by Teri Barnett
“I think I should enter an anchorite for a short time,” Maere said with a shuddering breath.
Magrethe took a step forward. “Now, Maere, have you thought long and hard about this? Locking yourself away in a stone hovel is an extremely hard cross to bear, especially for one as young as yourself. Are you prepared to take such a drastic step?”
As she considered Magrethe’s words, Maere thought about everything she’d seen lately. Her mind filled with the image of a dark man with glowing eyes, rising from the mist. He disappeared and was replaced with the sight of Seelie, first bloody and dead, then suddenly brought back to life with a touch of her hand. And there was the fire she always dreamed of, as tall as a man, hungry and devouring everything in its wake. She shook off the visions. God knew what she needed most now was time to think and pray, time to sort out what was happening to her.
“I’ll only stay for a month. Certainly, an answer can be found by then.” A cold chill ran up her spine. “And the Lord will surely protect me in my hour of need.” She was filled with a sudden foreboding. She looked at the abbess again, tears forming in her eyes. “Won’t He?”
Magrethe smiled and nodded. “Of course, He will.” She turned and quietly closed the door behind her.
Maere walked to the window and, with only a quick look outside, snapped the shutters closed. With a click, the iron latch fell into place. She sat on her flat straw mattress and stared into the candle flame. Then her attention was drawn to the place the stub had fallen earlier. Maere reached out and ran her fingertip over the now-hardened beeswax. A raised figure had been left there—the likeness of a raven in flight.
Chapter 6
Following the morning meal, the residents of the abbey gathered behind the large sisterhouse, close to the wide stone wall protecting the grounds. Here, nine hermitess dwellings stood. The homes were small, constructed of large flat rocks laid at right angles to each other to form the sides. The roofs, made of timber and thatch, were so low it was impossible for any but the shortest woman to stand upright once inside.
Aged women who, upon their husband’s deaths, had chosen to enter into a life of prayer and contemplation now occupied seven of the anchorages. Most had been there for several years and had never once left the small hovels. Not to bathe, not for bad weather, nor to meet with visiting relatives. Not even for illness, no matter how life-threatening. Every day, one of the sisters tended their needs, bringing water and food.
In exchange for the opportunity to pray ceaselessly and offer consultation to pilgrims, the anchoresses had each bequeathed to the convent all their worldly goods. It was a special honor to have these holy women stay with the sisters. The greatness of an abbey was partly measured by the number of anchorites it attracted.
Maere stood quietly outside the small building which was to be her home for the next month. One-by-one the sisters and novitiates, their arms laden with simple gifts and necessities, gathered to bid a temporary farewell to their friend. Though some might still speak with her on a limited basis, touching or eye contact was strictly forbidden during the time she would be ensconced here.
Sister Joan presented a thick woolen blanket she’d woven from the convent’s supply of shearling. “I know it’s spring, but the nights will still be chilly afore you join us again,” she said. Maere smiled and the elderly nun patted her on the cheek. “Good luck to you,” Joan whispered. “I’ll be praying for your soul.”
Other sisters followed with presents of dried apples, herbs, and more blankets. Maere humbly accepted their offerings. She glanced up as the line drew to an end. Seelie stood a few feet away in a patch of wildflowers. Her blonde hair was neatly braided and shining nearly white in the morning sun. Her cheeks were pink and glowing. Seelie rushed to her friend’s side as the last sister walked away.
“Are you feeling well today?” Maere asked as she took her friend’s hands into her own. She studied Seelie’s face. There was absolutely no sign of the battered and abused young woman she’d seen only last night. Had she dreamed everything? Did her friend’s injuries exist only in her imagination?
“Aye. Very well indeed.”
“Do you remember what happened?” Maere asked, her voice low. Could Seelie’s mind have forgotten the horror as easily as her body had?
