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A Slice of Life: Monk, The Monastery at the Insulam de Benedictus, 530 AD

You wake up today, as everyday, to the sound of the bell. Of course, this being the monastery at the edge of the world, it is not some sort of grand noise that emanates from a tower; no, this is the bell of the Brother Bellringer, who walks around the grounds, ringing a small, tarnished handbell. You rub your eyes and stand from your bed, shedding the fur blanket that kept you warm. You pull your robe over your head. The fur collar rubs against your neck- one of the benefits of monastic life here is that fur is plentiful, and Abbot Brendan encourages his fellows to use it.

After binding your robe in the middle with a rope-belt, and grabbing your small wooden bowl (which you tuck into a pocket of your robe), you duck underneath the low doorframe of your dormitory, following three other monks you share it with. You blink in the grey light of the dawn, and give out a small prayer of thanks. It is not foggy today, as it has been the past few days. You can actually see more than three feet ahead of you.

You and your fellow monks join the others in the chapel of the monastery, cramming yourselves together. The chapel is rather small, and the twenty-seven monks currently living on the island fill it to capacity. Abbot Brendan talked over the summer about expanding it, but no action was taken. Perhaps next year? You push the thought out of your mind as the Abbot leads the morning prayers, crossing yourself and murmuring responses.

After the prayers are completed, you and your fellows shuffle out to the hall- the largest structure on the island. There, you retrieve your bowl and join the huddle around the large pot hanging over the fire in the center of the room. The monk who has been tasked with cooking for this month tastes the mixture inside, nods, and begins to dish out the contents. You and some of the other monks groan as you see what’s coming out- Abraham had given Brendan a freshly killed deer the day before, and that doesn’t seem to have made it into the pot. The cook shakes his head.

“Sorry, that beast is being salted and smoked for more desperate times.” You grumble as large spoonful from the pot is slopped into your bowl. The appealing contents within are mashed turnips, with pieces of tough salty fish and some local herbs added in more for texture than any sort of flavor. You sit at one of the rough-hewn benches that run the length of the hall and shovel the mostly tasteless lump down as quickly as you can. Leaving the hall, you wipe the bowl with your sleeve (leaving a small white streak), tuck it back into your pocket, and join the other monks in pulling the various trade goods out of the shed. Abbot Brendan, remembering the outright theft that had taken place at the beginning of his time here, makes sure to tuck what has not been traded away snugly after the gates are closed at night. You give a small prayer of thanks that you did not draw watch duty the night before- they have been getting colder and colder as of late.

You set the goods on fur blankets for easy perusal. As you arrange them, it strikes you again how normal many of these items are- skinning knives of cheap iron, small cook pots, hammers and nails, even a few pairs of hobnailed boots. At home, you wouldn’t have given any of these things a second thought (though, granted, you did come from a family of some means), but here? Here these things are treated like gold. You shake your head and marvel at the lives of the Skin People- how did they function before the monks came and the trade began?

You know better than to say such things around Brendan or the other monks that accompanied him on the first voyage. They get testy about stuff like that, and that never goes well for you or for anyone. So you push those thoughts back and get ready to assist in the trading.

The gates open almost as soon as the trade goods are all laid out, and the Skin People begin to walk in. Abraham leads the group, as always. He shares a greeting with Brendan in his native tongue, to which the Abbot replies in kind. Though you have been here for almost two years, you can barely pick out more than a few basic words. The Abbot and the chieftain step aside and begin to talk; soon, they move to the building where the Abbot writes his letters and spends most of his time.

The other Skin People file in less confidently than Abraham. They used to scare you- even Abraham did. They wear their fur jackets and trousers, all roughly made. Their heads are bare, exposing their black braids. Some of their faces are painted in hues of bright crimson; others have decorated bones inserted in their ears or in their nostrils. They chatter to themselves in their own language, pointing at the goods before them. Trotting behind them are their dogs, dragging sledges or carrying packs filled with furs and other items the Skin People collected over the year.

No more than twenty-six Skin People are allowed in, keeping with Brendan’s dictate to assign a shadowing monk to each arrival. Others wait outside, shifting their weight and staring at the goods, probably hoping that the items they have set their eye on won’t be snapped up before they can step in. You follow a young man with interlocking rings painted on his cheeks. He keeps his face impassive- aside from Abraham, you have never seen a Skin Man have any expression beyond a sort of casual indifference.

He stops in front of a collection of knives. He picks one up and tests the blade on his finger; he mutters what you assume is a curse as it readily draws blood. He turns to you after sucking the wound for a moment.

“How much?” He says in Gaelic haltingly, in a heavy accent. You appraise the knife- it’s a simple thing, with a plain wooden handle.

“Two?” You venture. He makes a face, but he pulls two beaver pelts off of his dog’s back. You curse- you started too low. No Skin Man agrees that readily. You accept the pelts and drape them over your arm as he tucks the knife into a pouch on his coat.

You move further along the row, and he stops in front of the hobnailed boots. He blinks a few times, picks them up, and examines them closely. He gives you an inquiring look. You realize he is asking you what they’re for. You point at your feet. The Skin Man raises an eyebrow, shrugs, and drops the boots. He moves along to the hammer and nails, and looks to you.

“For three?” You frown. Three hammers? Three nails?

“Show me?” You say in his own native tongue. He winces at your accent, but points to three of the hammers.

“And then these.” He picks up a large handful of nails.

“Hmmm… nine.” You say. He drops the nails and slaps his shoulder- a Skin Person expression of derision.

“Four.” You shake your head. He slaps his shoulder again.

“Seven.” You say. He slaps his shoulder for a third time, but more gently. A thoughtful look crosses over his face for a moment.

“Five and… this…” He rummages around the furs on his dog and pulls out a curved bone. He holds it up to his mouth in one hand, curving the other fingers of his other hand to imitate it’s structure and holding it to the other side. He says something you don’t quite catch.

“What?” He rolls his eye.

“T… tooth. From other people. I took fight.” You furrow your brow, trying to piece together what he said. It dawns on you- he took this thing from another tribe in a raid.

“Ah. Yes, yes, that works.” He takes the requisite furs from the dog and hands them to you, placing the “tooth” in your pocket next to your bowl, before tucking the hammer and nails into the pack on it’s back. He gives you a sort of half nod, and then heads to the gate. You watch him go, and ready yourself to escort the next entrant.

It will be a long day.