Another day, another call to prayer and services, Brother Timothy thought. He had gotten used to life here many ways. He felt that he could well deal with change, but it seemed that every time he focused on the Monastery, the changes made seemed drastic, and almost never, he felt, for the better. He locked up his retreat, the locked the door under the stairs, making sure no one saw him do so. It was better this way, he thought. There were near 80 brothers here now, plus 30 or so initiates. Long gone were the days of rampant theistic-based ignorance. For many of the Brothers, this was only a temporary stop for a few years, until they went on to other things. Even the current Monsignor was more a businessman than a Monk

His train of thought ceased as he entered the communal eating area. It was already very active with Monks breaking their fast. He stood in line until he was served a tray of food. He mentally sneered at the (cooks!) the Monastery had hired some time ago. I suppose things had to change, he mused, but we were able to feed ourselves from our own provender for what seemed forever. And of course, no more backbreaking labor for even the initiates, let along the Brothers here. Professional landscapers were in charge of the exterior grounds. A cadre of gardeners tended what gardens remained. The interior of the monastery, save for the monks' sleeping areas, was maintained by a cleaning service! He had welcomed the hard labor that used to be the norm around here; there were some here that could have used the exercise. Flavored, smooth oatmeal, buttered toast, orange juice, and fat-free milk comprised this mornings' fare. Soon, all seats but one was filled. The eating hall grew silent as Monsignor Leopold arose to address the Monastery inhabitants.

"And on this day we should be thankful for our provender, given to us by the grace of god" And wise investments from the business entity that controls this establishment, Brother Timothy mentally added.

"We are missing someone, are we?"

Monsignor Leopold looked at the empty seat.

"Who do you think we are missing, Monsignor? Maybe they lost their way here from the lavatory?"

Brother Edward was a rather boorish piece of gutter trash. It was amazing that he had a divinity degree, Brother Timothy thought. A wave of laughter rippled through those present; all were laughing except one. Brother Timothy was not laughing.

"And when you are old and infirm, would you like jokes being made at your expense as well? As long as Brother Ignatius has been with this Monastery, he should be shown respect, not ridicule!"

The icy tone of his voice in his reprimand made those near him wince, and made all somewhat ashamed for laughing at the crass comment. Just at that moment, with slow, measured footsteps, Brother Ignatius appeared in the hall. Slowly, he came to the food line, retrieved his plate and sat down next to Brother Timothy. Considering that he was near 100 years old, he was doing well. The signs of age were there, though. His hair was almost all gone, his hands shook ever so slightly and steadily when they were set to a task. He was bowed over due to his years as well. He never failed to smile though, and his eyes still held the spark of awareness.

"I do apologize for being late to the morning repast, brothers. Please forgive me for my lack of agility and timeliness."

His voice still was clear, with no sign of degeneration. Brother Leopold once again addressed those present, Brother Timothy's rebuke all but forgotten.

"Let us now break our fast, for we have a busy day ahead of us!" Busy doing what? Whatever such make work that could be found?

Of course, before even that could happen, there was the morning mass. He was hungry, though, and he fell to his repast as soon as the Monsignor gave his blessing. Another uneventful day was starting; Brother Timothy liked it that way, peaceful and idyllic as could possibly be.

After breakfast, the Brothers and initiates gathered in the main area. Soon the padded pews were filled. Much better I suppose than what used to be there, he thought, but where is the hardship and piety in this? With the comfortable pews and central heating, it was as if they were the visitors to this place of worship rather than its keepers. He had by this time re-hooded himself for a very good reason. Along the back wall of the central area, behind the pulpit, that massive hanging was there. It was Monsignor Michel's crowning achievement in using his gift to the glory of God. Had I known what he really planned I would have done…what? Killed the initiate? What would that have solved? The damage had been done that fateful day, and he was as much as to blame if not more.

"The Massacre of The Heretics" as it was called, was not only a good tourist magnet; it was held in respect and awe by the Brothers and initiates alike. The hanging showed the villagers praying to god (cowering was more like he remembered it) as a figure in monastic garb presided over pieces of Viking heretic (I never bothered to look! I was too busy killing them, and the God I prayed to was no Christian one!), sword raised on high. The monk had a golden nimbus around his head. A Saint anointed by God? And Michel drew my visage in utmost detail…holy poetic license? It was because of that hanging that Brother Timothy rarely showed his face even to the other Monks. While there was any of them he thought pompous, none of them were stupid. Michel's rendering would have left no question in the mind of any had they had his face to directly compare to the hanging or it would have raised a lot of questions from them. Then I would be the latest tourist attraction!

