An ocean of early morning stars dotted the black heavens. Within the creaking boughs of a towering poplar tree swaying beneath the dying moon, a spider clung to the last tattered threads of its broken web. A gust of wind rolled the insect into its own silk and swept it away, the tangled cocoon drifting over moonlit treetops only briefly before a bat snapped it from the air. From the lower branches of the same large tree, the hoot of an owl carried through the shadowed canopy of the untouched forest, its haunting call giving way to the growing noise of breaking twigs, hasty footfalls, and labored breathing. Leather boots broke through shards of moonlight and disappeared into the thickets. Except for wind in the branches, silence again settled over the forest before new sounds followed – the din of trampled underbrush, growls, and snorts. A blur of animal paws tore through the brambles and charged after the wearer of the boots.

A robed silhouette, the shadow of an overstuffed sack draped over its shoulder and of a long stick in its hand, broke into a clearing near the bank of a shallow creek. The lone figure sloshed through the water, crossed the creek bed, and entered the forest on the opposite side of the stream. A pack of wild dogs leapt out of the woods and searched the clearing for a scent. Then the two largest animals rolled into a heap of gnashing teeth and flying fur as the others raced across the creek.

After striding through the forest for several moments, the man climbed a steep rise and stood atop the crest of a barren ridge. As he spun about and listened for the dogs, the light of the moon captured Friar Nicholas’ grimacing face. Upon hearing that the beasts were still in pursuit and not far behind him, the young priest hastened down the western side of the ridge and dashed across a stony valley, his eyes fixed on a jutting cliff that bore the distinct features of a yowling face.

Within the dark depths of Mountain Mouth, a small shadow crouched against a cave wall, listening to unsettling noises that came from a narrow crevice that extended upward into the darkness and led deeper into the mountain. Lazarus wrung the last droplets of creek water from his foot mittens, warming the cloth shoes beneath his robe before wrapping them over his numb and naked feet. He curled himself more tightly against the wall, inspecting the cavern that was filled with eerie sounds and acrid smells, and from which led twisted passages to yet darker places he could not imagine. Suddenly, a new noise grabbed his attention. Lazarus held his breath and listened to the sounds coming from outside the cave. Then he leapt to his feet and ran toward the mouth of the cavern, darting around the corner of a passageway. “Friar Odin,” he said as he glimpsed a dark figure in the dying moonlight he could not identify, but immediately there was a resounding crash as the two collided. Lazarus hit the ground hard and Nicholas’ head found the cave wall. A wheel of cheese rolled away from the wreck of robes and scattered provisions and fell on its side.

Lazarus sat upright and rubbed his shoulder, looking at a half-empty sack and its contents, now strewn over an earthen floor. “Friar Nicholas?” The boy leapt to his feet and ran to the young friar, who lay on his back, motionless. He removed the long walking stick the monk had carried from atop his chest and shook him. “Friar?”

“Grrrrrrr!”

Lazarus spun about to find a pack of growling dogs at the entrance of the cave, sniffing the air as they crept forward. He rose slowly with the monk’s stick now in his hand. “Friar,” he whispered, his eyes fixed on the nearest and largest dog, which continued its slow advance, snarling as though to spur the rest of the pack forward. “Dogs? These are dogs?” Nicholas did not respond. The largest of the beasts bared its teeth and hunched its back, its hair at the neck and shoulder standing on end as if it were readying to leap. Lazarus stepped between Nicholas and the animal. “Leave us be!” The dog stole a glimpse at the cheese wheel and growled, summoning a wall of fangs to gather behind it. “Be gone,” Lazarus exclaimed, jabbing the stick forward. The dog bit the end of it, yanked the branch, and pulled the boy to the ground. Lazarus rolled upright and turned to find the dog’s glaring eyes only an arm’s length from his face.

“Hissssss!” Lazarus spat a cat-like sound that caused every canine in the cave to freeze and cock its head. In the lingering darkstill. Lazarus did his best to burn a wild stare through the animal before him. Concierge of the cave and watchdog of the watch, he was. Eye to eye, boy to beast, whatever untold exchange unfolded betwixt them, whatever primal or impalpable conveyance settled the standoff, the entire pack retreated from the cave, following their leader across the stony valley before disappearing over the ridge.

Lazarus dropped the stick and knelt beside the priest, shaking him. “Friar!” Nicholas stirred. “Are you stricken?”

Nicholas moaned, holding his head. “I shall live.” In the darkness, he patted his hand over Lazarus, finding his shoulder. “Lazarus?”

“’Tis I,” the boy replied, helping Nicholas to sit upright. “And I found the Mountain Mouth.”

“Indeed, you did,” the priest grumbled, feeling the lump on his crown. He dropped his hand and beamed a wide eye toward the mouth of the cave. “Wild dogs, come!” He felt frantically around the dark floor. “Find my stick!”

Lazarus pulled on his sleeve. “The dogs have fled, Friar.”

“Fled? They were here?”

“Yes, Friar – whilst you lay unaware upon the ground. I frightened them away with your stick.”

Nicholas relaxed and rubbed his head. “How long have I been without myself?”

“For but a moment. And the sack has spilled,” the boy answered, giving Nicholas a tinderbox that he had found on the ground.

Nicholas grabbed Lazarus’ arm. “There is a flask! Do not move lest you step on it!” He fumbled with the tinderbox. “We must have light enough to see.”

Lazarus picked up the unbroken flask from beside his foot. “’Tis not broken. I have it.” He smelled the cork and cocked his head.

“Be gentle! Give it to me, Lazarus,” Nicholas exclaimed, taking the flask and quickly pulling it to his chest. He sighed, clearly relieved.

“If I may ask, what has happened, Friar Nicholas? Where is Friar Odino?” Lazarus inquired with a choking sound at the end of the statement as if the dark possibilities threaten to overwhelm him.

Abruptly, Nicholas stood. “We should warm ourselves beside a fire before we collect the provisions.”

“Friar Odino does not come?”

Nicholas cleared his throat and pointedly ignored the boy’s question. “If I recall, there is a stand of dogwood and hawthorn brush on a higher ledge of the mountain.” Lazarus watched quietly as Nicholas stumbled through the darkness. With a groping hand, the priest found a deep crevice in the base of the cave wall, slid the flask gently within, and rolled a large stone over its opening. Then he marked himself in the sign of the cross. “Come, Lazarus. Let us gather wood.” Nicholas felt his way out of the cave and stepped into the moonlight, Lazarus following close behind.

Beneath the dim glow of night, they walked to and fro, up and down the mountainside, carrying armfuls of deadwood into the deeper reaches of the cave. And with a few strikes of a tinderbox, flickering flames illuminated the interior of Mountain Mouth, revealing a vast and barren cavern that, since the dawn of creation, had never seen even the most remote reflections of light. Nicholas stood, tapped his finger against the tinderbox, and smiled. “Even a firestorm starts from but a spark. Imagine that.”

Lazarus recognized the instrument. “Friar Odino often used it to light the cellar torch.”

Nicholas nodded with a dying smile. “Perhaps he did.” And as the flames chased the mountain’s underworld chill away, Lazarus and Nicholas took their seats atop stool-sized boulders, sitting on opposite sides of the fire and warming their hands and feet. “We should gather the provisions. Are you hungry?”

“Only cold, Friar,” Lazarus replied.

“Then warm yourself.” Silence settled over the cave, save for the sounds of whistling and crackling wood.

At length, Lazarus peered through dancing flames to discover a pair of high-laced leather boots. “Where are your sandals, Friar?”

Nicholas smiled and presented his boots in better light, brushing dried mud from them. “Do you like them? I made them myself.”

Lazarus pulled his steaming foot mittens away from the fire. “By your own hand you made them?”

Nicholas nodded, a hint of pride displayed on his face. “They seem comfortable,” Lazarus remarked. “I should like to have such boots as yours. Might you teach me how to make them for my own feet?”

The priest chuckled. “It takes a cobbler’s hand to make boots such as these.” He shook his head. “And good cobblers are not made in a single eve.”

“How many?” Lazarus questioned.

“How many what?”

“How many eves does it take to make a good cobbler?”

“Ah, well, I do not really know. However, when I was but a boy and solicited the same from my father, he told me that it takes two lifetimes and then some.”

Lazarus cocked his head and Nicholas elaborated. “He insisted that a good cobbler requires the lifetime of his father’s cobbling experience, and he requires a lifetime to learn from his own cobbling mistakes as well. And, lastly, he requires some of the life of his son, so that the father might serve as a teacher in the art of cobbling.”

“Yet, I do not wish to be a good cobbler,” Lazarus rejoined, patting the steam from his foot mittens. “I only care to make the same boots as yours – but smaller. And since you are a friar, and I am a squire, which is something akin to a father and a son, then I can learn the art of it from you.”

