The Monastery Tail.

Athalon:
 
The cloister was cool and dark, the ancient stones discolored and cloaked in 
a sound-deadening layer of living moss. The basso drone of the chapel organ 
was here only a dim, aeolian hum; vague, atonal at this distance. Yet old 
Brother Sebastian could be relied upon to keep up his playing until fully 
midnight or so, after his obligatory accompaniment of the final chant of 
Compline, held at nine in the evening, had finished. 
 
He was working on a new composition (he was ALWAYS working on a new compositio-
n, he said), as he was very fond of telling anybody within earshot at table. 
The monks ate in nominal silence as the lesson was delivered from the lectern 
at the head of the table. But Brother Sebastian was nearly deaf, and gifted 
with a strident clarion voice, and didn't care what anyone thought, all of 
which made his attempts at whisper in the refectory almost as bad as his 
musical extemporizations in chapel. 
 
Meanwhile, Master Foxkind, one of the young scholars in residence, was 
slipping furtively amongst the quiet shadows of the arcade, pausing at 
intervals in the dark behind pillars to listen for footsteps. He wondered 
absently if Brother Sebastian might actually be trying to learn to play with 
his left hand, tonight, on the keyboard. Which would be a definite artistic 
enhancement, he added to himself. Or at least, certainly couldn't hurt much, 
he amended. Brother Sebastian never did employ his left hand upon the keys 
during the Liturgy of the Hours, reserving that most precious limb, rather, 
for his amazingly random, kaleidoscopic, puzzling, and sometimes startling 
changes to his selection of organ stops. 
 
None of the other students who knelt beside Fox (as they all called him) 
eight times each day, adding their innocent alto and cautious tenor and 
nervous, cracking baritone contributions to the chant of Divine Service 
seemed to notice. Nor did the monks in the forward stalls, with their 
timeless pace and mature, deep-chested tone, ever seem bothered by the weird, 
provoking, meaningless sound combinations and the occasional shattering 
sforzato blasts which screamed from the poor, strangled soul of the organ 
under Sebastian's wringing hands. But Master Fox could never bring himself to 
call such a shivery, amystically painful experience: "Art". Dear Maestro 
Vivaldi back home would have cringed too, he thought, smiling to himself. 
 
With the greatest of luck and ease, Fox, now fourteen, had matured suddenly 
and quickly into a rich, manly baritone, of which he was rightly proud. 
Before even Father Vivaldi could say "castrato" - which would never have 
happened, as Fox's own Venetian father was too rich and powerful. But his 
father had ultimately refused Fox the life of music which he had desired, 
choosing instead the austere cloister of a monastery in which to continue his 
education. His father cherished the hope that his son would carry on the 
family's merchant heritage when he came of age. Fox lost no love on his 
father for sending him away, but he was more than glad that his father hadn't 
delivered him over to the impresarios of Naples in such a permanent way as to 
insure he could reach all the highest notes for the rest of his life. His own 
father could have actually done that, he acknowledged unflinching. 
 
The thought still made his testicles crawl. 
 
Suddenly there were a pair of voices from the intersecting arcade ahead. Fox 
dived reflexively into the shadows as the Abbot and the Prefect of Boys 
passed not two yards from him, their dark woolen habits sweeping the floor 
with great, cold authority. His dark hair and eyes, and the deep brown of 
Fox's own hooded robe helped to hide him in the fortuitous darkness. 
 
The Abbot was in charge of everyone and everything in his monastery, an 
absolute monarch; and the Prefect of Boys was his students' chief disciplinari-
an: judge, jury and executioner. Fox worked hard at his studies, and his 
labor assignments, and helped out enough to get noticed. Everybody at the 
cloister liked him. But he sometimes found himself threatened with the 
business end of a peach switch for getting into all sorts of mischief, for 
which, too, he had a definite knack. But he was bright and witty, and had a 
simple, fearless charm, and a sure talent for talking his way out of any 
guilty situation (which saved him from becoming rather intimately acquainted 
with said flexible green wood on more than one occasion). But at this late 
hour, the mischief he was getting up to would have been dealt with, seriously 
indeed. 
 
