ve taught me that very well, Brother Allega.”
Allega chuckled again, in a good mood as always. “Now if only Brother Gouan would pass away so you could be the gardener, eh?”
“I honestly don’t understand why he should make me wait. He can hardly carry a half-full bucket of water anymore. What is he now, a hundred twenty?” Allega nodded. “But no matter. The texts are fascinating, if a bit slow.”
“You can’t fool me with your false contentment. I know you know you’re in danger of becoming a mentor.”
“I’d rather not be reminded of that, Mentor,” replied Hyran, stressing the brother’s former title. “Now, if I may get to my texts?”
Another chuckle from the older man. “Of course, of course.” The two men parted ways, as Hyran thought about the previous three pages he’d copied and the wisdom thus gained...
Time went very slowly in the copying cells, giving him time to meditate on the text he was copying. Of course, that took his attention away from the task, but he’d been copying for many years now. Much of his task was by rote. Plus, he had simplified the letters somewhat, which made them easier to read than the overly ornate text he copied. Most of his brothers of the faith considered the letters themselves sacred, but he thought that idea was silly, since it was mere monks like he who’d written them. Maybe it was just to attach some greater importance to a job done in a dank, dark cell without any contact with the other brothers who sat in the neighboring cells.
Just short of one too many times Hyran had mentioned that the commoner couldn’t read these bits of wisdom. Apparently, that was the point.
A bell rang, alerting the toiling monks that sunset was upon them. Where there had once been the quiet scritching of quills, there was now the whooshing of those blowing out glow-worms, the shuffling of parchment, the scooting of stools. When his quill ran out, Hyran gently stroked his worm. Then, he stowed the quill in his robe, stood up and strode toward the door.
Brother Mistec was there, blessing each man (and particularly the work done that day) as he moved out into the dwindling sunlight. Hyran turned toward the west, blessed the sun, and rejoined the shuffle to the chapel for evening service.
“Why do you bless the sun?” asked a younger voice.
Hyran turned to see the brother behind him, a neophyte named Mopfler, and turned back the way he was walking. “I thank the Great Master for keeping the services of the sun.” That wasn’t the whole truth, actually, but it served in most cases.
“But why wouldn’t the Great Master want the sun?” Mopfler pressed eagerly. “It provides us with light and plantlife.”
“I cannot pretend to know what the Great Master wants or doesn’t want. It just sometimes seems to me that He changed so much that I must bless the good things He left alone.”
Another voice came from behind Mopfler. “I have heard,” the man said, “that the Straubists bless the sun every evening. Were you not a Straubist before Receiving the Rendering?”
“No, I was nothing before that.” It was a response paraphrased right from the Receiving rite. In truth, he had followed the heathen celestial religion that was far older than any major organized one. He had been taught to bless the sun every evening, in hopes that it would give its radiant gift again the next day. He still thought it prudent, regardless of who created the sun.
The evening service was almost the exact reverse of the morning service, and sometimes Hyran felt as if he ought to walk and talk backwards as well. That, however, would definitely draw frowns. Then again, frowns might very well prevent him from becoming a mentor. Or they may make a mentorship his punishment.
So, he participated in the service just as everyone always did. Toward the end, before the parting hymns, they were commanded to dream about their past lives, in light of their new learning. That was always interesting, considering his past life....
A special type of fragrant oil was sprinkled over his face, and the hymns passed in a blur as drowsiness kicked in. In a daze he changed to bedclothes and fell asleep....