Nicholas lifted a stick and stirred glowing embers before responding, “I am no longer a friar, Lazarus. I would prefer that you no longer refer to me as such since I left my sandals behind. Henceforth, I no longer serve the abbey or the Holy See.” He sighed. “Alas, my faith has finally left me.”

A moment passed as Lazarus considered his words. “I am only a squire, yet I shall learn to be an abbey friar and care for the catacombs, since I know much about them.”

Nicholas propped his elbow on his knee, cradled his chin in his hand, and studied Lazarus. “I feel that your fate shall be much greater than that of a mere friar. Whether greater for ill or for good or both, I cannot know, but your fate will be made of greatness, nonetheless.” He stared through the eyeholes of Lazarus’ mask, his gaze fixed on a pair of shimmering blue eyes and wide pupils that reflected the images of dancing flames.”

“I shall be a good friar for the catacombs,” Lazarus stated flatly.

 Nicholas sat upright, drew a deep breath, and looked around the cave as if to inspect his whereabouts for the first time. “So, did you know that I was a cobbler before I became a friar?”

“Then, why did you become a friar if you were already a cobbler?” the boy petitioned.

Nicholas chuckled. “I was young. And perhaps I sought a life of prayer and worship only because I refused to be a good cobbler.”

Lazarus glanced at his boots. “But you are good enough, it seems.”

“It takes more than a keen eye and passionate hands to make a good cobbler. I shall tell you what happened, if you care to hear, but you must know of my father and the habitual nature of my three brothers to appreciate these events.”

“I care to hear, if you would tell.” Lazarus returned his foot mittens to the fireside to dry.

“Then I shall.” Nicholas straightened his robe. “It happened that my father had a cobbler shop in the town of Aries.” Lazarus briefly pointed to the southeast wall of the cave before quietly turning back to Nicholas. “What is it?”

He pointed again. “The town of Aries is in that direction,” Lazarus offered, quickly returning his hand to his lap and clasping his fingers together.

“Perhaps it is. Anyway, my father taught my brothers and myself the art of cobbling. In his later years, he fell ill and relied on the four of us to keep the shop open. And we did, for a time, but in the end, the shop failed. We were too unalike – each working in our own way.

“I should begin by telling you of my eldest brother, who probably knew more about cobbling than any of us, save my father. However, he had a reputation for being an exceedingly critical man – and a drunkard. None of us could do right by him, as he found a flaw in every shoe we made or mended. I do admit that, on those rare occasions when he did sober and show himself at the shop, he made a fine pair of shoes, and yet, they were never as exceptional as he made them out to be – praising them and himself as though moved by divine inspiration. And we were always certain that, if the moment ever presented itself, he would have gathered the entire town outside of the shop and displayed his shoes on a pedestal as evidence of his unmistakable mastery as a cobbler. Even so, he was more eager to show the rest of us the error of our ways than to make or mend shoes. In truth, he rarely cobbled at all. This was the critical nature of my eldest brother.

“Then there was my second eldest brother, who was quite different, as he was something of an overly passionate man. I do declare, with all of his many talents, he was certainly a gifted individual. And when he cobbled, we all knew that he could make shoes fit for even the most discriminating king. Unfortunately, like my eldest brother, he rarely showed himself at the shop, always giving the same reason: his heart, mind, and spirit were not in ideal alignment for making or mending shoes. With his incessant vanity, everything had to feel perfect in every way, lest he lose his passion for creation. But when he did find himself to be aligned, oh what he could do with tools and leather. Regrettably, his moments for cobbling were few and far betwixt his many other passions. Such was the strange way of my second eldest brother.

“Now, my third eldest brother was another sort altogether, a decidedly frugal man who spent almost every waking moment tending to the shop. Most days, he was the first to arrive and the last to leave, and I gathered that he wished to make me feel as though I did not give my all. I do admit that he gave more than did I, but there was nothing in his life but cobbling, and he kept a tally of everything in that large binding of his. Every cut of leather, every length of stitch, every shoe pin – even an account of the comings and goings of every patron. Not that his quaint custom was wrong, mind you, but he was obsessed with it, with keeping track, and any waste whatsoever would send him into a fit of rage. So particular was he, that if we used a stitch more to mend the shoe of a patron, he would secretly short a stitch in the shoe of the next patron. And in his own miserly way, he betrayed the shop, as patrons returned their shoes and bickered over the workmanship. My third eldest brother had an overly sparing nature.”

Lazarus leaned forward. “Did your father know of these happenings?”

Nicholas tossed a twig into the fire. “Not initially. We agreed not to trouble my father with any concerns, as he was on his deathbed. Nevertheless, when a particular merchant rolled into town, my enfeebled father came to know all.” Nicholas chuckled and shook his head. “And everything took a different path with but a single pair of boots.”

“Those?” Lazarus queried, pointing to Nicholas’ boots.

“The very same.” Nicholas explained. “There was a wealthy merchant who frequently passed through the town as he moved his line of wagons between Marseilles and Avignon. Everyone knew of him, especially the children, because he made it his practice to give them trinkets, tarts, and sweetmeats along the way. One day, he came into town as a changed man – quite bitter. Instead of gifts, he threw stones at the children, scolding them for crowding his carts. What was more, rather than passing through town, as he had always done, he parked his carts and stayed for several days. Doing so, he happened upon my brother – the passionate one. Learning that he was a cobbler by trade, the merchant tempted him with an overly generous offer. My brother had only to make for him a pair of well-crafted boots that would strike the eye of every man and need no mending, boot that would serve him faithfully ‘til the end of his days. In exchange, the merchant offered him one of many casks of fine Avignon wine that he carried on his carts. Of course, my brother eagerly agreed. He returned to the shop and delivered the good news, and since we were with idle hands, we welcomed the work and the merchant’s challenge.”

My brother brought the merchant to the shop, marked the leather for precise cut and fit, and told him to return on the following day. Then he leapt to the task, working throughout the eve and into the next morn, completing them shortly after I arrived at the shop. In all my days, I had never seen a more ornately crafted pair of double-stitched boots with cuff tassels, side-straps, and metal buckles. And if the craftsmanship alone was not enough to ensnare any man’s eye with envy, the most striking detail of these fine boots lay in their extraordinary color — he had dyed the leather in several shades of green. Imagine, if you will, boots as green as Leeland’s grass.” Nicholas leaned forward and nodded. “Green boots.”

He stoked the fire before continuing. “My brother presented them for my consideration, and I found myself at a loss for words, for I had never laid eyes upon such an odd design of cobbling. I admit that he used great skill in their making; however, the boots were overly demanding of attention. As I anticipated, the merchant arrived to inspect the new boots and only scoffed, insisting that he would not be seen, even dead, wearing such an ostenomali – declaring that he had no desire to insult his most illustrious clientele, who were influential nobility and the elite among the clergy. The merchant refused the green boots and informed us of his need for yet another design that would not crowd upon the more modest but elegant attire of a king or cardinal.

“After the merchant departed the shop, I informed my brothers that I should stitch another pair of boots. I prepared to cut the leather when my third eldest brother – the frugal one – stayed my hand, demanding that he make them in my stead. As he was quite irate over materials squandered on the green boots, I did not wish to test his anger and ceded the task to him. I should not have allowed such.” Nicholas sighed. “In his bid to compensate for the leather lost on the green boots, he stitched a new pair of such poor quality that the merchant refused to put his foot in them, claiming them to be shoes unfit for even a peasant. Then my brother agreed to make him yet another pair, and when the merchant tried them on, he admitted that he liked them. However, he declared that he could not accept them, stating that they would not last three full seasons before begging for repairs. The merchant left without the boots, and when I insisted that I stitch the next pair, my drunk and unappeasable eldest brother threatened me with a cutting tool. I left the shop and he approached the merchant on the street, demanding three kegs of wine for the three pairs of boots that we had stitched for him.

“Immediately, the merchant approached my father with the failed accord, and Father summoned us to his bedside. Only then did we confess to him of the pitiable shape of the cobbler shop. Thus he informed the merchant that I was to stitch his boots, and he assured him that they would exceed even his expectations. I did as he wished and stitched the merchant’s boots, even as my brothers gathered over me, all the while claiming that my measures and methods were amiss, wasteful, and in poor taste. However, I paid them no heed, and on the following day, I summoned the merchant to the shop for a final fit. To my delight, he was quite pleased with the boots, stating that he would exchange a cask of his wine for the boots before nightfall. But the merchant’s pleasure enraged my brothers, and when I could bear no more of their tiresome diatribes and overmuch bickering, I slid my feet into the merchant’s boots, which fit me quite nicely, and told my brothers to prove themselves as worthy cobblers by stitching a like pair. With that, I walked out of the shop and left them to their squabbling selves.”

