by Brian Bates
We retraced our route along the river and eventually emerged on to the grassy bank of our camp. The fire was almost dead, so Wulf immediately set to work to save it, blowing into the embers and placing dry kindling carefully on the hottest part. I put the bundle containing the spearwort on the ground near the fire-pit and watched Wulf work.
In a short while the fire was healthy again. Wulf took the linen sack to a spot very near the stone perimeter of the pit and unwrapped it gently. When I saw the plant I was shocked. The large root had shrunk amazingly and the yellow eye lay pale and blind on the sacking a withered flower connected to the root by a flaccid stem.
Wulf settled into a crouching position next to the plant and motioned for me to do the same. I felt drained and exhausted, but not at all sleepy. I sat opposite Wulf and we watched the plant for hours. I was totally riveted by the white root as, through the night, it curled up gradually in a desperate attempt to accommodate the cruel bulk of the blade. life ebbed out of the spearwort slowly.
Occasionally my thoughts would wander and linger over events recent or long ago. The faces and voices of people dear to me drifted in and out, each as clear and bright as candle-flame. But always my attention returned to the spearwort, my ally, lying at my feet.
After a time, the night wind died down to a murmur and the sky streaked with dawn light. Suddenly the clearing around us took on an eerie luminosity; the spearwort eye seemed momentarily to glow brilliant yellow, then faded completely. Wulf placed his hand on the dead root and carefully withdrew the knife. I felt a tightness in my throat and hot tears coursed down my cheeks as if we had conducted a vigil over a dying friend.
Wulf gathered the shrunken root in his hands, carried it to the riverbank and immersed it in the water. He scraped lichen from a rock near the bank and packed it in clumps on the wet spearwort root. Then he collected and filled our two cooking pots with river water and dropped the spearwort into one of them. We returned to the fire-pit. There Wulf placed the spearwort pot on to the stones at the back of the fire, where it would receive gentle heat. He filled the other pot with vegetables from our store and put it on the fire. When they were cooked, we broke our fast.
The Cauldron of Power
THE SUN rose slowly over the horizon into a pale blue sky streaked with thin wisps of cloud, like torn lace drifting high on the wind. I sat hunched against a tree on the edge of our camp, brooding blackly. Since dawn’s first light, in the quiet time before daybreak, my mood had plunged from exhilaration to despair. After we had eaten, Wulf had gone to walk alone in the forest and I had been left to my thoughts. Gradually I had become increasingly obsessed by my loss of the crucifix which had been knocked from my hand into the river by the same spirits who had stolen my soul. The Lord’s presence was not diminished, of course, for He watches over his flock always. But the crucifix was my tangible link with the Mission and especially Eappa, who had presented it to me. And I knew that this day might be my last. Wulf had predicted two nights of life at the most and we had spent one of them searching for spearwort. After the exertions of the spearwort hunt I now felt weak and lethargic and a dull ache set in behind my eyes. If I was to die this night, I wished to go to the Lord with the comfort of my crucifix.
As I tipped my head back, trying to ease the ache in my head, I noticed a lone hawk gliding high on the wind, barely a speck against the blue sky. Idly I wondered what unsuspecting creature would become the hawk’s next victim and share with me the same last day of life.
As soon as the early morning light turned from grey to silver, I went down to the river to look for the crucifix. I felt very light-headed and as I picked my way down the riverbank I slipped and stumbled repeatedly. The water was cold and clear and I paddled downriver as far as the bend, examining every inch of the riverbed within a foot of the bank. Then I tracked up and down the river, further and further from the bank, until I was submerged to the waist and could no longer see the bottom. There was no sign of the precious cross.
Finally, feet numbed by the cold water, I climbed on to the bank and walked dejectedly towards the shelter. I felt exhausted and twice I almost fell before I reached the camp. Wulf was squatting near the fire-pit, shredding plants with his knife and dropping fragments into the spearwort mixture which simmered slowly on the back of the hob. He looked up as I approached.
‘How do you feel?’ he said cheerfully.
‘Fine,’ I replied, my voice betraying the lie, as I sat down next to him. ‘Wulf, I can’t find my crucifix.’
‘Spearwort is doing well,’ he said, jabbing his knife towards the pot on the hob. I struggled up to look into the pot and saw the dark green spearwort preparation bubbling and churning. Dutifully I raised a smile of approval before collapsing again. I was no longer interested in spearwort. In the clear light of morning I did not see how a wizened plant could remove the dreadful feeling of emptiness from my chest and restore my missing soul. I wanted only the comfort of the crucifix.
‘I can’t find my crucifix,’ I said again, irritably. ‘I have searched the riverbed as deep as I can go and downriver as far as the bend. Wulf, I don’t want to die without my crucifix.’
Wulf stopped working hesitated, then put down his knife and walked around the fire-pit towards me. He crouched by my side and scrutinized me in silence. His eyes were bright and piercing and I dropped my gaze to look away towards the trees. I found his stare disturbing whenever he looked directly into my eyes he seemed to see into my heart.
‘Brand, you are shortly to be journeying to the Underworld, where you will see things never even dreamed of by your masters. After that, I hope you will be able to summon a guardian spirit who will take you to the spirit-world. If we fail and death takes you, then so be it. But do not plan for death as if the terror of it could thereby be avoided. Accept death as part of life and live for life only. Think of the tasks you need to perform before the next night is over and do not waste your energies worrying about a bronze amulet.’
I listened to him with a kind of detached interest. The events of the night, the attack by the creature I had mistakenly identified as Wulf, the emotional witness of the death of the spearwort plant, the failure to find my crucifix—all had left me feeling drained. I felt weak and shivery and I knew that I was sickening rapidly. I wished that I had the crucifix for comfort.
