My name is Edward. I am 12 years old, and I live in England, in the Twelfth Century. The town that I live in is called Brug, which is in the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia. But you know Brug as Bridgnorth. The town lies along the banks of the River Severn, which flows through another town further upstream. The town is Shrewsbury – and that is where I am going.
I am going there to be a novice. I will be given admittance to Shrewsbury Abbey: a Benedictine monastery where I will reside with the brothers, which is another word for a monk. In front of me is a Benedictine monk dressed in a dark robe. The back of his head is covered with a hood. He is rowing the boat while pushing against the river currents. The land is leaden with fog. My arms are red, and my hands burn in the freezing cold air. By the riverbank is an aesc, which is a tree with smooth bark on its slender trunk and vein-like branches spreading out on the crown. The branches are as bare as a skeleton. Floating along the river is a bough, heading towards the boat. The monk swerves to miss it, but the side of the boat is hit. I hold onto the framework, so that I don’t fall into the water. Upon a hill is an arx: defensive walls extending from a turret that stands as a silhouette against fog. The river meanders through the town while the arx sinks behind the trees, and the bell tower of Shrewsbury Abbey rise above the treetops. The monk moors the boat at the jetty. We disembark, and saunter through a courtyard to the fore gate. A man wearing torn clothes holds his hand out, murmuring. The monk knocks on the gate with a staff. The gate opens with a loud creak, and standing before us, is the Abbot. We step inside an enclosure, walking towards the mynster where I will offer my holy services to a communion that is secluded from the world outside. I am about to enter a world of brotherhood.3 new unknown words
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