Seelie nodded, her expression serious. “Enough to know I won’t be behaving the same way again. I don’t know what you did, girl, but I feel as if the face of God has looked on me and put my soul to rest.” She smiled, her eyes aglow. “It’s a miracle, it is. I feel as if the cares of the world are gone from my mind.”
Maere hugged her tightly. When she released her, they both had tears in their eyes. “I don’t have any idea what happened last night in my room, but I can’t say I’m sorry it did.” She gestured toward the anchorage. “My hope is I’ll discover the meaning of what transpired while I’m in there.”
Seelie nodded. She bent down, picked up a small basket of yellow flowers and handed them to Maere. “I’ll keep you in my prayers. And don’t fret. Just as you promised to protect me, I’ll protect you. No one will ever know.”
“Thank you,” Maere said, relief washing over her. “If anyone should find out, I’d be beaten for certain. And who knows what else.”
She turned to face the small building and took a deep breath. It was time she entered and begin her period of meditation. She dropped to her hands and knees as the entry was low and could only be accessed by crawling on one’s elbows. Maere pushed the gifts into the opening, gave the world behind her one last look, then crawled into the passage.
Once inside, she stood, and hit her head on the ceiling. With a grimace, Maere leaned slightly forward and rubbed the sore spot. She wasn’t as tall as some and still the anchorage ceiling was too low for her to stand straight.
Still rubbing her head, Maere looked about. The room was completely bare except for an uncomfortable-looking straw mattress covered in homespun, a spindly wooden chair, a waste bucket, and the items she’d brought with her. To her left was a narrow window carved into the thick plaster-coated and whitewashed wall. A black wool curtain, embroidered with a white cross on both sides, hung loosely over it.
As she was looking about, someone passed by, casting a shadow through a small hole in the fabric. Maere jumped. She didn’t expect anyone to come so soon. She waited near the window for the person to begin talking, as it was improper for the anchorite to start a conversation. It was the duty of the one seeking advice to initiate the contact.
“Maere? It’s Abbess Magrethe.”
“Yes, Mother?”
“I wanted to tell you to have faith. I’m most certain the Lord will guide you in this endeavor.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Maere said. “I will not lose heart.” She watched as the shadow moved away without replying, then went to the task of arranging her belongings.
The room was barely large enough for the meager items that served as furnishings, let alone for what she’d brought with her. Maere lightly tested the seat of the chair with her fingers and a spider climbed out of the middle of the woven rushes. It moved slowly, as if awakened from a long nap. She cautiously touched the seat again and the insect sprung to life. Its long legs darted in front of it and it rounded the back of the chair in no time, disappearing from sight.
Maere frowned. “Well, Sir Spider, I suppose I’ll be looking before sitting from now on.” She bent to retrieve the rough homespun sack with her belongings and emptied the contents onto the mattress. From the bag, she gently removed the tiny wooden cross she’d made shortly after arriving at the convent. She ran her fingertips over the dark wood, the knife marks of her carving still evident. Abbess Magrethe had suggested she make it as an exercise to focus her mind. Busy hands, happy heart, she repeated again and again.
But Maere’s heart had been anything but happy. Eight winters old she was when she’d first arrived. She didn’t remember anyt
hing about those first dark months at the abbey. Magrethe had told her she’d cried and cried and then slept and slept and finally had awoken. It would take many more months before she even spoke a word. And then one morning Magrethe took her out for a walk in the spring sunshine and a butterfly landed on Maere’s hand, making her smile. The abbess had told her it was the very first time she’d seen her smile in since her arrival, and a lovely one it was.
Maere clutched the cross in her hand, her eyes blurred with tears. That simple act of making the cross served to rescue a little girl from a sadness so deep it had threatened to drown her.
Maere tried over and over since then to make peace with the fact she might never remember the cause of that deep sadness. Even now, it still appeared from time to time. During those rare moments when her mind wasn’t occupied with prayer or her hands with chores, it would creep in from the edges of her memory. As water followed the moon, so did melancholy follow an idle mind.
