The Humming of Numbers (10 page)
Read The Humming of Numbers Online
Authors: Joni Sensel
A
idan revisited that kiss the entire way back through the woods. What stunned him most was not how hopelessly unchaste it had been or the way he could still feel her lips against his. The shocking thing was the number that had hummed behind that kiss. He could close his eyes and retrieve it, a deep bass emptinessânot nothing, but None. Different from the soundless nothing of sleep or the chill draft from an unoccupied grave, this Naught seared a white-hot blank against darkness, a thrumming so low he heard it in his bones. None vibrated of floods, of clearing away, of transformation and change. None was the sound of the full moon and the round sun breaking over the eastern horizon. It was the sound, Aidan imagined, that the heavens had made on the first day, before God had done anything more than move upon the face of the waters. If it wasn't blasphemy to think such a thing, it was very nearly the humming of the Lord God Himself.
idan revisited that kiss the entire way back through the woods. What stunned him most was not how hopelessly unchaste it had been or the way he could still feel her lips against his. The shocking thing was the number that had hummed behind that kiss. He could close his eyes and retrieve it, a deep bass emptinessânot nothing, but None. Different from the soundless nothing of sleep or the chill draft from an unoccupied grave, this Naught seared a white-hot blank against darkness, a thrumming so low he heard it in his bones. None vibrated of floods, of clearing away, of transformation and change. None was the sound of the full moon and the round sun breaking over the eastern horizon. It was the sound, Aidan imagined, that the heavens had made on the first day, before God had done anything more than move upon the face of the waters. If it wasn't blasphemy to think such a thing, it was very nearly the humming of the Lord God Himself.
His amazement was quenched by the sudden realization that he wasn't sure where he was. Returning back through the woods in the twilight proved harder than Aidan had guessed. Though already aloft, the lopsided moon danced too often with clouds to offer much aid. Stumbling onto a clearing in the trees, Aidan made out enough of the terrain below to reorient himself. Twice more, however, he found himself confronting a creek in the wrong place or a hill where he'd expected a hollow. Only after he gave up on his eyes to follow the stench of burning and the slope under his feet did he finally aim true.
Eventually he broke into open fields and got his bearings. Then Aidan coursed the drystone walls, moving in long Z shapes toward the monastery. It blotted the horizon like black ink splashed on a purple drape. The evening was dreadfully silent, free from the grunting of pigs and the braying of donkeys. A few orange streaks in the distance marked roofs and crops still smoldering yet. Aidan stayed hunched in the shelter of the low walls, not stopping to prod any of the lumpy shadows in the fields. They were clearly not cattle or sheep. He did not want to recognize more than that.
When he drew near the abbey's rear gate, he hunkered under a tree for a long while, listening to nothing and seeing even less. He smelled char but could not find a billow
of smoke. If anyone at all breathed inside the monastery's ramparts, it was not apparent.
of smoke. If anyone at all breathed inside the monastery's ramparts, it was not apparent.
Aidan crept to the gate, which he found ajar. Peering through the gap revealed more darkness. Drawing a tense breath, he slipped inside.
He dropped immediately to a crouch, nearly invisible alongside the thick gatepost. Robed bodies, impossible to deny, were strewn in the yard.
Aidan swallowed hard against the gorge that rose in his throat. Cowls and hems fluttered, lifted by the light nighttime breeze. Their owners no longer hummed of numbers at all. Aidan could hear only faint echoes, mostly the desperation of one, bouncing in the yard's vast, hollow silence.
He scanned the nearest building, the kitchen. No light glowed from inside. When he was sure that this much of the compound, at least, was deserted, he crept toward the Great Hall and the monks' cells beyond. The minutes dragged with his feet. He bit his tongue to keep from calling out for one of his brethren, anyone, to answer. The only thought that kept him from fleeing was the recognition that the corpses on display were not enough to account for all of the monks. The rest could be holed up or hostages yet.
The rows of monks' cells and the novices' dormitory also were still. In the yard between there and the front
gate, Aidan froze. He feared he recognized a slight form sprawled in the dust. After long seconds, motionless except for the thudding of his heart, Aidan goaded himself to check closer. Once he had already decided whose body it must be, he could finally move his feet.
gate, Aidan froze. He feared he recognized a slight form sprawled in the dust. After long seconds, motionless except for the thudding of his heart, Aidan goaded himself to check closer. Once he had already decided whose body it must be, he could finally move his feet.
Rory had fallen facedown. Wincing, Aidan put a hand on his shoulder to gently roll him. He whimpered at the result. His friend had been struck across the back of the neck with a heavy blade. His broken neck had been nearly severed as well, so Rory's body flopped over while his head only lolled. Aidan's stomach lurched. Empty, it had nothing to discharge but bitter phlegm.
Not hearing his own sobbing breath, he gently pushed Rory's body back into place. He hoped the younger boy had not seen the blow coming, but his sprawl suggested he had been running. Aidan doubted that the foreknowledge of a short life had much eased Rory's fear at its end. His eyes burned at that thought. He didn't bother, in the dark, to blink away the gathering tears.