When the coast was clear, he pressed on, hastening so as to avoid any more 
near occasions for potential discovery. His destination was two more hallways 
and a turn to the right ahead, in one of the lesser-used sections of the 
building. He was sure that deaf old Brother Sebastian, blasting away far off 
on the organ, could hear the scuff-snick of his sandals on the clean stone 
floor. Heart pounding with more than just the fear of detection, and sweat 
appearing under his arms, he willed himself to slow, be more cautious. 
 
He found his target, and knocked as quietly as he could on the thick, 
iron-bound door. Two quick knocks, then three slow ones, and two quick ones 
again - that was the signal they'd worked out. Young Master Cef was more than 
a little cautious, too, not wanting an uninvited stranger's mistake to lead 
to him having to invent an explanation for a visitor at such a late hour. He 
waited precious eternities, surveying the arcaded path in both directions, 
more than ever anxious of discovery. Even his crotch was sweating, and he 
knew the robe would itch him later. Then the door quickly opened, and he 
stepped through, turning to close it securely behind him. 
 
Cef was the youngest of the students there, thirteen, and the smallest, too. 
His nickname, "The Littlest Monk" was just too endearingly, unbearably cute, 
like him - and a little bit appropriate, but only a bit. He was in the most 
junior rank of the scholars, a year behind Fox, and not a monk at all. He did 
well in his studies, too, but was not at all as bold or strong as Fox. He had 
curly blonde hair, winning blue eyes, and was still waiting the growth spurt 
that marks the true beginning of adolescence, which made him look all the 
more adorable, and, too, somewhat more filled out than he really was. 
 
Despite his fetching appearance, Cef was very shy, Fox lately having become 
his only friend. 
 
His robe was too big by a couple of sizes, and hung over his hands and 
dragged on the ground whenever it could. He pulled and tugged at it from 
habit, and kept the garment cinched tight around his waist, and bloused front 
and back to take up the excess length - and to hide the embarrassing constant 
erection with which boys his age are sometimes plagued. And which, in its own 
way, had originally given rise to the double-entendre inherent in his 
nickname. 
 
Fox initiated the ritual of greeting. He drew near to Cef, and placed both 
hands frankly on the younger boy's shoulders. Cef answered by reaching up to 
cup Fox's elbows in his honest, small palms, and leaned forward a little. Fox 
had to bow more deeply to bring his cheek alongside his friend's. "Pax 
tecum," he offered quietly, a bit self-consciously, into the small ear before 
his lips. 
 
"Et cum spiritu tuo," responded Cef warmly, oddly uneasy, too. The sweet of 
Fox's breath on his face made him shiver a little. 
 
"Are you ready?" 
 
"Yeah. You?" 
 
"Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose. Are you sure this'll work?" 
 
"Trust me. Can't fail." Or if it does fail, we'll both be disgraced right out 
of here, and nothing will matter anyway, Fox thought. But there was no time 
to worry. 
 
Tarka:
 
Cef looked up at Fox and then reached up to touch Foxes chest.  "When will we 
be tring to make our escape from here Fox? You know what they are going to do 
to me so very soon. I scared."
 
Fox looked down Cef's habit and noddled. "I overheard a seaman talking about 
the Fiznardan is leaving for Briten three days from now. I think that we 
should be able to get jobs in the rigging there."
 
Cef gulped and then let his formallity dropped and hugged Fox... his only 
friend and partime lover. He looked up at Fox with love. "Thank you Fox... 
thank you!"
 
Dogfire:
 
There was still the matter of leaving.  Though the port of Bruges was two 
days walk and the roads were wide and well traveled. They would have to get 
past the village that lay at the foot of the hill the monastary stood on.  It 
was important that they were not discovered till after they had fled town.
 
They had laid a stash, taken quietly during the Feast days and donations of 
Alms day. A few spare cloaks, sandels for the feet. A rucksack and carefully 
nicked provisions. But most important was the letter.
 
