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wasn’t perfect here at Fara. Men squabbled, petty grudges were borne. Around him at the long wooden table Cai found every type of human face, from Leof’s ethereal beauty to the lumpen grin of poor Brother Eyulf, a halfwit rescued by Theo to work in the kitchens, who closely resembled the turnips of his trade. But they all turned to Theo, as he stood to give them grace, and Cai could see nothing but goodwill, as if by common consent each one of them had left the unworthy parts of himself behind for now, and come with warm fraternal hearts to join the feast.
    Theo led the ancient Latin grace with a careful sincerity that made the words new. Then he blessed each one of the thirty men gathered, thanking them briefly for their work—the shepherd and the weaver, the doctor and the cook. He nodded to Brother Michael, who struck up a north-shores ballad on his smallpipes—music during dinner being the rarest of treats—and signaled for the meal to begin.
    Caius took an early leave. His long day’s walk was catching up with him, and he needed to put distance between himself and Leof, partly for his own sake and partly because Leof, after half a cup of heather ale, was losing his convictions. Cai could see it in the lambent softening of his blue eyes, perceive it in the lingering press of his elbow when he passed the bread. Although on a night like this Cai would gladly have led him out to the moonlit slopes beyond the farmland, he didn’t want to be the means of his undoing.
    He paused for a moment on his way out of the refectory. A story came into his mind—one of the many Theo had told him, of a sparrow that flew into a king’s feasting hall through one window and just as swiftly vanished into darkness on the other side. Even so, man appears on earth for a little while, but of what went before this life or what follows, we know nothing.
    He shivered. He knew that life was short. That it could be bloody, and grasped in dirty hands until it spilled out its juices and died, he had learned from his father too well. Cai didn’t know how he would succeed in his efforts to renounce it, but he could only try, and certainly he could step out of the way of Leof’s much more promising struggle. He could see Leof as an abbot himself one day, pure-minded and serene, counselling novice monks of his own. Now he was chattering to Eyulf, who adored him with the mute passion of a hound. Quickly, before Leof could glance up and see him go, Cai slipped away.
    The night was calm and still. The shadows in the courtyard were deep, but Cai’s feet knew each dip of the well-worn flagstones, and he made his way easily past the well and up the mossy outer stairs that led to the dormitory chambers. He was relieved to have his own cell to lie down in tonight. He’d spent his novitiate year in the communal chamber with only five other brethren, and hadn’t exactly been cramped, but tonight he meant to say his prayers as taught and stretch out in solitude, receptive to the voice of God. Cai thought he could give his life away, devote himself body and soul, if he were quite sure he had heard it for himself. Just once, he asked silently, letting himself into his cell and pushing the heavy oak door shut behind him.
    The dormitory building was perched on the very edge of Fara rock, and Cai’s unglazed cell commanded a view out over the moon-silvered bay and far beyond it, right to the glittering horizon. He opened the shutters, leaned his elbows on the sill. Just once, God —and the great crescent moon seemed to roll on her back among the clouds and offer herself languorously up to him.
    He sighed and turned away. He got undressed quickly, as he’d been taught, paying his nakedness no attention. He lay down flat, placing his hands at his sides. No, wait—he was meant to fold them on his chest, wasn’t he? Theo’s instructions hadn’t been very precise, and Cai had suspected the abbot didn’t care much how his novices slept, as long as they did