Relics bp-1

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  The rest of the day passed. That is all I can say on the subject. The shadows grew long, it turned to evening, then night. I do not wish to remember my part in that day. There was a pile of rotten wood, and under it a filthy vagrant dozed, and woke, and cursed, and wept. Or perhaps it was another sort of creature that lay there, writhing in pain as he shed his old skin and suffered the pangs of transformation into an entirely different form.

  But night came at last, and the evening hours were rung. I left my shelter for the last time and sloped across the wasteland to the stable and the river beyond. The refectory was to my right. Warm light and the happy sounds of eating came from it. I slipped down the bank and followed my nose to the privy, a lean-to that clung to the abbey wall and hung precariously above the river. Willows and other plants grew thickly underneath with the sinister vigour of things that feed on dirt and decay. The stench was bad, but in the cool of evening not too intense. I ducked behind a tree and settled down to wait as the moon rose behind me.

  I had sat there for perhaps half an hour when the little window showed the dim light of a candle. A shadow reared briefly, and a dark shape flew through the air, hit the bank a few yards in front of me and began to roll towards the river. I leapt from my hiding place and threw myself at the bundle, managed to catch it before it reached the water, and found myself holding a leather satchel, its strap wound and knotted tightly around it. Looking up at the privy I might have glimpsed a pale face at the window, but more likely I imagined it. In any case it was time to be gone. I turned and scrambled along the bank, heading downstream. Soon I was past the mill and saw the outline of the bridge in the distance.

  Chapter Seven

  Under the bridge it was cold, and water dripped from the shadows above onto my head. My tonsure had almost grown out, and it was odd to feel the drops land on hair, not bare skin. Adric's package contained a silver florin, half a dozen wizened apples, a chunk of ham and a gourd of small beer, wrapped in a pair of rough woollen breeches, a linen tunic and a monk's robe. My own robe was a disgusting web of worn and torn cloth encrusted with dirt, and I gladly threw it off. When I unwrapped the bindings that held the hand to my body I found a belt of angry skin beneath. I walked into the river with my sandals still on, and sat down on the smooth granite stones, letting the icy water play around me for as long as I could bear it. Then I grabbed a handful of river sand and scrubbed myself quickly all over, ducked down again to rinse off, and ran up the bank, my body burning with cold. But despite the pain I felt new hope as I bound the hand back in place, pulled on the breeches and tunic, and let the clean robe fall about me. Now I looked like a monk of the abbey again, at least for a little while longer. I sat and ate the ham – muttering my thanks to the old abbey boar – and two apples, chewy and wrinkled from their winter in an abbey cellar, until I felt ready to begin my next journey.

  The moon was nearly full, and it was easy to pick my way along the river. The Dart runs fast over stones between Buckfast and Staverton, and for the first hour the gurgle of water kept me company. It was not cold, and although my feet were wet from fording the little streams that crossed my path, I was as happy as I had been since leaving Balecester. I stopped once to wrap my old robe round a boulder and drop it into a deep salmon-hole under the bank. Before long the stone bridge at Staverton came into view, and I slipped under one of its arches. I knew that there were fat sea-trout – peel, we called them – lying in the dark water. I had often leaned on the bridge and watched them hold their own against the current with just the lazy flicking of their tails.

  Below the bridge are the water-meadows of Hood, and beyond the woods of Dartington. I followed a well-worn path, clambering over the high wall of the Lord of Dartington's deer park and following the river that now flowed deep and quiet. In another hour I was in the King's Meadow, and the mound of Totnes Castle crouched ahead of me in the moonlight. I kept to the riverbank, slipped past the mill and under Totnes bridge. I was in luck: even on such a bright night there were no fishermen about, checking eel traps or setting illicit nets for peel. I did not want to disturb any poachers. But the meadows were empty, although I could hear big fish jumping, and silver ripples appeared on the silver water. The river was tidal now, and there was a salty, muddy smell in the air. I made good time to the hill at Sharpham and, skirting it, struck inland. A sunken track led south and west, so I followed it gladly, the packed earth a pleasant change from dew-soaked grass.