Fox's eldest brother had traveled by the monestary, with a letter of escort. 
He had discharged his duty and neglected to destroy the letter, Fox had 
quietly lifted the letter and kept it.  Using his skills in copying to subtle 
scrape certain words, and carefully match the flowing letters with ink from 
his own well. 
 
It had been a few years ago. His eldest brother had been charged by his 
Father to escort a distant cousin to the Bruges trading family to have her be 
wed to one the son's there.  
 
The letter was from her family, declaring the elder brother to be the 
temporary guardian and escort while she was being taken to her new life in 
Bruges. It let one through customs and nosy town gate keepers.  In Fox's 
hands, he became the elder brother, charged with escorting an underaged 
Venesian to the University of Bruges. As many of the wealthy had sent their 
sons there for higher education. 
 
It was important that they appear as reasonably well off travelers, begger's 
cloaks would not do.
 
Terrycloth:
 
Unfortunately, fine clothing was not to be found at the monestary. And on the 
occasional visits to the village that Fox had enjoyed during his stay, he'd 
seen only one store that occasionally stocked the right sort of clothing, in 
case a noble visiting the monestary had a sudden need of fine garments. It 
also stocked many other odd things that few people would need, and couldn't 
possibly turn much of a profit, or so said Fox's business sense.
 
Still, the plan was to somehow slip out of the monestary, retrieve their 
stash, break into the shop, and then, with the letter and appropriate 
clothing, make their way safely to the port and onto a ship. Going over the 
steps in his mind, Fox quailed at the danger, but set the fear from his mind. 
Sweet Cef was depending on him to avoid his horrible fate.
 
But there was a stroke of light in the abyss. A passage, secret only by 
virtue of long disuse, led from the cellars where Fox had once spent a month 
shifting barrels as punishment for disrespecting the honored brother 
Sebastian straight to the village, and in fact to the very shop to which they 
required access. In this passage Fox had planted the gathered supplies.
 
So it was to the cellars that they made their way, walking nonchalantly past 
several of their fellows. Fox hoped that if any thought their movement 
suspicious, that they suspected them of some illicit tryst and not of escape, 
since their path led nowhere near the gates.
 
Down the stairs, then creep through the dusty barrels into the darkest 
recesses where, thanks to Fox's unsung labors, an opening between two huge 
casks *just* wide enough for him to squeeze through led to a dark alcove that 
was in fact the start of the passage. Cef squeezed through after him, and Fox 
could sense his fear in his fevered breathing and sweaty grasp. He clasps his 
friend's hadn and whispered reassuringly, "Don't worry, I've been down this 
tunnel all the way to the end. There's nothing in there."
 
Athalon:
 
Cef was trembling.  Fox knew the hardest part of their night's work lay just 
ahead.   The tunnel, low and pitch-black, unused and untidy, passed under the 
monastery buildings before exiting beneath the cloister walls.  They would 
have to travers the entire length of the courtyard, go under the chapel, and 
pass beneath the Abbot's rooms.  And Cef, as Fox well knew, was terrified of 
the dark.
 
And they'd have to do it without benefit of light.  And without making a 
noise.  The tunnel must have served once as ventilation, or drainage, for all 
manner of louvers, drains, vents, and grills opened upward into the various 
rooms and chambers of the monastery.  And past those they'd have to creep, 
stooping low, and dragging whatever scant baggage they could afford to bring.
 
"Fox," Cef, began.  But a firm shake of the head from his friend silenced 
him.  He was afraid, yes.  And what made it worse (as if the fate upon 
failure weren't enough), not even the older boy's presence helped much.  Cef 
sniffled, and rubbed his nose on the sleeve of his robe.
 
"Ok," said Fox, trying to sound more sure than he felt.  "We ditch the robes 
here.  Less risk if we're caught outside the cloister walls, and less danger 
of tripping."  He pulled the yoke-laces free, and with a wiggle and a squirm 
was brightly and smoothly bare, save for the linen-issue.
 
Cef followed suit.  It made him feel only the more vulnerable.  Smaller.  
Yeah, but what if we're caught INSIDE the walls, half-naked, he wanted to 
ask.  But he kept quiet, concentrated on the plan.  Concentrated on not 
crying.  That was the big risk as far as he could see.  Disgracing himself, 
and blubbing like a baby.
 
