Cloak of Silence (Jake Harding Adventures Book 1)

‘Give your devils an airing,’ the abbot had said with a kindly smile on Taki’s first day at the monastery.

The novice monk had stared at him in bewilderment. What sort of riddle was this?

‘Go for a good stroll,’ Father Theo had explained patiently. ‘The monastery grounds are beautiful. Take in the fresh air every day and experience nature all around you.’

Going for a walk on his own felt weird at first, but this year was all about experiencing life as a monk, whatever it involved. The late afternoon walks had become a highlight of his daily routine. Sometimes one or two of the older monks joined him, but today he was on his own, which he preferred. One of the monastery’s cats joined him for a few minutes, but then went its own way.

He felt like an old man as he walked slowly with his shoulders hunched, lost in thought about Zoë and her family. Her vanishing like that was so unexpected. He wished he was like that mystic who could find missing people by simply picturing where they were and describing their surroundings to the police. If he could do that he’d be famous and might make the monastery famous too.

But the only image of Zoë that he could picture was in the taverna during his week at the adventure school. The best week of his life in all honesty; abseiling, the kayaks and dinghies, the windsurfing classes where he’d got to know Jake and all those kids his own age. It was awesome of Father Theo to send him on the course; he treated him almost as if he was his own son.

He put his hands up the opposite sleeves of his robe. It made him feel like a proper monk, although in truth he wasn’t at all sure about life in the monastery. He was only here because it had been the best thing to do at the time. Or the least bad thing to do.

His dad expected him to join his shipping company and, after two years’ work experience, to go to university and study commerce. Taki knew he’d be upset and angry if he dared to show any reluctance. His mum somehow knew how he felt although he had never discussed it with her properly. She had asked him a few pointed questions, but clearly felt unable to intervene.

‘Your father knows best about work matters,’ she concluded.

In the final few months of school, with the shipping company looming, the place at the monastery had come out of nowhere. A letter arrived from Father Theo: a year as a novice, no strings attached. Like a lifeline to a drowning person. His mum had grown up here in Zengounas and they had often come to stay with Uncle Spyros and always paid a visit to the monastery. He had known Father Theo since before he could remember so it was almost like coming home. His father had dismissed the idea at first, calling it a stupid waste of time, but after several heated discussions with his mother, his father had reluctantly agreed.

At the end of the front lawn where the low cliffs at the tip of the peninsula dropped into the sea, he turned and looked back at the monastery. The building rose four storeys above the gardens with castellated towers and tall brick chimneys floating above a jumble of red tiled roofs. He loved the peaceful atmosphere of the place; perhaps he should become an architect. It would be great to design a building like this, but sadly no monasteries were being built these days.

His usual route took him down the slope to the wide lawn behind the building. He tried to walk the way Father Theo did, seeming to glide along in his robe. It didn’t work on the grass but he tried again on the path that ran down to the bay. It was a good imitation although his sandals slapped noisily on the concrete.

Perhaps Zoë wanted some time alone and had gone off without feeling able to tell anyone. Maybe she was scared of her dad too, but from what he knew of Richard from his week at Thunder Bay, that seemed very unlikely. Maybe she would return just as unexpectedly.

He felt better holding onto that thought as he emerged from the trees that encircled the monastery’s tiny bay. Even so, he pushed open the door of the old stone storeroom and looked inside. Fishing nets and floats lay in heaps on the floor and cobwebs hung from the rafters. Unchanged since their search this morning; no sign of Zoë.

The path continued to the boathouse in an easy curve along the edge of the water, the monastery screened by the dense belt of trees. Half way along, the wooden jetty jutted out towards the centre of the bay. He strolled along its uneven planks and rested his hand on the delicate metalwork of the black cross at the end. In the clear water hundreds of small fish darted between the barnacle-laden wooden posts.

He kicked off his sandals and sat down, dipping his feet in the water and smiling as small fish swam closer to inspect his toes. At least being a novice in a beautiful place like this allowed him to be close to nature.

There were many aspects of his life here that he enjoyed. The wooden semantron called them to prayer at set times throughout the day and he had become almost mesmerised by the peacefulness and the routine. He felt a sense of belonging as he chanted the litany in an eight-tone cadence unchanged down the centuries since Byzantium.

But, in three months he’d be leaving. Then what? His dad expected him to join his shipping business. In the short drive from the helicopter yesterday he’d said so again. At least at college, when he finally got there, he’d be with people like himself, except by then he’d be two or three years older than most of them. But now with his parents divorcing, everything felt even more uncertain.

