include in my secret journal. My writing has become so much more than just a way to pass the time. It has become my confessor, my own account of the happiest days of my life – and the saddest. I know I must record these memories while I can, even though I find myself wondering if anyone will ever take the trouble to decipher my code and read this diary.
On one of my walks I found an iridescent feather from one of the noisy magpies that swoop into the castle grounds. I hope it will make a good quill, once I have boiled it in a little of my precious store of salt and left it on the sill of the window to harden in the sunlight. I remember when I only used the finest goose feather quills, discarding them after a single use. Now I take the greatest care to make them last as long as possible. My favourite quill now is this black feather from one of the castle’s sinister crows. This quill is smaller than I am used to but comfortable in my hand and particularly good at making the fine lines of my secret code.
I have become skilled at keeping my writing small to make best use of this fine parchment, as I don’t know if the priest will be able to bring me more. I sharpen the iron blade the priest gave me against the stone of my window-sill with gentle strokes as he showed me to do. Then I trim the smallest of shavings from the worn nib of the quill, being careful to preserve its shape and length. My sight is not as good as it was and I struggle to make out the details of the mainland across the water. I am fortunate though, as I can see close up as clearly as when I was young and the coded words come naturally to me now with little effort.
On his last visit the old priest brought me another small clay pot of the special black ink, sealed with red wax to stop the contents spilling or drying out. He handed it to me almost hesitantly, as if he suspected the real purpose it was to be put to. Taking his old hand in gratitude for his kindness towards me, I was surprised to find it cold to the touch. I looked into his slate-blue eyes and saw acknowledgement, so invited him to take a seat by my good fire and warm his hands for a while. After sitting in silence, looking into the glowing embers, he began telling me something of his circumstances.
‘I am not originally from this island, you know. I was born in the Welsh heartlands beyond the mountains.’ He spoke slowly, with a note of regret in his voice.
I nodded in understanding. ‘I often look out over the mountains and wonder what lies beyond them.’
He looked into the flames. ‘My father was a tenant farmer, raising sheep. We lived comfortably enough,’ he continued, ‘until my mother and my younger brother both fell... victim to the plague.’ He made the sign of the cross on his chest at the memory.
‘I am sorry.’ I could see he was still deeply troubled by his loss.
The priest looked at me. ‘My father was a good man.’ He seemed to struggle to find the words. ‘He fell into dark moods after that. He eventually sailed off to sea. I never heard from him again.’
I looked into his sad eyes. ‘That is why you chose to become a priest?’
He nodded. ‘It was always my ambition. My mother used to say I should have a proper education.’ He smiled, for the first time. ‘My happiest memories are of my time at the seminary, where I learned to read and write, as well as learning the ways and rules of the priesthood.’
I understood. His choice meant sacrificing the things men hold most dear, yet it had been a way out of the hardships of the life his father had led. All the same, I suspected he had lived a lonely life since taking up his parish in Beaumaris all those years ago.
The priest continued looking into the fire, as if deep in thought, before speaking again. ‘Now I dedicate my time to serving the people of Ynys Mon, supporting the poor and the sick as best I can.’
‘It is good work you do, and I am most grateful for your visits.’ It was true.
On one of my walks I found an iridescent feather from one of the noisy magpies that swoop into the castle grounds. I hope it will make a good quill, once I have boiled it in a little of my precious store of salt and left it on the sill of the window to harden in the sunlight. I remember when I only used the finest goose feather quills, discarding them after a single use. Now I take the greatest care to make them last as long as possible. My favourite quill now is this black feather from one of the castle’s sinister crows. This quill is smaller than I am used to but comfortable in my hand and particularly good at making the fine lines of my secret code.
I have become skilled at keeping my writing small to make best use of this fine parchment, as I don’t know if the priest will be able to bring me more. I sharpen the iron blade the priest gave me against the stone of my window-sill with gentle strokes as he showed me to do. Then I trim the smallest of shavings from the worn nib of the quill, being careful to preserve its shape and length. My sight is not as good as it was and I struggle to make out the details of the mainland across the water. I am fortunate though, as I can see close up as clearly as when I was young and the coded words come naturally to me now with little effort.
On his last visit the old priest brought me another small clay pot of the special black ink, sealed with red wax to stop the contents spilling or drying out. He handed it to me almost hesitantly, as if he suspected the real purpose it was to be put to. Taking his old hand in gratitude for his kindness towards me, I was surprised to find it cold to the touch. I looked into his slate-blue eyes and saw acknowledgement, so invited him to take a seat by my good fire and warm his hands for a while. After sitting in silence, looking into the glowing embers, he began telling me something of his circumstances.
‘I am not originally from this island, you know. I was born in the Welsh heartlands beyond the mountains.’ He spoke slowly, with a note of regret in his voice.
I nodded in understanding. ‘I often look out over the mountains and wonder what lies beyond them.’
He looked into the flames. ‘My father was a tenant farmer, raising sheep. We lived comfortably enough,’ he continued, ‘until my mother and my younger brother both fell... victim to the plague.’ He made the sign of the cross on his chest at the memory.
‘I am sorry.’ I could see he was still deeply troubled by his loss.
The priest looked at me. ‘My father was a good man.’ He seemed to struggle to find the words. ‘He fell into dark moods after that. He eventually sailed off to sea. I never heard from him again.’
I looked into his sad eyes. ‘That is why you chose to become a priest?’
He nodded. ‘It was always my ambition. My mother used to say I should have a proper education.’ He smiled, for the first time. ‘My happiest memories are of my time at the seminary, where I learned to read and write, as well as learning the ways and rules of the priesthood.’
I understood. His choice meant sacrificing the things men hold most dear, yet it had been a way out of the hardships of the life his father had led. All the same, I suspected he had lived a lonely life since taking up his parish in Beaumaris all those years ago.
The priest continued looking into the fire, as if deep in thought, before speaking again. ‘Now I dedicate my time to serving the people of Ynys Mon, supporting the poor and the sick as best I can.’
‘It is good work you do, and I am most grateful for your visits.’ It was true.
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