Chapter 3.7

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Ghost-like, I wafted along the hallways of the upper floor, relearning the maze of decorated corridors and bare service hallways. I peeked behind tapestries, finding the secret passages and hidden staircases, and made my way into the spyhole beside the chapel. Through a slit in the wall I watched the two Silent Monks sing their mid-afternoon mass. Brown cowls and robes hid their features, but their voices were distinct. The taller one was a strong tenor, filling the room with the bells of his voice, and he led the other, a feeble baritone, down the twisting path of their music.

At this time, before their god, no silent monk is denied his voice. He is free to shape the words and music, giving what is sacrificed elsewhere. But it had been years since I had heard their mass, for the Church’s interdict took these services from them. We were equal there – perhaps that is why they took an interest in me.

After my ill-treatment by the Bard-killer, I fled to the hayloft in the stable and hid there. I vowed not to come out and beg, even if it meant that I would perish. But the monks came to me with blankets and bread softened in wine, and stayed with me through the long days that followed.

For me they pulled back their cowls, showing themselves to be common men, not formless shadows. Then they took my hands in theirs – rough, work-worn hands – and taught me to shape them into their signs. With a slate they taught me the meaning of the word: those that could write, did, and those that could not drew pictures. Without demanding that I join their order, they pulled me into their witty, lively world.

When the young lord found me in the stables, and demanded that I play for him, he soon learned of my new way of speaking. He would not be satisfied until the monks taught him the signs, as well. Why anyone who does not listen would want to know what is said, I do not understand.
Still, the monks taught him, and ceased to converse in his presence. Only blessings flowed from their fingers until the doors were shut.

In the chapel before me, the two voices rose in a crescendo, ended with a flourish, then faded with an echo. I, mute and hidden, could watch but not touch the experience. The wall between myself and the chapel was more than physical. I was soul-mate to the monks only while they where at Songless Castle, for elsewhere they still had their Mass.