Three of the local boys have attracted our attention. We have discovered they are not lakelanders. Talk has it they arrived together one harvest and set about working in the area. They lodge in a small waterside cottage which they rent from their principal employer, the miller. Though they play regularly with the village boys, mixing well, they have a relationship to each other so attractive to our scrutiny. Must we be prudent? We discuss at length. Evidently they are united by a shared purpose that lays structure on their lives. We pride ourselves on being masters of this form. Theirs like ours is a deep alliance. In their unity we recognise ourselves, our brotherhood.

Sports are a convenient cover.

Wrestling. You’re not from round here are you? Grunt. We don’t know where we come from. Agh! Some buggers lust no doubt. Ugh! You aint no normal monks is you? Brother Droolface, head in an armlock, attempts to nod, amused by such rapid progress. These yokels dont understand the half of it. Mercy! We do. They relax. You show us your secret first. The boy lowers his eyes. We are considering it.

Later they informed us by pigeon of their decision. They would swim out to the island in moonlight and come naked to the portal of our hall, wet and glinting from the lake.

They come tonight.