“And those are the boots?” Lazarus said once again, pointing downward.

Nicholas tapped his foot. “The very same.”

“Did your brothers stitch another set for the merchant?”

“They could not. ‘Twas beyond them to make a like pair.”

“Then you refused your father’s wishes?”

Nicholas shrugged. “Neither with intention nor conviction – I never meant to keep the boots because I knew that the merchant was to spend several more days in town before leaving for Marseilles. Never in all of God’s creation, did I expect him to approach my father with an overly generous offer to purchase the cobbler shop, from roof pin to shoe pin. Forthwith, Father agreed to sell the shop to him, leaving my brothers and myself without a means to practice our trade.

“Was he bitter towards you – your father?”

“If he was so, he showed no sign of it. However, he was also dying, and so he was occupied with graver matters, so to speak.”

“And what followed?”

“He died.”

Lazarus looked away when Nicholas continued aloud with his reminiscences, for he too had lost a father. “But before my father passed on, he called for the town bursar and record-keeper to accompany us at his bedside, whereupon he bequeathed all that he owned. To my eldest brother, he left his livestock, advising him to have the beasts work in his favor – toward the purchase of his own cobbler shop — instead of drinking them up, trading them for spirits. To my second eldest brother, he left his manor, telling him that he would certainly transform his home into a presentation of pristine splendor.” Nicholas leaned away from the fire’s smoke and cleared his throat. “And to my third eldest, he left all the silver from the sale of the cobbler shop, informing him that he was confident that he would have plans in place to open another shop before the day was done.” Nicholas coughed and pointed to the woodpile. “Fetch the largest of the logs, Lazarus. Yes, that one. It should burn for most of the eve.”

“Humph!” Lazarus heaved the heavy log into his arms and staggered toward Nicholas with it.

Nicholas shook a pointing finger toward the fire. “Onward from this moment, you are the flame-keeper — the fire is yours to tend.” Lazarus leaned the wood atop the burning embers, careful not to catch his sleeve ablaze. Nicholas gathered large stones and circled them around the perimeter of the coal bed as he lectured Lazarus in the art of fire-making – wood, air, heat, and stone – from the apposite use of the tinderbox to the proper placement of the warming rocks. He worked his way around the periphery of the fire before closing the ring of stone with a wider flat rock. Then he stood, brushed the dust from his hands, and smiled. “A working fire we have, Lazarus.”

They had just returned to their seats on the boulders when Lazarus asked the question that had been weighing on his mind. “Why did you not speak of what your father bestowed upon you?” Nicholas offered only a weak chuckle, and Lazarus cocked his head like a curious dog.

 “He bequeathed me the cobbler shop, stating that he had always intended to leave it behind for me.”

“Did he not sell the shop as you said before?”

“Indeed. The shop belonged to the merchant.”

“Did you not remind him that he had sold it? Or could he not otherwise recall?” the boy interrogated. “You mentioned that your father was near death.”

“He knew,” Nicholas replied. “Only moments before, he had left the monies from its sale to my other brother, but I reminded him of the accord. He only patted my hand and told me that I would be a good cobbler. And those words were the last that he spoke before he fell asleep, forever.”

“He wished for all of you to work as cobblers for the merchant?”

“Perhaps he did, but the merchant had no intention to oversee a cobbler shop. After all, his was a mercantile trader, and a shrewd one. He had a buyer in place for the shop even before he approached my father. And he left town with his wagons of wine and a pair of green boots, twice as wealthy as when he arrived.” Nicholas dropped his gaze and shook his head. “I left, shortly thereafter. And these boots took me north, where I met a friar in the village of Murat who took me under his wing. Friar Delon Odino, he was.”

Lazarus looked across the cavern and eyed the large rock that guarded the flask. “Is Friar Odino safe from the soldiers?”

Nicholas arose and slapped the dust from his robe. “Safe as he shall ever be. Now, we must collect the provisions, lest they lure the dogs. And you must eat.” Lazarus stood and followed him to the mouth of the cave. They began gathering the scattered supplies, stowing them within a soiled monk’s robe that had served as the sack for the provisions.

Nicholas brushed the dirt from a cheese wheel and carried it back to the sack, and as Lazarus filled the sack with the last of the strewn supplies, he knelt beside the boy, placing a hand upon his shoulder. “Odino told me about you, Lazarus. I know why you cover yourself.” Lazarus stood, pulling himself away from an assuring Nicholas. “Not to fret; your secret remains with me. Odino has sent me here to assist you. My word is true.” He turned away and busied himself with the sack, allowing Lazarus the space to consider what he had divulged to him. “Humph!” Nicholas hoisted the sack over his shoulder and toted it deeper into the cave whilst calling back to Lazarus. “’Twas quite a chore, delivering the provisions. When the dogs gave chase, I was tempted to lighten my load.” Lazarus followed him back to the fire, hanging on his words. “Yet I pretended the burden to be my personal cross – even as a collection of my purgatory prayers. Imagine that. I do not believe that I would have otherwise succeeded.” He chuckled. “I often wonder which is more effective to drive a man to succeed – convincing imaginings and the lure of achieving some feat or hostile happenings and fear of defeat. What think you, Lazarus?”

The boy closed ground and stepped alongside Nicholas as they rounded the fire. “Perhaps you simply did not wish the dogs to eat the provisions.”

Nicholas laughed. “Indeed. Perhaps it is only as simple as you suggest.” With a groan, he rolled the heavy load from his back and placed it against the wall of the cavern.

“Sit beside the fire, Lazarus,” Nicholas instructed as he rummaged through the provisions. “You must eat.” Lazarus obeyed. He warmed his foot mittens against heated rocks. Nicholas squatted beside him, unwrapped three strips of salt pork from burlap wrappings, and laid them atop the flat cooking stone. Lazarus leaned forward and smelled the gathering aroma of sizzling meat. Nicholas broke the bread and laid it atop the pork. “Remember my doings, Lazarus. With the bread atop the meat, the bread softens and captures the flavor.”

“I do not like the bread,” Lazarus stated.

“You shall like this bread, I can assure you,” Nicholas rejoined with a smile. “Bread alone is dead food. However, if one mixes bread with softer foods, it can be quite enjoyable – like breadcrumbs and goat’s milk or heated cheese on bread slices. Always tame the hard bread with a softer mate, like wine-soaked bread, to give life to your meal.”

“Wine smells bad. Do you like to drink it?” Lazarus questioned.

Nicholas answered with a wink and a nod. “Wine warms the heart and cools the restive soul, ’tis preached.”

Lazarus leaned forward and inspected the cooking stone. “I did not gather that I was famished.” He lifted a twig from beside his foot.

Nicholas raised the bread and turned the strips of meat. “This should fill your hunger.”

Lazarus wondered aloud, “You shan’t eat?”

Nicholas groaned and rose to his feet. He returned to his seat as he responded, “In good time.” Nicholas watched Lazarus roll the twig between his nimble and boyish fingers. “You do not appear like a grotesque – nothing like a beast.”

Lazarus raised his gaze and Nicholas saw deep into the eyeholes of the boy’s mask. The flickering firelight illuminated a pair of blue eyes that shimmered as sapphire crystals. The mask wrinkled to Lazarus’ defense; “I am not a beast.”

Nicholas smiled. “Indeed not. You are a fine young man, and a hungry one, I gather, yes?”

Suddenly, Lazarus thrust a pointing finger into the air. “There is another cave bird — there!”

Nicholas spun about to see a fluttering creature circle the cavern ceiling and dive through a high and narrow crevice. He turned back to Lazarus, chuckling. “’Tis not a bird, but a bat.” He gestured toward the crevice with a presenting hand. “Bats live in caves. Birds live in trees.”

“I have seen many…,” Lazarus stated, “bats.”

Nicholas nodded. “By His grand design the skies never sleep. Bats fly at night and birds fly in the light of day.”

Lazarus stared at the narrow black corridor through which the bat had flown. “I had a bird, once. Its name was Icapious.”

“You kept a bird in the catacombs?”

“I did. Shiny black feathers, it had. And beneath the torchlight, they shined with a lively blue glow.”

“I never saw a bird in there. Where did you keep it?”

“In a box,” Lazarus stated matter-of-factly. “Icapious was dead when Friar Odino gave it to me, and I could not keep its wings together. When its head fell off, I wrapped the bird in a cloth and prayed that it would go to Heaven. Friar Odino secretly blessed some of his wine for me and let me use his goblet to sprinkle over it. Then I laid it in one of the more special crypts – beside an archbishop – so that he might care for it in Heaven.”

