Glenn Cooper - Library of the Dead

"But he may be the seventh son of a seventh son!" Magdalena hissed.

"Yes, we know of the beliefs concerning such a being. But who has met such a man before? And who has met one born on the seventh day of the seventh month of the year 777? We cannot presume to know that his powers have an evil purpose."

"I, for one, cannot see an evil consequence of the boy's powers," Josephus said hopefully.

Magdalena's demeanor changed from fear to anger. "If what you say is true, we know that our dear abbot will die on this very day. I pray to the Lord that this is not so. How can you say that this is not evil?" She rose and snatched up the parchment pages. "I will not hold secrets from the abbot. He must hear of this, and he-and he alone-must decide on the boy's fate."

She was determined, and neither Paulinus or Josephus were inclined to dissuade Sister Magdalena from her actions.

The three of them approached Oswyn after None, the mid-afternoon prayer, and accompanied him to his chambers in the Chapter House. There, in the dimming light of a wintry afternoon, the embers of his fire glowing amber, they told him their tale as each tried to study his pinched face, which because of his deformity angled down toward his table.

He listened. He studied the parchments, pausing for a moment to reflect on his own name. He asked questions and considered the responses. Then he signaled that the caucus was over by striking his fist on the table once.

"I cannot see good coming of this," he said. "At worst, it is the hand of the Devil. At best, it is a severe distraction to the religious life of this community. We are here to serve God with all our heart and all our might. This boy will divert us from our mission. You must cast him out."

At that, Magdalena suppressed a show of satisfaction.

Josephus cleared his dry throat. "His father will not take him back. There is no place for him to go."

"That is not our concern," the abbot said. "Send him away."

"It is cold," Josephus implored. "He will not survive the night."

"The Lord will provide for him and decide his fate," the abbot said. "Now, leave me to contemplate my own."

It was left to Josephus to do the deed, and after sundown he dutifully led the boy by the hand to the front gate of the abbey. A kind young sister had put heavy socks on his feet and wrapped him in an extra shirt and a small cloak. A cutting wind off the sea was pushing the temperature to the freezing point.

Josephus unlatched the gate and swung it open. They were hit squarely by a strong cold gust. The prior gently nudged the boy forward. "You must leave us, Octavus. But do not fear, God will protect you."

The boy did not turn to look back but faced the dark void of night with his immutable blank stare. It broke the prior's heart to treat one of God's creatures harshly, so harshly that he was likely condemning the child to a freezing death. And not an ordinary child but one with an extraordinary gift that, if Paulinus was correct, came not from the depths of Hell but perhaps from the realm of Heaven. But Josephus was an obedient servant, his first allegiance to God, whose opinion on this matter was not apparent to him, and his next allegiance to his abbot, whose opinion was clear as a windowpane.

Josephus shuddered and closed the gate behind him.

The bell rang for Vespers. The congregation assembled in the Sanctuary. Sister Magdalena held her lute to her chest and basked in her victory over Josephus, whom she scorned for his softness.

Paulinus's mind swirled with theological ideas about Octavus-whether his powers were gift or curse.

Josephus's eyes stung with salty tears at the thought of the frail little boy alone in the cold and dark. He felt intense guilt at his own warmth and comfort. Yet Oswyn, he was sure, was correct on one notion: the boy was indeed a distraction from his duties of prayer and servitude.

They waited for the shuffling steps of the abbot, which failed to materialize. Josephus could see the brothers and sisters shifting nervously, all of them keenly aware of Oswyn's punctuality.

After a few minutes Josephus became alarmed and whispered to Paulinus, "We must check on the abbot." All eyes followed them as they left. Whispers filled the Sanctuary, but Magdalena put a stop to them with a finger to her lips and a loud shush.

Oswyn's chamber was cold and dark, the untended fire nearly spent. They found him curled and bent on his bed, fully dressed in his robes, his skin as cool as the room air. In his right hand he clutched the parchment upon which his name was written.

"Merciful God!" Josephus cried.

"The prophesy-" Paulinus muttered, falling to his knees.

The two men mouthed quick prayers over Oswyn's body, then rose.

"The bishop must be informed," Paulinus said.

Josephus nodded. "I will send a messenger to Dorchester in the morning."

"Until the bishop says otherwise, you must lead this abbey, my friend."

Josephus crossed himself, digging his finger into his chest as he made the sign. "Go tell Sister Magdalena and ask her to begin Vespers. I will be there shortly, but first there is something I must do."

Josephus ran through the darkness to the abbey gate, his chest heaving with exertion. He pushed it open and it squeaked on its hinges.

The boy was not there.

He ran down the path, frantically calling his name.

There was a small shape by the road.

Octavus had not gone far. He was sitting quietly in the frigid night, shivering at the edge of a field. Josephus tenderly picked him up in his arms and carried him back toward the gate.

"You can stay, boy," he said. "God wants you to stay."

W ill started flirting at sea level and was still going strong at 34,000 feet. The flight attendant was his type, a big shapely girl with pouty lips and dirty-blonde hair. A wisp of it kept falling in front of one eye and she was constantly and absently brushing it aside. After a while he began to imagine lying beside her naked, brushing it aside himself. A little wave of guilt inexplicably washed over him when Nancy intruded into his thoughts, proper and reproachful. What was she doing mucking up his fantasies? He willfully fought back and reverted to the stewardess.

He had followed standard TSA security procedures for checking onto the US Airways flight with his service weapon. He was preboarded in coach and had settled into an aisle seat over the wing. Darla, the stewardess, immediately liked the looks of the brawny guy in a sport coat and khakis and draped herself over the cross aisle seat.

"Hey, FBI," she chirped, knowing as much because of the security procedures he'd undergone.

"Hey yourself."

"Get you something to drink before we get invaded?"

"Do I smell coffee?"

"Coming up," she said. "We've got an air marshal in 7C today, but you're way bigger than he is."

"You want to tell him I'm here?"

"He already knows."

Later, during the beverage service, she seemed to lightly brush his shoulder or his arm whenever she passed. Maybe it was his imagination, he thought as he drifted to sleep, lulled by the low rumble of the engines. Or maybe not.

He awoke with a startle, pleasantly disorientated. There were green crop fields stretching to the horizon so he knew they were somewhere over the middle of the country. Loud angry voices were coming from the rear near the lavs. He undid his seat belt, turned around and identified the problem: three young Brits spanning a row, drinking buddies in full lager-lout mode, getting prelubed for their Vegas holiday. Ruddy-faced, they were gesticulating like a three-headed monster at a willowy male flight attendant who had cut off their flow of beer. As alarmed passengers looked on, the Brit nearest the aisle-a taut bundle of muscle and tendon-rose up and stood eyeball-to-eyeball with the crew member and shouted emphatically, "You heard my mate! He wants another fuckin' drink!"