The stars twinkled bright against the inky canvass. I asked them for guidance and warmth and light. I whispered a protection charm the old women muttered under their breaths, even though we very well knew they did nothing against dark forces nearby.

Claude saw me looking and pointed to one star amongst many. Xilthea, the divine harvester of souls. “She’s near,” Claude murmured. “Though, I suppose you monks don’t recognize her.”

My lips curved into a knowing smile. The religious sectors believed in the Four Saints because they were actual holy figures that historically walked the earth. Key witnesses and the First Followers of the Four Saints (whose descendants or distant bloodline still held power and prestige today) filled the holy books with pages of their miracles and teachings. Theirs were miracles of light and abundance. Flowers grew where their bare soles stepped on naked ground. Cacti and desert-dwelling creatures wept until their tears formed an oasis in the middle of sandy dunes. They called clouds of rain, animals to their aid.

Most importantly, they had holy weapons that can slice and wound and keep the Great Darkness at bay long enough for people to multiply and civilizations to form. Whatever became of those holy relics, no one knows. Not even their bloodline or closest confidante.

As such, the religious sectors threw the old gods in favor of the saints, branding the former as nothing more than flimsy superstition that the common folk share amongst themselves for entertainment.

But I recognized Xilthea and the other pagan gods well enough. How can I not, when her name was the most spoken from the folk tales told near the warmth of a fire?

I looked at the constellations above. I wasn’t sure why, but I wanted Claude to know that I knew their stories; have dreamt of them when I slept, have even drawn them on some lost parchment long ago.

“Xilthea comes to collect you if you’re too kind for this world and brings you to her many boathouses in the sky. All the stars we see surrounding her are the lamps attached to the prow of those boats.” I closed my eyes, imagining the serenity. Woodrow and Wilbur were still observing the fields behind us, so they didn’t see me raise my arms wide as if drifting on the water’s surface. “Children feared her. They act out and behave like little rebels just so she stays away from them.”

Claude nodded. “Mothers here still offer milk and bread for her, to appease her and show her that the children in their household are well taken care of.” Claude arched his brow as if pleasantly surprised by my knowledge. “You know her main stories?”

I bit my lip. I wanted to be careful with my words. “We aren’t that overzealous with our beliefs. We respect the old beliefs, so long as it doesn't overpower our main faith."

Yes, our monkhood was all an act. But I didn’t know it was an act back then. I really believed in the Four Saint’s legacy. I believed every word that came out of Blake’s mouth. Before I could add anything, Claude spoke.

“People fear death, but death comes for us all, especially during these days.” Claude sighed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter who or what you believe in, whether it’s the Four Holy Saints or these gods. Or all of them combined. They won’t appear to save us now.” He stabbed the ground. “The miracles have died with them.”

He said it in a matter-of-fact way, already resigned to the fate he proclaimed for himself. I couldn’t blame him, yet there was still a part of me that wanted to fight back. To conjure a miracle, no matter how small. Not because I wanted him to believe in something, but to simply help.

We scanned the rest of the night sky. Before these dark times, stories were strong about old gods just by looking at the stars.

The stars swirled into other constellations according to the seasons. Spring revealed the chalice-bearer, summer showed the ring-bearer. Different festivals were held under them. Some were for specific crops, some for music, and some were even linked to the holy deeds of the Saints or the birth of a notable ruler.

Under Xilthea’s boats, under her long winter nights, people reflected on their deeds. She signified the final harvest or the chill that follows the last harvest. The chill that took the many warm breaths of the living. This was the season when many babes died in their cribs. Their cheeks cold, their lips blue. Young children sent out on the road for errands could also vanish into thin air. It is not uncommon to see parents or guardians keeping their charge near arms-length this time of year.