It had been great seeing Jake. It would be good to get away from the monastery for an hour or two to go windsurfing, but that wouldn’t be possible now. Not until Zoë came back.

The shadows reached the top of the opposite hillside and he took a few deep breaths to fill his lungs with pure air before heading back to the confines of the monastery. But there was a faint smell that didn’t fit in. He frowned and looked around, his stomach tightening in unexpected suspense.

Very faint, but it was definitely cigarette smoke. He shivered involuntarily. He’d thought he was quite alone in the seclusion of the bay, but there must be somebody else around. But where? In the boathouse? He looked speculatively at the timber-boarded building. The search party had looked in there; the door had been locked but Father Yannis had been given a key. There had not been much to see and there were no boats. Now the door was firmly closed and so were the two windows in the side, but the end was open to the bay and secured only with slatted wooden gates that allowed the tide to flow in and out. The smoke must be wafting out through those sea gates.

He got to his feet, picked up his sandals and walked quietly down the jetty, avoiding the place where it creaked every time. He turned left towards the gap in the trees and the path back to the monastery. But after three or four steps, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. Curiosity was getting the better of him. He turned slowly and retraced his steps, his bare feet silent on the concrete path and his heart thumping in his chest.

A faint murmur of voices seeped through the boarded walls of the boathouse. He couldn’t hear what was being said but, as one of them raised his voice, Taki picked out a couple of words of English. He frowned; none of the brethren ever used such a tone and they only ever spoke to each other in Greek. Who was this?

It sounded like two men, one with a very deep voice who was expressing himself forcefully. Taki gasped as the boathouse door suddenly opened. He stood motionless, staring at the door just three paces in front of him. If he ducked into the undergrowth next to the path he would surely make a noise and give himself away. Nobody appeared, but he could see a hand on the door handle. One of them was about to leave and was making a few final points before doing so.

Taki stared in amazement. The robe had slipped up the man’s arm exposing a large tattoo. Unmistakably a scorpion, dark and sinister with its body over the back of the hand and its tail extending up the massive forearm.

He had seen that tattoo once before, just a glimpse of the man’s hand: Father John. But…he was one of the silent order monks. He and three others had arrived at Agios Petros shortly after he had, missionaries who had been in Africa they were told. Father Theo had given the brethren an explicit warning to leave them in peace: the newcomers had taken vows of silence and nobody should try to speak to them. He saw little of them, which suited Taki. Father John was scary; thick set with a brooding bearded face and dark, impenetrable eyes. 

He walked quickly away. There was a lot he still had to learn, but surely vows of silence didn’t allow them to speak, not even to each other?

He had almost reached the old stone building where the path disappeared into the safety of the trees when a gruff voice called out, ‘Hey, brother!’

Taki froze in his tracks and turned around. Father John had emerged from the boathouse and was standing looking at him, the door wide open behind him. It looked as though he was trying to smile reassuringly but it was difficult to tell with his beard and moustache, especially at that distance.

He wanted to call back, ‘Yes, Father John?’ But his throat had seized up and he stood there, awkward and silent, his sandals in his hands.

The other person’s head and shoulders appeared around the door frame and Taki clearly heard him swear as he caught sight of him. He recognised Brother Warren, a novice of the silent order who was not much older than him. They had been introduced once and shaken hands. Warren had obviously not said anything but his dark brown eyes had sized up Taki and his handshake had tested his grip.

Now they stared at each other in silence for a few moments. Brother Warren said something to Father John before easing his powerfully built frame through the doorway and advancing deliberately up the path. Father John locked the door and followed.

Taki again tried to call out but his mouth had completely dried up. The hood of Warren’s robe was down revealing his short-cropped blond hair and he held Taki in his gaze as he walked towards him. Why were these two so different from the others? Even their cloaks were different with those hoods; everyone else had robes without hoods and small black hats.

They clearly thought he’d been spying on them. Well, they shouldn’t have been talking, but Warren’s body language suggested he was going to thump him and ask questions afterwards.

Unsure whether to wait or to hurry on, he glanced over his shoulder. Someone was approaching, gliding down the path. Taki decided he had never been so pleased to see Father Theo.

‘Good evening, brother.’ Father Theo greeted him in his slow serene voice. Taki bowed his head, still incapable of speech.

Father Theo was taking in the beauty of the small bay, unaware of the tension that was so real for Taki.

‘And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good,’ he intoned. His benign gaze took in Father John and Brother Warren as they approached. They inclined their heads in silent greeting and continued up the path towards the monastery.

‘Genesis, Chapter 1, Verse 31,’ Father Theo said.

Taki found his voice at last but all he managed to say was, ‘Amen!’