Myron pointed across from them at a blackened stump of a tree. “Brother Renian and I buried a squirrel there when we were ten years old. A tree sprouted the following week. It grew white blossoms in spring, and not even the abbot could tell what species it was. Everyone in the abbey called it the Squirrel Tree. We all thought it was a miracle and that perhaps the squirrel was a servant of Maribor who was thanking us for taking such good care of his friend.”
Myron paused a moment and used the long sleeves of his robe to wipe his face as he stared at the stump. He pulled his gaze away and looked once more at Hadrian. “I could tell you how in winter the snow could get up to the second-story windows, and it was like we were all squirrels living in this cozy burrow, all safe and warm. I could tell you how each one of us was the very best at what we did. Ginlin made wine so light it evaporated on your tongue, leaving only the taste of wonder. Fenitilian made the warmest, softest shoes. You could walk out in the snow and never know you left the abbey. To say Heslon could cook is an insult. He would make steaming plates of scrambled eggs mixed with cheeses, peppers, onions, and bacon, all in a light spicy cream sauce. He’d follow this with rounds of sweet bread—each topped with a honey-cinnamon drizzle—smoked pork rounds, salifan sausage, flaky powdered pastries, freshly churned sweet butter, and a ceramic pot of dark mint tea. And that was just for breakfast.”
Myron smiled, his eyes closed, with a dreamy look on his face.
“What did Renian do?” Hadrian asked. “The fellow you buried the squirrel with? What was his specialty?”
Myron opened his eyes but was slow to answer. He looked back at the stump of the tree across from them and he said softly, “Renian died when he was twelve. He caught a fever. We buried him right there, next to the Squirrel Tree. It was his favorite place in the world.” He paused, taking a breath that was not quite even. A frown pulled at his mouth, tightening his lips. “There hasn’t been a day that has gone by since then that I haven’t said good morning to him. I usually sit here and tell him how his tree is doing. How many new buds there were, or when the first leaf turned or fell. For the last few days I’ve had to lie, because I couldn’t bring myself to tell him it was gone.”
Tears fell from Myron’s eyes, and his lips quivered as he looked at the stump. “All morning I’ve been trying to tell him goodbye. I’ve been trying …” He faltered and paused to wipe his eyes. “I’ve been trying to explain why I have to leave him now, but you see, Renian is only twelve, and I don’t think he really understands.” Myron put his face in his hands and wept.
Hadrian squeezed Myron’s shoulder. “We’ll wait for you at the gate. Take all the time you need.”
When Hadrian emerged from the entrance, Alric barked at him, “What in the world is taking so bloody long? If he’s going to be this much trouble, we might as well leave him.”
“We aren’t leaving him, and we’ll wait as long as it takes,” Hadrian told them. Alric and Royce exchanged glances but neither said a word.
Myron joined them only a few minutes later with a small bag containing all his belongings. Although he was obviously upset, his mood lightened at the sight of the horses. “Oh my!” he exclaimed. Hadrian took Myron by the hand like a young child and led him over to his speckled white mare. The horse, its massive body moving back and forth as the animal shifted its weight from one leg to another, looked down at Myron with large dark eyes.
“Do they bite?”
“Not usually,” Hadrian replied. “Here, you can pat him on the neck.”
“It’s so … big,” Myron said with a look of terror on his face. He moved his hand to his mouth as if he might be sick.
“Please, just get on the horse, Myron.” Alric’s tone showed his irritation.
“Don’t mind him,” Hadrian said. “You can ride behind me. I’ll get on first and pull you up after, okay?”
Myron nodded but the look on his face indicated he was anything but okay. Hadrian mounted and then extended his arm. With closed eyes, Myron reached out, and Hadrian pulled him up. The monk held on tightly and buried his face in the large man’s back.
“Remember to breathe, Myron,” Hadrian told him as he turned the horse and began to walk back down the switchback trail.
The morning started cold but it eventually warmed some. Still, it was not as pleasant as it had been the day before. They entered the shelter of the valley and headed toward the lake. Everything was still wet from the rain, and the tall fields of autumn-browned grass soaked their feet and legs as they brushed past. The wind came from the north now and blew into their faces. Overhead, a chevron of geese honked against the gray sky. Winter was on its way. Myron soon overcame his fear and picked his head up to look about.
“Dear Maribor, I had no idea grass grew this high. And the trees are so tall! You know, I had seen pictures of trees this size but always thought the artists were just bad at proportion.”