Flash Fiction: Sanctuary

Sanctuary

            Ominous dark clouds gathered overhead as he carried in another armload of firewood.  There would be rain tonight, he knew.  He considered the sky for a moment then went back for another load.  He didn’t want to run out of dry wood tonight.

            There were definite disadvantages in living in a six hundred year old monastery.

            Finally deciding he had enough wood brought in, he considered his home.  There was no power, no heat.  He had to carry in supplies on foot from the nearest road, two miles away.  It was cool and comfortable in the summer, cold and damp in the winter.  At times it could be lonely.

            He stirred the pot that hung over the small fireplace.  There would be plenty of hot soup for dinner tonight.  The kettle was full, ready to brew his favorite tea, made from herbs he gathered and dried himself.

            Yes there were many disadvantages to living in the monastery, but it was his home.  He loved it.

            Two hours later, he was toasting bread over the fire, using the old fashioned toasting fork, when he heard someone pounding on the door.  He hesitated, but the rain was coming down hard.  He set aside his toast and went to the door.

            He should have expected it.  No matter how remote, or how long abandoned, whenever a storm blew up, someone invariably came to his door needing help.  Never mind that the last of the monks had died a hundred years ago, someone always came here for help.

            The last of the monks but one, he corrected himself.  Though his qualifications were dubious, he supposed he might qualify.  His life was definitely chaste, and he did spend most of his days in quiet contemplation.  But that was as far as the comparison went.  His old life had been far removed from religion—but that was a time long past.

            He swung open the heavy wooden door, expecting a stranded traveler or a wayfarer who had lost his way.

            The last thing he expected was a woman, her dress soaked through, hunched over a large wicker basket.

            He frowned and pulled her inside.  She was not heavy, despite her sodden clothes.  Pulling the door closed against the storm outside, he carried her back to the fire.  The monastery was huge, but he really only used three rooms, and this was the only fire he bothered to keep lit. 

            He unwrapped her woolen shawl, and the woman stirred.  She tugged weakly at the basket. 

            “Sanctuary,” she murmured, pushing it toward him.

            “Easy,” he told her, his voice husky from lack of use.  “I’ll get you warm.  You’ll be okay.”

            She shook her head, giving a weak cough.  “No.  Not . . . . me.  Sanctuary,” she insisted, pushing at the basket again.

            He glanced down, distracted, and realized that the basket held, not clothing or food, but a baby. 

            “I don’t understand,” he began, looking back at the woman.  But it was too late.  She was unconscious.

            He set the basket closer to the fire, where the baby would keep warm.  Then he turned his attention back to the woman.  She was burning up with fever, her breathing little more than weak coughs.  He felt his heart sink.  He could not help her.

            But still, he did what he could.  He stripped her wet clothing, bathed her with warm water and dressed her in one of the simple brown robes he wore.  He did best to soothe her, talking to her and even crooning a lullaby when her sleep grew restless.

            But by the dawn, she was gone.  He covered her face and said a simple but heart felt prayer.  He would bury her beside the monks, a fitting resting place for her courage.

            At last he turned his attention to her belongings.  There was nothing to give any clue to her identity, or that of the baby.  All she carried was the child, some blankets and clothing and a small bottle of milk.

            Reluctantly, he pulled the baby from the basket.  The baby girl stared up at him solemnly.  She’d been remarkably quiet throughout the night.  He touched her cheek, but she showed no signs of fever.

            He drew in a breath, and cradled her in his arms.  She smiled up at him, and as he brushed her cheek again, he felt a strange peacefulness come over him and he realized something. 

            The woman hadn’t meant the monastery when she said sanctuary.  She’d been referring to the baby she carried.

            He sat back on his heels, taking it in.

            “You are going to be trouble, little one,” he murmured.  “The very best kind of trouble imaginable.”