Claude huffed. “It sounds silly that us penniless folk will leave out small dishes of whatever food we have for a silent goddess in the sky. It looks silly, too, whenever I see grown mothers leave these offerings on their windowsills for her, only for the sparrows and crows to feed on them. Or leave the offerings near the tender heads of their babies. Sillier still considering that there isn’t much food going around nowadays.” Eyes fixed on Xilthea, Claude’s hands formed into knuckles. “But when you see someone so young near the verge of death, your mind clings to whatever story that gives you comfort. Or whatever story that gives you an explanation. Or whatever story that tells you what to do and how you should think and feel.” And then he looked at me and his anger left him as he breathed. I thought there was a shine to his eyes. I thought the star of Xilthea was reflected there. “But they are pretty tonight, aren’t they? Must be a good omen.”

I closed my eyes. I hope so.

For a moment, I thought I heard the stars tinkle, until I realized it was the sheep that made the sound. Claude must have attached a bell to its neck when we weren’t looking and she now was proudly showing it to us. Huh. A bell for Belle.

She looked giddy again now that she was back on her familiar fields. She wound around my legs and smelled my clothes, then brought her face up to my thigh. She was looking up at me, waiting for me to do something.

I bent down and patted its head. I reached under her chin and her cheeks and finally to the part where sheep were judged and valued. I closed my eyes. My fingers held fine, soft wool. Like a blanket of clouds. I had an irresistible urge to cuddle her, to carry her in my arms and press my face against her side. I remembered the magnificent horse I once touched. Two different animals that were prized for their respective uses. The horse carried nobles on its strong back through long stretches of rough terrain, while the sheep provided money and comfort and warmth with its wool. Many children slept soundly at night wrapped in thick blankets. Men and women did work in the cold weather protected by sheep’s wool and sheepskin.

I said as much to Claude. He agreed. “She is exquisite, that one. That is why we take care of her so. And yet she is the one constant troublemaker.”

I laughed quietly. “Maybe she knows she is the best and knows that you will chase after her wherever she goes. Maybe she finds entertainment in it all. Fair price for her wool.” Belle’s eyes glinted in agreement. I looked into her eyes. Oh, you. If it wasn't for you, your shepherd wouldn't have chased you down all over the meadow. He would have gone home by now and not see us sprawled on the ground so.

I found myself calmer now and so looked around their farm. Wheat and barley swayed in the night air. What and barley and oats and beans. “It truly is a beautiful place, Claude. All this is the farmland you take care of?” He nodded in response. “But it seems so wide. How do you manage to take care of it all?”

“One field at a time. It was easier when my brothers and father were around, but now it’s just me, my mother, and…” slowly he added, “my sister.”

Other structures appeared in the night as we walked towards the cottage. We passed a small windmill whose sails creaked as it turned. Near it was a long barn with an enclosure to keep more sheep. I saw them now; a sea of gray round clouds on the ground. They bleated when they noticed us—or rather noticed Claude and his staff and the most mischievous member amongst their ranks. They nudged their neighbors, a ripple of excitement. The braver ones ventured forth, their eyes peeping through the gaps of the wooden fence. It was clear that Claude’s sheep was popular. It trotted merrily, her bell tinkling with each step. When she called them, they answered back, and the still night air was disturbed by baaaahs. She would have told them all of her adventures if Claude had not smacked her softly on its side.

“Quiet you,” he said, and all the sheep fell silent once more. The ones inside the enclosure followed the fence, their gazes still on us. Claude pointed to other sheds on different locations of the farm. There were troughs outside with piles of hay scattered nearby, uneaten. “We used to take care of horses here, and donkeys. We kept them in that shed over there. The one with the horseshoe nailed on its door.”

“Where are they now?”

“Back with Lord Bahram. Back to his castle. Lots of lords are riding their swift steeds nowadays, or perhaps lending it to a reliable rider.”

Wilbur spoke. “To carry messages?”

“Right you are, monk. Though how it can run around at his behest with those jewel-studded saddle and reins… the poor creature must be worn out.” He made a noise of annoyance. “Lord Bahram likes to parade his wealth to his friends, you see. He likes to rub it in their faces that even though his land is smaller compared to theirs’, the bounty of his soil still produced crops. Crops that they needed to survive.”

