Rugs were laid out on the short steps leading to their porch. They were of the usual kind, made of dried twigs bound with wetland grass and sprinkled with sweet-smelling flowers. They rustled and crunched as Claude scraped the mud off his boots on them. He walked up the steps where another wider rug rustled under his weight. Beams of warm light shot through the main door of their charming house along with the strong and mouthwatering scent of food. We heard the sounds of the kitchen, alive with activity, heard the familiar tap of wooden spoons and wooden bowls, and heard the sounds of something bubbling over a fire. My brothers smiled. They did not need to eat, but they still appreciated cooking and the appetizing display of meals.

Claude closed his eyes and pleasantly took in the air, even Belle inhaled and stomped her feet giddily. “I think my mother is making onion soup.” We three looked at him, waited for him just below the steps. His figure was silhouetted against the light of the cottage. He combed his hair back and knocked softly on the door. “Ma?”

The noise stopped. Only the bubbling remained. Claude called again, and this time summoned hurried steps to the door.

“What were you doing out so late?” A strong voice from behind the door said, her breath close on its surface. That was his mother, no doubt about it. It was a voice as strong as her son’s. Perhaps it was a common trait for all her children.

“Taking care of a devious animal.” Claude caressed the sheep softly on its side. The sheep bleated, announcing himself to the person inside. It seemed to enjoy the attention. “This devious animal.”

Amused laughter from inside. “Well, take her to the barn and help me with supper. Put the charm in front of the door.”

“We have guests, mother.” A pause, disturbed only by the sloshing of liquid. “Travelling monks,” Claude added. “I spotted them on the road. They seemed hurt.”

No sound of movement from inside. I thought that we must have been a nuisance, then. If Claude didn’t feel it, then maybe his mother did. We wouldn’t mind. I was ready to grab Wilbur’s arm and scurry through the thick forest until she responded. “Good lad. That must be the reason why we’ve been gifted an additional pitcher of cream today. It goes well with these onions, too.” Claude smiled at me, as if to say, see? Onion soup! “I’ll just be a moment—need to dress more appropriately, you see. But bring them inside when I call you!”

It has been so long since we have heard such warmth. Ever since Claude’s fingers and mine met, warmth had surged back into my life. It came with my pulse jumping from my skin. It was strange that I felt this warmth in the briefest of touches, yet I did not feel the heat from the great wall of fire that consumed me and Blake.

I was glad that this effect was not limited to me. When I looked around, the warmth spread through my brothers. It was warm enough to thaw Wilbur’s icy caution and confirmed to Woodrow that we were dealing with decent, kind, and honest people. He, the most attuned to human connection and emotion, seemed comfortable enough.

I judged the mother based on the actions of her son. If this was the kind of boy she raised, I concluded that she and her husband were quite the pair. In a world that was hostile, Claude’s family may be its own small miracle. I could not help thinking that if only more people were like them—self-sufficient, compassionate, and kind, then the world may stand a chance against the darkness.

There was a barrel nearby. Claude sat on it and from within its contents, he took out another apple. A shriveled one, this time. “There, you spoiled animal. Now off with you.”

Grateful, Belle nuzzled his hand and then nuzzled mine before running towards her flock, squeezing against her family. She disappeared in the middle of all that wool, probably biting the ear off anyone who would listen to her. She was so pressed against her group, that we can no longer hear the tinkling of her bell, only the unified sound of sheep and in that indistinguishable compressed form of face, neck, and legs. On other areas of the farm, other animals released their calls. Pigs snorted in their own enclosure, hens clucked in their chicken coop.

Claude had eyed Belle warily, making sure she stayed on the path. “I cannot wait to eat that one. Gives me more trouble than anyone else.” I widened my eyes. It was part of nature, part of farm life, but still. He laughed when he saw my reaction. “Nay, t’was only a joke. Not her. I kind of like her around. Besides, the lord wants her alive for her wool.”

“Will you slaughter the pigs soon?” Wilbur asked. He and Woodrow had arranged themselves. They cleaned their robes as best they could, with stray grass to wipe dried splashes of mud and dirt.

