13

At the uttermost frontiers of Scotland-beyond Skye, beyond the Hebrides, beyond even the tiny battered chain of islands known as the Seven Sisters-lies the archipelago of St. Kilda. It is the remotest part of the British Isles, rough hummocks of brown stone struggling to rise above the foam: a bleak, sea-torn, savage place.

On the westernmost point of Hirta, the main island, a thousand-foot granite promontory rises above the bitter Atlantic. Seated on its crown is the long, gray line of Grimwold Castle, an ancient and rambling abbey, hardened against weather and catapult alike, surrounded by a star curtain of local stone. It was built in the thirteenth century by a cloistered order of monks, seeking freedom from both persecution and the growing secularization of Europe. Over many decades, the order was joined by other monks-Carthusians, Benedictines-looking for a remote place for worship and spiritual contemplation, fleeing the dissolution of the English monasteries. Enriched by the personal contributions of these new members, the library of Grimwold Castle swelled into one of the greatest monastic collections in Europe.

A small fishing population grew up around the skirts of the monastery, serving the few earthly needs the monks could not fulfill themselves. As its fame spread, the monastery hosted-in addition to new initiates-the occasional wanderer. At the castle's zenith, a Pilgrim's Way led from its medieval chapter house, across a grassy close, through a portcullis in the curtain wall, and then down a winding path to the tiny village, where passage to the Hebrides could be found.

Today the Pilgrim's Way is gone, visible only as an occasional cairn rising above the bleak stonescape. The tiny supporting village was depopulated centuries ago. Only the abbey remains, its grim and storm-lashed facade staring westward across the cold North Atlantic.

In the main library of Grimwold Castle, a visitor sat at a long wooden table. He wore a pair of white cotton gloves and slowly turned the vellum pages of an ancient folio volume, set on a protective linen cloth. Dust motes hung in the air, and the light was dim: he squinted slightly to make out the words. A pile of other texts stood at his elbow: illuminated manuscripts, incunabula, ancient treatises bound in ribbed leather. Every hour or so, a monk arrived, removed the books the man had finished with, brought another set he had asked to view, exchanged a word or two, and then retired. Now and then, the visitor paused to make a cursory jotting in a notebook, but as the day went on these pauses grew less and less frequent.

At last, in late afternoon, a different monk stepped into the library, carrying yet another set of books. Like the others of his order, he was dressed in a plain cassock bound with a white cord. But he was older than the rest and seemed to walk with a more measured tread.

He proceeded down the center aisle of the library. Approaching the visitor's table-the only occupied table in the room-he laid the ancient texts carefully upon the white linen.

"Dominus vobiscum,"he said with a smile.

The man rose from the table. "Et cum spiritu tuo."

"Please remain seated. Here are the additional manuscripts you requested."

"You are very kind."

"It is our pleasure. Visiting scholars are few and far between these days, alas. It seems creature comforts have become more important than scholarly enlightenment."

The man smiled. "Or the pursuit of truth."

"Which is frequently the same thing." The man pulled a soft cloth from his sleeve and lovingly dusted the ancient books. "Your name is Logan, correct? Dr. Jeremy Logan, Regina Professor of Medieval History at Yale?"

The man looked at him. "I am Dr. Logan. Currently, though, I'm on academic leave."

"Please do not think I am prying, my son. I am Father Bronwyn, abbot of Grimwold Castle." He took a seat on the far side of the table with a sigh. "In many ways it is a trying job. You would think an abbey as ancient as this would be free from internal bureaucracy and petty grievance. But the truth is just the opposite. And we are so remote, our life so simple and humble, that new initiates come only rarely to our gates. Our number is less than half what it was fifty years ago." He sighed again. "But my position has its consolations. For one, I preside over all bibliographic and library matters, and, as you know, the library remains our only, and our most prized, possession-God forgive my covetousness."

Logan smiled faintly.

"So naturally I am made aware of our comings and goings-especially of persons as well recommended as you. Your letters of introduction made impressive reading."

Dr. Logan inclined his head.

"I couldn't help but notice that, along with your application to visit our library, an itinerary was included."

"Yes, that was an oversight on my part. I've been doing research at Oxford, and my departure was a hasty one. I fear my papers got a bit scrambled. I wasn't trying to boast."

"Of course not. That wasn't my meaning. But I couldn't help but be surprised at the places you've already visited on holiday. St. Urwick's Tower, as I recall. Newfoundland, correct?"

"Just south of Battle Harbour, on the coast."

"And then your second stop. The Abbey of Wrath."

Dr. Logan nodded again.

"I've heard of it, as well. Kap Farvel, Greenland. Almost as remote a location as ours."

"They are possessed of an ancient and exceedingly broad library, particularly in local history."

"I'm sure they are." The abbot leaned closer over the table. "I hope you'll forgive my familiarity, Dr. Logan: as I said, we get so few visitors these days, and my capacity for social nuance is sadly atrophied. But you see, what surprises me most about these visits of yours is the timing. Those spots boast libraries that would reward weeks of study. And each is difficult, time-consuming, and expensive to get to. Yet according to the itinerary, this is only the third day of your trip. What are you looking for that requires you to move with such speed, and that requires such trouble and expense on your part?"

Dr. Logan glanced at the abbot for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. "As I said, Father Bronwyn, my including the itinerary among the papers I sent here was an oversight."

Father Bronwyn sat back. "Yes, of course. I am an old and curious man, and I didn't mean to pry." He removed his glasses, raised a corner of his cassock sleeve, cleaned them with it, replaced them on his nose. Then he placed his hand on the ancient calfskin volumes he had brought with him. "Here are the books you requested. The Lay Anecdotes of Maighstir Beaton, circa 1448; Colquhoun's Chronicles Diuerse and Sonderie, of a hundred years later; and of course Trithemius's Poligraphia." At this last title, the abbot shuddered slightly.

"Thank you, Father," Dr. Logan said, nodding as the man rose and took his leave.

An hour later, the monk who had originally helped him returned, removed the manuscripts and incunabula, and took Logan 's written request for additional volumes. Within a few minutes he returned with still more moldering titles, which he laid on the crisp linen.

Dr. Logan placed the volumes before him and, one after the other, paged through them with white-gloved hands. The first volume was in Middle English; the second in the vulgate; and the third a poor translation of the Attic Greek dialect known as Koine. None of the tongues gave Logan much difficulty, and he read with ease. Yet as he continued, an air of depression settled over him. At last, he pushed the final book away, blinked his eyes, and rubbed the small of his back. Three days of grueling travel to godforsaken spots, three nights of sleeping in cold rooms of drafty stone, were catching up with him. He glanced up at the massively built library, with its Romanesque vaulted ceiling and narrow windows of crude but charming stained glass. Late-afternoon light was slanting through them now, daubing the library in a mosaic of color. The monks, as was their custom, would put him up for the night-after all, there was no other accommodation for many miles and no roads to bear him away. In the morning, a hired trawler would take him back to the mainland…and then where? He realized, with a sinking feeling, he did not know where to turn next.