She took a deep breath and carefully hung the cross on a peg pinned into the stone over the mattress. She tilted it first this way, then that, adjusting until it hung just right.
On the peg next to it, Maere looped the necklace she’d somehow managed to keep all these years. Magrethe tried to take it from her that first day, whispering something about pagan relics and the ungodly ways of the Dumnonii. Maere always wondered if she was one of these people. She’d heard enough whispers among the sisters to believe she must be. But like the night before, the abbess was loath to answer detailed questions.
Despite Magrethe’s efforts, Maere was able to keep possession of the only reminder of her life before entering St. Columba’s. She had no idea what the circular citrine stone looped on a leather thong meant. The only tangible link to her past, she often wondered if it was a gift from her parents. Or perhaps it was something she’d made herself as a child? She sighed. All Maere knew for certain was it gave her comfort when she was distressed and reminded her she once had a mother and a father.
Putting away the rest of her things, she stretched out on the mattress. “Saint Jude Thaddeus, dear patron of lost causes, is there any hope left for me?”
She hoped there was. Weary from the day, she closed her eyes and let sleep take her.
Maere awoke long after the sun had set. She stood and walked to the window. Dare she? She wondered for only a moment before venturing a peek outside. A sliver of the waxing moon appeared high in the night sky, surrounded by a thick smattering of stars. It was late and the sisters would be in bed, fast asleep, waiting for the bell to ring time for prayers.
She pulled the curtain closed along its smooth wood rod. Now what? She was no longer tired. She paced for a bit, then decided she should pray. Tugging at her habit, she knelt in the center of the room and made the sign of the cross over her breast. She pressed her black wooden prayer beads to her lips.
“Our Father, which art in heaven.” She stopped. A formal prayer didn’t seem appropriate. She needed to say exactly what she was thinking. It might not be the polite thing to do, where God was concerned, but Maere was determined to find the hidden meanings of her distress. She decided to pray to the Blessed Virgin to intercede on her behalf.
She raised her eyes to heaven. “Forgive me, Mother, for addressing you so informally. I don’t know what to tell you first. I only know that for some reason, I’m suddenly frightened by everything.” She looked down. “Well, maybe not so suddenly. We both know I’ve always been overly nervous about the silliest things.” She looked to Heaven once again. “But I tell you, this time it’s different. It’s as if the Devil himself is after me.” She shook her head. “I just don’t know what to do about this affliction…”
She sat quietly and hoped for some sort of sign. Her eyes focused on the wall in front of her. An image flashed in her mind. Maere blinked. It came back even stronger. She tried to clear her mind again, but this time the picture stayed. She watched, transfixed, as the scene unfolded as if it were projected onto the wall and not of her mind…
A tall thin man in flowing white robes was riding a pale gray horse. She squinted. There was something familiar about him, although he wasn’t the same red-eyed demon who usually haunted her nights. This was someone, or something, else. He was riding hard, sweat flying from his brow like a shower of rain. He rode first in one direction, then pulled his horse around and rode in another, as if he were searching for something. Something he’d lost and couldn’t remember how to find.
“Dear Mother, what is happening?” she whispered, unable to tear her eyes from the sight. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
The man rode closer and closer, until his face was clearly revealed. He had bobbed gray hair and dark eyes, which seemed to pierce through the night. His gaze scanned the countryside, before turning on her. Then he laughed, the sound seeming to fill the anchorage, though Maere knew it was only inside her head.
“There you are, Maere cu Llwyr. Have you missed me?” His voice was nothing more than a soft hiss. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there for you soon.”
Maere closed her eyes tightly and covered them with her fists. She began to sob as the face dissolved from sight. “Oh dear God, am I going mad? What evil is this that haunts me?” She fell forward, prostrate on the compacted dirt floor, her body shaking as she cried uncontrollably. “I beg you, Mother so blessed. Please. Please. Intercede for me. Have mercy on my immortal soul.”
