“Come in, Keenley,” Father Ginnsley’s voice came from beyond the nearly closed office door before Keenley had a chance to knock. Keenley glanced at Miyako, but didn’t know what to say.

A moment later, the old cleric ushered them into his office and quickly closed the door behind them. A line of sunlight across the room from the tall window provided some warmth to an otherwise cold room. The far walls were lined with crowded, untidy bookshelves from floor to ceiling; the books were occasionally punctuated by some bizarre-looking, and presumably magical, artifacts, among them a hideous carved wooden mask, what appeared to be a blown glass sculpture of an exotic plant, and a skull from some misshapen creature much larger than any human. An age-worn desk piled haphazardly with papers stood opposite the window, and a battered old armchair with a large book on it entitled the Seer of Anarcham had been strategically positioned for a reader to take advantage of the natural warmth and light from the window.

“Tell me what happened,” Ginnsley said removing the book and then motioning them to some nearby chairs that faced the armchair that Ginnsley eased himself into. Keenley recounted the story as accurately as he could and waited for Father Ginnsley to respond. He didn’t respond. Keenley couldn’t read his expression.

“Father Harrington thought Keenley was making up stories.” Miyako ventured after the pause had gone on much longer than Keenley would have liked.

“I, er, I’m sorry, Father Ginnsley.” Keenley said after a moment. He felt the need to fill the silence with words, but struggled to find something worthwhile to add; everything he could think of seemed inadequate. “I’ll make it right… somehow.”

Father Ginnsley massaged his stiffened left hand. There were many theories among the students as to what was wrong with Father Ginnsley’s left hand. It seemed to be stiff and painful, and not quite a natural colour. No one ever dared to ask him about it. The most popular theories were that it had been cursed by a goblin shaman, or injured by a vengeful demon spirit in some magical duel.

“This is a very serious matter, Keenley. Thank you for coming to me right away.” Father Ginnsley crossed the room to pick up something from his desk drawer. “We have a long journey ahead of us, and we should begin preparations immediately.”

“Journey?” Keenley asked. “Where are we going?”

Father Ginnsley spoke quickly as he began gathering his things. “As you said, Keenley, we should make things right. But now is not the time to talk about this; there will be plenty of time to discuss details along the way.” Keenley had always felt intimidated by Father Ginnsley. Aloof, unflappable, and always carefully measured in his words and actions: seeing him concerned such that he felt the need to hurry was more than a little disconcerting.

“Can Miyako come along too?”

Ginnsley stopped moving and made sudden eye contact with Keenley “Certainly not! It’s bad enough that we have to go, let alone to risk the life of anyone else as well.” Ginnsley turned to Miyako with a much gentler tone, “I’m sorry Miyako, you must remain here. Please see that Keenley’s teachers are notified that Keenley will not be returning to classes this week, and that he is to be excused until further notice on my authority.”

“Keenley, you should go to your room and collect your things. We shall be away for a week or so, at least. Bring some clothes and a bedroll, but not more than you can easily carry. Bring your books as well; I will tutor you myself while we are away. Whose class do you have this afternoon?”

Keenley hesitated at the thought of being personally tutored by the renowned and feared Father Ginnsley. Ginnsley rarely taught classes and rumours about him were as diverse as they were colourful. There were, no doubt, many students who would be jealous of Keenley, and many who, if offered the same opportunity, would have been far too frightened to accept. A good number would be both.

For a moment, he was unaware he had been asked a question. “Oh, err, Father Harrington, for Voxology.” Keenley had been particularly looking forward to learning about Vexa, the language of making, and had been annoyed to learn that the subject was going to be taught by Father Harrington, the only person who frightened him more than Father Ginnsley.

“Keenley?” Miyako began.

“Are you still here, Miyako? I thought you’d gone.” Father Ginnsley asked without looking up from his pack. The slightest hint of a frown flashed across Miyako’s face, but was immediately quashed by her well-rehearsed, politely blank expression.

“Yes. I will go now.” Miyako said and turning to Keenley. “Keenley, do not forget that you are rostered for kitchen duties tonight. I need to collect my books before the afternoon class. Goodbye, Keenley.” She turned to leave the room.

“I’ll see you when we get back, Miya.” Miyako didn’t respond or even slow her departure. Keenley felt disappointed at such an abrupt farewell, but she was gone before he could say anything else.

