__The Bird Bone Flute__part 5
By Blackmare



By early afternoon Giles had shifted his gear into the cottage and set up housekeeping. It was a large, one-room stone house that had been subdivided along one wall to create a toilet, bathroom, a kitchen, and several storage areas. There was a double bed with the duvet turned back, a sturdy table with two chairs, an overstuffed chair by the window beside a huge braided wool rug. A gleaming coal stove occupied the center of the room. It had a capacious hot water tank on one side and an oven on the other, with a stovetop above. Everything was immaculately clean. He had views out one set of windows to the hills in the west, and down the valley toward the village in the southeast. There was a kind of veranda along the front. On the left side of the door a coal bin stood under a row of hooks for hanging game or wet fishing gear. On the other side there was a generous wooden bench that looked perfect for reading and a bit of guitar practice.

He nipped down to the village for milk and sundries and arranged a poste restante address at the post office.

"You with those folk who've taken the old Thorne place, then?" the elderly postal clerk inquired as she handed him the appropriate forms. Giles' eyebrows shot up. His mother's maiden name was Thorne.

"I'm in the abbey's guest house."

"Ah, then not. So are you after fish or grouse?"

"Neither. Books. I'm helping them prepare their library for the move."

"We are all so sorry to see them go," she said as she counted out his stamp order. "We always bought our milk and cheese from them, and I remember going to holiday services there when I was a little girl. My parents weren't very high church, but I just loved to hear them sing." She sighed and slipped his purchase into a wax envelope and passed it over. "Good of you to help them."

The grocer also inquired if Giles was one of the new Thorne tenants, and the way he asked it made Giles suspect that the newest neighbors had ruffled a few feathers already. When he made it clear he was with the abbey, the man had warmed immediately, and helped him carry his purchases out to the van. While they were stowing the food in the back, a dusty brown Fiat loaded to the gills with luggage and three passengers rattled by. The grocer snorted and cocked his head "That'd be some of 'em there. We're not too sure what to make of the lot. They don't seem to have pockets deep enough to take on the work that old place needs. Or the inclination, for that matter." He settled a carton of eggs carefully against the spare tire. "Probably some of those Goth kids wanting it for its, um, ambiance."

"The house has a bit of a history, then?"

"Well, let's just say that none of us would come running if they burned it right down to the ground."

Giles started at this.

"Not wantin' them to get hurt, mind, but the place is a blight on what could be a nice bit of property."

"Whereabouts is it?"

"Behind that large hill north of the abbey. The land abuts Saxford's farm. He's your closest neighbor at the cottage, there, and I expect you'll seem him out with his horses now and again."

"Is there a right of way through there?"

"Yes, there's a path that starts at the ford below the abbey and goes around those hills past the Thorne place. It's a steep hike, but the views are good. There's some barrows up that way, too. They're pretty well grown over, but if you know what to look for, you'll find 'em."

"I do. Thanks for that, I'll scout it out."

He shut the van door, shook the man's hand, and headed back up to the cottage to tuck away his provisions. By early afternoon, Giles was back at the abbey where he found James carefully packing boxes of books in the small library.

"You're settled in, then?" the monk asked.

"Yes, thank you. It's quite wonderful, really." Giles took a heavy box from the older man and carried it across the room to a trolley. "I shall be quite spoilt by it before we're through."

"Will you be comfortable working there, then?" James asked, pausing in his perusal of a long list.

"Absolutely."

"I'd be grateful if we could shift the more, um, confidential materials there immediately. We've got removal companies coming in to do estimates, then packers, and some folks who do architectural salvage and so forth."

"Salvage?"

"We're going to try to remove some of the portable and valuable parts of the buildings. The stained glass, the bells, and some of the woodwork, too. We hated to sell it, but we hated worse the idea of letting it sink into the water and be forgotten."

"I'm very glad to hear that. I had wondered."

"So it's going to be a right mess here by next week. You can shift the stuff you're working on over to the cottage and avoid the dust and interruptions," he said, "And my temper," he added after a pause.

"I quite understand. Barbarians at the gates," Giles said gently. James nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. He slapped a label on a box and scribbled something across it.

"This is almost the last of your lot. I've put the gate-related material into boxes with orange labels, the stuff meant for you personally into the box with the blue label, and the items that need your conservation skills into those three open boxes over there," he gestured across the room to the stack in question. "I still have to set aside those items that I want you to peruse and return; that'll take a couple of hours. I was thinking you could move these into your van, and then there's a slim but interesting general history of the abbey and grounds that you could read while I get on with this. I think you'll find it helpful to have a general timeline before you dive into the really detailed stuff in the diaries."

