Whistlers Of The Dark

PRELUDE KINGSMOSS PRIORY, SCOTLAND, AUTUMN, 1252 AD. The bell rang for Matins, with the harsh clamour sounding from the small, squat bell tower across the dark mists that clung to the low damp-lands of the Kings Moss. The monks rose from their hard beds, some eager, most groggy with sleep, and made their way to the chapel on its inch, the raised island within the Moss. Brother Matthew shivered, pulled his hood over his head, remembered the dry heat of Outremer, and said a short prayer for strength in this northern chill. A raised timber causeway connected the monk’s dormitory to the chapel, with a rudimentary handrail to prevent the monks from slipping into the treacherous peat moss on either side. “What a place to build a holy site,” Brother Simon grumbled. “God is here as much as anywhere.” Brother Matthew tried to sound convincing as the raw cold bit through his woollen habit. He remembered the labour in constructing that causeway, with the monks hewing the wood by hand and carrying it from the Sidlaw Hills’ forests to this lonely place. Brother Matthew knew that a long-gone king had founded a religious site here but wished his Grace had chosen a more salubrious spot, away from the miasmic moss and the steep slopes of the hills. Now the monks filed across the causeway, their sandals slapping on the greasy timber and each man huddled in his black habit. Brother Matthew looked back over the procession, twelve Benedictine monks, which was the entire complement at this small establishment. They moved in silence under the soft rain, for it always seemed to rain here, which was one reason it was the most unpopular of all the Benedictine sites in Scotland. Brother Matthew slipped on the already-green slimed planks, recovered, and smiled. For a moment, his thoughts drifted away to his previous life, and the girl who had not waited for him. Adelina had been beautiful, with wide blue eyes and a straight nose, and her hair! Her hair would cascade from her head in soft golden curls, scented with birch-water. Brother Matthew shook his head, chasing the memory away. When he returned from Outremer, she was already married to another knight, taking Matthew’s joy with him. That life was gone, and women were no longer important in this life of sacrifice, prayer, and work. An owl hooted from the hills that overlooked the chapel, beyond the black peat of the moss. Another owl answered, and then a low, undulating whistle that Brother Matthew could not identify. “What kind of bird makes that sound?” he mused, pulled his hood tighter around his head and tried to think of more spiritual matters. That low, undulating whistle sounded again, vaguely irritating. Brother Matthew could not judge from where it came, which was unusual, for before he took Holy Orders, he had been a Crusader and was well-versed in seeking out potential danger. Not that there was any danger here, in one of God’s religious communities. Brother Matthew thought he heard Brother Paul chanting as he walked and felt glad when he saw the chapel loom ahead, a sanctuary from the cold. The site was ancient, with a Celtic church founded here many years before the Benedictines arrived. It was the Celtic Church that the old King had founded, nearly two-and-a-half centuries ago. Brother Matthew touched the birthmark on his cheek, the mark that people had always ridiculed until he took Holy Orders and joined the Church. The Benedictine monks accepted him for what he was, not for how he looked. And the Benedictines would not replace him with another, unlike the faithless Adelina. The brothers filed into the small, stone-built chapel, with the tolling of the bell drowning out the rustle of clothing and scuff and shuffle of sandals on the stone-flagged floor. Only when the bell stopped did the service begin, with the elderly prior taking the lead and the sonorous Latin words echoing from the chapel’s austere stones. Brother Matthew tried to concentrate, but his mind slipped away elsewhere, to a land more colourful than grey Scotland, and a place where men and women danced and sang together. He knew it was not the East, where he had seen hard fighting, but somewhere even brighter. He shook his head, fighting the images that had been so prevalent recently. The Chapel was no place to allow his mind to drift to musicians and dancing, particularly as half the dancers were women, some very shapely and with infinite promise in their eyes. Brother Matthew saw Adelina among the dancers, all alone and with her hands stretched towards him. “Adelina!” Matthew said, yearning to hold her white hands. “Brother Matthew!” He heard Brother Paul say his name, yet moved away, with the lure of Adelina and the dancers too strong to ignore. The brothers watched him, with some attempting to prevent his leaving and the prior stopping his sermon in mid-sentence. Ignoring them all, Brother Matthew walked out of the chapel. He saw the land ahead, bathed in a soft green light, with a host of people waiting for him with open arms, smiling as they played musical instruments. “Join us!” the musicians invited without saying a single word. “Come and join us!” The monks were behind him, their voices harsh in comparison to the whistles of the musicians. “Brother Matthew! The moss! Be careful of the moss!” “It’s all right! We’ll look after you!” The young blonde woman stood in front of the musicians, beckoning him over. “Come to me, my love.” Brother Matthew smiled. “Adelina! It’s you! You married somebody else when I was out East! You said my birthmark made me ugly.” He touched his face. “It was all a mistake,” Adelina said. “I don’t mind your birthmark at all. I’ve been waiting here for you! Come and join us.” Leaving the Causeway, Brother Mathew stepped towards Adelina, laughing, with Adelina’s acceptance cancelling out all his vows. “Look!” Brother Paul shouted from the causeway. “Look who has come to visit us! It is the Holy Father himself! That’s who Brother Matthew saw.” “You’re right,” the prior said. “Imagine the Holy Father coming all this way. We must greet him. Follow me, brothers.” With the prior in the lead, the brothers left the causeway and strode into the moss, shouting out their welcomes. Within five minutes the chapel was empty, with only the wind left to toll the bell. Eventually that, too, eased, and silence descended, broken only by the gentle hiss of rain on the surrounding moss. A single sandal floated on the peaty surface, a reminder of the men who had once worshipped here, and somebody whistled, the undulating sound lonely in that deserted place.