“Very well.” Father Ginnsley shouldered his pack and then picked up his hat and walking staff. “I have a few things to attend to while you collect your things, and then I will meet you in the kitchen. We can get some food for the trip, and also get you excused from kitchen duties.” He sighed, “and then I suppose as it is Father Harrington, he will require a personal visit.”

Keenley hurried to his room in the south wing of the temple. The students of the temple were allowed a small room each with barely enough space for a bedroll and a few possessions on the stone floor. Keenley had come from a poor family by contrast to the kind of students whose family could afford to sponsor their entry, and didn’t have very much, so the space was more than ample.

A few minutes later Keenley approached the massive dining room doors. He hauled one of the great doors ajar and was hit by a rush of warm, moist air, and the pervasive odour of Mrs Farndale’s panaceic onion broth. Father Ginnsley was already in the kitchen talking to Mrs Farndale.

“...and here he comes now. Thank you very kindly, Mrs Farndale,” Father Ginnsley took the packs of food and utensils, and some large skins filled with broth. “I know we shall be very glad to have some of your lovely broth when the weather turns cold tomorrow.” He turned to Keenley, “Come along, we must go and speak to Father Harrington before we leave.”

“You actually like the onion broth?” Keenley asked quietly to ensure he was not going to be overheard by Mrs Farndale.

“Like is not quite the word I would use, Keenley, but I certainly appreciate it on a cold night. I especially appreciate the effect that asking kindly for large quantities of it can have on Mrs Farndale’s generosity with other provisions.”

Keenley tried to stifle a laugh as they crossed the quadrangle toward Father Harrington’s office. He remembered a vague impression of this more jovial side of Father Ginnsley from when he had first met him. He wondered where that fellow had been hiding all this time.

Father Harrington was at his desk, intently reading some elderly looking loose pages from a collection of neat piles on his desk. Keenley could hear first year students reciting scriptures in unison in a classroom nearby. Harrington’s room was musty and warm; the air was stale and reeked of the acrid gulja-beetle lamp oil he was so inexplicably fond of.

“Father Harrington.” Father Ginnsley’s greeting was stern and professional.

“Ginnsley.” Father Harrington barely glanced up from his papers. He continued to read and made no other acknowledgement of their presence.

“I am going on a journey to Eswell City, and I expect I shall be gone at least a week.” Father Ginnsley said with a casual tone that felt only a little manufactured. “I am leaving momentarily, and I shall take young Keenley here from your afternoon class. If you would kindly pass along the message that Keenley will be unavailable for classes or other duties until further notice I should be very grateful.” He paused here for a moment to let this sink in. “Is there anything you would like me to bring back for you?” He allowed the question to hang in the air a moment. Father Harrington looked up slowly, eventually meeting his gaze. Then, papers forgotten, he leaned back in his seat, and crossed his arms.

“Why? What’s so important in Eswell that you can’t buy in town?” Father Harrington fixed a hard stare on Father Ginnsley, then shifted to Keenley where his eye lingered longer than Keenley liked, and finally back to Father Ginnsley as if he expected one of them to melt under his gaze.

“The travelling merchant who was here last week mentioned a book he had sold there that I today discovered would be very useful for my research.” Father Harrington’s stare remained fixed. There was a hesitation in Father Ginnsley’s voice like he was measuring his words and trying to keep them casual and matter-of-fact. Ginnsley continued, “I intend to find the buyer and ask them to sell it to me, or allow me to make a copy.”

“Alright,” Harrington replied without dipping his gaze. Keenley recognised the tone of that response from times his father informed his mother that he intended to spend an evening at the alehouse with Keenley’s two uncles. It was certainly not alright, and precisely how not-alright it was would be fully realised retrospectively.

“Well, then, we shall be on our way.” Father Ginnsley suddenly sounded more cheerful than before. “Goodbye, Father Harrington, I shall see you in a week or so, I expect.”

As they left the room, Keenley asked.“Why did you ask him to tell everyone we’re going after you already asked Miya to do that?”

“It’s always a good idea to ask people to help you with small and less important tasks, it helps them to feel like you’re friends already. If they do it, then they feel like they’ve helped their friend, and if they don’t they’ll feel like they owe their friend a favour.”

“I don’t think he wants to be friends,” Keenley said as they headed for the main doors to leave the temple. “He seemed suspicious.”

“Father Harrington is only happy when he is suspicious. Hopefully I have given just enough information for him to sit and ponder all the imaginary mischief we might be up to, but not enough for him to feel the need to come after us to find out for himself.”

Next Chapter: v 0000101-05