Fox took a deep breath.  "Alright," he stated.  "Let's go..."
 
Tarka:
 
The shop was dingy this late and Fox looked around. The cloths he was most 
interested in were in the back of the room... he reaches out and took Cef's 
hand and ran over there and looked at them. Cloths made for princes.... 
carefully hung together... he turned around and hugged Cef's quivering 
shoulders. "We made it this far! Come on. Lets find what fits and go.
 
They were out of the spop and moving accross town within an hour. Heading for 
the city's gate and their freedom. Cef looked over to Fox and smiled.... his 
thoughts filled with hope that he wouldn't be a singer all his life.
 
The gates to the city turned out to be a little harder to get through then 
Fox had originally though. The guard looked at the letter and frowned. "Your 
rather young to be an escort child." He looked at Cef spectivly.... "Not sure 
you will make it to the Bruges still flowered. No mater."
 
Fox gave a real sigh of relief when he heard the words. They would make it 
through the gate. They started on their way without seeing that a raggeded 
looking fellow following them.
 
Dogfire:
 
Fox's head hurt from trying to recollect his elder brother's travels in 
Bruges, which inn?  Finally his memory yielded the name of that Inn, The 
HauseFugue. A stop for traders and their families. Somewhere along the canal 
that led to the river and the docks.
 
Their travels had been relatively uneventful, they had been too tired to do 
more than to set up a hasty camp, a fire to cook the smoked meats packed 
away, only a wineskin, filled with barrel water, tasting old, coppery and 
tannic.
 
Cef seemed nervious when they encountered a cartier and horse pulling some 
hay as they set off on their second day. "Act with noble bearing, don't 
skulk." Fox said.
 
The two wheeled cart slowly pulled ahead of them, the driver nodding his 
acquisense to what he assumed were some noble's young heading in the same 
direction as he.
 
Soon they encountered more travelers, more leaving Bruges until at last the 
road merged with the main road, the last several leagues were paved in stones 
as Bruges could afford to import stone from afar and had the craftsment to 
carve and lay down such a fine road. The clatter of horse hooves met with the 
squeeck of ox-drawn carts, laden with various cargos and the travelers..so 
many to Cef's eyes, but dullishly sparse to Fox's who had memories of the 
vast crowded streets of Venice. Bruges was just an upstart village port on 
the shores of a North Sea kingdom.
 
Cloaked travelers, a group of Pilgrims, a trader who looked more like a 
raider with an eyepatch.  They had rode the river into the town gates near 
Eveningsong. The sun stood a handspan above the horizon, night would fall 
within a watch period. The gatekeeper and his retinue had asked and allowed 
the travelers into the city (Village to Fox's eyes) gates. And he had made 
his remarks to Fox being quite young to be an escort for Cef.
 
The pair stood by on the arrow stratight street and nearby canal that lead to 
the river, the Housefugue lay within sight. Fox turned to Cef and said, 
"Quick, the purse." He had entrusted the smaller burden to Cef, since he had 
been carrying the heavier rucksack.
 
Cef searched through his shirt, cloak rustling. "I..I..it's not there!"
"What do you mean it's not there?"
 
Cef's eyes grew wide, their only stash of stolen coins to pay for an inn and 
bribe passage wasn't on him.
 
"Here take off your cloak."
 
At once, a dull click, of wood upon laid stone caused the pair to turn. In a 
nearby dim alley, a tall ragged figure strode out towards them. The cliq 
clacking of his clogs beat like the approach of one of the Horse's of the 
apocolypse towards them and seemingly of certain doom...
 
Terrycloth:
 
Cef screamed, and twisted and tore his way out of Fox's grasp. The thin fine 
fabric tore easily, and the near-naked child streaked away through the crowd. 
Fox cursed and took off after him, glancing back at the ragged figure that 
had so spooked his friend.
 