“He likes to show off without actually doing all the work,” I blurted out. Claude appreciated that. When I spoke next, he kept nodding as if the words that came out of my mouth were the exact ones on his head. “It isn’t even that. His fortune is completely based on chance. The reason why he’s so fortunate is that the famine hasn’t yet turned its head on this side.”

I caught Wilbur and Woodrow’s eyes. Well, it will now.

Claude followed suit. “I think he also likes to make a statement about his son, seeing as the younger lord can be seen on horseback on the main road nowadays. He’s at the right age for it, too.”

Ah. So, this lord Bahram of theirs parades his son on his sturdiest horse adorned with his wealth not just for show, after all. It was a statement to the public to recognize his authority as their next feudal lord.

Claude smiled mischievously. He pinched the hem of my sleeves. He brought his lips close; the words were for my ears alone. “They would whip me if they knew, but it was I who first rode that horse.” His eyes glittered. “The horse wouldn’t even let the Bahrams ride him. He’s stubborn, that one. I tried to not laugh when I saw the young lord struggle to control that beast, but in the end, I couldn’t keep it. My voice made the horse’s ears twitch. He stopped and looked where I was hiding.”

I imagined him keeping the amusement behind his hand, a few chuckles escaping through his fingers. “Where were you hiding?” I asked.

“Behind a boulder. I saw them take out the horse from their grand stables and I followed them to the woods.” He pointed in the opposite direction to the monastery.

I smiled at his secret; to be told as much was a foundation of trust. Maybe even friendship. The thought left me warm again. Warmth that started from my gut and spread to my chest and cheeks. I would never tell that story to anyone else. At least, not without Claude’s permission.

It just hit me that we were already trading secrets. Perhaps he thought it was fair trade for my veins. My veins for his stories.

Yet another thing I noticed about Claude: he was fair.

“I’m glad that they left the farm to you folks. Does the young lord not want any farmhands? Might be a help to you and profit for him.” Wilbur looked at the expanse of field. It really was too much arable land for three people to work on.

“There aren’t any farmers left, monk.” Claude said. He looked straight ahead.

“Ah.” Wilbur and I locked eyes.

Our eyes reflected the same thoughts. Without farmers to care for the land, then food production will slow and eventually cease, then all the world will go hungry. I was once again reminded of the tragedy that happened to that other unfortunate lord and his entire household. I can imagine the way the famished peasants stripped the flesh off their bones, not a sinew wasted. I suppose one would think that it was the lord’s greed that caused his undoing. He should have known better. He should have taken care of his people as was his obligation. If his kingdom would crumble then he should have at least the decency to go down with it. Send his children and wife away to a greener place, one that has not yet been touched by the darkness and put all his effort into saving his kingdom. It may be futile, but it would be a respectable death.

Well, I suppose in the end, he did fulfill that obligation. He died feeding them for a day, or three days at the most. I hope his fat and his greed had placated their hunger for a while.

He should have known better, or at least invested in thicker walls.

Perhaps the darkness likes to play games, after all, as Woodrow commented. Because to me, the darkness and Blake were now one and the same. When I think of the darkness, the darkest darkness, blacker than night, it wore Blake’s face and wore his cloak. It had ancient lines that opened up into chasms of rheumy obsidian irises that would swallow you whole.

There was no doubt in my mind now what that he had a part in all the destruction. If not a part, then the sole reason. Hungry villagers, collapsing cities, war-torn, ravaged towns. Blake was the source of it all.

Maybe that is why the darkness targets the small villages first before it encroaches upon the top—to make people suffer, to let the tension rise, to make them sleepless with worry. That is what he likes: worry and fear and the delicious touch of lost hope. I can feel him salivating.

If, say, he would attack the top, then the whole country would be thrown into chaos immediately. Everything would go stale rapidly with rampant chaos. That would not be fun for him. That won’t do at all. No, he must be patient. He must act slowly.

For Blake, patience was no problem. Like the monasteries we built and destroyed he would siphon and sip slowly their anguish.