Claude nodded. “Aye, brother. We’ll be collecting their blood, then we’ll be pulling out the entrails, then all that’s left is to salt and cure the meat.”

I imagined Claude doing it. Before my eyes, I saw his father and brothers hold the biggest, fattest pig down on an elevated butchering table; a pig that was rewarded to them by his lord Bahram, if he was generous one winter. In my imagination, the mother presses sleeping herbs into the pig’s open mouth to make the journey easier. Once it calms, Claude would close its eyes with one hand, and with another, slice the pig’s neck in one clean motion. while someone would collect the blood that flowed. Its legs would kick, just for brief seconds, and its life would be no more. The same would happen to the oldest sheep, the juiciest goose, the goats. Some would be sold to the market, as instructed by the lord, or delivered to his castle for the many winter feasts. Not one part of any animal would go to waste. The mother would cut them into equal portions and rub them raw with salt before soaking them in brine. They would leave it submerged for a few days until it was time to store them in a barrel full of more salt for preservation, only to be opened when feeding the sick and hungry, one large piece during supper.

Claude sighed, suddenly conscious, suddenly guilty. His eyes scanned the pig pens, the coop, and the different barns. “I would give you cheese from our stores, but lord Bahram won’t allow it. Most of the proceeds go to the walled cities and to his friends.” He lowers his voice again. “He’s supposed to give all the best quality to the king and his soldiers, but he sometimes sells some overpriced to the black merchants or a rival lord.”

I rolled my eyes. Yet another example of greed. When peasants do these things, it was out of desperation. Due to the ruling class’s greed. I will always point to them.

“If only I could persuade lord Bahram to give you monks some cattle for a start, but you must have guessed by now that he isn’t the type of lord to be charitable.”

I looked behind the two monks. I know what they were thinking, especially Wilbur. We could make crops grow in almost no time at all; make the soil fertile in all seasons, make them shoot out carrots and peas and barley during winter. We can shrubs grow all manner of berries, and make jams out of those. We were the ones who were supposed to offer aid for them to start a brand new life, like how a seed sprouts. If only we were to start a brand-new life in this last monastery—for in my mind, it was the last monastery we would be inhabiting, I would repay his gesture tenfold.

“Thank you for thinking of us, Claude. I speak for my brothers when I say we appreciate the thought, but we wouldn’t want you and your family to get in trouble for helping us. You’ve done more than enough, simply by welcoming us here.” The gentle farm boy nodded, his eyes speaking the words he did not utter: I wish I could do more. I wanted to say with my own eyes: thank you, thank you. “Do not fret. We can take care of ourselves. Don’t worry about us.”

I knew I was getting ahead of myself. My brothers stirred uneasily beside me. We knew that we needed to face one major problem before we should even think about building a new life.

“Don’t hesitate to call on us. On me,” Claude smiled, and then he glowed.

I thought he actually did glow until I realized it was the warm light from inside their cottage, falling on his face. We turned to look at the open door and the figure leaning against the doorframe.

The lady of the house was tall, and quickly we saw her beauty. She had a smile on her face, and the light from the fireplace behind her made it look as if she was adorned with a halo, bright and warm like the Saints themselves depicted in many paintings. The first thought that sprung from me was this: there was no other way Claude came from any other woman but from her. It was a strange thought, but I can clearly see how he takes after her, from her limbs and her hair and her face and her lashes that fluttered as she breathed, and her arms that stretched wide and gestured for us to come inside. I have not seen the father yet, but I was absolutely certain that what Claude took from him was skill and height and humor. Then again, perhaps Claude resembled them both perfectly. A simple cloth held her long brown hair in place, and she tucked it cleanly behind her ears as Claude kissed her cheek. He removed his boots and wore woolen shoes suitable indoors. He unbuttoned and untied his jacket and draped it over the staff he had finally relinquished. As soon as he let go of it, I saw his shoulders relax as if he was lighter without it. I felt the same during the night when all the people fell asleep and I could remove my robes.

Midnight was my favorite moment. I could walk barefoot in Wilbur’s garden or climb the monastery’s towers with just my tunic. I was sure to be careful not to be seen, but if people did spot me, I can understand then my reputation as a wandering ghost haunting the dark halls, pale and horrible to behold. Ah, but my skin would be free to feel the cold night air, my hairs standing each time the moon breathes. I would look at its many faces, and my skin would drink its ghostly glow. Claude looked the same, yawning and stretching as he received the warmth of their cottage.

