“He’d want me to do what felt right,” I say. “Inside, I mean. Deep down. Got a question for you.” Man with the head of a bear. Creature like a cat in a snail shell, sticking out its tongue. Row of horses in hats, kicking up their feet. “You know the little pictures scribes put in manuscripts? Sometimes angels, folk praying, chapel bells. But sometimes odd things. Old things. Strange creatures, maybe fey folk. Brother Galen put lots of those in. Don’t know if the fellows here do that too. Just thinking, where do they get the ideas for those?”

They don’t laugh at me. “Did you ask Brother Galen that same question?” says Ríordán.

“Didn’t think of it then. He was always telling stories, knew hundreds. Some of them from scripture. Some not. Liked to mix them up. But the pictures were so real. Did wonder later if he’d ever seen them. The fey, I mean. Never got around to asking.”

For a bit they’ve got no answer. Then Ríordán says, a bit disapproving, “Father Tomas would tell us such beings are manifestations of the Devil and should be shunned. At the very least, they represent primitive beliefs. Unhealthy beliefs.”

Then they go quiet again. Want to ask, But what do you think? Only that seems rude, so I keep my big mouth shut.

“Brother Galen had a different view,” Ríordán says. “He used to say, God is everywhere. In the work of your hands; in the beating of a bird’s wings; in the roots of an oak and in the stones of the riverbed. In the rising of the sun. In the heart of a man. In the wonders we know, and those that are beyond our knowing.” He sighs. “I cannot tell you if he ever saw beings of the kind he loved to draw, Grim. But if he did, I am quite certain he would say they too were part of God’s creation, and should be treated with respect.”

“I like that,” says Fergal. “God is in the work of your hands. We feel that every day in the garden, in the richness of the soil, the wonder of new growth, the circle of the seasons.”

Got no words. Nearly in tears again. All very well, all very comforting. But why would God let them die? Why would he stand by and let Brother Galen be struck down?

“A good teacher lives on in every one of his students,” Ríordán says. “In me. In you. In all the others to whom he was mentor and friend. We carry him in our hearts. As we carry God, deep within us.”

“Not me,” I mutter. “Not after St. Erc’s. How could I be a man of God if I don’t believe in him?”

“Ah,” says Ríordán, and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You may no longer believe in Him, friend. But be certain He believes in you.”

We’re quiet a long time then. Not sure how it happens, but after a bit I start telling them about that day, the day of blood. Not sobbing and screaming and running away, just saying what happened, what I saw, how it felt. The three of us have some more to eat, and I keep talking and talking until it’s all out. They knew the story already, of course. Messages go from one monastery to another all the time. Pigeon if it’s urgent and short. For proper letters, folk like Flannan bring them. But they didn’t know my side of the story. Good listeners, the two of them. Like Brother Galen.