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Three days passed in this way, with food, slumber, and the pleasure of Peter’s reading – though his topics could have been more entertaining. On the fourth day I found that both pain and stiffness had eased, and that I could sit up. I signed to Peter, "Would you please find me a book to read?"
"The Abbot gave me a book, saying that it would be suitable for you. But why are you signing? You needn’t keep strict silence in the infirmary."
I thought quickly. "My voice is still bothering me."
"I’m sorry about that." Peter picked up a book from the side table and handed it to me. "I will fetch you some wine with honey. It’s very soothing to the throat – and other ailments."
So the good monk was as free with the monastery larder as with his uncle’s wine cellar? Far be it for me to complain. I nodded, and he went on his errand.
I turned my attention to the book. It was old and well-read; the leather cover was scuffed and cracked with age, and the ink was faded on the brittle pages. But I could read it. And as I flipped through it, I realized that this was not a book one normally found in within a Christian stronghold.
This was not a book that had been copied by a monk, sitting for hours in a cold, pristine scriptorium as he labored to make every letter a work of art. The handwriting was plain, sometimes hasty, with stains that smelled faintly of ale and grease. The subject was not considered philosophy or enlightened meditations, but stories of fiction and fantasy. They seemed to come from every corner of the world and from every walk of life. Some were boasts and some told of gods and demons. It was if the author had spent his days in a busy tavern, writing down every story that came to his ears.
Why had the abbot chosen such a book for me?
But they were good stories, and I was soon lost in them.
