Previously: Samuel is Madeline, vortexed into the 16th century, and is so stressed, he is envisioning each of the brothers, slowly being victims of murder. He is reacting to having witnessed a monk with black-inked fingers. It reminds him of the movie 'The Name of the Rose'.

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I haven’t seen any other poisoned fingertips. Hopefully, it’s only him. I don’t know what I will say if I am ordered under the Vow of Obedience to copy a book with a quill dipped in poisoned ink.

I don’t want to be touching poisoned ink. I don’t want to die. I don’t want this to be the way I move from one lifetime to the other.

Just as I am mentally, irrationally lining up a major job for James, who works with the sick, there is a disruption at the end of the table. A few monks stand to make room, allowing another monk to shuffle to his place on the bench.

I can’t see who it is at first, then my sweating face, changes to beet red, accompanied by a sick sinking sensation. I have fabricated all of this drama in my starved imagination.

  The monk just situating himself at table is Harold, the main character in my illusionary movie. He paralleled, so well, the setting and plot of the horrible movie, 'The Name of the Rose'.

The plot of the movie I was weaving into my already dramatic life is about monks with black ink on their fingertips. It turned out there was someone trying to kill the monks. The assailant had poisoned the ink they unknowingly dipped their quill tip into. 

Whenever they touched the page they were writing upon, getting ink on their fingertips, poison was slowly seeping into their bloodstream.

Slowly, the monks were being wiped out. As one copier of books mysteriously died, another took his place, to soon meet the holy coffin and the after world. 

My 15th century lifetime is so bizarre, attempts on our lives could be happening in this monastery. I swear, we have so much money coming in each day, it would not be difficult for someone to justify taking us all out. And I don’t mean for a date.

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The harvesting is complete. When we were hacking long sheaves of grains in a large group, even though we were to refrain from conversation, I found it an opportunity to hear a phrase from brother Stephen, my dear Cordelia. It fed my starving heart.

Francis is busy getting things ready for his girls to be warm, without burning the place up. He wants them to be able to lay eggs safely. He is gathering the last of the hay for them, left from our wooden pitchforked piles for the Jersey girls.

Francis is thrilled, talking to his flowers and the egg-laying girls, has been extremely productive. Everyone has smiles when they see the occasional gruel-like serving of scrambled eggs. It is a nice change from the real gruel.

As the days grow more drear, the beautiful myriad of flowers he has heartfeltly tended, brighten the soul in the flickering lantern light. Joseph labors daily in the near darkness designing the gift of blossoms from Francis. 

Together, they have raised my… hopefully…our… spirits, to know they care for each of us. It is vital in this harsh, cold, heartless, environment, to know we are valued, even if it be shown by flowers and how they are displayed. Thank you, Francis. Thank you, Joseph.

I do a lot of video chats with several friends who are here, er, I mean in the 21st century. I have begun to put more together who Joseph and Francis are. Mary Jo's labors for every holiday produce lovely decorations.

The entire interior of her home looks like a theme museum or something from a Home and Garden magazine. Hers more home and another friend, Jill would prefer more to be featured in the garden section. 

Jill spends many of her peaceful moments taking pride in her fiery blooming flowers on her back deck and throughout her backyard. They are a breath of fresh air to behold. 

I think it is quite clear. Joseph will be reborn into the 20th century as Mary Jo, my friend from Pennsylvania, who I will meet in a dowsing group. We will become very close, sharing in our understanding of energies and ley lines. She is also, like Cordelia, an inner dowser. 

Francis is Jill, with  whom I will work from time to time, over the years. We found a comforting commonality of our ADD. Attention Deficit disorder. We both tend to see ‘shiny objects’ when attempting to get something done or stay focused on a task. We laugh a lot about our behaviors. She has the gift of being able to laugh at herself.

Poor Cordelia, she’s always needing to tap me on the shoulder to draw my attention back to focus.  She caught me when I was lost in thought about meeting with other participants and their companions in waiting, at the harp therapy course.

That was the way she gently woke me, hand on shoulder, then tap, tap. I miss someone putting their hand on my shoulder and tapping. There is no touching, no body contact here.

It is a wonder the ‘failure to thrive’ we see in babies who are never held, doesn’t occur here. Maybe it does, we will never know it. This is why the pf rule is often broken.