The Seer and the Scribe by G.M. Dyrek

monastery’s founding fathers. “They were Irish monks, I believe, who came to this region to establish a hermitage nearly five hundred years ago. You know the yew tree that is above our heads?”
    â€œThe one you were spying on me from?”
    â€œI wasn’t spying,” Volmar retorted, blushing shamefully. “Well, anyway, it is said that the old yew tree is Saint Disibod’s own gnarled staff which took root after he stuck it in the ground and set up camp. He claimed this foreign soil as his new home and the heathens of this region his new converts.”
    Only the central part of the chamber was bathed in a warm light filtering through a crystallized rock roof overhead. Its edges, however, were cloaked in shadows.
    â€œHere it is,” Hildegard said, excitedly steadying her lamp, “an inscription on the wall.” Below a canopied niche that may have held a crucifix or even a small statue of the Virgin and Child, was a plaque.
    Volmar went and stood by her side. He read aloud the verse quoted from the Bible: “If I take the wings of the morning: and remain in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there also shall thy hands lead me: and thy right hand shall hold me. In the Year of our Lord, 8 September 700.”
    â€œA comforting passage from Psalm 139, for ones who’ve traveled so far from home and suffered piously so that strangers’ souls may be saved. However, this inscription was only made four hundred and eleven years ago,” she added teasingly, “not five hundred years.”
    Volmar grinned sheepishly. “I was close . . . only off by a hundred years.”
    Hildegard inclined her head towards the skulls and listened. “The consensus of the group seems to be that they are at peace and do not want to be moved.”
    â€œSo you can hear them speak as well,” Volmar muttered, wrinkling his brow, not sure what to make of Hildegard’s professed supernatural abilities.
    â€œVolmar, step to one side. Look at where you are standing.” Hildegard knelt at his feet and tentatively touched the outline of what appeared to be an iron floor plate. It measured no more than two square feet.
    Suspecting a hollow space underneath, Volmar felt for the iron plate’s side handles and slid it open with Hildegard’s help. A wickedly cold breath reached up from its earthy darkness, as if it was beckoning them to come down.
    â€œWait here,” Volmar said, taking the oil lamp. The stone steps were narrow and steep, slipping into the darkness leading to another floor below. “I’m not sure what lies down there.”
    Hildegard nodded, “Watch your head,” she said just as he bumped it against the low ceiling.
    He rubbed it and muttered, “Thanks,” before descending further into the pit below. Cobwebs tickled Volmar’s exposed skin as he tore through their flimsy defense. At the base of the steps, Volmar found himself in a rather large room, mirroring the size of the ossarium above. To his left, he saw what appeared to be a passage to a second, much smaller chamber. Clearly the air had been freshened earlier, for there was no musty odor which one would expect when entering an enclosed, unused chamber. He called up to Hildegard, “It’s a double cave.”
    â€œWhat else do you see?” Hildegard’s voice called tentatively from overhead.
    â€œThere’s a wooden trunk here in the far corner, with a latch and lock and . . . wait, there’s clothing here too.” Volmar lifted the cloak, surprised to find that it was a monk’s robe. He sniffed the neckline of the cowl. He smelled sweat mingled with a sweet cinnamon scent. The cassock too was folded neatly beside the trunk. It was black and distinctively Benedictine in cut and make. There was no distinguishing tear or frayed hem which gave any specific clue as to who its ownermight be. Whoever it belonged to was certainly taller than he was by