  As I hoped, the track led to the little hump-backed bridge over the Harbourne at Tuckenhay. The Dart, like other rivers of the West Country, spreads itself out into a long, deep estuary with many fingers that jut into the hills. These fingers are themselves deep, wooded estuaries, and I was at the head of one of them, where the Harbourne, a little stream that rose close to my home, flowed into the main river. Downstream the Dart widened and meandered, and following its banks would take far too long. I would have to head inland and find a shorter route to the port. It would have to be across country. Farmers would be awake soon, and I did not intend to meet anyone.

  Adric's advice had been to cross the bridge and leave the track, heading south-east. My way would be across the ridge to Capton, then on to Dartmouth. Adric knew the country well. He loved to poke around in old churches and had visited even the tiniest, amassing reams of esoteric information that he would share with me. Upstream from where I stood now, I remembered, Harbertonford church had a font carved in the Byzantine style, though Adric had been less sure about what a Greek stonemason had been doing in Devon. There were old burial mounds on the coast as well, and the librarian was irresistibly drawn to such things. He also had a fine memory for landscapes and directions, and I knew his map, though rough, was sure to be true. And in any case my mother had grown up here, and her childhood home was just four miles from this bridge, so this was familiar ground. I was in the South Hams, a land of secrets, hidden folds and ancient tracks. I would have a hard scramble up through woods to a long ridge of rough pasture before I came to the steep hill above Dartmouth. It would take me another day, at least. I ate another apple, tightened the wet thongs of my sandals and set off once more.

  A couple of dogs barked as I made my way through the tiny gaggle of thatched huts that was the hamlet of Tuckenhay, but their owners, and everyone else, slept on. The track rose and turned right, but I scrambled up the bank on my left, crushing the yellow primroses that covered it, and jumped down into the wood beyond. The oak-trees grew thickly, but the ground between the trunks had been cleared by foraging hogs and the going was easy. The moon was setting, but a thin light still trickled through the branches overhead. It was a hard climb, but soon enough I reached the top of the hill and the ground sloped down in front of me. My legs were glad of the respite, but after a few minutes I was climbing again. The land was folded into troughs and crests that the trees hid, and the constant climb and descent were exhausting. The local hogs had apparently thought so too, as their rooting had been lazy here. Brambles and thorn bushes had begun to sprout, and as the dawn began to glow away to my left I was becoming scratched and worn out.

  But I reckoned I had made good time, and a rest was in order. I pushed on through the undergrowth, looking for a clear patch to sleep on, or perhaps a tree with a crotch wide enough to support me. I must have stumbled around like this for nearly an hour when the brambles suddenly cleared and I found myself on the brink of a small precipice. It was nearly light now, and I saw smooth stone below me. I had come upon an old lime quarry, long deserted judging by the thicket of elder that filled it. A perfect place to lie low for a few hours. I made my way around the rim of the quarry until I found a place where I could scramble down. The dark grey stone was damp with dew and almost greasy to my fingers as I lowered myself from ledge to ledge. It was only a few feet to the bottom, but a twisted ankle now would be the end of me, so I moved like an old man, slowly and gingerly, finally stepping down onto the mossy floor of the pit. The elder thicket was low but dense. I forced my way inside. As I
had thought, there was a hollow space in the middle where the older trees had grown tall, and I dropped down and stretched myself out. The ground here was dry and chalky, the refuse from many tons of burnt and powdered lime. Moss grew thinly, but there did not seem to be any nettles, for which I was thankful. The sharp, sour smell of elder leaves was strong here, and mixed with it was the rank musk of a fox or badger. I lay for a while staring at the trunk of the nearest tree, following the path of a tiny black and white spider as she hunted amongst the furrows of the bark. When I awoke the day was almost over. Luckily for me the sun had not quite set, and its last rays showed me in which direction west lay. I stood up and shook away the aches of sleeping rough. Munching an apple and sipping at the stale beer in the gourd, I pushed through the bushes and out into the quarry. As I had thought, it had been scooped out of a hillside, and the way out was downhill and to the south. The old lime-diggers had worn a deep path that was still quite clear, and it went in my direction. I set off whistling.

