30
Lindisfarne Monastery January 3, AD 643
Thomas strode down the beach, tightening his cloak absently against the wind. Up ahead he noticed a commotion—the raucous cries of seagulls as they dive-bombed an object on the beach. They all scattered as he drew closer, a few merely hopping away out of reach, fixing him with their gimlet eyes.
It was a dead animal of some sort, washed up on the last tide. The water had done its work, stripping it of head, feet, and hair, so that all that was left was a mere bloated stretch of skin. Possibly a dog, or a pig, but it was impossible to tell. The seagull’s harsh complaints at his intrusion were almost deafening, and Thomas hurried past them, seeking a quieter place to order his thoughts.
Since the Gathering two weeks ago, peace had escaped him, e