Nicholas smiled. “Then perhaps he is now in Heaven, perched on the shoulder of the good bishop, and singing with the angels. Imagine that.”

Lazarus glanced at the cave ceiling before responding; “I do not believe so. Father stated that, unlike Man, Icapious cannot go to Heaven because it is only an animal.”

Nicholas lost his smile – Lazarus was not as susceptible to fanciful notions as he might have gathered. His voice carried a more serious tone. “Well, I cannot discount your father’s wisdom, now can I?” He shrugged. “After all, he was a senior friar, and I am no longer even a common friar.” Nicholas repositioned his robe and sat more comfortably. He watched Lazarus warm his hands against the fire and found no difference between them and those of any other healthy boy – not a hint of abnormal or grotesque features. He questioned him. “You were born in the abbey?”

“Within the cathedral,” Lazarus answered.

Nicholas leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Do you know of the fulsome woman spirit, whose hair as red as burning coals, believed to inhabit the abbey grounds?”

Lazarus quickly withdrew his hands from the flames and tucked his bald fists into his lap, the eyeholes of his mask briefly locked on Nicholas before stating, “I do not wish to speak of her.” He searched the surrounding shadows.

Nicholas consoled him with a smile. “Forgive me, Lazarus. ’Tis not worthy of words, even.” He rubbed his hands together, held them beside the fire, and relieved the notable tension in the air. “However, your father and Friar Odino are quite worthy of our company, yes?”

“I do not like Mountain Mouth,” Lazarus admitted, returning his boyish hands to the firelight. “I wish that they were here.”

“Alas, an unfortunate turn of events,” Nicholas replied. “Good men, Godly men, even – I shall sorely miss them as well.” The fire popped and hissed. Finally, Nicholas questioned the boy. “Lazarus, if you would care to share it: how did Friar Ivan hide you from the other friars when you were born?”

“I remained in the Baston Crypt.”

“The Clariese Baston Crypt?” Lazarus nodded. “Yet, it remained sealed with a broken door, as I recall.”

The boy shook his head and admitted, “Father and Friar Odino devised a trick to catch the latch of the door so that it only seemed as though it could not be opened.”

“Odino never mentioned otherwise. Perhaps it was better that none of us knew, save him and your father.” Nicholas frowned and rubbed his neck before questioning the boy of the quandary that plagued him. “With so many friars roaming the catacombs, especially during the wine-making season, why did none of them hear your cry – a baby’s cry – come from the crypt?”

“Father instructed me to still my tongue at all times, lest I be heard.”

“Just like that? Even as a baby, you understood what he told you?”

“Not in words,” Lazarus explained. “He placed his finger against my lips in pantomime, which I understood completely.”

“And you knew and obeyed?” Nicholas leaned away and raised his brow, outwardly impressed. “Even before you learned to speak?”

The boy shook his head. “My father informed me that I spoke in another tongue before he taught me to speak as I now do.”

“Born speaking?” He chuckled. “What language?”

“I do not recall my first days clearly. I do not know.” Lazarus admitted.

“Days?” He laughed aloud. “Quite remarkable, you are. And I now see how you gained such quick favor in Odino’s eye.” Nicholas rose to his feet, rounded the fire, and squatted beside Lazarus. He lifted the bread to inspect the sizzling pork lying beneath it. “So, how long did Ivan hide you in the Baston Crypt?”

“A full season, perhaps,” Lazarus replied, fiddling with his fingers.

“And then?”

“Friar Odino recounted to me that he waited for the first snow to fall before telling Friar Festeneau that he found me in the abbey stables, lying in the hay with a scribed parchment on my person. He gave the parchment to Friar Grate and told him that I was near to death, so he carried me into the catacombs. Friar Grate delivered the parchment to the abbot.”

Nicholas searched the eyeholes of the boy’s mask. “And how did the parchment read?”

Lazarus dropped his head. “It read that my parents could no longer care for me since I had an illness of the air – and that I would die if I was not taken in by the abbey.”

Nicholas peered into the flames as a dawning truth caused a creeping smile. “Odino spoke true.” Abruptly, he resurfaced from his dazed stare, rolled the hot food into the cloth wrapping, and laid the meal in Lazarus’ lap. “And that is that — your meal is made.” He returned to his seat opposite the fire. Nicholas propped an elbow on his knee, cupped his chin in his hand, and watched Lazarus silently pray over his food.

“And I thank you, as well, Nicholas,” Lazarus offered aloud, ending his prayer by crossing himself. Nicholas replied with the same gesture as the boy tore bits of food and slipped them beneath his mask. His face cowl rolled with every chew.

“You were fortunate to have remained under the protection of Ivan and Odino. Of all the friars, they were a pair of lions with which to be reckoned – the two of them.” Nicholas smiled. “God works in truly wondrous ways.”

Lazarus stopped chewing. “Wondrous? How do you mean?”

“It seems to me that you were meant to be, to survive,” Nicholas replied. He rubbed his chin and cleared his throat, leaning forward with a consuming curiosity. “Do tell, if you will, Lazarus: did a physician ever examine you whilst you were in the catacombs?”

The boy shook his head and swallowed. “Before the abbot would allow me to remain in the catacombs, apart from the other squires, he told Father that he required thorough documents from a physician that asserted my illness of the air. The abbot stated that he could not have the documents written by Father’s hand, so, Friar Odino…”

“Ah!” Nicholas slapped his hand on his leg and smiled. “As I suspected.”

Lazarus continued, “Friar Odino pretended to be the physician, scribing the documents for the abbot with his lesser hand.” Lazarus ate whilst Nicholas pondered over recollections of Odino’s longstanding orthographic abilities, which when employed without any wine in him, could feasibly produce forged documents to rival the prescriptive notations scribed by even the most fluent of physicians.

At length, Nicholas inquired, “Did you find yourself forlorn living apart from the other squire boys?”

“There was much to do in the catacombs. And when Father saw that I had too many tasks, he allowed Migual and Thateus to be assigned to catacomb duties, which was quite often.”

Nicholas smiled. “Or perhaps Ivan often created as many tasks as required to have them reassigned to the catacombs?”

Cocking his head in an idiosyncratic gesture, Lazarus finally admitted, “I do not gather your meaning.”

“I believe that Ivan summoned them to help you for the most obvious reason. At first glance, the three of you might seem as masked brothers, easily to be mistaken for the other from afar.” Nicholas scratched his cheek. “Yet, just as you seemed to be brothers, you must have had your differences just like brothers at times, yes?” Lazarus stopped chewing and snorted with a chuckle. “Do you laugh?” Nicholas leaned back with a raised brow.

Lazarus swallowed and looked up. “Forgive me, but I recalled a moment.”

“Do share your recollection.”

The boy settled himself and shared his humor. “It happened shortly before the last wine season. When the casks were to be drained for the new wine, Father summoned Miguel and Thateus to help with the task. We were in the well hole with a cask when Thateus told Miguel that he saw fish in the water. Miguel leaned over to see them and Thateus pushed him. Miguel fell into the water, but not before pulling me in with him. I dropped the torch, and in the darkness, Miguel screamed that a sea monster was eating his leg. Thateus cried and ran back to Father, telling him that a monster was eating us. I told Miguel that he should not have scared Thateus as he did.”

“And then?”

“Father had believed Thateus and was very upset. He had us scrub the relief wall of the catacombs – the mixed carvings of men and animals.”

Nicholas raised his head in recollection. “You refer to the mural of the grotesques, near the Benion Tunnel?”

Lazarus nodded. “I was upset with Miguel for the three days of cleaning, and whenever Father looked elsewhere, Thateus laughed at us.”

Nicholas snapped his fingers, chuckling. “I always gathered the mural figures to be carved into black rock – ’til I saw them scrubbed white.”

“As did I,” Lazarus grumbled, taking another bite of food.

“How many years are you, Lazarus – twelve, thirteen?”

“Soon to be eight,” the boy answered through a mouthful of meat.

“Years?” Nicholas narrowed his eye. “You jest.”

“I do not,” Lazarus replied, removing a spec of dirt from a piece of bread. “Father mentioned that I grew more quickly than the other squires. When I told Friar Odino what my father had told me, Friar Odino claimed that the bread was the cause for it. He warned me about eating too much bread, lest I grow even larger than was he – into a swollen giant with no legs or arms and find myself pinned within my room after having grown bigger than the doorway. Thereafter, I pled with my father to include only meat in my meals – no bread – and he would be pleased that he would not find me pinned in my room.”

Nicholas crumpled his face. “Bread makes you swell?”

Lazarus took another bite of bread before answering. “When I was younger, I believed it did. And when Friar Odino was drinking in the wine cellar, Father told him that he would stuff him into a wine cask if he spoke of the bread again. Friar Odino laughed, and Father chased him out of the catacombs.”