  Everything went well at first. The path was good and straight. The light was fading, but I hoped I would soon be out in open country. Through the trees the sky was a wonderful pink, the oak branches with their clusters of new leaf sharp and black in contrast. A few early stars were beginning to shine. Somewhere to my left a rookery was settling down for the night, and a few birds, late to bed, cawed above me. The moon was coming up, and I was looking forward to another good night's walk when the moonlight all of a sudden went out. A wall of cloud was sweeping across the sky, and in another minute there was pitch darkness. Not knowing what else to do I sat down in the middle of the path. Then I heard rain swishing towards me. I could see nothing, but the sound of water on leaves and branches was growing into a roar, and then the storm was all around, huge raindrops pounding me until my skin stung under my clothes. I cowered in the roaring darkness. And then the storm passed as quickly as it had come, just a squall blown in from the sea that had vented its rage, so I imagined, on the first living thing it had encountered on land: me. The moon came out again, and I was in a world that seemed drowned in quicksilver. Light glinted from every tree, and the path stretched away like a stream of white fire. The vision faded in a moment as the dry earth sucked up the water, and I felt a thrust of utter dejection. I was alone in the wilderness, and everything, even the sky, was against me.

  The night air chilled my wet robes until I shook with cold. My wet sandals chafed against my feet and ankles. The path had become a mire and after another mile faded into a mass of blackthorn. I tried to find a way around, but the thicket seemed to be interminable so I began to fight my way through. The branches, each armed with a hundred inch-long thorns, were as unyielding as iron, and I had to turn around and push my way along backwards, taking the slashes and stabs of the thorns on my cowl, back and, worse, my bare ankles. Adric's satchel became hopelessly entangled and in near-panic I struggled free of it, abandoning my last apple and the dregs of beer. I was crying with pain and frustration by the time I burst through the last tangle and fell over into moonlight on open ground. I was in an overgrown meadow mounded with dead bracken. A stone wall stood ahead, and I waded through the crackling foliage, climbed the wall and looked around.

  I had reached the high ridge. The sea was a dark blue line to my left. To my right, the South Hams rolled away eastwards. I turned and saw, away in the distance, the dark wall of the moors, the great hump of Ugborough Beacon with its topknot of boulders standing out before the line of higher, more distant hills. Under that hill was my home. My father and mother rested in the churchyard there. The image of a peat fire, burned down to a handful of bright jewels in the hearth, flashed before my eyes so strongly that I could all but feel its heat on my face. But it was an illusion that only served to make my freezing robes more cold, and my loneliness even deeper. Then I remembered Adric's words, and found some glimmer of comfort, enough at least to warm me for what I must do next. There was a grim walk still ahead, and no welcome, no safety in sight.

  So I turned my back to the moors, and did not look behind me again, although I could feel their presence there. I crept along now, picking my way through the bracken and gorse. The moon was sinking. Somewhere on the path I had exchanged my confidence for a nagging fear, and my ears were constantly pricked for the least sound. I was not alone in the night, of course. Other creatures were abroad. Bats piped above me. Things rustled in the bracken. I thought I heard voices and saw, over a low ridge, a farmhouse some way off. There was a light burning in a low shed – someone woken up for some nocturnal task and cursing it. I gave the farm a wide berth and had left it behind when from somewhere in front of me came a horrifying shriek. High and empty, it trembled for a second and died, only to come again as a deathly, sobbing wail. I threw myself to the ground. Behind me, the farm dogs began to bay. Face-down in the grass, I realised that the sound was not murder or rape, or some blood-drinking phantom. It was foxes in heat, a sound I had heard often as a boy. Picking myself up again I almost laughed to think what a town-man I had become, not to know the night-song of the fox. But it is a bitter, human noise, and it mocked me as I tramped on towards the sea.

  My footsteps were heavy now, driven by fear again. But fear drives one as fast as hope, and before long I had crossed the track that led from Capton to Downton – at least I hoped it was Capton church that I could see over to my right. Now I was walking through pastures, and sheep scattered before me like white clouds in the night. It was almost dawn when I came to the steep slope that dropped down to the town. The track fell away into darkness. The air was still, and the world seemed to be gathering its powers for sunrise and trembling in anticipation. Above and before me the sky was the deepest blue. This was my sky. The morning star, an ember of pale fire on the horizon, had bid me good morrow every day of my childhood. The air was full of the sweet musty scent of the moors. Then a bat whirred around my head, squeaking like a tiny lost soul for whom the dawn held no relief. I stumbled on down the Dartmouth road.

