New #Book Sneak Peek: Myndil and His Monsters

No, that isn't want the book is called, but it does have to do with ancient creatures and monsters.  More release information will be available soon, but for now, enjoy the story of Myndil and his other self:

Shirking my duties at the monastery is never something I mean to do. I get caught up in my morning prayers, which becomes me having a rather long conversation with God, asking why there is suffering and illness in the world and why the sky is blue and why I sometimes get oats stuck between my teeth and they never come out even though I do clean my mouth thoroughly before bedtime, and before I am aware, the sun is up, breakfast has long past, and the abbot is demanding that I clean out the latrine in penance of being late with my chores. It is not that I do not like managing the brewery or helping in the dairy or being in the garden, but speaking to God and asking questions I want answers to is why I became a missionary from the first.

Having frittered away the early morning with apologetic prayers in asking God to have the abbot forgive me, and then having fudgeled  through my sweeping of the main hall, because I heard Sister Mari saying there would be pudding for the evening meal and became anxious about it, I went to tidy the buttery, a job I always like doing because I can be alone with my thoughts and feelings whilst doing it. Organization is a soothing activity, and if I can do something without being shouted at or being told to stop talking to myself, I generally enjoy doing repetitive tasks. God accompanies me always when I am doing busy work, and He is rather good company: He lets me sing hymns and does not call me a monotonous mulch when I have gone on for too long.

The abbot heard me thrumming away through lauds when he sent me to do inventory work in the brewery. I mentioned that Sister Fowler did ask me not to enter the brewery after last month’s vat accident, but as the leather of the boots did not mar the taste of the scrumpy, the abbot said all was forgiven. He still made me say my rosary a hundred times, to help improve my concentration, so my being somewhat meased in the mornings does not lead to an off batch of cider. Abbot was still a bit cross, however, because I sang the benediction over the Holy Water and gave him the headache, so he sent me to the brewery, to have me bring in the new casks and keep out of the way of everybody else. I offered to go out to the village, to try and see what could be done over claiming Brigid as one of our Saints and gaining more followers by the way, but abbot said he could not be harassed with particulars and would have his cider and water before performing anymore thinking for the day.

Sister Fowler was making Lamb’s Wool when I got to the brewing room. It was cold, and she thought something warm would do for taking the chill out. She ladled a cup for me and left me to mind the vats while she went to inspect the goings on in the dairy. I told her Brother Bartol was in there, salting all the rinds for the cheeses, which oddly made her more eager to go, and I was left alone in the brewery for a time.

I kept away from the vats and looked in my cup. “That looks rather flocculent,” I said, watching the boiled milk and mead swallock together. I sipped the Lamb’s Wool. “Oh, God, that is thick. It’s like drinking a blanket. The taste is pleasant, however.”

I turned toward the threshold, wanting to enjoy the view of the garden whilst I finished my drink, though it was like drinking a slightly angry cloud, but instead of the door being in my way, there was a mirror, one tall enough to reflect my image from head to foot.

“Hello,” I said to myself, waving, though the me in the mirror did not wave back. “When did Sister Mari put this mirror here? It wasn’t here when I got in, I’m sure of it. It is in the way of the door, however.” I sipped my Lamb’s Wool. The me in the mirror did not. I suppose the other me decided to put his cup down. “Well, I better move this before someone comes running in. I don’t want anyone bumping into it.”

I put down my cup and went to move the mirror, but when I approached, instead of moving toward me, the reflection moved away.

“What? That’s not how mirrors are supposed to work. When you come at them, your reflection is supposed to become larger and closer, not smaller and father away.” I noted the missing edges of the mirror and the surprising lack of glare from the glass. “Here is a curious thing. How can this mirror have no border and no glass?”

I put my hand out to touch my mirrored shoulder, but my reflection decided it was not interested in meeting my movements. It only looked frightened and moved away.

“My reflection isn’t moving when I move?” I said, studying my own hand. “What’s all this then?”

“Nothing. Carry on,” said my voice.

“Very well. I cannot make my reflection do what it doesn’t want— Wait. I didn’t say that. Did I say that? But it was my voice. Did the other me speak just now?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

Now that I realized there was no mirror to move, I turned back to my drink. An idea suddenly came to me. “…Oh, that was very clever. Very clever indeed.”

I turned back, and the other me had moved from the door. It was now standing directly behind me and trying, with feverish desperation, to mimic my movements. It even held its hand up and pretended to be holding a cup.

“All right, I can see you have no drink in your hand,” I said. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Hrm? Nothing, nothing,” said the other me unassumingly. “I am just watching you.”

“You mean I am watching me.”

“I said that.”

I had an urge to immediately say no, I said that, but instead I asked, “Who are you?”

“You know who I am,” the other me replied. “I’m you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I sound like you and I look like you.”

He did sound like me, he wore my robes, had my hair, even had my glabrous face, which I thought impossible for most men my age, but there was a something in his expression that was odd, a something uncanny and intrusive. “But you cannot be me,” I refuted, “because I am over here, speaking and looking for myself, and I am talking to and looking at you, so you clearly cannot be me.”

“I am you,” the other me insisted, “because clearly you’re not bright enough I realize I am you.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, I’m not.”

“No, I’m not.” I blinked. “Er-- No, you’re not. Gah! Look, I know you’re not me, because I am conscious of the things happening to me in my life, and you were not here when I came in, meaning you are not me and you came from somewhere else.”

“Then I am merely you from somewhere else.”

I paused. “Hrm…you got me there.” I tapped the side of my head as I thought. “I know! If you are me, what is my name?”

“Myndil.”

“Oh, drat. How did you know that?”

“Because I’m Myndil too.”

“Or you could have heard the abbot yell it across the yard this morning.” I remained suspicious. “But how do you spell your name?”

