Sledgehammer

Начало книги

At six o’clock in the morning Kirwyn rose up with the other munks, said silent prayer, stoked the fire, ate porridge in a little wooden bowl and drank water from a little wooden cup.

The room was smoky, smelled of incense and sweat. It was a shabby little thing, one single stained-glass window, bare red brick, a fireplace. The whole place was littered with hammocks and sleeping mats. When great red curtains were opened, galaxies of dust moved around the rousing, stretching fellows. Combing scraggly beards and long hair, applying strips of linen to the hands and feet. They put on their tunics – roughspun, burnt orange rags.

When the sun was high, they were outside and they saw the nuns and waved – the nuns waved back. The nuns were doing errands, unknown to Kirwyn. The munks would be preparing land for new barley, digging out stones and weeds. It was hard work, especially for the old men. Kirwyn was one of the youngest of them, he found farming more tedious than anything, but the others sighed and rubbed aching muscles, had sweaty hair cling to their foreheads.

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