An unfortunate glance indeed, as while his head was turned he ran full force 
into a woman carrying a basket of apples, knocking both of them down and 
scattering the apples across the ground. Fox tried to scramble to his feet, 
but slipped again, tearing his own robe and falling, this time, onto his 
face, at which point the woman started beating him over the head with her 
basket, screaming curses.
 
"No..." a soft voice said, "He is mine." Fox heard the woman running away, 
and struggled to regain his feet and his senses. A cold hand closed on his 
shoulder, and he screamed.
 
Cef, cowering inside a nearby doorway, whimpered as he heard Fox's scream, 
and curled up into a ball, to cover himself, and his tears of shame.
 
Athalon:
 
Being tied up wasn't nearly so bad, as being left with no way to relieve 
himself.  It had been almost a day and a half, and the man hadn't returned to 
the storage room - or root cellar, or whatever it was - to see to Fox.  Too 
long to go without eating, certainly.  Or a trip to the latrine.  His 
suffering wasn't diminished by the loss of Cef, either.  
 
The last he saw, as he was picked up bodily and stuffed into a sack, was Cef 
cowering at the entrance to an inn.  Cef's nerve broke, apparently, and with 
a scream he fled down a nearby alley.  It was all Fox could do to keep from 
crying, himself: exhausted, hungry, and filthy as he was.  Hoping that Cef 
had actually escaped was both a bright spark in the gloom, and a burning 
brand laid searing his heart.  It seemed too good to hope for.  
 
And of him, what did the strange man want?  Fox hadn't a clue.  He'd never 
met him (or the likes of him) before.  Getting stuffed in a sack was the only 
introduction he'd had.  And not a visit since, as his stomach and clothing 
reminded him.  Fox wasn't really one to give up.  This whole plan, escape and 
flight, had been his idea.  But alone, lost and separated from his best 
friend - how the pang of failure whetted his feelings of responsibility 
towards Cef!  Of love, too - playful and immature, the growing-journey trust 
and discovery.  And alone, lost and separated from his best friend, yeet try 
as he might, Fox couldn't imagine what to do next.
 
He was nodding, sleep overcoming the gnawing in his middle and the offensive 
atmosphere of his prison.  He shot upright, the cords at his wrists biting 
painfully, when the door opened.  Even the one small candle which entered 
ahead of the visitor was blinding.  He blinked, squinting through tears that 
he'd grown tired of shedding.
 
Tarka:
 
Cef hid amoung the trash that was piled along the beach outside of Bruges 
City and cried... his face smered with the dark likes of dirt and his salty 
tears.... He whimpped there in the dark for a long time.
 
"Wot's wrong their gov.
 
Cef started at the sound and looked up... "Who are you?
 
A short but cheerful faced street urchin slipped up close to Cef on one side 
of him. "Why... just me mine friend. Just me.
 
Cef looked at the sweet faced urchin and smiled inside.... then he put on his 
best weak nad helpless face and poored it on. "My life is over... my lover 
taking by the Ducks men.
 
Terrycloth:
 
"Ah... that's a shame," said the urchin, offering Cef a hand to pull him to 
his feet. "Course, some could say that he's the lucky one."
 
"What do you mean?" Cef asked, a bit nervous due to the urchin's unusually 
strong grip and seeming unwillingness to let go.
 
"This town isn't very kind to children out on their own, you know. You might 
end up like me." Cef squeaked feebly as the 'urchin' sprouted thick fur and 
wicked fangs and claws, then screamed in earnest as they bit and slashed at 
his tender flesh.
 
"He's clean," a voice said behind Fox's visitor, and somewhat to his 
surprise, the man advanced and cut him loose. "I couldn't find his friend, 
though. I'm sure they got him."
 
"Stupid kids," grunted the swarthy man who'd cut him loose. "At least we 
saved one."
 
Athalon:
 
Fox's dignity didn't stand in the way as the knife parted his clothing.  He 
hardly had any dignity left, and just being rid of the filthy garments almost 
made up for the leers and grins his equally soiled bareness received.  The 
food was a welcome consolation, too, and Fox wolfed the end of stale bread 
and slurped the mouthfuls of thin soup from the tin cup.  In his condition, 
it tasted like heaven.  
 
