The Monk's First Night at Sea

By nightfall, the Monk had discovered that a ship possessed more ways to strike a man than a tavern brawl, and required considerably less provocation.

A beam had taken his forehead. A loose bucket had pursued his ankle. The floor, which he had trusted on principle for most of his life, had withdrawn its support.

He sat on his sea chest and reconsidered several opinions.

At the Bent Thistle, he had spoken warmly of travel. There had been a fire then, and a second cup, and no sensible person had thought to tilt the building.

Now the Saint Brigitta creaked around him like an old man settling an argument in his sleep. Somewhere overhead, feet crossed the planks. Water slapped the hull. His stomach offered a motion to return to shore.

From his bag he drew a little book in which he intended to record the wisdom of the voyage.

He wrote: First night.

After some thought, he added: Mind the beam.

Across the narrow space, a young sailor was tying and untying a piece of cord.

The Monk had noticed him at supper. He had laughed whenever the others laughed, though usually a moment late, and had eaten almost nothing.

"That knot has offended you," the Monk said.

"It won't stay."

"Neither will my supper. We have each been given a trial."

The sailor smiled without looking up.

The Monk waited. He was reasonably good at waiting when there was nowhere dignified to go.

"My father showed me," the young man said at last. "Before I left."

He pulled the cord tight. It came apart.

The Monk searched his mind for something useful. He possessed a respectable collection of sayings about courage. On dry land, several had sounded quite convincing.

He chose one, examined it, and put it back.

"May I?"

The sailor handed him the cord.

The Monk made a loop, passed the end through it, and produced something that resembled a small animal caught in a hedge.

For the first time that evening, the sailor laughed properly.

"No. Here."

He moved closer and took the cord. His fingers slowed as he explained. Around, beneath, then back through. This time the knot held.

The ship rolled. The Monk caught his book before it slid into the passage.

"Your father taught you well."

"He said I'd forget everything once I couldn't see home."

"Only some of it, apparently."

For a while they listened to the water.

"Do you miss yours?" the sailor asked.

The Monk thought of the abbey kitchen before dawn, the scrape of a bench, the tavern door that needed lifting before it would close. He had been so eager to leave that he had neglected to consider how faithfully these small things would follow him.

"Yes."

The young man nodded. His shoulders lowered a little.

A draft slipped through the passage. The Monk took his folded cloak from the chest and spread it across their knees. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke. They sat shoulder to shoulder while the sailor showed him the knot again.

Above them, someone dropped something heavy and gave it a name it had almost certainly not received at baptism.

The Monk laughed. So did the sailor.

Later, when the young man had gone to his berth, the Monk opened his book.

Beneath Mind the beam, he drew a poor likeness of the knot.

Then he shut the book and wedged it under the short leg of his sea chest.

For the first time all evening, something stopped wobbling.

The Monk's cloak smelled of woodsmoke. Ours is the Friar Warmcloak, a zip fleece for cool evenings ashore.

Original monk art hand-drawn by a friend, reinterpreted with AI tools.