Dybris sat on a bench nearby. “I don’t know. Garth hardly speaks to me.”
“Has he told you anything more about the crash? What scared him? Why’d he drive the horses so fast?”
“He’s refused to say, and I didn’t want to bother Merlin until he’s on his feet again.”
“You saw him this morning, yes? How does his back fare?”
“It’s healing well now. There’s been no more sign of infection after that first scare. Ten days of rest has done him a lot of good.”
Prontwon shook his ink pot and removed the stopper. “Good. I shall speak with him soon. As for Garth, well … I have my own suspicions as to what happened with him.”
“Anything you can share?” The whole matter had puzzled Dybris. The tales he’d heard over the last month gave him great pause. When Prontwon had asked him to join the abbey, Dybris hadn’t expected the area to be so wild and strange. Whatever had appeared in the woods, it had caused the boy to drive the magister’s wagon like a crazed fiend.
“The time may come for telling, but not yet.” Dipping his quill in the ink pot, Prontwon began copying a portion of Scripture.
“You don’t think it has anything to do with the legends about Lake Dosmurtanlin?”
“No … Garth and Merlin were up by the old stone circle when the boy got scared, not down by the lake. How many years has our good God given you, Dybris?”
“Thirty winters. Why?”
“Well, you seem too mature to be listening to Bosventor’s old wives’ tales. I never guessed you had such a fanciful imagination.”
“You don’t believe them? Isn’t it true about all of the drownings? What about Merlin’s mother?” Dybris studied Prontwon’s expression carefully. Did he imagine it, or did a flicker of tension touch Prontwon’s eyes?
“People drown all the time. That was an unfortunate accident.”
“But I’m told their bodies were never found.” Dybris paused, then decided he might as well ask what had been bothering him. “Are you sure there’s not some creature in the lake?” He leaned over, setting his elbows on the table.
“Ach, now look. You’ve made my quill slip.”
“Sorry, Abbot.” But the table hadn’t moved.
Prontwon fetched some light-brown pigment from a shelf and covered over the mistake with a brush. “People drown in the marsh too, but no one says that some dark creature lives there. And crazy Muscarvel doesn’t count.”
Dybris glanced at Prontwon. “Who’s Muscarvel?”
“An old man who lives in the marsh in some God-hidden hut. Oh yes, I’ve seen him and his rusty sword, and he is definitely no spook.” Prontwon sighed. “Anything else wrong with Garth?”
Dybris said nothing for a short time. A hundred more questions burned to be asked, but he swallowed them. “He’s still not eating much even though he’s no longer served oatmeal at every meal as punishment. Just plays with his dinner and doesn’t ask for more.”
Prontwon stopped copying and stared at Dybris. “That bad?”
Dybris nodded.
“If it is as you say, then the remedy is in his repentance.”
“Yet the bagpipe … Can we buy it back?”
Prontwon scratched his quill carefully across the page again. “It is impossible to know where the merchant went.”
Dybris rubbed his temples and then covered his eyes. “I haven’t told Garth yet that I found it hidden in my barrel — or that we sold it.”
“For God’s love, Dybris —”
“He still thinks it’s there … I didn’t want to make matters worse. His nose twitches every time I go near the barrel.”
Prontwon slapped the table. “But the boy needed to know. It was sold last week!”
Dybris sat in silence.
Prontwon bowed his head, and his lips moved in whispered prayer.
After some time, Dybris finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Abbot, for my delay. I’ll go and tell him now.” He rose to leave, but Prontwon put a hand on his arm.
“One other thought. Garth might need a break from the abbey. Get away for a while and come back with fresher thoughts.”
“Who would take an orphan?”
“Troslam and Safrowana have a girl Garth’s age, and the Lord has given them wide and loving hearts. Garth could even earn his keep by helping with the weaving. Shall I talk with them?”
Dybris nodded, his heart lifting somewhat. “A change would certainly do him some good. But please pray while I let Garth know about the bagpipe. And forgive me, again, Abbot.”
He ducked out the door of the round house they used as a scriptorium and walked along the path to the fields, dreading what he had to tell Garth. The