Morning's Journey by Kim Iverson Headlee Page A

encouraging smile. To the abbot, he said, “But I’m too new to this community. I know too little about its workings. I—I can’t—”
    “Hush, my son.” Father Lir laid an alarmingly cold hand on Dafydd’s cheek. “God knows your weaknesses and delights in using them so that His power and glory may be manifest to all.” The hand fell away. “He also knows your strengths. Including your shepherd’s heart.”
    True, Dafydd thought with a brief smile. During his decade as a slave at Arbroch, it had been his pleasure to serve the Lord by tending to the spiritual needs of the other Brytoni slaves. It also had been a blessed joy to lead one of their Caledonian captors to a saving faith in Christ.
    The rest of Caledonia might be ignorant of the Way, but he hoped Chieftainess Gyanhumara’s conversion would prove to be a fruitful start.
    One thing, however, he couldn’t fathom. “I can see becoming abbot in perhaps ten years, but why now? The monastery, the school, the Chalice…Father, won’t everyone think I’m too inexperienced?”
    “Undoubtedly.” The abbot locked gazes with Stefan, who frowned and looked down. Father Lir turned luminous eyes upon Dafydd. “Those who would disagree with my decision, even yourself”—Dafydd winced at the truth of the abbot’s assessment—“have no choice but to accept it. Your appointment was foretold to me.”
    Stefan’s head lifted. “Foretold?”
    “Decades ago.” Father Lir’s gaze seemed miles away. “By Bishop Padraic of blessed memory.” He focused upon Stefan, another ghostly grin bending his lips. “You do remember him, don’t you, my son?”
    Stefan snorted. “What did he tell you? This man’s name? The date and manner of his arrival? The number of hairs on his head?”
    Disapproval invaded Father Lir’s expression. “Envy and pettiness have no place in the heart of any servant of our Lord, Stefan.” Chastened, Stefan nodded. Father Lir said, “Padraic prophesied that I would know my successor by his mark of service.” He gave a dry chuckle. “I confess to you all”—by the deliberate way his head turned, Dafydd realized Father Lir was including Dafydd’s wife and son, as well as the infirmarer—“that I had no idea what he meant. Not until I saw…” He lifted a trembling hand to point at Dafydd, who understood and adjusted the neckline of his robe to bare his neck. “That.” The hand dropped.
    Stefan’s eyes widened and narrowed as he studied the scar left by Dafydd’s iron slave collar. “Father, you never told anyone of this prophecy. Again, I mean no disrespect, but how do we know—”
    “That I’m not making it up? That I haven’t taken leave of my senses? That this isn’t some plot of the evil Adversary to bring ruin to the monastery and the Chalice?” The thin smile returned. “You don’t. You must take it on faith.” Pursing his lips, Father Lir bobbed his head slowly. “Just as I must take it on faith that my appointment of Brother Dafydd will cause no divisions after my passing.”
    The master of the library and students regarded Dafydd. Finally, Stefan shook his head and extended a hand across Father Lir’s chest. “If this is your will, Father, I am not the man to oppose it.”
    Dafydd couldn’t tell whether the remark had been directed at Father Lir or their heavenly Father. Either way, Stefan’s statement heartened him, and he clasped the hand that had waged war in the earthly as well as the spiritual realms for more than half a century. Stefan had a firm, honest grip that Dafydd hoped would signify an equally firm and honest pledge of support.
    The abbot laid both ancient, leathery hands on theirs. “Not my will, my sons, but the Lord’s.” His voice caught, and he gave a rattling cough. “May He guide your steps and guard your ways…Dafydd and Stefan and all who serve Him here…” Father Lir closed his eyes and sighed. Dafydd blinked away tears to look closely at the abbot. The aged eyes opened,