Nicholas laughed aloud and squeezed his face with a hand, as if to push his humor back inside himself. “Truly memorable.” He snorted.

Lazarus shook his head and stated quite seriously, “’Tis not amusing. Father was very upset with him.”

“And rightly so,” Nicholas said, regaining composure. “Since most of any abbey meal is bread – as Odino knew.” Nicholas nodded and shook a pointing finger as he recalled the ongoing strife betwixt the two of them. “Over the years, it became apparent to me that Ivan wished to be upset with Odino, just as much as Odino wished to upset Ivan. It was how they were together, like young brothers or a long-married couple. And I am certain that you, Lazarus, like a good son perhaps, gave them all the more reason to remain at one another’s throats.” Nicholas smiled. “You were good for them, I believe.”

“Perhaps,” Lazarus replied. “And there were also moments when Father would upset Friar Odino – especially when he whistled to him.”

“Whistled? How would that upset him?”

 “Whilst we worked, Father sometimes winked at me and whistled a tune for Friar Odino to hear, and Friar Odino would always tell him to still his tongue. One day, I requested that Father tell me why it troubled Friar Odino to hear him whistle. Father told me to petition him for an explanation of the song: My Goat and I. And I did. When Friar Odino was in the wine cellar, I questioned him about the song, and he became angry with Father for mentioning the name of the song to me. Had I known how he would respond, I would not have questioned him — he refused to come into the catacombs for several days thereafter. Father had to apologize and give his word that he would not whistle the tune again.”

“How did it sound?” Nicholas chuckled at the thought of Friar Odino so upset by a tune.

“I cannot whistle, but Father offered that he would tell me the meaning of it, but only if I promised never to hum the song.”

“Then, what was the meaning of the song?”

“Father explained that, when I was still very young and hiding in the Baston Crypt, he had Friar Odino fetch the abbot’s goat for me after nightfall. He told me that, one evening, whilst Friar Odino returned the goat to its pen, he fell atop it, and the goat complained with a lot of noise, awaking many of the friars. They looked out of their windows to see Friar Odino in the goat pen with the goat, and they laughed at…”

Before Lazarus could finish his words, Nicholas burst into laughter. Lazarus only cocked his head, unsure of what to make of his companion’s outburst. “Forgive me, Lazarus.” Yes, I do recall that some of the friars used to tease him about the goat, although, I never knew the reason behind it, until now. Odino refused to tell me.”

“Why do you laugh? Friar Odino is big and he fell on the goat.”

Nicholas wiped spittle from his mouth, chuckling. “He did not bruise the goat as much as his standing, perhaps.”

“How do you mean it?”

Nicholas shook his head. “You should finish your food.” Lazarus did so, as Nicholas grew evermore somber, his previous light mood vanished as if it had never been.

Lazarus chewed the last of his meal. Nicholas stood, pulled the cloth wrapping from boy’s lap, and tossed it beside the sack of provisions. “Are you filled?”

Lazarus muttered through a mouthful, “’Twas good with the bread atop the meat.” He swallowed. “Should you not eat as well?”

“Soon enough,” Nicholas answered, returning to his seat.

“Something troubles you?”

“You must know that…” Nicholas sighed. “Friar Odino has passed on.”

“Passed?” Lazarus probed. “To where has he passed?”

The two of them stared at one another and, in that lasting moment, the fire could have appeared as a roaring inferno – a great wall of flames that might forever separate them.

“On,” Nicholas repeated. “Friar Odino is no more.”

Lazarus drew an uneven breath. “He gave his word that he would come. He was only to fetch… I pleaded with him to come. I… If he…” Lazarus turned away.

“He was to bring the provisions,” Nicholas stated. “He had me bring them in his stead.”

“Dead?” Lazarus looked everywhere as if to wonder of his whereabouts. “Dead as well?”

Nicholas lowered his head. “He is, Lazarus. Forgive me for being the bearer of such ill news. I shall miss him as well. If ever, I found the virtues of benevolence and inner strength in such a simple man…”

Nicholas’ voice trailed away and a tomblike quiet enveloped the cave.

At length, Nicholas lifted his gaze. From Lazarus’s mask, a pair of blank eyeholes lay fixed on the firelight. In funereal silence, the boy’s head and shoulders bobbed to a rhythm of guarded sorrow that revealed itself plainly as streaks of moistened cloth that lined his cheeks.

“Forgive me.” Nicholas drew a deep sigh and turned away. “I shall allow you space to collect yourself.” He stood, looking toward the cave’s mouth. “I should fetch the wood that we dropped along the way. Call out, if you must.” The boy remained quiet. Nicholas stole a quick glimpse over his shoulder before leaving Lazarus to his bereavement.

Time turned and Nicholas re-entered to Mountain Mouth with an armful of wood, coughing three times as he approached quickly. Once, to dispel the evening chill from his breath; once again, to expel the shame of his inability to provide the boy more relief; and once lastly, to give Lazarus ample notice of his coming. Lazarus stood beside the fire, his back to him. “We dropped more wood than I gathered,” he struggled to say as he carried his load past Lazarus and placed it atop the pile.

“How did Friar Odino die? What happenstance befell him?” Lazarus inquired. A balanced and reserved tone laced his voice.

Nicholas turned about, propped his hands on his hips and sighed heavily. “Sit down, Lazarus.” The boy obeyed, and Nicholas did the same, catching his breath before giving an explanation. “A captain of the Royal Guard demanded to know of your whereabouts, and when Odino refused to confess, the man had his way with him.”

“Was he the man with the scar?”

Indeed. Captain Bourne. The same man who slew your father.

Lazarus returned to his seat, as did Nicholas. “I wish to assist with their balms and internments. Two slots remain unused in the Baston Crypt. I believe that Father and Friar Odino would wish…”

“No, Lazarus,” Nicholas broke in, shaking his head firmly. “We cannot return to the abbey – especially you. That is that — leave it go.”

“Yet, Father assured me that the captain shall leave the abbey in the coming days. We can return when the men are gone.”

“Everyone knows what you are, Lazarus. You cannot return.”

“Perhaps we can seek an audience with Abbot Vonig? I could care for the catacombs in my father’s stead? I know most all that there is to know about them.”

“Abbot Vonig is no longer the abbot. Leave it go, Lazarus. The abbey is only death to you. Mountain Mouth is your new home.”

Lazarus scanned the cave before responding, “’Tis cold in here, an odor burns my nose, there are dogs, and I have no bed.”

“If straw is heaped on the ground, it shall serve as a bed. I shall fetch the straw.” Nicholas pointed to the provisions. “And if the sack is emptied, it shall make for a proper bed covering.”

Lazarus hung his head with a sigh. “How long must we remain here?”

Nicholas swallowed. “I cannot stay with you, Lazarus. Shortly, I must leave.”

“Leave?” Lazarus inquired, popping his head up. The thought of being alone in this wilderness once again made his heart quaver.

“I shall return to Mountain Mouth from time to time, if you wish.”

“I wish you to stay, if you would.”

“I shall – a bit longer. Yet, I must leave for the village of Murat under cover of darkness, if I am to circle the abbey and the soldiers before first light. I believe that they have since searched for me and found that I am no longer in the abbey.”

“Why do they look for you?”

“The captain would suspect, and rightly so, that I have learned of your whereabouts from Friar Odino’s confession.”

“Yet, the captain does not know of Mountain Mouth,” Lazarus suggested. “You can stay with me until he leaves the abbey. And why must you go to Murat?”

Nicholas sighed. “There is a flower in my life. Her name is Martha, and she has been expecting me.”

“May I accompany you to the village?”

Nicholas shook his head. “The risk to your wellbeing is overly great.”

“Yet I do not wish to remain in Mountain Mouth – alone.”

“Hear me, Lazarus. I have witnessed the instant effect of daylight upon several grotesques: their flesh and bone burned and turned to stone before my very eyes. You have a grave infirmity of the sun, for which there is no cure. As well, half the eve is spent. If I took you with me, then we would have hardly reached the abbey road before first light fell upon us. And there is no shelter along the way. Without it, you shall die – burned alive.”

“Yet, if you stayed here and we left on the morrow’s eve, could we not make it safely to Murat before first light?”

“Perhaps so,” Nicholas replied, casting a quick glance toward the mouth of the cave. “However, if I do not leave this eve, and quite soon, then I shall have no reason to go to Murat.”

“Why so?”

