Enoch was quiet for a long, long time. He looked at his hands, and Aidan couldn't tell whether the minister was praying or gathering his thoughts. When he looked up, he had tears in his eyes.

"What's at the heart of it, Brother Aidan, is that my son made a choice that I'm not sure will lead to grace. And I'm afraid that that's my fault."

Enoch was afraid that the Scottish monk would take pity on him. He didn't think he could bear that. But thankfully, Aidan's expression wasn't one of pity, it was one of concern and understanding. He couldn't have borne it if it were otherwise.

"We're more alike than you might think, Reverend Wiley," Aidan said. "We have spent most of our lives ministering to people who have to work every day to make a living."

Enoch laughed, but it was a laugh of pain and not mirth. "John gave me books by a minister named MacLeod. For the same reason."

"One of the MacLeods of Morvern, perhaps?" Enoch shrugged. Aidan didn't dwell on it. "Where I live, there are people who try to blend the teachings of Calvin with the teachings of St. Patrick and others.

They find a way to do that, and I believe they are richer for it."

The monk's words struck a chord in Enoch. Some of Grantville's clergy, particularly Simon and Mary Ellen Jones, had been strongly in favor of reaching across denominational boundaries. He'd never shared that belief, but as he'd begun to read more of MacLeod's writings, he could see how it held appeal to John. Or to the people of whom Aidan was speaking. The monk continued. "You have to understand something, Reverend Wiley-"

"Enoch, please."

"Enoch. When God called missionaries to bring Christ to all of England and Scotland, two different groups answered that call. In the south, a missionary named Augustine-notthat Augustine-came from Rome and moved north from Canterbury. In the north, Columba came from Ireland and moved south from Iona.

"They met, about a thousand years ago, in the kingdom of Northumbria. King Oswy was baptized by the Celtic missionaries, his queen by the Romans. They couldn't agree, among other things, when to celebrate Easter. Oswy didn't want his kingdom divided over such things, so he held a debate, a synod, at Whitby. The Romans appealed to the authority of St. Peter. Hilda and Colman, speaking for our order, appealed to the Beloved Disciple, St. John. We lost. And I think the world is a poorer place for it."

Enoch found the intensity of Aidan's expression almost frightening. "I believe the choice King Oswy faced was a false one. There was room for us both. As there is room for both you and your son, Enoch.

Rest assured that you and Inez had a great deal to do with his faith. Though John went down a path you wouldn't have chosen, there is much of yourself in him. As I have come to know you, and learned about you from others who have known you far longer, I cannot doubt this."

Enoch smiled sadly. "I don't know that I can change my beliefs this late in life, Aidan. I don't know that I want to."

"Don't. Just leave room for uncertainties."

They spent the rest of the day talking. Inez and the three other monks rejoined them and they shared stories and debated theology well into the evening.

As Aidan hoped, that Sunday was a turning point in his relationship with Enoch Wiley. He gathered that the minister had never had a truly close friendship with clergy from a different faith. Probably the closest was Reverend Al Green, from a church called the "Baptists," though they didn't see much of each other.

He and Aidan began to meet regularly for meals, to debate their religious views and provide mutual support. It was something Wiley hadn't had since before the Ring of Fire, and he'd forgotten how much he'd missed it.

The week after their first lunch with the Wileys, Enoch had helped find them more permanent housing.

One of his parishioners, Myrtle Vandine, was willing to rent some rooms in what they referred to as a "fixer-upper" at a considerable discount. The woman had been reluctant at first, but Inez's raving about how helpful the four of them had been as volunteer assistant groundskeepers at the church had sealed the deal. The monks readily agreed to help with improvements on the property to make up for the discount in rent.

Aidan even found work, of a sort. Thanks to introductions provided by Reverend Wiley and the Riddle family, the master silversmith at Roth, Nasi and Rueckert Jewelers, agreed to help Aidan sharpen his rusty skills in that trade. Working with Angus Gunn and others, Aidan created crosses and other Celtic-themed pieces the Grantville jewelers then sold on consignment. That income went into a fund that would hopefully one day pay for a monastery. * * *

Enoch Wiley lay beside Inez one night. He could tell his wife was asleep by her breathing, and though he had a much easier time sleeping the last few weeks, on this particular night it was elusive.

