Chapter 3
A merchant's life is spent mostly on the road and Aiden's father had more than a slight familiarity with the English countryside. They would first travel north, toward the River Aire. Once they arrived, they would either find its nearest crossing or barter for passage. Beyond that lay at the Bramham Moors, a seemingly endless stretch of land that some of the local villagers believe to be haunted. Nothing would grow there and every morning before dawn, the moors would cover themselves with a heavy layer of fog. The emptiness of its ghostly appearance easily lead the mind into all manner of trickery and stories sprang up almost daily of silent horsemen drifting through the fog, of lights floating in the distant early morning air. But, it was thought by a few that these apparitions were merely a slight of hand performed by a weary morning mind. But then, these visions were of no concern, that something so dreamlike could not possibly be feared. The birthplace of their fear lay beyond the moors, tucked into the wooded valley below.
The Urielin monks had taken residence in the valley centuries ago. They were, by nature of monastic law, quiet and solitary. From the eastern edge of the moor, their simple stone monastery lay as little more than a dot on the landscape. Even though they never made themselves visible, their presence was always felt. Some, driven by curiosity, ventured across the moor, thinking the monastery to be abandoned. They would never return. Some believed they had simply become lost, while others, being more superstitious, considered their absence to be the work of woodland tricksters and spirits. Still, others suspected something darker. That they had been taken by means of malevolent intent, agents of the devil. But the monks, having never been seen, were immediately suspected. People, it seems, are always quick to judge what they don't understand.
However, on some nights, when the moon was dark and the air was clear, those living on the edge of the moor would come out from under their thatched roofs, stirred from sleep by a faint sound, echoing from the distance. As occasional as it was, it was always the same sound. Yet, no one could identify it with any certainty. Some heard it is howling, others, screaming, but for the sake of soothing the fears of children, a strange, unnerving sound was simply a product of the wind, winding its way from the valley, and up across the moors. The children, in their innocence, believed the well-intentioned lie. But for those approaching adulthood, the thoughtfully worded transgression was a pale attempt to blanket a truth that could not be explained.