Chapter 7
Dylan looked out into the distance as he walked, taking note of a pillar of smoke rising from the next hillock beyond his vision. It twisted and drifted on the wind, suddenly filling the air with the stench of burning animal flesh. A noise up the road sent him a few steps into the tree line. The fire meant one of two things: Either the farmer had diseased livestock, or those Norse scavengers had been through here recently.
The sound of clopping horse’s hooves, mixed with intermittent curses, reached Dylan’s ears and he quickly stepped deeper into the cover of the forest. He watched in stunned silence as a group of Vikings rode by, dragging prisoners behind them. A few older men, a young woman, and several children were joined with ropes tied from wrist-to-wrist, the lead held tight by one of the riders. They came from the direction he was headed.
His heart froze in his chest. Had the abbey been raided? There was no way to know, but he wouldn’t see his journey to Maere delayed even a moment longer. The strong oaks and pliable willows parted their branches as he entered their shared world, dipping low and brushing away his footprints as he passed. A chance encounter with anyone could prove a problem that would serve to keep him from his betrothed. And ten years had been long enough to wait.
Truth be told, if any Vikings came upon him, they probably wouldn’t be interested, a lone poor traveler that he was. He had nothing to steal, but there was always the chance he might be taken as a slave. Or he might meet pious pilgrims on a journey of faith, much too eager in their zeal to convert him to the new religion. Dylan snorted. This Christianity was surely a scourge on the land just as powerful as those raiders from the north.
It baffled him his countrymen could lose the faith of their forebears so easily, could come to believe one god was able to care for this entire world. As vast as it was, it was obviously too large an endeavor for one deity. The old ways made much more sense to Dylan, with a particular god or goddess assigned to a specific duty. At least then one knew whom to pray to, whom to ask for what you needed.
Dylan leaned against a tall willow, its long thin branches dusting the forest floor around him. He closed his eyes. I must focus on Maere. It was the beginning of her eighteenth year and Eugis would be on his way to retrieve her. Ripe she’d be for the taking, and her uncle wouldn’t hesitate, intent on ripping her power from her.
Keltoi legends spoke of a girl born under the triple signs of the goddess, a girl who would carry with her the great power of healing. And Dylan had been there to see the signs with his very own eye
s, that cold night so long ago, when Manfred held Maere out to him.
Dylan touched the willow and smiled, remembering how she hunted the fays, those little people of the hills and woods, intent on catching a glimpse of their small forms. It seemed an entire lifetime had come and gone since they’d played in the forest as children. Full of mischief she had been, much like those same fays she sought…
“Psst!” Maere had half whispered, half shouted for him. “Dylan!
He could still hear her—see her as if from far away —as she waved one hand behind her, beckoning him, the other shading her bright green eyes. The dapples of sunlight littering the forest floor had found their way through the thick foliage and straight to her. She dropped her hand and shifted over a few feet.
She’d always hated the bright light, he remembered. She’d come to believe the sun goddess was out to make her life miserable. Dylan laughed in spite of himself as that day came to life before him.
Maere glanced cautiously out of the corner of her eye at the rays, praying to the moon goddess for protection. “Please, Nimue, keep Bel at bay,” she pleaded quietly under her breath.
She again called impatiently to her friend. “Come h – e – e – e – r – r – r – r – e.”
Dylan carefully picked his way along the path Maere had made through the damp underbrush, his awkward feet stepping as lightly as they could over the fallen branches. “What is it?” he demanded, lowering his voice when she raised a finger to her lips. “I was practicing my recitations when you called. And if I don’t have my new verses memorized for tomorrow night’s Beltane feast, your father will have my hide.” He rubbed his behind and chuckled. “What little I have left.”
“Shhh! Keep your voice down!” Maere whispered. “Oh, please, Dylan. They’ll hear you!”
“Who’ll hear me?” he asked, dropping to his knees. He scooped up a handful of pebbles and looked around. “I see no one, Maere.” He let them sift slowly out of his hand and they formed a small pile on the ground.