“Em. Wy. En. Dee. Eye. El.”

I sighed. “You cannot be me, because I know that I am not half so homely.”

The other me gave me a disenchanted look. “I look just like you.”

 “Ha! See? You said you look like me and not that you are me.”

”I’m still you,” the other me humphed.

I snuffed in frustration. “If you are really me, and I mean the me that is me and not the me pretending to be me, which is not me, which is you pretending to be me, when did I do the vespers this morning?”

“Er—five o clock?”

“Aha! Wrong!” I cried, stabbing a finger triumphantly at the other me. “I didn’t do them this morning. I forgot because I was talking to God, and the abbot got angry with me.”

“Oh, drat.”

“You’re not me. You may look like me and have my name, but you aren’t half as forgetful and ungainly as I am.”

“I can be, if I try hard enough,” said the other me helpfully. “I am learning to be you by observing you.”

“You might be, but if you mean to mimic me in hopes of fooling others as easily as you fooled me, I think will have some difficulty there.” I pointed to the ground at the other me’s feet. “You’ve got no shadow.”

The sun was blazing in from the door, and though everything in the brewery was boasting their midday trains, the other me stood in the middle of the light without casting his personal obtenebration on anything.

“Fine,” the other me conceded. “I’m not you. Well, I am you, but only for a little while. I’m a doppelganger.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’ve heard about your kind from Sister Adrina. She said she found one once back when she was a heathen, and she thought her husband had come into the bed when it was really—anyway, what are you doing here?”

 The doppelganger shirked his shoulder. “Hiding for a bit.”

“But here, at the abbey? And why should choose me to emulate? I’m a missionary and an anchorite. I don’t go anywhere or do anything. I’m not really very important in the world-- I’m not even important here.”

“Exactly.”

“…Oh. Yes. Well.” I hemmed and rallied myself. “I’m sure your little jape is well meant, but I can’t let you go about pretending to be me. Sister Fowler will be back soon, and she cannot see two of us here.”

“She won’t be back for a while,” said the other me flatly. “She’s busy in the dairy.”

“I don’t know what she can be doing in there, salting all the cheese rinds all this time, but even if she is planning to stay there the whole day, I have to go about doing my chores, and someone is going to notice that there are two of me, especially if one of us is exceedingly quiet.”

“Not you?”

“No, not me. I am notoriously bad at silence.”

“Well, I could stay with you and listen to you talk all day. I only need to be here for a little while. I got into a little scrape in the village, masquerading as a soothsayer.”

“Are you one?”

“No, that’s why I was masquerading.” The doppelganger seemed somewhat exhausted. “Look, I’ll only stay as long as I need to, so if you let me assume your shape for a bit, I’ll restore my energy and be on my way.”

“Very well,” I said, “but only if you agree to help me with a few things?”

Here was a chary look. “Like what?”

It was not terribly heavy, and I really could have rolled the casks out myself as I had always been used to do, but the job went faster with another pair of my hands to help me.

“Just have to get this to the larder…” I grunted, rolling the cask across the yard.

The doppelganger drew his arm across his head, wiping the sweat from his brow, and pulled up his hood. “How many more of these are there?”

“At least ten.”  

The doppelganger gave a great heave, pushing the cask along, and sighed. “Do I have to do all your chores with you?”

“No, only some of them. You can sit in the latrine during compline. Brother Dathi usually hides in there when he doesn’t want to be picked for sermon, but I’m sure he won’t notice that you’re not me. Just try to make conversation with him when you’re in there, and he should ignore you.”

“Do I have to missionize?”

“You can, if you like. It isn’t that hard. You simply ask people if they should like to hear the word of God, dodge the rocks they throw at you, and tell them about Hell if they threaten to kill you.”

“What is that?” the doppelganger grunted, rolling the cask into the larder.

“A place where sinners go. Heathens don’t go there unless we tell them about it, so if you are going to missionize, be sure to tell them about Hell first, so they can ask about it and be aware of it.”

“Does Hell need to be populated?”

I touched my lips and pouted. “I suppose Satan will be out of a job if we don’t give him some visitors now and again. He might get lonely, since he and God never speak anymore.”

I told him about the War in Heaven on our way back to the brewery. He seemed to think Satan was the hero of the story, remarking that Satan’s only crime was tempting people to think for themselves, but I quickly related how such thinking was dangerous, and therefore exactly how Satan was meant to trick you, but he soon became quiet and mindful.

“Is there any disadvantage for me in your being me?” I asked presently. “Other than your being me, that is.”

“Well, I do need to sap some of your energy to be you,” he replied.

“Oh, really? Well, I don’t feel fatigued at all.”

“Just as well. If I did stay as you for too long, you might die—Myndil?”

I was on the ground, laid out across the yard, with my face in the grass.

“Did you fall?” I heard the doppelganger ask. “Are you hurt?”

“Mrmp— Ermph… Suddenly…so…tired…”

“Oh, no. What should I do?”

“Mrrumph—firmary.”

I remember being dragged to the infirmary and being thrown into a bed whilst the cleric was just stepped out, but I hardly remember the few hours after that. I was awakened by the cleric telling me that I had a rather good nap whilst everyone else was hard at work, and while I was excusing myself as having felt faint from bringing in the cider, the abbot came in, evidently to congratulate me in indignant tones about the water I had brought in from the well, the casks I had rolled into the larder, the hedges I had trimmed, and the novitiates who were awaiting conversion in the hall.

“Well done, me,” I said to myself, with an approving nod.

Abbot wanted to know why they asked mostly about Hell and Satan as they were being led in for ablution, but I thought it best merely to shrug and smile. The Doppelganger got them to agree to conversion without all the usual aids of God’s Word and a kind hand. He is a better me than I am.