The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Four

Scribe Laon's eyes sprang open. He blinked a few times, but there was no light in his cell for his vision to adjust to. As he waited for the bell to finish tolling, he dug his nails deep into his thigh. Sixteen years into his routine and he still wasn't used to it. He wanted nothing more than to sink back against what counted as a mattress in this place, and sleep until dawn.

He sat up before the waves of tiredness could pull him back down, and reached for the glass bottle on his bedside table. There was no need to light the candle. This at least he had got the hang of. One spoonful followed by an hour of recitations, and then he could go back to bed. It wasn't that bad really. Laon felt guilty for not being a more willing servant to the task.

The bottle was stoppered by a cork, which he yanked out with his teeth before settling it down carefully next to his spoon. It was a large spoon, like the ones they used in the kitchens. He had to sip his dose from the edge. He held his breath as he did so, and focused his mind on the glory of his task so that he would not cringe at the taste. He almost succeeded.

The liquid burned as it trickled down his throat and he had to resist the urge to cough. If he coughed too much he might vomit the whole thing back up, and then he'd have to start again. It used to happen a lot, back when he was a boy and still training. Deep breaths then, that was the way. The cool air of the cell calming the inside of his mouth and soothing his tongue.

That done, he prepared his mind for the recitations. If you could call them that. It was more of a chant really. In truth, Scribe Laon found it calming, clearing the mind of all the pain that gathered in his body during the daylight hours. Back when he was an apprentice, the other scribes told him he'd come to look about these hours with relief, and it was true. They were as important to him as the hearty breakfast that would be waiting for him as soon as the sun rose, or the touch the hot water encompassing his body at the close of day.

Part way through the fourth recitation, Laon heard something outside his cell. He paused, letting reality flow back to him. The stone floor bit into his knees and he had to sit back on his heels to concentrate properly.

Outside, in the corridor, there was the shuffling gait of a man wearing loose sandals.

"Brother Scribe?" he called out, hoping it was just one of his fellows out in search of some fresh air after their nightly rituals. There was no reply. Scribe Laon cursed one of the swear words he remembered from his youth under his breath and staggered to his feet. His knees were not going to let him forget this for days. "Brother Corbie? Is that you?"

The shuffling stopped its progress down the passageway. Scribe Laon could picture the fellow standing there, leaning towards his voice like a wilting flower attempting to turn towards the sun. He sighed. There would be no respite this night. Opening the door slowly, so that the old hinges did not wake the dead, or at least the other scribes, with their screeching, he peeked out into the gallery. The moon was hanging low in the sky, transforming their dull cloister and herb garden into fairieland. There, standing between two of the pillars holding up the roof to the passageway, was Scribe Corbie.

He'd managed to tie his thick cloak around at the neck, but it had become twisted, only covering half his body. Underneath, he was as naked as a babe. His pale buttocks, softened by the decades, was bare to the night air.

"Brother Corbie," said Laon, grabbing his own cloak from the hook and rushing out to wrap it around the old man. "It's freezing out here. You must return to your cell."

"They are calling me," said Scribe Corbie, pulling away from Laon so that the cloak fell to the ground between them. Laon picked it up and shook it out before trying again to cover Corbie. "It wakes me in the night. Can't you hear them?" He turned to Laon, his pale eyes looking almost pure white in the moonlight. Laon tried to suppress a shudder.

"There's no one calling you but your warm bed," he managed at last. "Now come with me and we'll get you settled."

"No. Don't you see? It's not right. They were never meant to exist. It's all wrong. It's not natural."

Scribe Laon cast a furtive glance around. The Brothers had all been very understanding about Scribe Corbie's condition, but that kind of talk would have him on the traitor's block if it ever got out. The courtyard looked deserted, but one could never be too careful. Who knew where the ears of the King might be lurking.

Scribe Corbie's head fell to his chest and he allowed himself to be walked back around the cloister towards his cell. As they passed, a door creaked open and the dark head of one of the more junior scribes appeared.

"Brother Scribe? What's going on?"

Laon shot him a warning look. "Have you finished your recitations?"

"Not yet, brother."

"Then I suggest you return to them."

The young man nodded and retreated back into his cell. Laon waited to hear the latch click into place before moving on.

Inside Scribe Corbie's cell, Laon lay him down across the bed and went in search of a candle. The bedside table was filled with debris, dirty handkerchiefs curled around crusts of bread and mouldy cups he must have taken from the refectory. The handkerchiefs looked like they were covered in ink. He pursed his lips. Someone should be told about this.

"I'll send one of the apprentices in here tomorrow to clean up for you," he said.

"I won't have it. I don't want any of them touching my stuff." He sat bolt upright and tried to pull Laon away from his possessions.

Laon grabbed his arms, holding him tight until the old man stopped flailing and fell back against his bed, exhausted.

"As you wish, Brother Corbie," he said softly, pulling the blanket over him and tucking him in.

He eyed the stained handkerchiefs once more. He knew what that meant. Brother Corbie was dying.