The sick man at the gate was not carrying any weapons.

Even the Settler carried a weapon. Though it was small and made for a child, it was still a weapon. 

This complicated things, complicated the Mon Mor’s day. 

“Who is this?” he asked the Settler.

“I don’t know, Mon Mor, he was there when I got here. He doesn’t look good, though, does he?”

“No, he does not.”

The sick man was on his haunches, leaning against the Monastery’s front gate. He was bent at the middle, holding his stomach with both arms. His skin was pale, moist with sweat, and his eyes were rolled into the back of his head, showing only the whites.

No, the man looked far from well. 

The Settler’s training may have to wait, same as the letter. 

The Mon Mor Mattai sighed and puzzled over the man who was clothed in a single dark cloak that was made from unrecognizable material. The cloak was blank with no markings, solid black without decoration, without armor. Made from the hide of something that existed outside the lands common to the abbey.

Strange.

No armor. 

No weapons. 

No Long Gun, Double Gun, or Shooter. 

The man was defenseless without any visible means to attack.

The Mon Mor Mattai was mystified. 

Baffled, he turned to the Settler, said, “Are you sure you do not know him? Is he not one of your people?”

“I’ve never seen him before, Mon Mor Mattai,” the Settler replied.

The Mon Mor steadied a heavy stare at his pupil.

“He’s not from the settlement,” the Settler continued. “I would know him. I know everyone. Grew up with them in route and worked with every man during the settling. I’m telling you; I don’t know him.”

Satisfied, the Mon Mor turned back to the figure laying on the ground, propped against the gate to the front garden and the Presenting Yard. 

From over his shoulder, the Mon Mor heard the Settler say, “Are you sure he’s not one of your kind? He doesn’t look like you, but, telling by his size, he definitely looks like he’s from this planet. Can’t tell how big he actually is with him bent over like that but he’s almost as big as you, Mon Mor.”

The Settler was right. Though the man was weaponless and defenseless, he was from this planet. The sickness may have stolen some mass from him, but he was still massive, not as big as the Mon Mors, but outsizing the Settler by a couple of masses. 

The Mon Mor studied what he could of the sick man’s face. It was contorted in pain, so it was difficult to determine his features. From what Mon Mor Mattai could see, the man’s nose was broad, long, and hooked at the tip. His eyes were large and inset, adorned with a heavy bone-thick brow. The man’s entire scalp was clean, bald, not even a stubble.

The man could be from anywhere. The southern region, beyond the stacks, or from the lands on the other side of the great seas. The Mon Mor could not tell, nor did the Mon Mor see the point. 

He scoffed, disgusted, frustrated. 

He didn’t need a mystery, another problem to solve. He had prolonged writing his message, getting his thoughts into words and those words onto file and that file sent on its way.

He would have to get to the letter when he could. 

The weaponless man crumpled on the ground in the dark cloak was now the priority. 

“One thing is certain; he is not from this monastery. He could come from the southern region, but those tribes have specific markings, and they would be on his cloak. This cloak has nothing, not even a trace of armor. And the man is weaponless. Why does he not have any weapons?”

The Settler shrugged.

The Mon Mor sighed in frustration. 

The quiet Presenting Yard beyond the front gate was getting busy as the monks ramped up for the afternoon’s training. The Mon Mor Mattai glanced at the Settler, loathe to turn him away. The Settler was big, the largest of his people, and had taken to the Mon Mor fighting methods as if there was something within the human that deviated from the natural weakness of his people. 

The Settler had earned his training, but the Mon Mor would have to care for the sick man. The Settler would have to train with another Mon Mor for today.

Decided, the Mon Mor turned to the Settler, said, “We cannot leave him here. I will bring him inside to my chambers and care for him there. I have some spices and remedies that may help. Some of the other Mon Mor’s are well versed in healing medicines. Their assistance may be required.”

The Mon Mor knelt to one knee, tilted the man’s head forward by pinching his chin and dragging it down. His breathing was labored, and his breath was foul. Small red stitches in the skin above the man’s lips hinted at pending sores.

Shaking his head, the Mon Mor said, “Though, he may be better served by your people… with your healing machines.”

“I don’t think he’ll make the trip,” the Settler responded.

The Mon Mor sighed; his pupil was right. It was a long, hard road down the stacks to the settlement. The sick man would not make the journey. 

“You may be right.”

The Settler started for the sick man, but the Mon Mor stepped in front of him and stopped him. 

“What? You need help.” The Settler stated.

Though the Settler was big for his kind, his people were weak, small creatures, dependent on their machines and advanced technologies. They did not have sufficient strength in their minds, their beliefs, their bodies. Yes, the Settler was different, so much so that he had been accepted within the walls of the Abbey, and among the Mon Mors. Regardless of the Settler’s size and strength, his people’s weakness plagued his insides, his charkane, his soul. 

The Mon Mor did not want the Settler touching the sick man. 

“I will bring him to my chambers. You will go to the Presenting Yard and start work with the Long Gun. The Mon Mor Chatiel will train you today. If I can, I will come to you when the sick man has been settled.”

The Settler understood, nodded, and stepped back from the sick man in the dark cloak without armor or markings. Then he left, entered the yard, turning for the armory, beginning his work with the Long Gun.

The Mon Mor watched the Settler until he traveled out of sight and then looked down upon the sick man at the abbey gate. He sighed. It was a long sigh. Resigned to his purpose, the Mon Mor hefted the sick man over his shoulder. 

The man was light. Lighter than expected. He was hot. Unusually hot. The Mon Mor’s body shuddered from the oddness of the man’s body heat. Against him, it was unnerving. He could feel the heat seeping into his body through his shoulders. 

The Mon Mor Mattai quickened his pace. 

He passed the Mon Mai Hetia, called to her, asked her to follow as he took the sick man to his bed chambers. 

“What is this?” The Mon Mai Hetia asked.

“This man is sick, very sick. I do not think he will last the night without our help.” 

“What do you need?”

“I need your help.”

 *

The conclusion coming soon!