When Aidan lifted his hand from Rory's shoulder, his palm squelched, sticky. Revolted, he leapt back to his feet. Furiously scrubbing his bloody hand across the wool of his robe, he dashed blindly toward the abbey's main gate. He'd seen enough.
A bell rang.
Startled beyond reason, Aidan plastered himself against
the nearest refuge, the High Cross that loomed near the gate. It offered no comfort but the cover of shadow. His mind flailed to connect the ringing with the fact that the monastery seemed to be peopled with nothing but corpses. The bell had tolled four times before he realized it was not random noise but the steady, sedate mark of the hours. Seven chimes altogether, calling monks to the evening's last prayers as though nothing had happened.
the nearest refuge, the High Cross that loomed near the gate. It offered no comfort but the cover of shadow. His mind flailed to connect the ringing with the fact that the monastery seemed to be peopled with nothing but corpses. The bell had tolled four times before he realized it was not random noise but the steady, sedate mark of the hours. Seven chimes altogether, calling monks to the evening's last prayers as though nothing had happened.
Half expecting the dead to rise and answer that call, Aidan did not. He only pressed his limbs tighter to the carved cross. Both the stone and cold sweat chilled his body before the obvious truth wormed into his mind: Somebody in the abbey still lived.
His muscles suddenly mobile again, he hurried back the way he had come. He remembered something he'd considered earlier and, in the horror of corpses, forgotten: Any of his brethren who had outpaced or outwitted the raiders could be hunkered in the souterrain, an underground tunnel used most of the time for food storage. Its entrance near the kitchen garden was hidden, this time of year, by berry brambles run wild. Of course that's where survivors would be. He should have gone there first.
Rounding a corner of the Great Hall at a run, he saw the darkness ahead flicker and thin. Perhaps a dozen hooded figures, lit lamps in hand, were emerging from the earth as if from a grave. At the sound of his racing footsteps, they
froze. His heart jerking, Aidan skidded to a halt, too. He'd seen the same figures, with the same glow about them, every night since he'd become a novice. Never before, though, had he heard the fearsome drone of the number one around them. With that sound grating behind his jaw, those walking shadows too easily could be ghosts.
froze. His heart jerking, Aidan skidded to a halt, too. He'd seen the same figures, with the same glow about them, every night since he'd become a novice. Never before, though, had he heard the fearsome drone of the number one around them. With that sound grating behind his jaw, those walking shadows too easily could be ghosts.
Aidan only caught his breath again when he recognized Brother Eamon.
“Brother Aidan. Praise be to Him,” Eamon murmured, coming out of the gloom. His face looked haggard. “How is it that God has spared you? I thought you'd been taken or slain.”
“I was outside the walls, in the woods,” Aidan explained, “on an errand for Brother Nathan. The attackâhow did it happen?”
Eamon lowered his head and moved forward once more. Aidan fell in alongside him. A few more monks, apparently the first to quit the tunnel, approached from other directions. Aidan spotted Brother Nathan's sharp profile a few dark figures ahead. It was he who had rung the handbell; it still dangled in his grip.
“They were inside the gate swinging swords without warning,” Brother Eamon told Aidan. “We were caught unawares. They gave no quarter and no chance to ransom our safety by paying a tribute. And clearly our blessed
Saint Nevin did not intervene on behalf of his monks.” He shook his head, his face wrenched with sorrow. “I fear our youngest brothers suffered the most. Many were near the gate in a game of rounders and stood amazed for too long before starting to run. Every noviceâevery one except youâwas taken captive or killed.”
Saint Nevin did not intervene on behalf of his monks.” He shook his head, his face wrenched with sorrow. “I fear our youngest brothers suffered the most. Many were near the gate in a game of rounders and stood amazed for too long before starting to run. Every noviceâevery one except youâwas taken captive or killed.”
“I saw Brother Rory,” Aidan murmured.
Eamon sighed. “The abbot fell also, trying to stop some of the plunder. Other brave martyrs drew attention from our tunnel. But though a few of us hid from the heathens, God's wrath has still found us. We must have strayed from the path Christ intended.”
Aidan blinked, not understanding. The elder monk made it sound as if the attack had been somehow deserved.
“How many brothers are left?” he asked. Surely this dozen were only a part. “And what's going on? Why did the bell toll?”
“The bell?” Brother Eamon echoed. He nodded toward the altar as they entered the chapel. “It is the Hour of Compline. We must pray.”
“Now?”
When his mentor cast him a chiding look, Aidan added, “Bodies lie everywhere. Can we not at least bring them in and lay them to rest?”
Brother Eamon's sagging face hardened.
“The dead will not wander away, Brother Aidan,” he said. “Our duty first is to God.”
Aidan's feet stopped while he fumbled for a response. Eamon kept walking.
“The gates, thoughâthe rear gate was unguarded,” Aidan argued. “I came in that way. What if the raiders come back?”
The monk walking just behind him, a sour-faced stonecutter Aidan generally avoided, stepped around him and said, “Look about, novice. The heathens have small reason to return. There is naught left to defile.”
