On the very first day of May which was unusually hot for the season, the air was filled with the loamy smell of rain-damp earth. Birdsong twittered throughout the forest surrounding the secluded monastery and on its doorstep sat a wicker basket with a wee bairn inside. Within the folds of the baby’s blanket was note that read:

“This child, untimely torn from his mother’s womb, bears the mark of the beast. I have fallen short in my duty for I lack the courage to purge the world of this evil. Hopefully you possess the faith and strength to do what I cannot.”