It was the Ogilvie property. An offer had come in, a good one. Martin had been right about someone wanting a country seat-a newly wealthy down-timer wanted his own manor house, and the Ogilvie property was right in his price range. Martin felt that the offer was probably the best they could hope for, but Enoch sensed that the young lawyer was holding back. He didn't press, because he had a strong feeling that Martin was thinking the same thing Enoch was. Nevertheless, he was tempted to just accept an offer and use the money for relief work and other outreach projects. But then his mind quoted a favorite exchange between Christ and an unnamed disciple. His favorite version was in Mark: "The poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want. But you will not always have me." And it was Aidan's voice that spoke that verse in Enoch's mind.

Sleep began to take hold, the conflict unresolved. In that place between consciousness and unconsciousness, Enoch remembered something his wife had said to him:"Trust God, Enoch. He'll bring the right opportunity at the right time. You know He will."

And then it came to him. It would be the perfect use for the property, and would honor the spirit of the bequest.

Aidan was looking forward to this week's lunch with Reverend Wiley. Ever since arriving in Grantville, the question of what to do with his order's treasure had nagged at him. It wasn't in danger in Grantville the way it might have been in other places, but if Emperor Gustav or another noble found out where it was, they might well decide to add it to their personal collection. Ideally, Aidan would house it in their monastery-when it was built. But that was a long way off as yet.

A possibility did occur to him, one he discussed with Inez Wiley. There was someone of absolute integrity and trustworthiness, and Inez agreed that this man would be a good choice. She even offered to do whatever she had to do to get him to agree. So when Aidan when to Wiley's church to meet his friend for lunch, he took the treasure with him, wrapped in cloth as it always was.

When he walked into Enoch's office, he was surprised to see Martin Riddle there with the Reverend and Inez. Mrs. Wiley had the expression of someone holding a secret, and Aidan couldn't tell if it was directed at her husband or him.

"Please, Aidan, sit down," said Enoch. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

Aidan sat in the office's remaining empty chair. Enoch nodded to Martin and the lawyer pulled some documents out of the leather shoulder bag he carried with him.

"Not long before you came here, the church received a bequest. A piece of land. Deciding what to do with it has been a problem."

Aidan nodded. "I'm always happy to give you advice, Enoch."

"Actually, this is about giving you something. The deacons and the elders have discussed it, and thecongregation voted on it. We want to give the land to you for your monastery."

Martin slid the documents and a quill pen across to Aidan. For a moment, the monk was speechless.

"You should sell it, Enoch. Use the money for your church's charities."

"The poor will always be with you," Wiley quoted. He took Aidan's hand in his, looking the monk in the eyes. "You've given me something incredibly precious. A chance to understand my son. I'll never be able to let him know that, and that's my fault, but it's given me some peace. I can't think of a better way to thank you, or to honor Donald Ogilvie's bequest, than to give the land to you. I know it may be a while before you can build your monastery, but this place will be waiting for you when you do manage it. And you will, I know."

Aidan was moved beyond words. And it made his own decision even more right. He signed the deed, and gave the document back to Martin. Aidan then set the cloth-wrapped bundle on Wiley's desk and opened it.

It was a book, leather-bound and clearly very old. Aidan opened it, to the first page of the Gospel of John. Martin Riddle gasped, recognizing the book immediately. Enoch and Inez Wiley did not, but the beauty of the book took their breath away nonetheless.

It was a manuscript of the Gospels, relic of a time when copies had to be made by hand. When transcribing the Word of God became a work of art. This book was considered by historians of the time Martin Riddle and the Wileys came from to be finest example of the uniquely medieval art form of manuscript illumination. Though legend said that it had been brought over from Ireland by St. Columba, Aidan knew that it had been made at Iona after Columba's time, and from there taken to the Abbey of Kells, in Ireland.

