The Flame that Holds the Darkness at Bay

The monks of Imau Getan had been singing for 698 years, 9 moons and 17 days without pause.  Had they stopped, or so they believed, a darkness like no other would enfold the world for a thousand years.  Men would turn against friend and neighbor, cities would burn, nations would go to war for no reason other than to destroy one another.  The monks’ song was a Lighthouse to the world.  Their liturgy named it the Flame. 

And so the monks sang.  Sometimes their ranks were hundreds, too many to fit in the unchanging stone chamber, and so they spilled out onto the steps that led up to the monastery, winding down the narrow path that led  to the bottom of the mountain.  

For a brief period of time, men turned away from spiritual matters, looked at monestaries and churches with scorn.  Historians called this period the Rationale; the monks referred to it as ‘the shadow time’.  Those seeking solace were few and far between; men looking to adopt the monastic life were even fewer still.  In the worst of those years, there were but three monks living in the echoing walls.  For an exhausting year and a half, one would sleep, one would try to maintain the garden and the rooms they used, and the third would carry on singing, alone, voice barely sounding  in the vast hall.  When the singing monk would feel himself on the edge of sleep, he would summon whichever of the other two was awake, clanging an old bell they had removed from the neck of a spindly goat who had wandered in a few years before.  When the second monk had taken up the song, the first would stop singing and stumble to the single room they used for sleep, waking the third to take up the chores before collapsing into bed himself.

That dark time passed. A few, then more, then many, returned to the Light of the monks, and the ranks again swelled, so that for many years, no one had to sing until his throat cracked and lips peeled, no one had to sing alone.

Until now.  

Now they were two.  Brother Teo sang as he tended to Father Benedick.  Father still breathed, but so infrequently that after each breath, Teo thought he had gone.  He would begin to wash the Father's feet, but when he got to about the knees, Father would take another gasping, shuddering breath.  Teo was grateful for the years of training that allowed him to sing on, strong and steady, even when the breathing startled him. It startled him every time.  Aware that the water was cooling, Teo stood and, still singing, carried it to the door.  As he threw the water out the kitchen door, he scanned, as always, hoping to see a rider, a brown robe moving up the stone path.  He looked for relief, and as usual saw none.  He moved to the fireplace to heat more water, and wearily made mental notes on all that needed to be done to return the kitchen to its old state, singing the steady rhythm of good and satisfying daily chores.

He and Father had been living in the kitchen for several months.  It had started in the deepest dark days of winter.  Father had come to wake Teo, shaken him awake, after what seemed mere minutes of sleep.  Teo rubbed his eyes, waited for the change in tempo that indicated Father was ready to pass the song on to him.  When it didn't come he looked up at Father, who held one bony finger before his lips.  With the other hand, he gathered Teo's coarse, grey blanket, an extra robe and some thick knitted socks.  Placing these in Teo's waiting arms, he took up a candle and gestured with a jerk of his head for Teo to follow.

The cold stone burned Teo's feet as he hurried after Father.  It shocked him awake enough to realize that Father had left the chapel, something that hadn't happened in almost 700 years.  He'd felt shocked and impatient, knowing he would have to wait until Father was ready to pass the song along, and could speak, to understand this great breach in the ancient protocols.

He'd started to understand when he reached the kitchen.  Here long tables and benches had once held tightly packed monks, monks who were well-rested (he imagined) and strong, laughing and talking.  Now, all the tables and benches had been pushed to one end of the dining area.  Teo was astonished that Father had had the strength to push them all across the shiny stone floor, alone, while still maintaining the song.  He had created a wall of the tables, then piled bales of hay, blankets, and abandoned robes into the crooks and crevices.  Even the thick velvet curtains that once adorned the chapel were tucked in and around the pile.  They were moth-eaten and threadbare, but still useful for keeping out drafts.

Father had gathered the few animals - a skinny cow and her miracle calf; a few chickens and their tiny, fierce banty rooster; the old, half-blind ass they used to carry what little wood they could find for the fire.  The wood had been gathered, too.  Father had brought in everything they had, from every corner of the grounds, piled it beside the fireplace, which was big enough to stand in. He’d robbed every forgotten fireplace in the immense monastery.  Brimming rain barrels had been rolled in, and two pallets were set before the fire, which burned hot and low in one corner of the hearth.

Father had led him to the pallet, laid him down, indicated he should sleep more, and though Theo didn't think he would be able to return to sleep, his years of training, coupled with a two-day stint of song, proved him wrong.

When Father Benedick woke him next, he quickly passed the song to Teo, who picked it up with a vigor he hadn't felt for many months.  Even as he passed into sleep, Father gave him a wry smile and patted his hand.  Teo would have to wait to eat, then, until Father woke.  He went to the table anyway, and saw that Father had written a short note for him.

Teo, the letter began, you are wondering why I have moved us here, brought the song out of the chapel against every inclination.

Teo marveled that Father could sing the Light, and write at the same time.