Hardly, he thought. There was one present who knew what he was, and as the Brother's gathered, he helped that one into his seat as best he could. He noticed only too acutely Brother Ignatius' frailty in the physical sense. He was near 100 years old, that much he knew. He also would not live forever; thus, Brother Timothy was in a quandary. Should he confide in someone else soon, or even at all? Brother Ignatius had been only an initiate in 1924, when he discovered Brother Timothy practicing with the holy sword. His horror at seeing the holy artifact treated as a base weapon was overshadowed by his awe as the instrument whistled through the air as if it was alive. He brazenly walked out in sight of him and asked, what are you doing with the holy artifact!? Brother Timothy stopped his practice and looked at the initiate. Are you the protector of the Monastery as the legends say? Ignatius' face began to take on the sheen of awe that still made Brother Timothy ill at ease. He would have no more of that, no matter what he had to do. Do not look at me so! I am not what you think I am, but I am different than you and the others. Fortunately, it had worked; the 20th century was a blessing in its own way, despite the hell to come. Initiate Ignatius had become Brother Ignatius, then Monsignor Ignatius. His age led him to step down from the post some 20 years back. He had faithfully kept Timothy's secret since that day of discovery. He had talked to him for all this time; he had widened the scope of Brother Ignatius' knowledge many fold. The only real shock Ignatius had ever had from their conversations was when Brother Timothy had told him how old he was approximately. Only Ignatius knew about his sanctum under the Monsignor's quarters. He was also the only mortal who knew the name he used to have. Needless to say, he was always concerned about this brothers' welfare, even though he knew by now he could trust him implicitly.

They all went quiet as Brother Leopold approached the lectern for his sermon. No longer did the brothers' voices unite in song during the mass though. At the end, they maybe sang some hymns but a CD player item sang the monastic paeans. As if our voices were not sufficient! But, he thought, no one but he and Ignatius were really fluent in Latin, as far as he knew. The church had excised Latin from most all of its rituals. It was not even 20 years ago during a funeral when he spoke the absolutions and blessings in Latin. It had made the other brothers … uncomfortable! They complained to the Monsignor about what they saw as a transgression! Brother Timothy glowered in silence for days afterward from the request to use Latin no more at the services. At this rate, soon they would be no different from the churchgoers! But over the years and longer, the number of those had declined as well. Protestantism had made its heaviest mark in England and Scandinavia. As they rapidly modernized their rituals, leaving the arcane and mystifying behind, so was the monastery forced to do the same. He thought about writing out a sermon in Olden Tongue as a practical joke. That would show those bastards! He was of enough maturity though so that never happened. It was such a shame in some respects though. He tuned in the Monsignor's sermon.

"We are born and we age, then we die. Only by accepting the gift of God into our hearts can we hope to get to heaven in the afterlife."

Is that really so, Monsignor? You believe in that so absolutely, should I as well? Or maybe I know otherwise! He had heard this sermon many, many times before. He remembered a time when things were so much simpler as his mind began to wander…..

Prehistory: ca. 20,000 B.C.E.

He had had a name at that time, but he had forgotten it. It meant 'hair-of-the-soil" though. Others had laughingly stated it also was of the color of the refuse people excreted on the ground, but his fists had stopped that alliteration. His hair was a dark, dark brown though. Others of his tribe had red and blonde hair; none near the color of his. He knew in his own heart that he would never be accepted here, only tolerated. Even his mate had left his cave, since though he came to her almost every night, no progeny had he sired. He was not even angry about it though. He was simply not like the others. She had left him alone, but he adapted. He learned to weave his own baskets, cure his own hides. He was self-sufficient to a fault. He also was the best weapon-maker they had. Wood, flint, it was second nature to him. The light complexioned ones held his hair color against him. The elders held his lifestyle against him; even in the leanest of times, he could procure food, and not a few were forced to accept his charity. And lastly, their shaman hated his guts; unlike the others, he did not fear the shaman. He thought him an abject fool, living off the people's fear of the unknown.