"Yes, I certainly would, at that," Giles answered. "You're sure there's not more heavy lifting that I could help with? I can read this history thing later."

"No, I'm not shifting any more cargo myself. The removal brutes can do the rest."

"I'll just get this stuff out to the van, then," Giles said, stepping over to the loaded trolley. He carefully steered the load down the hall and out along the slate path to where the van was parked. The cheeky wren put in an appearance in the shrubbery while he was stacking boxes. He smiled at the pert bird when it made soft whistling inquiries.

"Hope you've got your eyes out for new digs, little 'un," he said gently. It took three trips to get all the boxes into the van. Afterwards, James handed him a lovely volume bound in blue calf with gold tooling, obviously a special printing.

"This was written by the abbot who preceded Joseph. There was enough local and church interest to do a small print run. That's our presentation copy. It's a nice afternoon's read," James said somewhat flatly. Giles cocked an eyebrow at him.

"I take it this is the expurgated edition of a much more, um, colorful story?" James smiled at him.

"Got it in one. We're not much to speak about without addressing the real reason we're here. But that abbot never saw any activity from the gate, never met Herself, and didn't hold with the local legends. He was from Wessex, had a Cambridge D.D. and -"

"The attitude to go with it?"

"Well, it's not appropriate for me to say so, but I'm not going to correct your assumption, either. But he got the basic geography and chronology right, as well as more geology than you're probably wanting and a bit of botany and architecture thrown in."

"The mundane foundation, then. Kind of charming that it's such a slim volume compared to what I just lugged out." At that James' face lit with a huge grin and he reached out an clapped Giles on the arm.

"You're alright, Rupert Giles," he said, turning back to his work. "There's a hammock at the bottom of the garden that gets good afternoon sun. I'll come find you around tea time."

Smiling, Giles left the library and let himself out the back door. The hammock hung between two elderly chestnuts which cast a light, dappled shade on the cream pages of the little book. Giles nestled down into the netting and let the author escort him down through the ages of the abbey.

James had been entirely right to warn him about the author's style. The Council archives certainly had its share of pompous blowhards, particularly in the memos of the past few decades, but this fellow was in a league by himself. Giles chuckled through much of it, pitying the novices who might have come under this abbot's sway. It didn't surprise him that the man had been dispatched up here to this isolated setting by his annoyed superiors, and it was clear that the author had tried to cope with banishment by making his place of exile seem as important as he could.

So Giles waded through basalt layers, the rise and fall of sea levels, the advance and retreat of ice sheets, and the scattering of glacial erratics - like those huge stones flanking the river - before drifting into a catalog of the local mosses and ferns. As the afternoon sun settled lower and warmed him there, he doggedly persisted through the finer points of dry-mortared ruins, the Romanesque elements of the chapel, and the laying out of the herb garden. He drowsily started the final chapter when he realized that these few pages were all the author had to say about the political history of the area: there simply didn't seem to be any. In spite of their position just northwest of Hadrian's Wall, in the shadow of hotly contested borders, there was really nothing to report. No massacres or sieges, no raiders or reavers, no cadet princes challenging the order of succession. Even when Henry VIII nationalized the monasteries this one had lain empty for only a few years before an Anglican order quietly took up residence there. It was as if the complex current of human activity had swirled around the place but never actually over it. Given the author's painstaking attention to liverworts and ironmongery earlier in the book, Giles was certain that he would have reported every scrap of mundane history he could possibly distill from the records. There just wasn't anything to say, which was, he reflected, an important piece of information all by itself. Then he closed the little volume, settled it on his belly, and surrendered to the warmth and quiet of the afternoon.

* * * * *

Giles watches a young woman sway at the edge of a field of ripening barley. She is naked and bleeding freely from deep, parallel gashes along her ribs and right arm. She has silver hair. Across the field he hears hammer blows. They stop suddenly when the smith looks up through the pall of peat smoke and sees her there. He sets down his tools and starts toward her, calling to others for help. Crossing the uneven ground is difficult because the man is very lame. Before he and his people arrive she collapses. They gather her up gently and carry her back to the cluster of round stone houses, talking softly together . . .

A winter night, the stars are obscured by the flowing green curtain of the aurora. Giles hears a woman cry out, her scream breaking into a howl before subsiding. He is watching from one side of a round stone room, looking through a smoldering fire at a woman giving birth, supported by two others. The new mother has silver hair and scars on one arm; she is panting with pain and exertion. When the baby cries out, fierce and angry at the sudden cold, she answers with a whoop of joy. . .