Finishing his meal, he looked to his jailers.  They weren't carrying fresh 
garments for him, or even soap.  A bath he sorely needed.  The straw on the 
floor was infested with _something_, but in the near-total darkness he could 
not tell what.  It was obviously beyond thinking that these two were here to 
let him out.  Yet Fox, as knowledgeable and self-reliant and worldly as he 
was, had no idea what they wanted.
 
The swarthy man was fat.  Bulgingly so, straining at the buttons of his 
shirt, disfiguring the cut of his pants with his quivering obesity.  And he 
was equally greasy and dirty - nearly as dirty as Fox felt.  His eyes were 
small and beady, and his grin revealed a lack of good hygene and dentition.
 
The second man - older, taller, and slimmer - was better dressed.  Obviously 
a merchant, or something, thought Fox.  Or innkeepper.  His manners weren't 
any better - he stared rudely at Fox as the boy stood naked, working the last 
of the soup into his mouth with a dirty finger.  His eyes were larger, 
darker, with an evil unspeakably more sinister than that in the eyes of the 
slovenly pig who was probably his hireling.
  
Cef screamed himself awake.  And waking alone was almost worse than the 
nightmares.  For three days he'd fought his way among the crowds, stealing a 
wizened apple here, a stale crust or moldy rind of cheese there.  The 
hospital orphanage took one look at him and turned him back out.  Hard times 
here, he thought, when you have to sleep in doorways and eat from refuse 
baskets.
 
And when he'd found the church, he was almost as disheveled and sioled as Fox 
was, shivering and sweating by turns in his captivity.  Certainly the bishop 
of Bruges  wouldn't turn Cef away.  As it happened, the bishop was indeed a 
kindly old man, and one with an ear for music.  His eyes shone with the teary 
wonder of old age, when Cef took up the invitation to sing.  
 
Fox stood, arms at his sides, waiting.  The meager food had turned to acid, 
as the moments drew on.  His captors hadn't left.  They sat staring, and the 
tension grew as thick as the air in the small, stuffy room.  They hadn't said 
a word.  or approached.  Yet Fox knew they had come for more than just to 
feed him.  And as the moments passed beyond that time when they should have 
spoken - questioned him, anything - or left, Fox's stomach tightened, his 
muscles tensing.  For escape, or defense, he didn't know which.
 
Tarka:
 
Cef, now 14, bit down on the wood between his teeth as he felt the knife cut 
him open and he turned his head to the side in shame.. to escape this fate 
once.. only to have it force on him again was an irony that he himself missed 
at this moment. All his mind working on keeping his claws from shooting out 
or his teeth from grown. For the church would kill him the moment they found 
out he was contaminated.
 
The deed was over quickly enough and Cef retired to his rooms for the next 
week. It was like that for many years to come when he himself put on the 
robes for the first time and took his vows...
 
It was a few years later when he saw Fox again. Dressed out in the most 
expensive cloths money could by.
buy.
 
Terrycloth:
 
"Fox?" he asked, walking over to talk to him. Fox nodded, saying nothing. 
"You're -- I thought you were dead."
 
"I thought the same, Cef. But I'm okay. I found some people who took care of 
me. Taught me a trade."
 
"I went... back to the church," Cef said, looking down. "I belong here. It's 
safer."
 
"Is it," Fox said. They stood in silence. "Cef... do you want to go somewhere 
private? There's something I want to talk to you about."
 
Cef shook his head. "They cut me, Fox. I'll be a soprano forever. Heh."
 
Fox blushed. "It's not about that. Come on." He motioned, and Cef followed, 
wondering what his friend had in mind.
 
They made their way to a secluded alcove, and Fox sat down. "Come, sit in my 
lap." Cef complied, though the pain of the memory of what he'd lost was 
difficult to bear as Fox took him in his arms and held him tight.
 
Then a cold metal blade pressed against his throat, and it burned! How it 
burned. "I prayed that they'd killed you, Cef... and when I heard you were 
here at the church I hoped against hope that you'd somehow escaped them... 
but I can smell it on you. You're one of them, aren't you."