The Guest (The Chosen Chronicles) Read Online Free PDF

before their guest would notice them. They would not interrupt the Guest, but if necessity warranted it, they would. A deep shuddering sigh escaping from the Guest relieved their growing tension and the old monk stepped onto the dew covered grass, its wetness permeating his naturally made slippers.
    “It is time.” The old monk’s voice spread gravel across the silence.
    Pale eyelids fluttered open to reveal irises of blood surrounding a darker pool. No black pupil helped to fix the stare of the Guest, only red. A pinched expression flowed over the Guest’s youthful features and the old monk felt its impact upon his own innards.
    The old monk remembered when the Guest arrived years ago. It had been the old monk’s – then a youth – responsibility to teach the Guest their language and their ways. Despite the transformation the years had applied to the old monk, the Guest had never changed, only their friendship had grown in a triumvirate with the Master. There was no need for the Guest to voice his feelings about what he was called to do, it was written across his face and reflected in each person within the monastery.
    The old monk watched the Guest close his eyes, his face belying the conflict within. When the red piercing stare returned resignation slumped muscular pale shoulders.   The monk turned at the shallow nod and walked back into the cloister- garth . He did not need to see if the Guest followed and his ears did not need to hear pale bare feet upon cold stone, he could feel the presence of the Guest behind him as he turned towards the cells where all the monks slept, the younger monk taking up the rear.
    Through the dimly lit halls they walked the well known paths. Not to their own rooms, but past, towards the large suite set aside for the Master of the monastery. The gilded double doors lay open, admitting a view of a bed piled high with finely crafted blankets. Propped up against silk covered pillows of yellow, the Master lay sleeping.
    The old monk stepped into the room and glanced up at the tall Guest, noting the sadness in his eyes. Two monks who sat on either side of the doors stood and closed them, sealing all within the incensed confines of a room weighted down with death. The resonating boom startled the Guest. The Master did not stir. The two young monks knelt down in their positions amongst the monks that formed a row against the wall, each one in prayer, their nian zhu clicking and shushing through fingers.
    “He’s expecting you,” said the old monk, his voice barely above a whisper.
    The Guest frowned, staring at a spot on the stone floor in front of the bed. “I know.”
    “He spoke of this to you a long time ago.”
    “Yes.” The Guest’s voice sibilant.
    The old monk lifted a gnarled hand and patted the Guest on his cold milk coloured arm. “We’ll be here.”
    The Guest nodded and did not watch the old and middle aged monks sit in line, taking up their own meditation beads in prayer. Instead he stood still against the silhouette of his friend in the bed. Tentative steps brought the Guest to stand beside the supine Master. He gazed down at the one who had opened the monastery to him, providing him a refuge and a place where acceptance was norm rather than the fear and disgust he had come to expect from mortals. What was once a smooth shaven face of a middle aged man filled with love and compassion was now a shrivelled plain crevassed with age. Slack translucent grey skin outlined boney features and eyes that once sparkled in obsidian brightness now fluttered open in opaque greyness.
    The heart of the Guest broke and he sat down beside the Master. “I have come.”
    A faint tremulous smile lifted thin grey lips that once reached their happy pinnacle with ease. “Thank you.” The Master’s sussurant voice barely lifted to the Guest’s preternatural hearing.
    “I don’t want to do this,” sighed the Guest.
    Sympathetic silence saddened the Master’s clouded eyes.
    “I want