A little girl skips past a stone forge, laughing. Her silver-haired mother chases her, catches her up and hugs her tightly, tousling her hair before releasing her to join the other children. The woman looks up through the forge fire into the kind face of the smith, the same man who had come to her aid once; he is older now. She starts to say something when the air around them crackles and the ground shudders. Spinning toward the plowed fields she see the muddy earth erupt and a horned head rises above the furrows, followed by another, and another, until the field seems to be boiling. The woman leaps forward, snatches up her daughter and tosses her right over the forge to the strong arms of her husband, yelling out words of command. Everyone in the village responds, gathering the children and bolting for the central house, sheep and dogs scattering around them.

The woman turns from them and runs toward the field where the first bull-shouldered demons are breaking free of the wounded ground. Giles feels a moment of dizziness, his vision blurs and shifts, color drains away and the world melts into flat grays, the only things in focus are the monsters heaving forward. Running on four feet, surrounded by an overwhelming intensity of sound, which meshes with the dense, intricate web of scent that defines her mind now, locking her intimately into the layers of the world. Giles cannot process this avalanche of alien sensation and the blazing white storm of her power, but he can anchor himself in her complete certainty, her wild and deadly joy in doing what she was born to do. She leaps at the first demon and takes out his throat, bright fire washing over them both as she bounds from his falling body up into the face of the next one, snarling her ancient challenge to those who would threaten the order she was given to guard.

Giles woke with a gasp, jerking sharply enough to start the hammock swaying. The afternoon light had softened, but still there was so much color. He shook his head and blinked, yet even as his depth perception righted itself he felt muffled, as though he could not hear what he should, and he could smell almost nothing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his own heartbeat for a minute or two, then tried again. The world fit much better this time.

Except there was a blaze in his heart, potent blue fire flaring right at the center of his being before fading abruptly to a deeper glow. Then he recognized that power: Herself. He twisted around in the hammock to look down slope toward the river. There she was, standing on the stone wall at the bottom of the garden, watching him, her coat glinting in the sunlight. As it had the night before, longing rose in him so sharply that he could barely breathe. He rolled out of the hammock and stood facing her. She leapt lightly down off the wall and started trotting uphill toward him. The closer she came the calmer he felt. He started down toward her, then knelt and bowed his head, waiting. The wolf touched his cheek with her nose and the longing released him. He looked up. With him kneeling, they were eye to eye. Hers were green-gold and superbly sentient. Giles' initial impression of her size the previous night had been right: there was no species of wolf like this one left in the world. Her coat was mostly silver, with long black guard hairs highlighting the slope of her shoulders and flanks. Shorter dark hairs framed her expressive eyes and ears. Her pelt was thickest on her neck, shoulders, and chest, almost a mane. Her feet were huge at the end of long, beautifully formed legs. The coat on her sides and hindquarters was shorter and very sleek; her tail was full and tipped with white hairs.

Hearing something, she looked away from him and up toward the abbey. Giles turned to see James coming toward them with a tray. The monk whistled a short phrase from the flute's song, and the wolf flowed around Giles, trotting uphill, clearly happy to see the man. Giles rose and followed her.

"You missed lunch," James said, setting the tray down on the grass.

"Got kind of caught up in the book," Giles grinned at him.

"Right, impaled by the dullest thing we own. Seriously, though, it's a great one for nights when sleep just will not come."

"Knocked me right out," Giles said, settling on the grass.

"Amos summarized the whole thing in five limericks once," James laughed, "Ask him about it sometime." The wolf came up to inspect the tray, then lay down next to James's feet.

"I shall," said Giles. "You seem to think I'm undernourished."

"Not really. The cheese-pickle sandwiches and cider are for you, the cold chicken is for Herself."

"Ah. Are you joining us?"

"No, I need to get back to chores. I just saw you both out here and thought you should get better acquainted."

"I, um, had another dream," Giles said.

"About her or you?"

"Definitely about her. Really vivid."

"They usually are. Kind of amazing to be in the world the way she is, though."

"Oh, yes. I had no idea her vision would be so different."

"How about all that scent and sound?"

"Gobsmacked, completely."

"I haven't had one like that in years, but I still remember them," James said softly.

"I gather that Father Pompous never had one. I think it would have blown all his circuits."

"I don't think minds like his are permeable to that kind of gift. Very few people are, you know." James looked into Giles' eyes for a moment, then down at Herself. He humphed. Giles lifted an inquiring eyebrow.