“I was trapped in the abbey for days. With guards at the gates, I could not flee. I was prepared to risk all and scale the wall, when the call of a horn summoned the soldiers from their posts and allowed me a means of escape. I expected to leave for Murat as soon as I escaped the abbey, but the captain captured Odino and I was given to deliver the provisions to you in his stead.” Nicholas presented the sack of provisions with a reaching hand. “I gave my word that I would honor Odino’s last request, even as I am pressed to save my own life, in a manner of speaking. Martha is everything to me. If I do not reach Murat by first light, then she shall gather that I have chosen to withdraw from her hand in marriage and shall accompany her brother, who plans to set sail for the Isle of Corsica. And since I do not know his final destination, I am certain that I shall lose my Martha forever. I now rush to stop her before she leaves Murat in the morn.”

“Then will you come for me, afterward?” Lazarus looked about. “I do not wish to stay in here for a long while.”

“Indeed,” Nicholas replied. “But I must stop her from leaving with her brother.”

Lazarus slumped, nodding. “What shall I do in the meantime?”

“There is much to be done, Lazarus,” Nicholas replied. He rose and approached the sack he had carried through the dark. As he knelt before it, Lazarus stepped up beside him to watch as Nicholas rummaged through the provisions. “There is a map… Ah!” He pulled a folded parchment from the cloth, opening it as he stood. “Come.”

Lazarus followed him back to the firelight. Nicholas tilted the page, illuminating its surface to reveal a detailed map of Europe. “I recall this leaf,” Lazarus stated, examining the page. “It belongs to a binding of maps that Father brought for me to learn.”

“I removed it from the scriptorium,” Nicholas admitted. “You are versed with maps, I gather?”

“Father had me scribe maps from recollection.”

“Which maps?”

Lazarus turned to him. “All of them.”

“All?” Nicholas crumpled his brow. “There were perhaps fifty maps in the binding of which this leaf belonged. And you recollect all of them?”

“I learned all of the maps in the scriptorium.”

Nicholas studied a pair of dark eyeholes before laughing aloud. He refolded the page. “Yes, of course you did.”

“I did,” Lazarus replied. “Father insisted that my lessons include every binding in the abbey.”

Nicholas chuckled. “Are you aware of the vast numbers of bindings in the scriptorium?”

“I am not aware of their number entire, but I do recall one thousand nine hundred and sixty-four of them, including one of birds, which came from Paris. ’Twas the last that Father brought for me before telling me that there were no more new leaves for me to read.”

Nicholas challenged Lazarus, gently skeptical of the boy’s claim. “If you read all of them in the scriptorium, then you read my works as well, yes?”

“I read all that was given to me to read.”

“Very well, I shall take you to task.” Nicholas crossed his arms and placed his finger in his chin, attempting to recall selections of his own works to test Lazarus, but the boy began to recite Nicholas’ collection of works in chronological order of their creation, precisely reciting every word scribed within, even years since written. And when Nicholas needed no further convincing of the boy’s demonstrative proficiency of pleonastic veteris vestigia flammae, he interrupted Lazarus with a burst of laughter and a staying hand. “That shall suffice; I cannot doubt you.” He shook his head. “How in blazes are you able to recollect as you do?”

“Reading is pleasing to me,” he replied.

Nicholas raised the parchment and shook it. “Then you must recall this map as well, yes?”

Lazarus nodded. ’Twas sketched by a former abbey friar who scribed his mark: Senior Friar Justine Valimois. There is also his sketch of the abbey cathedral on the leaf.”

Nicholas leaned into the firelight and searched the page, finding the friar’s mark near the bottom corner of the map. “You speak true, however I see no cathedral sketching.” He looked up. “Perhaps you recall seeing it on another leaf?”

Lazarus shook his head. “On the reverse side of the same leaf is his sketch of the cathedral – beside his scriptural passages from the Book of Proverbs and his references to them as they apply to Franciscan, Cistercian, and Benedictine monastic dictums.”

Nicholas flipped the page and studied it before eying Lazarus and finally admitting, “Astounding recollection, you have – divinely so.”

Lazarus fidgeted. “Why do you show me the map?”

“Take your seat, Lazarus. I shall tell you.” Lazarus obeyed, returning to the boulder. “Since you found Mountain Mouth after walking half an eve, I now know that Odino spoke true when he stated that you possess an uncanny sense of direction. With that noted, I bring this map to you so that you may learn the location of a country called Italy.”

Lazarus pointed toward the southeast wall of the cave. “Italy is in that direction, across the Gulf of Leon and east of the Isle of Sardinia. ’Tis shaped as your boot and mostly bound by ocean.”

Nicholas referenced the map, turning it slightly to align its implied direction of north with true north. He looked into the direction that Lazarus pointed before affirming with a nod of his head. “And where might England be?”

The boy pointed northwest. “England is over there.”

“And what of Spain?”

Again he pointed with confidence, as though he had peregrinated over all of Europe. “’Tis over there.”

“The village of Murat?”

Lazarus pointed over his shoulder. “’Tis there.”

Nicholas praised him, smiling. “You do have your bearings about you, perhaps even more so than any astute astrologer or seasoned sailor.”

“And Heaven and Hell are there and there,” Lazarus offered, quickly pointing both up and down.

Nicholas leaned back with a puzzled expression upon his face. “Why do you point toward Heaven and Hell?”

Lazarus shrugged. “Father routinely insisted that I point to where they were, and when he did so, I knew that my lessons about maps and the like were complete for the time being.”

Nicholas set his jaw and studied the boy. “Ivan took your education to heart. He was proud of you, I do believe.” Lazarus lowered his gaze and stared into the flames. “There is a province in Central Italy known as Molise. Do you recall reading of such a place?”

“I do. The Monastero del Cancello lies there.”

Nicholas stood, rounded the fire, and presented the unfolded map to Lazarus. “Show me the location of it, if you would.”

Lazarus placed his finger atop an illustrated mountain range, which appeared to run lengthwise, like a backbone, through the center of the Italian peninsula, his finger marking a spot that indicated a position due east of Rome. “Del Cancello is there.” Lazarus moved his finger in a widening circle, around where he had originally pointed. “And this is the region of Molise.”

“’Tis, indeed,” Nicholas remarked, smiling. There was no marked location of the monastery, since it was purposefully absent from the abbey map to keep its location secret. He leaned closer to the boy and whispered, “And do you believe that you can find del Cancello as you found Mountain Mouth – with that keen sense of yours?”

Lazarus searched the cave, and finding no apparent reason for Nicholas’ whispering, he informed him of the obvious, “’Tis not the same as finding Mountain Mouth. Del Cancello lies in a distant country.”

“Yes, I know, Lazarus,” Nicholas insisted, shaking the paper to his words. “Yet, if pressed to do so, could you?”

Lazarus leaned away from him. “I could not. Why do you wonder about such a thing?”

“Would your senses fail you?”

“I do not believe so.”

“Then what is it?”

“I have an illness of the sun. I cannot walk to Italy in a single eve. At first light, the sun would have its way with me.”

“I know, but imagine this: if the sun never rose, could you find the monastery?”

“Even so, I would tire. ’Tis too far.”

“And if you never tired, if the sun never rose, and if you required nothing but to find the monastery, then, could you?”

Lazarus sighed, admitting, “Perhaps so. Yet, I do require things to live — food and water and warmth — and the sun rises as it always does. And what of the dogs? Why do you seek that which is beyond me?”

“’Tis not beyond you, Lazarus. Men have done much more with even less.”

Lazarus glanced at the sack of provisions and thought of his fallen father and friend Odino. “What is less than I have now?”

“You have more than most with just that which is on your back.”

The boy mistook him and responded, “My clothes are not enough.”

“Your wings are more than enough. You do not have to walk to Italy when you can fly.”

Lazarus stood. “They are not what you might gather them to be. They only appear as wings. I cannot fly. And why do you press me to go to Italy?”

Nicholas folded the map and warmed his hands before the fire. He drew a breath and turned toward the boy. “Friar Odino held me to the promise, that I bring you the provisions and a flask of his blood. As well, he requested that I bare witness to a promise – your word that you shall fly to Italy and fetch a friar. His name is, Salvitino, an elderly Lower Council Friar of the Italian Monastery, Del Cancello.”

“Fly? To Italy?” Lazarus sat down, searched the flames, and recalled a brief exchange betwixt Ivan and himself:

“What do you read, Friar?”

“A post that I send to Friar Salvitino on the morrow.”

“Who is he?”

“A Lower Council Friar who once lived here at the abbey. Before you were born.”

“Where is he now?”

“In Italy – Cancello – the other Council Monastery.”

“Why do you write to him?”

“I am in his debt. And he can help us with a small matter – once we arrive in Italy.”

“Italy? Yet, what of Burgundy?”

“Italy, first.”

“Friar Odino still comes with us, yes?”

“He has agreed.”

“How are you indebted to this friar?”

“Enough, Lazarus. Eat.”

Lazarus looked at Nicholas. “What am I to tell the friar?”