Locked in place while the remaining monks flowed about him, Aidan lifted his eyes. The chapel had been brutalized. The communion chalice and the fine fabrics dressing the altar were gone, along with the bronze crucifix that had hung over it and the gold candlesticks alongside. The silver censers had been torn from their chains, the carved wooden reliquaries hacked open. The old monk who had tended them slumped nearby, also hacked open, having apparently tried to protect the bones of Saint Nevin. Those remains lay scattered ingloriously, of little value to heathens. The more worldly relics, a jeweled girdle and other effects of the saint, had vanished.
A weight hit Aidan's heart along with a new realizationâthe manuscripts, too, had surely been stolen. Certainly the books that belonged on the altar and lectern were missing.
“The scriptorium?” he moaned. He darted to Brother Nathan, near the front of the procession. At Aidan's touch on his sleeve, the monk granted the novice a kindly look out of place on his usually strict features.
“You have cheated the Angel of Death, Brother Aidan,” he said. “Would that I had sent a dozen novices after oak apples today.”
“The books, Brother Nathanâare they gone?” Even the profane books in the collection, copies of Greek verse and philosophy, counted among the monastery's most priceless possessions. Neither those nor the holy works could be read or valued by heathens, but the pirates weren't fools. Royals and nobles and, shamefully, other monasteries across Eire, Britannia, and Gaul would pay handsomely, no questions asked, to possess them.
“I fear it is so,” Nathan said. “I have just come from there. The bound volumes were ravaged or stolen, the loose folios and wood tablets burned. I did not dare collect any before retreating to the tunnel. In cowardice I have sinned.” He drew a hand over his long face.
Aidan squirmed in unfamiliar sympathy for a man who had previously caused him only awe. Meekly, he protested, “God could not blame you for wanting to live, could He?”
“Do not presume to know the Holy mind, novice,” Brother Nathan said, the sharpness returning to his voice.
Automatically, Aidan recoiled to whisper, “Forgive me.”
Brother Nathan's lips curled in a rueful smile. “It is not my place to forgive you. I particularly would not presume to forgive you today. I half expected to hear your confession upon your return. I feared the mundane world would tempt you. Thus my pride and arrogance are revealed, it would seem. I never guessed you would return to hear mine.”
Aidan dropped his eyes, clamping his teeth on his tongue and feeling disoriented. When he looked back up, Nathan had stepped to the lectern. With the abbot dead, the scriptorium's master was the senior monk until another abbot could be chosen. Staring over Aidan's head, he took a deep breath and chanted the first lines of a prayer that, though familiar, seemed ironic tonight: “0 God, come to my aid: O Lord, hasten to help me.” The worship had begun.
“Take your place, Brother Aidan,” muttered Brother Eamon, who alone had moved up behind him in the aisle. The remaining monks had filed into their usual places. The chapel looked mournfully empty. Aidan shivered as Nathan's voice echoed, then paused, most likely awaiting his retreat.
“Given the day's events, your confusion can be overlooked,” Eamon added. “But you have been out of obedience long enough.”
As he turned in response, Aidan's gaze slid to the
novices' corner of the chapel. Its blankness mocked him. His features twisted in dismay, and he ran a hand through his hair as if it could comb away the snarls inside him. Rory should be standing in that blank space, trying to hide his usual smirk. Aidan's skin crawled at the memory of the lifeless, unturning head. Here in the lamp glow he could see Rory's gore tracked across his own chest, and the sight ignited his heart. It burned in resentment toward a God who had planned Rory's death well enough to warn him, but not well enough to include a more compassionate or at least comprehensible alternative in His grand design.
novices' corner of the chapel. Its blankness mocked him. His features twisted in dismay, and he ran a hand through his hair as if it could comb away the snarls inside him. Rory should be standing in that blank space, trying to hide his usual smirk. Aidan's skin crawled at the memory of the lifeless, unturning head. Here in the lamp glow he could see Rory's gore tracked across his own chest, and the sight ignited his heart. It burned in resentment toward a God who had planned Rory's death well enough to warn him, but not well enough to include a more compassionate or at least comprehensible alternative in His grand design.
Straightening, Aidan cast his eyes back again on the bare altar, the crushed reliquaries, and Brother Nathan's drawn face. It all looked and felt wrong. More important, it
sounded
wrong. He had grown accustomed to the numbers that always hummed through the chapel under the chanting, the mingling vibrations of monks and song and devotion. He'd been so often engulfed in them, reverberating in the hollows of his mind, that he had stopped hearing them. Now they had changedâor Aidan's hearing had simply grown clearer. The chapel's numbers were no longer complex harmonies of dutiful sixes, reverent eights, vibrant threes, and inspired nines. Now they were grim ones and twos overlaid with the slick whine of seven.
sounded
wrong. He had grown accustomed to the numbers that always hummed through the chapel under the chanting, the mingling vibrations of monks and song and devotion. He'd been so often engulfed in them, reverberating in the hollows of his mind, that he had stopped hearing them. Now they had changedâor Aidan's hearing had simply grown clearer. The chapel's numbers were no longer complex harmonies of dutiful sixes, reverent eights, vibrant threes, and inspired nines. Now they were grim ones and twos overlaid with the slick whine of seven.
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