"Joseph was right," James said. "It really is in the eyes."

"What is?"

"I think you'll know soon enough," and he patted Giles' shoulder. "Shall we expect you for supper after vespers?" James asked.

"Thank you, no, I'll shift for myself this evening. I'd like to get a walk in before it gets too dark."

"Right. Things will be quite chaotic this week, but if you need anything, do come by."

"Thanks, I will."

"Good evening, then," James smiled at Giles, bowed his head to the wolf and walked away.

"Well, then," Giles said softly, "shall we have a go at this?" He used his fingers to pull the roasted poultry apart, setting the pieces back on the plate before putting it down next to her. She watched his hands attentively, then reached over and licked the smears of fat from his fingers. He grinned and picked up a sandwich.

"My mother would pitch a fit if I ate without washing. Thanks," and he tucked in, surprised at how hungry he was.

The wolf ate delicately, lifting each piece carefully from the plate. She did not hurry, although she did dispatch the entire thing in six mouthfuls. Afterwards, she surveyed the plate with her tongue, leaving it spotless. She laid her long muzzle on her paws and watched him through half-closed eyes. Giles drained the last of the cider and gathered the dishes onto the tray.

"I'm going to take this up to the kitchen and then walk over to the cottage. Would you walk with me?" He asked her. She sat up and cocked her head at him. He repeated the question in Latin and she stood, looking from him up to the abbey and back again.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," he smiled. As they walked, he said in Latin, "I must beg your pardon. I am not accustomed to conversing in this language. It is seldom spoken now." The wolf looked up at him, her ears soft and eyes kind, and Giles knew he was getting credit for trying.

She left him at the gate to the herb garden and set off the long way around the compound. He delivered the tray to the deserted kitchen, set the book on the table where James could find it, and walked across the driveway to where she waited. She nodded at him and set off up the hill to the path, clearly expecting him to follow. The wolf took the scenic route, up across the grassy slope, through a copiced wood where the locals had been growing their fence posts for centuries, down into a shadowed, shallow valley with a bright trout brook and a vociferous community of small birds. She trotted at the upper edge of his fastest walking speed, and slowed at the top of inclines until his breathing eased a bit. Occasionally she would shift sideways to their trail and investigate something; satisfied, she drifted back over to resume the lead. As they were angling down to the cottage, a raven floated down over them and landed a little way ahead. It looked at the wolf and barked softly, then started walking toward her. Giles halted while the wolf and the raven stood regarding one another. The bird bobbed its head several times, ruffled its neck feathers, then launched itself back into the air. She watched it rise, looked back over her shoulder at Giles for a moment, then continued on.

By the time they arrived at the cottage, Giles had raised a good sweat. He felt deliciously stretched and decided to continue the workout. The level ground in front of the cottage was large enough for t'ai chi sword forms so he went in the house and returned with his blade. It had been over a year since he had been able to perform these exercises the way he preferred to: alone. Well, he reflected, seeing her settle on the west-facing slope, not exactly alone. But definitely not encumbered by the presence of five other students in the same space. The sword forms were his favorite kind of kata. Something about the way the sword affected his reach and balance brought him tremendous satisfaction. Beginning with the short series, he turned and flowed through the rippling grass, extending his center and contracting it, breathing in and breathing out under the late afternoon sky. From the short form he slid easily into one of the longer series, deliberately choosing one he had always found challenging because it included many sweeping strokes halted at precise places and several long chains of turns with wonderful footwork. The thick grass teased him but did not interfere and he stepped as precisely as possible, hoping to leave little trace of his passage through it. At the end of the series he drew himself together, exhaled, and bowed to his attentive audience.

"I'm going to get some water," he told her in Latin and walked into the cottage. After carefully wiping and sheathing his sword, he found a liter bottle of water, a towel, and a soup bowl. Sitting on the edge of the porch, he poured some water into a bowl for her and then took a long drink himself. The wolf had come closer to the house, but stopped about ten yards away. Her head was down and her ears forward, definitely interested in the water but uneasy about coming closer to get it. Giles watched her for a moment, then picked up the bowl and walked out to her with it, squatting down on the grass nearby. She drank almost all of it.

"Not too comfortable with buildings anymore, I gather. We're going to have to deal with that or I can't be much help to you." She stepped over and touched his hand with her nose. He made no move to pet her, suspecting that such a gesture would be very rude. The wolf looked up the hillside, back at him, and turned away.

"I hope to see you tomorrow," he said. "I'll be here working." She looked at him with what he was beginning to consider a smile, then set off up the hill at a businesslike lope.

* * *