"This is the greatest treasure of my church, Enoch Wiley," said Aidan. "I need someone to keep it, to guard it, until we can build our monastery, and house it properly. Someone who can be trusted. I think you are that person."

Inez nodded to her husband. He nodded to Aidan.

"It's beautiful. What is it?" His eyes lingered on the beautiful abstract patterns of the illumination, with a letter taking up a single page.

"The Gospels. This page is the first page of the Gospel of John.

"In the beginning was the Word," said Enoch. "And the Word was with God and the Word was God.

He was with God in the beginning." He couldn't read Latin, but he knew that passage by heart. The two men stood up and embraced.

As Enoch and Inez went to bed that night, neither of them quite knew what to say. It had been a day that, for them, had been almost as eventful as the Ring of Fire. He thought of the book Martin told him was known as the Book of Kells.

"Do you know why I dislike the Roman Catholic Church so much? Because I thought they kept the Word of God for themselves, and didn't let the people read it. I thought it was a terrible thing to print theBible in a language hardly anyone could read. Nothing I've seen in the last three years has changed that."

"Are you saying you've changed your mind?"

"No. But for the first time, I also saw that making a Bible could be an act of devotion. That, at least, I can respect."

Inez made a noise of agreement. They were silent for a time, and soon she was asleep. As he drifted off himself, Enoch Wiley thought of his son and smiled. What would John think, he wondered, if he knew what had happened today? Maybe, he told himself, he'd be proud of you.

Author's Note:The main sources used for this story areListening for the Heartbeat of God (published by Paulist Press), by J. Philip Newell, andThe Iona Abbey Worship Book (published by Wild Goose Publications). Newell's book traces the history of Celtic spirituality, even after the Celtic Church had ceased to exist as an independent entity by the end of the thirteenth century. It also gives more detailed biographical sketch of figures such as Pelagius and George MacLeod, founder of the Iona Community and a major figure in the Church of Scotland in the twentieth century. Historical details concerning the Synod of Whitby and other events in "The Sons of St. John" are taken from this work.

The Iona Abbey Worship Bookcontains services and prayers that are still used in worship on Iona today, and was the source for the monks' evening hymn in the story. You can look them up on the web at www.iona.org.uk.

The Society of St. John the Evangelist is a real monastic order of the Anglican Communion, founded in Oxford in 1866. The "Newton House" of the story is based on their monastery, Emery House, located in West Newbury, Massachusetts. Their website is www.ssje.org.

Prince and Abbot

by Virginia DeMarce

This Troublesome Monk Fulda, December 1632 "Maybe they should have held the battle of Luetzen last month after all," Wes Jenkins said. "Just have kept Gustavus Adolphus out of it. Up-time, it seems to have cleared a whole batch of people off the playing board that we could just as well have done without."

"Pappenheim?" Harlan Stull asked. He was sitting far back in his chair, so his burly chest didn't bump into the table. Before the Ring of Fire, he had been a miner and was the UMWA contact man for the New United States' administrative team in Fulda. He was also a nephew of Dennis Stull who was running the procurement office that the New United States had set up in Erfurt, where Gustavus Adolphus also had his main supply depot in Thuringia. All the rest of them figured that was something which would turn out to be real handy in the long run.

" Johann Bernhard Schenk von Schweinsberg. The only thing that I love about him is his name. 'Barkeep from Pig Hill.' What a beautifully aristocratic name, once you translate that 'von' bit, no matter how many centuries the pigs have been sitting on top of their hill." Wes grinned. "Up-time, he was running around the battlefield, blessing the soldiers and calling for them to fight for the Catholic faith, when he ran into a squadron that wasn't friendly. They shot him neatly. Pistol to the head. So he was killed at Luetzen, just like Pappenheim. Their bodies were carried into the Pleissenburg together to be embalmed, which would be a great thing for them to be, if you ask me and good riddance to the two of them."