  It is a pretty place, this nest of rogues and pirates. The wharves line one long bank of the river, and fine houses look out over the broad estuary towards the little village of Kingswear, a tumble of cob on the far side. There is a castle to guard the river's mouth, and a rich church in which thieves and fishermen can salve their consciences. I had been there once before, on the Abbot's business, keeping Treasurer Ivo company as he took delivery of some embroidered hangings from Quimper. Then I had hovered around the quay, watching men unload fish, chests and bales from the boats. As I stood absorbing all the sights and sounds, a fisherman yelled something and tossed a fat, glistening lump at my feet. I looked down into the face of a gargoyle: a great slash of jagged-edged mouth, bulging eyes and a tangle of horns and spines. 'There's a demon to play with, young master!' the man cackled, and I looked again, shocked, to see a fish, just a fish. A monstrous one, to be sure, but – ' 'tis a monk-fish, boy! Grey and ugly all right, but the flesh is sweet…' He smacked his lips in a lewd, fishy kiss. Furious, I lashed out with my foot, booting the horrible thing, which tumbled in the air and caught the man on the temple, knocking him over into the hold of his boat. Then there was much cursing and laughter from the other boats, and Ivo chose that moment to drag me back to our wagon, his slender money-counting fingers twisting my ear.

  But now I crept past the sleeping watchman at the gate and into the steep alleys that led down to the waterside. Only the fat wharfside cats noticed me. The church loomed up on my right. I glanced up at the turret and the motion set my head whirling. Slumped against the churchyard wall, dead-tired and bone-hungry, I saw what the future held if I gave up now. The watch would find me, drag me to gaol and throw me into the stocks as a vagrant. The townsmen would have their fun, then Sir Hugh would cut my throat.

  Food was just a wish, so sleep would have to do. I managed to scramble up and over the churchyard wall, scraping my hands, and fell in a heap on the other side. I crawled through the grass and nettles towards the dark pavilion of a yew-tree
whose branches drooped to the ground around it. Brushing through the sweet-smelling leaves and into the little space beyond, I crumpled onto the litter of twigs and moss and was asleep in a moment.

  It was day when I woke. The sun was trying to shine through a curtain of drizzle. Drops of water were rolling down a branch above me and falling onto my robe. A big patch on my chest was soaked. I was well rested, and wondered how long I'd been asleep. Given the weather, I reckoned I'd been out for a whole day and night. I peered out between the yew fronds, and jerked back in surprise. Two men were standing a few yards away from my hiding place, and as I watched they hefted shovels and began to dig. I cursed silently. I was trapped, at least for a while, and I was starving. To make matters worse a big earthenware jug and a leather satchel sat on the ground next to the gravediggers. I began to imagine their contents. Beer, and salt pork? Oatcakes? Pasties, perhaps? It was unbearable. My belly growled, then roared. I stuffed a corner of my soggy robe into my mouth and chewed.

  The men were hard at work, and the ground must have been soft, as they made good progress. They began to sink down amongst the grave-mounds. First their knees, then their thighs, then their belts disappeared from view. I knew what I was going to do. It seemed to take an age, but at last the gravediggers were deep enough that when they bent, they bobbed out of sight. I blessed the person whose grave this was. He must have been important, or else his grave would not be so deep. And the men were reaching the six-foot mark. All I could see were the shovel blades as they flung earth out of the hole. Now was my moment. I bolted out from under the tree, grabbed flagon and satchel and hurled myself up and over the wall.

  Luck was keeping an eye out for fools that day. As I landed on the wet cobbles I realised I had leaped before looking, but now I was in a deep, narrow alley and no one was about. I could hear the faint sounds of shovel-work behind me, so the theft hadn't been noticed. But it would be soon enough. I shoved the flagon into the satchel, which I tucked up under my robe. The leather strap I pulled through the collar and looped around my neck. Now boasting a fine beer-gut, I crept to the mouth of the alley.