Needle and thread, beeswax, paper and patience; these are the tools of a binder of books. By candle’s light, the monk bent his cowled head and nimbly pierced the folded pieces of paper with a his sharp pricking awl; a broken needle now affixed within a sturdy wooden handle. The thread, hand spun to be as fine as a cat’s whisker, was waxed to keep it from knotting as it was passed through the holes and around the thick hemp cords that would hold the folded gatherings of paper together. Patience and precision are the ways of Monks.
Brother Thomas, the monk was called, had learned the craft of bookbinding while on his travels as a young man; eager to travel to the far corners of the world on pilgrimage after pilgrimage. As his hands blindly sewed the pages together, his mind wandered to the first page he had stitched – and to when he was called upon to bind more than pages. His mind wandered too far from the path and the awl pricked into his finger. The shock of the needle piercing his skin was not so great as the rush of stumbling back from the path his mind had found; a path long-since covered in brambles, weeds and dried blood and almost forgotten.
The smell of boiled rabbit hides and bones mixed with the memory of a rain-soaked cassock, stained with the blood of others. The smell of the dried brown blood then fluid from the rain had silently crept into his nose as he bent his cowled head to lick the bead of blood from his finger-tip. The scent of the boiling hides was almost as strong as the gelatinous mix that would forge the glue needed to paste down the pages of the book. and ensure that it would not slip or kettle and tear through weeks of use and years of storage. The small iron pot rested over a small weak fire, suspended from a small iron tripod just out of his reach. A brush’s handle rested just over the lip so that it could be stirred and kept the mixture fluid. Rabbit glue smelled horrible and was usually kept in a wax-sealed clay pot until needed. Even with the mixed aromas of bundles drying herbs hanging from the beams of the monk’s chamber, the musty leather smell of the glue would not be defeated.
“No…” Thomas thought to himself. “Not now…” he would forbid the old memories from resurfacing once more. The shelter of his squat stone tower had blocked the storms, the wind and the sun but it could not shield him from the past.
His shadows crept across the stony crags of his chamber walls, and the autumn wind blew beyond the shutters and each candle throughout the room danced a flicker or two. Soon the pages would be sewn and the boards would be laced and the glue would be needed. Once the foul mixture was applied and the new book placed between two large planks and weighted down with flat hunks of rock, the monk could stand and stretch his weary back. The stool in his chamber was not much in comfort but it was a far cry from sitting on the floor or perched at the edge of his bed. Bless the carpenter and his work; the tea the ex-Benedictine had gifted him to sooth his toothache was quickly repaid - even with the monk’s objections. Most of the possessions that the monk had been able to acquire were gifts and repayments for herbal remedies and the odd gift of beeswax or honey from his hives within the apple orchard beyond the walls of his new home.
Binding was work for the evening, after the sun had gone below the hills. It was calming and gave the monk time to reflect upon the day’s work. Though it had been months since he observed the holy offices, having been raised within a monastery most of his life he was unable to break the habit of keeping odd hours; odd even for a monk. His nights were filled with study and reflection upon the past and his uncertain future. Tomorrow would bring more problems to be solved, more unconquerable tasks to be accomplished. It is the way of monks; to go where they are needed and to do the impossible. Tomorrow was another world away. The moon would say it’s goodbye once more and the sun would rise to rob the soot-clad bookbinder of most of his sight. His pale blue eyes glanced up through the crack in the shutters to spy a full and opalescent moon in the cloud-strewn sky and he sighed; a deep and soul-searching breath that hangs heavy in the air - pregnant with a question begging to be asked.
“Where are you, my friend?” the monk allowed his lips to ask. “The moon has waxed and waned more times than there are pages within my new book and I do not know if you are alive or dead.” The voice quivered for just a moment as a hint of emotion crept into his voice. Tearless eyes glanced down to the skein of waxed thread, needle and pricking awl at his worktable before the window. Books were more easily stitched together than people; far easier than friends. He could not help but try to dry his palms upon the apron that protected his black cassock from a bloodstain etched more in memory than in his flesh.
A candle guttered and gave up its last flame to a strong breeze. He stood to relight it and found himself finishing the few steps between table and wall-sconce by opening a small chest under his rope bed. The chest held the few possessions he had managed to retain in all of his wanderings throughout the realm. His hand could not breach the shadowy confines of the oaken box though he knew its contents without pause. The pads of his fingers drug slowly across the thickness of the wood, noting its coarseness until finally he reached within to withdraw his secret. The blade’s handle was cold; much colder than he had remembered. The sword’s pommel was a simple disk of metal once polished silvery bright but now little more than a faint shine of tin. The monk’s hand clutched at the broken sword in his hand with enough strength that his knuckles grew white, almost wishing that his fingers would pass through the leather-wrapped grip and prove to him that it was not real - that his memories were not real. They could not. The sword was barely the length of a long dagger, about the distance from his fingertip to the faint muscled budge in his bicep. Long enough to take the blood from the throats of many. The edge was just as keen as the night he held it last, almost two years ago. Such a long night; thick with rain and screams. He could not look at the blade for but a few moments before quickly returned it to the box with a quickness reminiscent of a man hiding from an addiction, denying its’ power.
The ropes that supported his straw matrice creaked as he sat heavily on the edge of his bed. “Do you still live?” He asked, cradling his face in his sweaty palms. The scruff from a few day’s growth scratched his fingers reminding him to rid himself of the bristling hairs by morning.
The memories threatened to keep the monk awake all night if he did not stifle them immediately. The rabbit glue would need to be resealed before it fouled his chambers. The small metal pot was taken from the tripod and its contents poured into a thick-walled clay pot on the worktable. A makeshift lid had been made for the pot and wax would be poured around the rim to keep it from leaking and the smell escaping. Once the jar was safely on his shelves, he slowly lowered the metal pot into a bucket of water to soak until dawn. A sweet mixture of herbs was tossed onto the burning coals to fill the room with a more pleasing scent and he breathed them in to remember and to forget.
Plagued by memories at night and harassed by the blinding light of day he was only welcomed within the shadows.
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