Black feather tattoo on the ribs

Yesterday after the storm I found a feather on the cloister flags, lying across the third square where the rain pools. It was black as wet slate and longer than my forearm, and when I knelt to lift it the barbs had combed themselves straight, each one separate and glossy, with a grey light running down the shaft where the window caught it. Brother Osric said it came from the raven that roosts in the belfry and has been stealing the candle wax. Abbot Hugh said a feather like that wants cutting into a quill for the Gospel copy, and that I am the one to cut it, since my hand is steadiest.

I took it to the scriptorium and held the quill knife over the base, and I could not do it. I cannot say why. I trimmed the ragged tip instead, set the feather in the window so the light passed through the vanes, and wrote the morning Psalm with the old goose quill beside it, watching the black shape tremble whenever the door opened.

I have pinned it inside the lid of my writing box, where it will catch the sun at compline. If the abbot asks, tell him the Gospel is nearly finished, and that the raven may keep its wax.