community of those who served God. Blake felt a sense of trepidation well up within him as he looked at the thin sliver of land left. They would be wading soon, and the waters would continue to rise, the current strong against their legs. Could he dare take the precious package of the Gospels from this place?
The other monk turned.
“We must hurry, brother. Come quickly, or the waters will be too high.” He reached out his hand. “I will help you.”
At his kind words, Blake felt the monk relax and his faith in God calming him. The terrors of the day faded as the two men walked into the rising waters and Blake’s grip on the moment began to fade, the intense emotions around the book dissipating.
He sifted through layers of consciousness, searching for another strand to grab onto, desperate to find out where the monks were heading and learn of the mysterious reference to what was hidden at this other place. In the layers between time, he found a glimmer of revelation and pulled himself back into the monk’s awareness.
The two monks stepped off a little boat onto a beach of pale sand. Blake could sense their exhaustion after a long and dangerous journey. He had his back to a stretch of water, and the sun was setting directly ahead behind verdant green hills. A small village of low huts with a wooden church at its center loomed ahead in silhouette.
The monk, still carrying the Gospels, fell to his knees.
“Blessed St Columba, we thank you for your protection on this journey.” His prayers were fervent, cut short as a welcoming shout came from the monastery and brothers came to meet them.
***
Blake was jolted out of the trance as Morgan removed his hand from the book.
“Quick,” she said. “Put the glove back on. Someone’s coming.”
Blake pulled the white glove on, his head reeling from the shift in perspective. How strange to be on an island one moment and then here in this surgically clean space in central London. Vertigo made his head spin and he clutched the edge of the table as the door opened.
“Are you all right in here?” the librarian asked, her eyes narrowing as she saw Blake sagging a little. He stood up straighter, giving her his best rakish smile, an implied invitation that made her blush and avert her eyes quickly.
“Yes, of course,” Morgan said. “We just need a few more minutes.”
“Sure,” the librarian said, giving Blake a smile before she left again, the door closing behind her.
“What did you do to her?” Morgan asked, grinning at Blake. “I might invite you to be my sidekick again if you charm all the ladies that way.”
Blake thought of the nights he spent under the wicked spell of tequila, the casual sexual conquests on the London nightlife scene, the practice that lay under his easy sexuality. Where once those ephemeral pleasures had satisfied him, he now began to sense the emptiness in his life choices, but Morgan didn’t need to know about that side of his life.
“Just my inimitable charm,” he said. “Before you pulled me back, I did discover a couple of things that might help us. The Gospels were carried away from Lindisfarne by two monks, heading for another place where the sun set behind the hills and a strip of ocean was to my back, the reverse of Lindisfarne.”
“Another island, but on the west coast, you think?”
Blake nodded. “Yes, and they said something about needing to warn a community about the raids, that the thing the Vikings sought was buried there … they called it Eilean Idhe, but I’m sure I’m massacring the pronunciation.”
Morgan smiled, recognition dawning on her face.
“The island is called Iona now. It’s still a spiritual community, rich in the Christian tradition. The Bishop of Lindisfarne, St Cuthbert, originally came from Iona, so it makes sense there were ties between the two. The Vikings also raided the island in 794 and for many years afterwards, so perhaps they never found what they
The other monk turned.
“We must hurry, brother. Come quickly, or the waters will be too high.” He reached out his hand. “I will help you.”
At his kind words, Blake felt the monk relax and his faith in God calming him. The terrors of the day faded as the two men walked into the rising waters and Blake’s grip on the moment began to fade, the intense emotions around the book dissipating.
He sifted through layers of consciousness, searching for another strand to grab onto, desperate to find out where the monks were heading and learn of the mysterious reference to what was hidden at this other place. In the layers between time, he found a glimmer of revelation and pulled himself back into the monk’s awareness.
The two monks stepped off a little boat onto a beach of pale sand. Blake could sense their exhaustion after a long and dangerous journey. He had his back to a stretch of water, and the sun was setting directly ahead behind verdant green hills. A small village of low huts with a wooden church at its center loomed ahead in silhouette.
The monk, still carrying the Gospels, fell to his knees.
“Blessed St Columba, we thank you for your protection on this journey.” His prayers were fervent, cut short as a welcoming shout came from the monastery and brothers came to meet them.
***
Blake was jolted out of the trance as Morgan removed his hand from the book.
“Quick,” she said. “Put the glove back on. Someone’s coming.”
Blake pulled the white glove on, his head reeling from the shift in perspective. How strange to be on an island one moment and then here in this surgically clean space in central London. Vertigo made his head spin and he clutched the edge of the table as the door opened.
“Are you all right in here?” the librarian asked, her eyes narrowing as she saw Blake sagging a little. He stood up straighter, giving her his best rakish smile, an implied invitation that made her blush and avert her eyes quickly.
“Yes, of course,” Morgan said. “We just need a few more minutes.”
“Sure,” the librarian said, giving Blake a smile before she left again, the door closing behind her.
“What did you do to her?” Morgan asked, grinning at Blake. “I might invite you to be my sidekick again if you charm all the ladies that way.”
Blake thought of the nights he spent under the wicked spell of tequila, the casual sexual conquests on the London nightlife scene, the practice that lay under his easy sexuality. Where once those ephemeral pleasures had satisfied him, he now began to sense the emptiness in his life choices, but Morgan didn’t need to know about that side of his life.
“Just my inimitable charm,” he said. “Before you pulled me back, I did discover a couple of things that might help us. The Gospels were carried away from Lindisfarne by two monks, heading for another place where the sun set behind the hills and a strip of ocean was to my back, the reverse of Lindisfarne.”
“Another island, but on the west coast, you think?”
Blake nodded. “Yes, and they said something about needing to warn a community about the raids, that the thing the Vikings sought was buried there … they called it Eilean Idhe, but I’m sure I’m massacring the pronunciation.”
Morgan smiled, recognition dawning on her face.
“The island is called Iona now. It’s still a spiritual community, rich in the Christian tradition. The Bishop of Lindisfarne, St Cuthbert, originally came from Iona, so it makes sense there were ties between the two. The Vikings also raided the island in 794 and for many years afterwards, so perhaps they never found what they
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