This would be the main cause of the sundering. He was by no means the biggest there physically, but he would tolerate no mistreatment from the others. A rock hit him painfully in the back one time. It was perceived by him to be a challenge; a violation of his existence. They were treated to a taste of fear they never forgot. He had discovered that some of the soft rocks and other things he had found had many uses. Some would burn better than wood for warmth. The gooey, tarry mess he discovered in another place burned better than animal fat for light. And the most wondrous of them all could be reshaped easier than flint provided there was enough heat from the fire for reshaping. The rock-throwing blond haired hunter was the unfriendly recipient of a spear tipped in metal. It had narrowly missed him, but the point was made. No one dared attack him directly after that demonstration. He ignored the curses from the shaman, who said the gods would punish his unseemly ways. He roved where he wished when he wished. It was not as if anyone would care if he died.

One day, a herd of Mastodon was sighted. All the hunters came to the shaman for his blessing on the hunt, but the shaman only cursed at him. He cursed the shaman back, to the horror of his tribesmen. He went with them to help make a trap for their prey. He brought eight of his best spears he had with him for the hunt. The hunters had separated one from its herd and drove it into the trap. His spear struck deeper than the other hunters as the Mastodon slowly was dying. Too late he realized some of the hunters' intentions. Unknown to him, the shaman had planned this from the outset; that was the only thing it could be. Five hunters attacked him from behind; he knocked two of them senseless but the three remaining had cast him into the Mastodon trap. In its death throes, a massive leg of the mastodon smashed the life from him in an instant…..

..he awoke and screamed from the pain he felt. Most every bone in his body was broken; he had been smashed to a pulp, but quickly the pain was receding. Soon he was whole, though still somewhat disoriented. He was covered in Mastodon remains and his own blood and mastodon blood. A raw wind let him know where his furs were damaged. After several false starts, he managed to claw his way out of the pit. He had not known how long he had lain there, but the temporary camp of his tribe was abandoned. His other metal tipped spears he had brought were gone as well. He wept, but for only a short amount of time. He knew he had died, but why was he back here? Was he a spirit now? He tripped and cut his leg on a rock, then watched in awe as the cut quickly healed before his eyes. He had no idea what had happened, but his mind turned to other things. Anger at his betrayal (he learned later that it was partly his fault, partly not) and vengeance against his murderers were in his thoughts. If his tribe thought they would be rid of him that easy, they were very wrong. With a grim resolve, he headed back to his home. In his mind, he mulled over what the shaman had taught people to believe and what should be believed. The first scenario could not co-exist with the second. When the shaman's complicity was added to the equation, a whole set of cultural mores and values were dumped into the mental garbage pit. Even in that short moment, he had radically changed.

He waited until the darkness fell, and then silently crept into their camp. His dwelling had been undisturbed, probably due to the shaman wards placed on the hide covering its entrance. He ignored the sigils. Silently he entered. He realized that he was not going to stay here. Sooner or later, their tolerance would turn to intolerance (had it not already?) or his disgust would turn to murderous anger (had that not also happened?). He tossed away his ruined, gore-soaked furs and donned the best set he had. Flints for fire when needed and several good spears were collected next. He destroyed what ones he could not carry. He stuffed a hide sack with what food it would hold. The weapon-making tools he had laboriously crafted went into another sack. He had a pot of the tarry, smelly resin stored here as well. A nasty way to get their attention formed itself in his mind. Working as efficiently as he could, soon the resin coated most all of his dwelling. Setting his belongings outside, he ignited the resin with a torch he had lit. The eruption of flame made the camp area as bright as daylight, and the noise and smell drove everyone outside. Some screamed when they saw him and others grumbled menacingly, but most simply ignored him. No violence was really needed to condemn one of their own. To be unacknowledged was a certain death sentence at this time. He knew this was the shaman's doing. It would be pointless to avenge himself on his murderers, but they were not going to profit from their misdeed. With deadly intent, he stalked towards the shaman fool's cave. Several other hunters blocked his path of egress, but he battered his way through them. There the fool was, shaking a rattle at him. He smashed the shaman to the ground with one mighty blow and crushed the rattle underfoot. Then he laid waste to the shamans dwelling, pots of ochre dye smashed into rubbish, bones ground into the dirt. He upended a small jar of tarry resin and ignited it. Soon, the shaman's residence was as ruined as his was. One muscular hand plucked the shaman off the ground then hoisted him off his feet. I am shut of you and the others for good fool! I do not need you to survive! You called me cursed and had those cowards kill me…now they will know you are weak and powerless! He cast him into the dirt, but he was not done yet. There were seven spears that had been stolen from the site of the hunt. These ungrateful bastards would never prosper from their treachery. His fury was white hot as he smashed and battered his way into caves where he knew they would be. He smashed the stolen metal-tipped spears into ruin as well, and then left the camp without looking back….