Isle of Fire Read Online Free Page B

sorry for what you’ve been through, and you no doubt will bear scars from those unfortunate days in your mind as well as the scars on your back. But you, Cat, YOU are responsible for what you do with the time that is to come. Do you understand? There is nothing in your past that guarantees who you will become. Have you forgotten the lives you saved on the Isle of Swords? Have you forgotten the miraculous path that led you here? If you must consider the past, then think on those things. I for one am convinced that the Almighty has great plans for you.”
    Father Brun walked to the chamber door. “You know . . . the Holy Scriptures say, ‘Old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new!’ Your past may indeed have a strong hold on your life, Cat, but the Almighty is stronger still. When dark thoughts come again, think on that instead.” Father Brun paused to let his words sink in and then said, “I will return soon. It is time for you to learn why I have brought you to the Citadel.”

    Cat didn’t know when Father Brun would be back, but he needed to get out of his chamber, breathe the fresh sea air, and clear his mind. He found himself wandering over the lush green hills outside of the Citadel. The entire island of Saba in the Caribbean was a long-dormant volcano, now green with trees and foliage and surrounded by smaller stony mounds and wavelike terrain. But through years of toil, the monks had flattened out several plateaus and converted them for their purposes. Cat followed a wide and winding path. Men in simple brown robes moved to and fro like worker bees in a hive. Some tended to mango or other fruit-bearing trees. Others tirelessly hoed long rows in the soil. But all who saw Cat stopped their work, smiled, and nodded slightly as he walked by.
    Even after a week, it was still unnerving. The first day on Saba, Cat had asked Father Brun, “Why do they keep doing that?”
    Father Brun had laughed quietly. “Word of your deeds has spread far and wide, even reaching little Saba. The monks show their gratitude to the one who delivered the Nails of Christ. All five hundred members of the Brethren who dwell here—and the hundreds more abroad—have been praying for you every day since your return.”
    Cat stopped on the crest of a green hill and looked back on the Citadel of the Brethren. Cat marveled at it still. For all its orchards bursting with flowering trees, its dizzying rows of lush crops, and its serene pastures, its other name—the Monasterio de Michael Arcángel—seemed to fit it best for it looked more like a fortress than an abode for monks. It was nestled in a mountainous crescent at the base of the volcano. The hills and rocks formed a natural defensive barrier, protecting the monastery on three sides. The structure’s façade, which was all that was visible from Cat’s vantage, stood tall with seven parapeted towers, implacable, curving, crenelated walls, and a high iron gate that looked to Cat as if it could withstand a dozen barrels of Jacques St. Pierre’s black powder.
    Cat wondered how these men of God could be so peaceful and, at the same time, be such formidable warriors. And he wondered what they could possibly want with him.

    A bell tolled from the Citadel tower, snapping Cat back to awareness. Cat wondered how long he’d been standing there. The sun looked markedly lower in the sky. Cat rushed back to his chamber.
    There he found Father Brun standing at the window. Cat began to apologize, but Father Brun turned and shook his head dismissively. In his hands, he held a large leather-bound book. He held it out for Cat.
    â€œThis”—Cat said, taking the volume from the monk—“this is the book I brought back from the Isle of Swords.”
    â€œYes,” replied Father Brun. “But what you did not know is that, aside from the Nails of Christ, no other treasure from that place is of