 “You are to inform him that you are Lazarus, son of Ivan Gogu. Tell him that both Ivan and Odino have passed on, and that you come alone. With that, he should take you under his protection. You must also tell him that there has been a most unfortunate turn of events – the abbey stone has been opened and he is being called upon to close it, if he has the means.”

“And what of the flask?”

“You are to deliver it to him and tell him that Odino sends it on Ivan’s behalf, as part of the debt to be settled betwixt your father and him. And by delivering the flask and fetching the friar, you shall have carried out your father’s will and Friar Odino’s last request.”

Lazarus stared briefly in the direction of the mouth of the cave and the entombed blood before speaking. “What manner of accord was at hand betwixt Father and this friar that requires Odino’s blood to settle a debt?”

Nicholas shrugged. “Alas, Odino did not reveal it, but I gather that Salvitino shall understand these words and this gesture.”

A moment of silence lingered before Lazarus spoke again. “I cannot do that which you expect of me. I cannot fly, Friar. I cannot board a ship, lest I be discovered for myself. I cannot walk the great distance. I cannot carry enough provisions – and what of the sun? Where shall I stay in the light of day?” The boy shook his head.

“You can fly,” Nicholas replied. “You have wings as a bird has wings.”

“Yet, I am not a bird.”

“True, but birds have wings because they were meant to fly. Likewise, you have wings, and therefore, you were also meant to fly.”

“If I was meant to fly, then why do I not know how to fly?”

Nicholas pulled a burning branch from the fire and raised it as a torch. “Come. We go to the grotto. There is something that I wish to show you.” He turned and walked deeper into cave.

Lazarus chased after him. “Grotto?”

“’Tis the largest of the hollows. Mountain Mouth is greater than you might have gathered.”

The boy stepped up the way, now lit by the torch, alongside Nicholas, leaving the larger light of the fire to fade against their backs. “Not everything with wings can fly,” Lazarus avowed. “There are even birds not meant to fly.”

Nicholas rebuked his claim. “Nonsense, Lazarus. The Lord did not make mistakes with His Creation. He blessed Man with legs since He intended for Man to walk. And He made serpents without legs since He meant for them to crawl. He gave fish their fins so that they could swim. Clearly, He would not have designed birds to have wings lest He expected them to fly. The only birds that cannot fly are hatchlings. And they too leave the nest in flight, when the moment is right.”

“Yet, I speak of giant birds,” Lazarus stated, “standing taller than a man stands – and they can only walk. I read of them in a book.”

Nicholas abruptly stopped before a tall crevice in the cave wall and turned to the boy, chuckling. “There is a book about giant birds that can only walk? Where in a devil’s lair did you find such foolery?”

Lazarus defended his claim. “’Tis true. A book of birds, with pictures, even.”

Nicholas narrowed his gaze. “I recall no such binding in the abbey scriptorium.”

“’Twas a new book from Paris, and scribed by Pierre D’Neward, who gave his all to the consideration of birds. And he sailed the oceans…”

Nicholas interrupted him. “Was this author a man of the cloth?”

“He was not a friar,” Lazarus admitted. “Yet he was a good man, set apart by his conviction.”

Nicholas snapped his fingers. “Ah! I gathered as much – scribed by a man not of the Church. This would account for tall tales of giant birds.” Nicholas placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Hear me, Lazarus. Just as the Lord moves men of the cloth to scribe His Good Word, so does the Devil move the unholy to scribe blasphemy. Thus, if the man of Church did not scribe a collection of words or a collection is not graced by sign of papal mark, then one must always question the intention of the author, as words hold great power of persuasion over those who can read – even to heal his soul or corrupt his mind.”

“Yet Father told me that he was a good man who knew more of birds than anyone in France. And D’Neward scribed a passage of dedication on the first leaf of the book – to my father, Abbot Vonig, the Abbaye des Gardiens, and even His Holiness.”

Nicholas withdrew his hand. “Well, enough talk of birds. Come.” Nicholas led Lazarus into the darkness of the tall and jagged crevice. He cupped his hand around the flame, protecting it from a steady breeze that escaped the passage.

The pungent odor of the cavern intensified as they stepped through the rocky channel. Lazarus covered his mouth with his hand and listened to a ceaseless rustling sound ahead of them, growing more distinct as they continued forward. Lazarus comments were muffled by his hand. “Something moves ahead. The air is tainted.”

Nicholas stopped and turned about, whispering, “Hold your tongue whilst in the passage, lest we stir the grotto.” They walked deeper through the twisting crevice until its narrow walls spread apart and gave way to nothing but a vast black void. Only the earthen floor lay illuminated by the circle of Nicholas’ torchlight. Nicholas continued forward. The boy clung to his robe, searching overhead to find the origins of the rustling noise.

“We are in the grotto?” Lazarus inquired, keeping his eyes fixed above him, searching the darkness.

“Indeed – the largest hollow of Mountain Mouth,” Nicholas replied. He stopped and thrust his torch upward, barely illuminating the nearest parts of a cavern ceiling, which loomed over them like a sprawling sky of stone. “And the grotto is home to these.” Lazarus cocked his head away from the firelight and peered through the darkness to find an ocean of greater horseshoe bats gathered against the roof of the cave. Thousands of beady eyes cast reflections in the gleaming torchlight, altogether resembling a sea of stars that peppered a black heaven.

Lazarus tightened his grip on Nicholas’ sleeve. Nicholas chuckled and patted the boy. “Fret not, Lazarus. They keep to themselves. And soon enough, these new companions of yours shall teach you to fly. Observe them well.” He turned his attention back to the grotto ceiling and called out, “Greetings anew, my winged friends! I bring Lazarus!” The boy’s name echoed through the massive cavern and several bats took flight, circling the cave in a flurry of motion. “There!” The bats flew in ever-narrowing circles whilst nearing the torchlight, perhaps for better inspection of their new guests. Nicholas held a pointing finger on them. “See how they fly – your teachers?”

Lazarus released Nicholas’ robe. He turned ‘round and ‘round, his eye fixed on the these creatures’ flight. “They move so quickly in the dark.” A hint of humor laced his words. “They appear as flying rats without tails.”

“And like you, the night belongs to them, Lazarus.”

The boy turned to Nicholas, now troubled. “Yet, I am not a bat. I cannot fly.”

“I believe otherwise,” Nicholas replied. “Friar Odino insisted that you must learn to fly – that your very life depends upon it. I shan’t question his dying words, and as a squire, I expect you to show him the same respect.”

Lazarus continued his protest. “Friar, I cannot do what you expect…”

Nicholas knelt and gripped the boy’s arm, shaking him. “You can – and you shall. You are what you are!” Nicholas sighed, released Lazarus, and stared briefly at the earthen floor, considering both hindsight and prescience before lecturing him. “Hear me, Lazarus. Not only do our lives depend upon the choices that we make, but they also depend upon the choices that we do not make. This I have learned since my days at the cobbler shop. I now believe that I know why my father bequeathed the shop to me even when he knew that he sold it. You see, unbeknownst to me, he had always intended for me to own the shop. Yet I failed when I refused to consult my father of the shop’s ongoing troubles. And I failed again when I walked away instead of taking charge of the pressing matters that threatened our livelihood.

As I now see it, in the end, he truly did give me the shop – a shop that I had allowed to fail. In my lack of faith in Nicholas, I succumbed to the many critical, passionate, and frugal demands of my brothers, thereby destroying the very gift that my father had intended for me – the very shop that he worked all his days to establish. If I had as much foresight as I now have knowledge in retrospection, then I would have honored my faith in myself. However, I was a mere sheep, following only my brothers’ leads, and not the shepherd that I should have been. Do you gather my meaning, Lazarus?”

“Your lack of faith? In yourself?” Lazarus suggested. “Cost you your inheritance?”

“Precisely, and it cost me much more than the shop — it cost me everything important to me at the time. You must have faith in yourself – that you can fly – lest you lose far more than did I. You must be aware that your life depends upon your doing so.” Nicholas shook his finger toward the entrance of the grotto. “Outside of this cave, the world is not accepting of your kind. Men shall try to kill you for what you are and they shall claim it to be a righteous deed, perhaps even ordained by God Himself. I warn you now, Lazarus: as certain as His Holiness is the Voice and Vicar of Christ, either you shall learn to fly or you shall certainly know death at the hand of Man. You must not deny yourself, as did I. For you, faith in yourself is all that stands betwixt life and death.”

Lazarus searched the grotto and glanced at the ceiling before responding. “Then I shall learn.” He lowered his gaze to the floor.