Wes got up and looked out the window. Grantville hadn't had much information to prepare the administrative staff of the New United States for the job they faced in Fulda. Encyclopedia articles and a few tourist brochures from Len Tanner. That was about it. The tourist brochures hadn't been of much use. Up-time, practically the whole town had been redeveloped between 1632 and the twentieth century, it seemed.

The building where they were sitting right now didn't have a picture in any of them. It would have been torn down in the eighteenth century and replaced. The big tan sandstone cathedral with its two tall curvy-topped towers wasn't here yet, either. Now, maybe, it never would be built. Instead, there was a church called the basilica. One of the monks had told him that it was eight hundred years old. That was now, 1632, not in the year 2000.

Wes was willing to believe it-that the basilica was eight hundred years old. There was another one too, one that had survived until the twentieth century. That one had a photo in the brochures. St. Michael's it was called. The oldness of St. Michael's church had practically seemed to press down on his shoulders when he went through it. It was a burial church. Eight hundred years of dead monks. Already, in 1632, eight hundred years of dead monks.

"What's the prince-abbot of Fulda done to you?" Andrea Hill looked at her boss with some worry. His thin face was dominated by a long nose. Wes had always been wiry, but since the Ring of Fire, he had gone down to skin and bones. He would just be annoyed if she acted like a substitute mom, though, so she was careful not to fuss at him about it. "He's been gone since before the king told us to take charge of Fulda."

"Where's he been?" Fred Pence, Andrea's son-in-law, had just arrived the week before, with the second group sent from Grantville.

"He ran off to the Habsburgs when Gustavus Adolphus and the Hessians came through and took 'Priests' Alley' here and along the Rhine River in the fall of 1631. Fulda gave up without a single shot. We haven't seen hide nor hair of him." Wes came back from the window. "At least, with the abbot and chapter monks gone, most of the people seem to prefer us to the Hessians as an occupation force. Even the monks who are still around, at least since we promised to try to get their library back from our noble ally the landgrave of Hesse, who swiped it."

"Don't get their hopes up. When these brigands swipe stuff, they mostly swipe it for good. Our side just as much as their side." Roy Copenhaver, the economic liaison, was already thoroughly disillusioned by how little, between them, Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar for Gustavus Adolphus and the Hessian commander Albrecht Thilo von Uslar had left in Fulda in the way of resources for the Grantvillers to work with.

Although, he had to admit, the monks who escaped to Cologne had supposedly taken most of the abbey's treasury with them, so he couldn't blame their own new Captain General or his Hessian allies for that.

Andrea stuck her pencil through her graying hair. "Not to mention that they stole their archives themselves. That is, the monks who ran off to Cologne took the records with them and aren't about to send them back. Anita in Wuerzburg and Janie in Bamberg at least have something to work with when they get these disputes about who has a right to what laid in front of them. I'm having to start from scratch."

Wes sat down again, looking at the letter in front of him. "We have a Christmas present. The abbot's coming back, Ed Piazza says. In all his full glory, waving the banner of the Counter Reformation and claiming that he has the right to do his thing under 'freedom of religion' and the constitution of the New United States."

"From Cologne?" Andrea asked hopefully. "With archives?"

"No, from Prague. He attached himself to Tilly and ran in a different direction, taking what little he had in the way of an army with him. He's been hanging around with Wallenstein since then. He must be fairly tough, though-he's been living like a common soldier. Duke John George of Saxony gave him a safe-conduct through Saxony to come back and an escort to the border of the New United States. They handed him over down by Halle." Wes sighed. "Good old Duke John George. With friends like that, we really don't need enemies."

"Is he bringing imperial troops disguised as his personal staff?" Harlan asked.

"God, I hope not. The landgrave of Hesse would be only too happy to send a batch of his troops back into Fulda in the guise of 'protecting' the king of Sweden's new allies, given how few of our own people Frank Jackson has been able to spare for us here." Derek Utt, the military administrator, spent as much of his time keeping a wary eye out for raiding "friendly" troops as he did for raiding "enemy" troops.