It is cold outside, cold and dark, and it will get colder and darker yet before winter ends.  We must make this kitchen our home, and our chapel, and stable for the animals.  It will be far easier to keep warm if we are all together.  The snow is already piled against the door, and will only grow deeper.  In prayer I was given, and forgiven, this plan.  Sing softly and gently for as long as you can, my son, I am weaker than I like.

And so they had lived through those dark, cold months, huddled at the top of their snow-covered mountain, as the world grew darker.  Teo had sung through the jarring tones of sickness, and anger.  He sang through the tremulous melody of doubt, and then the breathy tones of  joyous surprise one day, when the chickens all came and nestled around him, tucking their heads under their wings to sleep against his warmth and Light and song.  He sang through the plodding dirge of despair more than once, as he wondered what would happen if - when - Father reached a point when he could no longer take up the song.  He had despaired so deeply one day that he toyed with the idea of just closing his mouth and letting the song end.  But Father had stirred in his sleep, and Teo closed his eyes and kept on.

They had survived the cold and dark of winter, though one chicken had not. They had burned half the tables and benches when the wood ran out.

 Teo awoke one morning on his own, before Father’s usual gentle shake.  He lifted his head off the pillow and watched and listened as Father stood in the doorway, sunlight and cold beaming in, singing with such joy and vigor, such humble thanks, that Teo nearly wept.  Instead, he rose quietly and tiptoed to the door.  He slipped himself under Father’s protective arm, and for the first time in many months, they sang together, allowing themselves the sweet subtle harmonies that the major key of gratitude offered.

That was the last time they sang together.  Even as the days grew longer, and crocuses and snowdrops pushed up from the cold earth, Father grew weaker, more pallid.  He seemed to shrink before Teo’s eye’s.  His own eyes were ripe with apology when he woke Teo to take up the song again.

Now, bringing fresh, warm water back to Father’s pallet, Teo felt empty.  He waited, watched Father’s chest for any sign of life, singing in a near whisper.  He lifted the rag from the water, wrung the water from it.  Then let it drop in his lap.  Still nothing.

He reached the rag toward Father’s feet to begin the washing again.  A hesitation, expecting another of the frightening, gasping breaths, but nothing.  He had hoped Father would recover enough to give him instructions, indicate somehow what Teo should do when Father finally passed into the next world.  But he had left nothing, given no instruction. Monotones of grief barely breathed through Teo’s lips.

As he gently dried Father’s face, Teo let the song shift into the minor key for great tragedy.  He had never used it; Father had forbidden it even when the last three brothers had fled, two years ago when influenza had taken most of the monastery.  He had learned it, heard it, but had never used it, and had never imagined he would have to use it alone. 

He moved slowly as he wrapped the body in a sheet, then tied it with twine.  He went to gather as many of the early spring flowers as he could find.  The sky roiled with dark, threatening rain, or worse.  Teo hurried back inside, the animals quickly following, and barred the door.  He scattered the flowers on and around Father’s wrapped corpse.  

He prayed for strength and calm, then sat at the corpse’s feet to begin the requisite three days of the “death of the father” song.  One note at a time, he thought.  Just sing the next note.

~~~

Teo woke to darkness, and silence. 

He’d come to the monastery as a boy of seven, and wasn’t sure he’d ever heard such complete silence even before then.  

Slowly he became aware of the coldness of the room, the iciness of the stones against the skin of his cheek resting on the floor.  He heard the animals shift restlessly in the otherwise silent dark.

The silence.  The silence was soothing, in a way, but - 

Heart hammering in fear and shame, he leapt to his feet, and immediately tripped over Father’s body.   His head hit the stone floor, stunning him so his ears rang.  He sat up, shook his head, then got on hands and knees.  He crawled away from the body towards where he thought the animals were, until he found a wall.  Standing, he made his way along the wall until he could figure out where he was.  Close to the door, he thought.

He wanted to sing, wanted to open his mouth and pick up where he left off - where had he left off? - but the dryness of his mouth stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and his throat felt frozen.

He found the door, the ancient brass knob like ice against his already cold fingers.  Turning it, he felt a moment of both hope and fear.  Hope he would see brothers riding up the stone path, fear they would find out he’d let the song die, the song that held the Flame.  The song that held the Light that held the darkness of the world at bay.  The door opened to inky darkness, a clear moonless night, as still and silent outside as it had been in the kitchen. 

He felt the animals push against him, not to reach the outdoors, but for the reassurance of their master’s touch against the menacing dark that seemed to rush into the room.

Teo stood for some breathless moments, his eyes trying to find something to latch onto in the blackness draped across the mountain.

A flicker, far below, and a brief spark of hope filled Teo’s chest.  Brothers coming?

The flicker grew, and spread, and Teo watched in growing horror as the fields far below filled with fire and the clash of weapons, carried, along with shouts and screams, with such clarity across the still air that the very sound cut into Teo’s heart.

His legs gave out and he sank to the cold stone threshold.  He had let the song die.  After almost seven hundred years, he’d let the Flame die.

The darkness began.