We bowed to the lady of the house. When she spoke, the animals all fell silent. “Come inside, brothers. Be warm and welcome.”

_____

As soon as we stepped inside, the warmth of the household embraced us. I immediately felt it, how it swooped like a presence from the hearth, a warm spirit linked to the lady of the house, Claude’s mother. It draped over us all when she welcomed us inside, like a warm wind itself blowing away the chill of night. I shuddered like a cat as it clung to me. After years spent isolated within the bricks of monasteries, I welcomed it. If only it was powerful enough to banish Blake’s darkness. When Wilbur shut the door behind him, I had another strong thought: a household’s warmth was dependent upon the people who lived in it.

The fireplace provided more than enough light for their living room. Bathed in its orange glow were wooden bowls and spoons already laid on the surface of a large table. Hugging the walls were desks and chests keeping their few possessions; tunics and dresses and small bottles. Hung near the hearth were garlic and onions and herbs, strewn or bound together by ropes, their scent mingling deliciously in the air.

There, inside the fireplace, over hot coals and dried logs, was the cooking pot, the lid open and steadily bubbling with such a sweet, strong scent. All around the house were more herbs and flowers, some crushed and stored inside glass jars and bottles. It was just like Wilbur’s gardens. Our kitchens could have looked like this, except for some strange reason, Blake disliked garlic and peppers and all the good cooking aromatics. So, we stored everything in simple barrels and confined within cellars.

The tables and chairs looked simple enough but sturdy under years of shifting weight; I am sure it was made from the many hardwood trees near swamps and marshes. The house looked so fully furnished, one would think that this family’s pockets jingled with coins, if they weren’t aware of the fact that all these belonged to the lord they served. As my eyes scanned around, they fell on something that felt like it was their most prized possession, more than the chests and cutlery.

It was a tapestry as big as the table, hung on the wall directly above it. I think that must be its intended effect, for it depicted a family looking down on the whole kitchen. The details were not sharp; a professional artist did not paint this. The colors and shapes came from the clumsy strokes of a child at play, their fingers dipping the brush in pigments made from crushed berries and colorful clay stones.

It was their family, all seven of them. The father, his curly-wavy hair passed on to his four sons. The mother holding the two youngest; one boy and one girl. I noticed the youngest boy had a ring of light on his head. Wilbur and Woodrow were looking at it, too, when I turned around. Claude and his mother were talking near the fire, their voices covered by the cauldron still bubbling. He must be filling her with the story of how he found us sprawled on that mound. I hope he left out the bit about my face.

At last, when we monks had finished drinking in the inner contents of the cottage, we faced our two hosts. My brothers bowed again to Claude’s mother and I followed suit. We thanked her again for her hospitality as if our breath was now laced with gratitude. I’ve never seen my brothers act so shy and humble to commoners. Usually, it was the other way around. It was so new to me that I felt a tad bit uncomfortable to be under someone else’s care, some random stranger not of our dark brotherhood.

Claude’s mother laughed and waved away our thanks. “That is enough, brothers.” A few strands of her wispy light-brown hair escaped under her headdress, and Claude reached to tuck them inside. I smiled at that. Children nowadays often ignored their parents, preferring the company of their friends. I did not hold that against them, for some parents were too busy with work, anyway. All of them each had a responsibility they rushed to complete, and so each moment was just a blur of chores. They rushed to eat, they rushed to work, they rushed to get married and have children, and they rushed those children to grow. Yet another thing I blame to these dark times. It just occurred to me, then, that they rushed to their deaths. It occurred to me, too, that everything was so fast-paced, it made their lives that much shorter in my eyes.

Save for this room.

In this room, hugged by the hearth, under the stares of faceless family members painted on a tapestry, rented by a farm boy and a fair lady, everything was held in place, held in a warm embrace. The storm outside did not yet approach, not just yet. Not until Claude’s mother dismissed us, for her authority stamped away the vile and the wicked outside.