"How many military, exactly, do we have now?" Wes asked him.

"Besides me? A half-dozen up-timers. Seven, if you count Gus Szymanski, who is the emergency medical technician and nearly sixty years old. Aside from Gus, the most senior person is Mark Early, who's nearly thirty. He's doing most of my administrative stuff. Procurement, quarters, payroll. The next is Johnny Furbee, who is twenty-seven. I'm basically using him to help me train some military police from local town and village militias. The other four are kids. Good kids, and at least they all have high school diplomas, which Johnny doesn't, but they're still kids trying to teach what little they know about modern military procedures to a couple hundred of those ex-mercenary combat veterans that Gretchen picked out from the prisoners. The training that Johnny is giving the militias isad hoc since he was never an MP himself and neither was I, but it's something, and at least they have a vested interest in keeping theex-mercenaries from raping their wives and daughters. The kids and the new MPs do good to keepour people from relapsing into looting the locals, to tell the truth. That's it. I don't know whether to hope Frank sends us more down-timers or be glad that we don't have too many to control."

Wes looked at him, thinking that Derek himself had just turned thirty. But he was not only older in years than the younger men he called "kids." He was a lot older in experience. Derek was a Gulf War vet. He'd been a member of the active reserves; married, with a kid, just a baby. They were left up-time. Wes understood. His wife Lena had been left up-time too, although his two daughters were in Grantville, Chandra with two kids and Lenore finally going to get married next month, which he would have to miss.

Not that he would have chosen Bryant Holloway for her if he had been doing the picking.

Derek had lived in Fairmont. He had just come over to Grantville the afternoon of the Ring of Fire to go to the sport shop with his sister Lisa's husband. He had volunteered the afternoon that Mike Stearns called for people. Once Mike and Frank Jackson had gotten past their first stage of relying so heavily on the United Mine Workers, he had moved up fast in the army of the New United States.

Wes nodded his head. "If he tries to bring in troops disguised as staff, stop them at the border, but I really don't think that Ed and Frank would let him get that far with them. He's free to come back as an abbot. He can walk right in carrying his staff. Hell, he can even ride in, if he wants to. We'll even provide him with an escort from the Thuringian border to the gates of the abbey. But he's not a prince of the Holy Roman Empire any more and he might as well learn it right there as anywhere else. What route is he taking?"

The meeting got down to the nitty gritty.

Grantville, December 1632 "Because you are offering a salary."

Ed Piazza looked at the down-time woman who was sitting in a straight chair across from his desk. He knew that the chair was hard and remarkably uncomfortable. In his first job, a wise old teacher had showed him that by sawing a quarter of an inch off the front legs of a chair and sanding them, front and back, so they sat flush on the floor, it wasn't enough to notice but anyone using it was constantly sliding toward the front, in the direction of the floor, requiring him to brace his legs. It was remarkably useful for keeping parent-teacher conferences within their assigned time limits and Ed had taken his pair of wooden chairs with him from job to job, defying the advance of metal folding chairs. Even now, the people he motioned toward them rarely stayed in his office any longer than was absolutely necessary.

"How did you hear about the job?"

"Miss Susan Beattie told Mrs. Kortney Pence who told Mrs." She paused. "Schandra? Sandra?

Tsandra? Prickett."

"Chandra," Ed said.

"Mrs. Prickett. Who told me, all at a meeting of the League of Women Voters. Miss Beattie thought of me because her father knows Mr. Birdie Newhouse who knows my brother Dietrich." Ed sorted it out in his mind. From Orville Beattie's daughter to Andrea Hill's daughter who was married to Fred Pence to Wes Jenkins' daughter. All adult children of members of the NUS administration in Fulda. Grantville had been pretty a small town, after all, before the Ring of Fire.

"'Because you are offering a salary.' That is the most forthright reply I have had from anyone applying for this job. When I asked why he wanted it, I mean. Or she. Would you care to explain, Mrs. Stade?"

"My husband went bankrupt. Nobody can blame the Ring of Fire for that. He went bankrupt before it.