Nicholas stood and reassured the boy with a pat on the shoulder. “In their company, I believe that you shall acquire the confidence needed to master your abilities.” He escorted Lazarus out of the grotto, leaving the bats to themselves. Nicholas and Lazarus returned to the smaller cave, stoked the coals, and sat beside the fire. “I shall return to Mountain Mouth with fresh provisions. By then, you shall have learned to fly, yes?”

“I cannot learn to fly in but a few eves.”

“How many days do you require to master it?”

“I do not know. Perhaps two lifetimes and then some.”

Nicholas laughed. “If you are as quick to learn as your wit is sharp, then perhaps only a few days shall suffice.”

Lazarus shook his head. “I shall require more time.” He sighed heavily and looked squarely at Nicholas. “And I do not gather why I must be the one to go to Italy. In the time that I require to learn, an abbey friar could easily deliver the flask and fetch the friar. If it is pressing, then why must it wait until I learn to fly?”

“And that is why you must learn quickly. What is more, delivering the flask fulfills only part of the debt. Odino also told me that, in order to settle the debt in full, Salvitino shall introduce you to two others who require your unique abilities. Thus, your very presence is required. No other can go in your stead.”

“How can a debt be so great?”

Nicholas shrugged. “Again, I know not. However, I do recall the penalty levied against a Senior Friar that abandons the Abbaye des Gardiens. Both Ivan and Odino would risk penalty of certain death, if found, after fleeing the abbey. Still, they planned to do so in order to settle this debt. That alone should indicate its importance.”

Lazarus stared at the folded map, which lay beside Nicholas’ boot, as Nicholas continued. “So, Friar Odino had me give my word that I would deliver your provisions to Mountain Mouth. In doing so, I have fulfilled the first part of his request, but the latter part rests with you. As I told you, he expected your word that you will go to the Italian monastery in their stead, your father’s and Odino’s, deliver the flask to Friar Salvitino, and tell him that his presence is required to close the abbey stone.”

“I do not believe that I shall survive such a task.”

“You must have faith in yourself, Lazarus.”

The boy eyed the sack of provisions. “I shall do his bidding and fetch the friar.”

“Your father and Odino would be proud of you.” Nicholas stood and brushed the cave dust from his robe. “You shall fare well ’til my return.”

Lazarus stood and circled the fire. He looked up at Nicholas. “You shall come for me?”

“Why would you question it?”

“I do not wish to be alone.”

Nicholas offered a reassuring smile. “You shan’t be alone. You have the bats to keep you company.”

“The dogs, as well.”

“Not to fret. Keep your fire stoked and they shan’t trouble you.” Nicholas cleared his throat. “Now then, Murat summons me; I should be off.”

The boy dropped his gaze and murmured, “Fortuna multis dat nimium nulli satis.”

“Indeed, Lazarus,” Nicholas replied. “Rain seems to pour when we expect a welcoming sky.”

Nicholas embraced Lazarus, bidding him a formal Frenchman’s farewell. “Only, do not venture out of the mountain ’til the light of day is no more.”

“I shan’t.”

“And you’ve no place in the forest that will be safe. Stay near the cave at all times. And if men should happen upon Mountain Mouth, you must retreat deeper into the earth and hide yourself from them.”

“I shall fare well ’til your return.” Lazarus turned away, sniffling.

“I believe that you shall.” Nicholas strode toward the mouth of the cave as he called over his shoulder, “And do be careful with the flask – as though your very life were at stake.”

“Yes, Friar.”

“’Til again, then.”

Lazarus watched Nicholas disappear from view, and he listened to the sound of his boots as he stepped through the valley of stones until the noise of footfalls faded beneath the faint hiss of searing dogwood. He returned to his seat on the boulder and stared at a bare rock from across the flames, the folded map lying beside it. He spotted a black mole beetle that emerged from within an unburned length of wood. The insect scurried down the branch, skirting the flames before escaping the fire. On the cave floor, the bug thrust its wings open, took to the air, and flew toward the mouth of the cave, leaving only Father Time to entertain the boy. And it did, as time turned throughout the silent eve, collapsing the fire into a heap of dying coals. Lazarus slept beside the smoldering ash wrapped in sackcloth, lost in dreams of dim and twisting catacombs and corpse crypts, of secret scrolls and sea monsters and of other more memorable and familiar facets of days now dead.

And over the heart of France, the sun rose into the heavens like a fiery chariot in flight, scorching its aerial course across the earth. Nevertheless, it found no grotesque to burn or to turn to stone – only the defiant face of Mother Earth revealing Herself as Mountain Mouth and shielding Lazarus from the infernal light of day. When he awoke, Lazarus explored the grotto and its subterranean world of eternal night beneath a sky of jagged stone and sleeping bats. He needed no torch for his widened pupils to peel away the darkness and discover the more remarkable features within the hollow. A line of terraced ledges rose from floor to ceiling as it circled the backside of the cavern – the formation might have resembled a massive staircase fit for a giant. He climbed to the highest ledge and found himself only arm’s length from the bats, but they did not flee his company or his calling voice. Instead, their keen interest in Lazarus might have rivaled even that of Lazarus’ avid curiosity of them.

From his vantage point, atop the elevated ledge, Lazarus looked over the entire grotto. He sat near the edge, dangling his feet as he wondered about the bats. At length, his moment of reflection revealed the stark reasons by which they elected to gather themselves against the ceiling instead of elsewhere. Firstly, as he noticed, the bats were far enough away from the cave floor that they remained safe from the dogs. As well, the acrid smell of bat droppings was far less intense near the ceiling. Even so, the most striking revelation was enough to spur him to action. The bitter cold of the cave floor did not compare to the warmer air of the upper regions of the cavern, and he moved his provisions into the grotto before exploring the remainder of the mountain interior.

Truly, Mountain Mouth was a world unto itself: enormous, expansive, and uncorrupted by light of day since the birth of Mother Earth. With its many winding passageways worming through the earth like hollow snakes, Lazarus climbed, crawled, and squeezed through them to find more interconnecting caverns. Still, none of them equaled the massive dimensions of the grotto. And in the course of his discoveries, Lazarus happened upon a massive abyss that seemed to have no bottom. He threw a handful of stones into it and heard no noise of their strike. Abruptly, he hurried away from the bottomless precipice, fearing that the rocks might have come to rest beside his mother’s naked feet. At length, he followed a familiar and euphonious noise, which lured him deep into the earth – far deeper than the well hole of the abbey. The air quickly chilled as the steady noise lured him into a yawning cavern, its floor and ceiling riddled with jagged rock formations to resemble countless rows of giant fangs. Near the back of the gorge, an underworld waterfall spilled into a sprawling black pool, but the icy breath of the cavern sent Lazarus back the direction from whence he came. Along the way, he found a straight and narrow passage that reflected noises so perfectly he could hear his own breath as though it came from deeper within the tunnel. He talked into the tunnel and mimicked the noises of dogs before inspecting more passages, crevices, and caves. Altogether, Mountain Mouth was grandly sprawling enough to shelter a thousand grotesques from the ravaging sun.

Ultimately, daylight waned over central France, and a bitter chill poured into the mouth of the cave. Lazarus built a rock-lined fire on the floor of the grotto, and as Nicholas had showed him, prepared a meal of meat and bread atop a flat rock. Flames warmed the cavern and the aroma of fried pork filled the air. Overhead, thousands of hungry bats yawned and stretched, stirring themselves from daydreams. The cave roof seemed to move with a vicissitude like that of a churning sea of fur as several bats dropped from the ceiling and circled the grotto.

Lazarus stood, watching the cavern come to life. “I prepared a fire for us. We shall be warm!” As hundreds of flying shadows filled the air, the boy chuckled and ran to the center of the grotto, calling toward the ceiling, “I shall stay with you for a time. And you can teach me to fly!” In a single ethereal blur, thousands of bats took flight, and Lazarus found himself standing in the center of a whirlwind of wings. They lit on his robe and hood, covering him, crawling over him, and taking turns with overly friendly and personal introductions. The bats clung so thickly on his person that not even a stitch of the boy’s robe lay exposed. With outstretched arms, he might have seemed as but a moving scarecrow made of fluttering wings as he laughed hysterically and waltzed over the floor of the grotto. Puerile laughter carried throughout the whole of the mountainside.

And outside the cave, the last rays of daylight were but a red line on the western horizon. A dawning moon claimed a starry eastern sky, and of all the things in France, its fancy lay captured by a single remarkable event. The moon smiled upon an outwardly hysterical mountain – one with a mouth agape in laughter as it spouted a cloud of bats. Then the bats abandoned the mountain face and crossed the valley of stones before vanishing over a canopy of poplar trees. The drollery died and the mountain’s once-echoing merriment turned upside down – into wails of sorrow and sobs of desperation that seemed to choke the moon to tears as it wept with the yowling Mountain Mouth.

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