The Gael's Apprentice Exerpt 4

 Apologies, folks, for my silence on here. I've been incredibly busy with college and whatnot. Anyhoo, on with the show! this is from Chapter 7, still in progress.

In the dark of night, the McGordon tower stood tall and silent in the whispering clearing, like a stalwart rock in the midst of a typhoon. Around the tower, the trees whispered and swayed in the breeze, as though gossiping amongst each other about some monstrocity. There was evil abroad this night. Unseen by the slumbering McGordon household, a slim, fluttering shadow peeled itself away from the shadows of the woods, paused, seemingly giving a once-over on the tower, and fluttered off into the darkness.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~
Girl, where is your head this morning, sighed Brother Martin, looming over Eothain in his mud-spattered brown robes. She was just a little girl, barely ten, dressed in a patched and battered hand-me-down tunic from her big brother, Liam. Her vivid blonde hair was tucked behind her ears gingerly, so as to keep her hair out of her face, and away from her work. She was supposed to be writing her alphabet, but she had been distracted by a fluttering feather trapped in the blades of grass, and was painstakingly drawing it. She was nearly done with the final tufts of grass, when a scarred, withered hand settled on the edge of the parchment.

"As beautiful as God's creations are," Brother Martin said, "your practice-piece is not the place for it." Eothain dropped her quill pen, making a huge blot on her scrap of parchment, and very carefully looked up at him. The deep-set wrinkles in his face crinkled back like old parchment into a soft, wry smile. His gentle blue eyes seemed to be an even mix between joyous laughter and weariness, telling the wordless saga of his life.

What hair he had left clung to his scalp in a silver crescent. His heavy brown robes hung loosely off his narrow frame, as though made for a person much larger in size. Eothain's terrified eyes stared up at him in horror, expecting him to smack her knuckles or otherwise express his disapproval, but he just sighed gently, and picked up her scrap of parchment to examine her handiwork. Finally, after a while, he looked up from the parchment, beaming down at her, allaying her fears.

"Young miss," he began. "The Father has granted you a talented and steady hand. Mayhaps one day you will grace God with your gift." Eothain smiled in wonder at the encouraging, gentle words of the strange, ancient monk.

Brother Martin of Bannockburn was certainly an odd one. Several years ago, he had shown up in her small, wayward village in the middle of a raging thunderstorm, pushing a canvas-covered wheelbarrow full of books and writing supplies. He had said little of his past, much less what he was running from, but once he offered to give a noble's education to the children of the town, they all looked the other way. Unlike other passing priests, Martin genuinely cared for the well-being of those of his new home town, and was humble in spirit and kind in heart. Quite simply, everyone loved him, despite his secretiveness, and he appeared to love them the same.

The wind picked up then, and a strong breeze bristled through the glen, setting the segments of parchment alight on the breeze, and Eothain's wild, untamed hair tangled itself in the wind. Martin cautiously looked up into the rapidly darkening sky, as thick, black clouds raced towards them. He looked down at her grimly, his eyes starting to echo the clouds. "There's a storm coming, lil'un," he said somberly. "If you thought it was bad before, the worst is yet to come."
~.~.~.~.~.~.~
Eothain awoke, sheets entangled around her, to her shared tower-top bedroom. Narrow beams of the early morning's sunlight streamed through the windows, enlightening the room just a bit. She sighed in relief, her heart slowing down to a normal, steady pace. It had been ages since she had last dreamed of that day with Brother Martin. Not long after that day, he had disappeared without a trace.

She carefully got out of bed, and sleepily stumbled down the tower stairs. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, the McGordon kitchen was in chaos. Willum, clutching a little wooden dagger, was being chased around the kitchen table by a cloud of his siblings, wielding wooden swords, axes, and other weapons of wooden death. Aidan was face-down on the kitchen table, sound asleep. Mr. McGordon looked much better than he was the night before, and was trying to take a taste of the bowl of some scrumptious-smelling dish, and got a smack across the knuckles with the ever-ready iron ladle from his wife. In short, it felt like home.