‘We have to prepare two wildfires,’ Wulf said loudly. When I heard him, I realized that it was at least the second time he had repeated the phrase. I nodded slowly. Wulf grasped me by the wrist and pulled me to my feet. As he stared into my eyes from very close, our noses almost touched.
‘Brand, you have used almost all your life-force in hunting and capturing spearwort.’
My attention had slipped and he grabbed my hair and held my gaze steady.
‘You must help me to make wildfire. It is essential that you participate in building it, even though you do the simplest tasks.’
He looked at the sky and then at the trees, measuring the morning shadow.
‘It is time to work,’ he said. ‘Collect some dry kindling from the hazels.’
He pointed downriver to a hazel coppice close to the bank I pulled myself resignedly to my feet, trudged along the riverbank to the coppice and laboriously collected an armful of brittle twigs. By the time I returned to the shelter, Wulf was kneeling on the grass near the riverbank; lying next to him were two pieces of oak branch, each about a yard long and an enormous heap of freshly picked, spiky-leaved plants.
‘Select the smallest kindling and pile it there,’ he instructed, pointing to an area about half-way between the riverbank and the fire-pit. Then he stood up, strode to the river and waded knee-deep into the water. As I watched him, he bent over and dipped his arms into the water up to his shoulders, pulled up stones from the river-bed, examined them closely and then appeared to replace them in their original position.
Puzzled, I turned to my task, sorting through the pile of kindling selecting the thinnest pieces and testing them for d
ryness. It took me a very long time. I had just finished stacking the best wood when Wulf splashed on to the bank carrying two fist-sized stones. He dried them carefully on his tunic and then laid them on the grass. One stone was flat and disc-shaped, the other more rounded and larger at one end, like a pear. I sat down and watched him.
Wulf waded back into the water and pulled on to the bank a large, flinty boulder. He rolled it on the grass to remove excess water, then set it down near the small stones. Picking up one of the oak stakes, he stripped off some of the bark and tested the wood by digging in his thumbnail. Grunting approval, he placed the disc-shaped stone flat on the ground in front of him and laid the small oak stake across it. With the point of his knife he pierced the oak stake near one end, then twisted the knife point until he had cut a deep, narrow impression half-way through the thickness of the wood. Rolling the stake over, he pushed in the knife at a point corresponding exactly to the hole he had made on the first side, and drilled a small hole right through the wood. Then he stood the piece of wood up on the stone, with the hole towards the top of the stake, and sharpened the bottom end to a point.
All his preparations were carried out with exquisite sureness and control and I watched him in absolute fascination.
Wulf turned his attention back to the oak stake, pushing the point of the oak into the soft ground in the centre of my small pile of kindling Standing with his feet astride, he used the large rock to hammer the stake into the ground. About a third of its length sank into the soft turf. Wulf tested it: the stake stood solidly. Finally he used his knife to clean the top of the oak stake where it had been crushed and split by the impact of the rock.
When he had finished preparing the stake, Wulf sorted through the pile of kindling I had collected and pulled out a long thin hazel wand. Tucking it under his armpit, he scraped the bark from it, working carefully—presumably to avoid snapping the dry wood. When he had finished, he filled his right palm with a few of the bright green leaves, placed the hazel wand over them, closed his fist and rubbed the leaves vigorously back and forth along the full length of the stripped wood. The crushed leaves covered the stick with a dark and shiny juice. Wulf then carefully inserted the gleaming hazel wand into the hole he had drilled through the oak stake, but the fit was too tight. Gently, he gouged the knife into the oak stake and slightly increased the diameter of the hole. Then he fed the hazel wand into it and pushed it slowly forwards and backwards. There was just sufficient room for the wand to pass through the hole. Gradually Wulf increased his speed until his hand was a blur as he whipped the wand back and forth and after a time, wisps of smoke escaped from the hole. Both pieces of wood glowed red and tiny chips of spark floated down on to the kindling and died. Immediately Wulf tore the willow wand from the hole and plunged it into the dry kindling. It smouldered. Putting his face close to the kindling he blew in long and steady breaths until it glowed, smoked and then burned.
Wulf collapsed back on his haunches, his chest heaving up and down. Sweat trickled down his face and dripped from his chin.
‘This is wildfire,’ he wheezed. ‘Wood on wood, built from the substance it consumes.’
Rapidly Wulf built up the fire until it cracked and popped and, fed by the breath of the early morning breeze, shot showers of sparks high into the air. He stopped for a moment to get his breath, then turned to me.
‘In order to journey to the spirits, the sorcerer has to be a human firefly, lighting his own way through the darkness of other worlds,’ he said. ‘Your life-force is your wildfire, your inner fire. It will enable you to project your shadow-soul to the Underworld, where you shall be prepared for your journey into the spirit-world.’
Wulf made another small pile of kindling on the grass, several feet from the first so that the two were parallel with the bank of the river. He lit it with a burning brand from the first wildfire and it crackled hungrily into the kindling spitting sparks and flames. Wulf then took me by the arm and gestured for me to sit between the fires: I crawled across the grass and slumped in the space between the groups of small, crackling flames. In the open space the morning breeze blew cool, but sunlight crept through the trees and lay dappled on my skin; I watched the tiny patches of light moving in the breeze on my arms which were still green from Wulf’s protective salve.
‘Drink some of this.’ Wulfs voice broke into my reverie and I looked up at him. He placed a mug in my hand and curled my fingers round it.
‘I have boiled the spearwort and it is ready for you to drink. When you have drunk all of it, your life-force will be increased thirty-fold: enough to propel your shadow-soul from your body and into the cauldron of the Underworld.’
‘Drink,’ he said, gesturing towards the cup. ‘It will ignite your inner fire.’
I began to laugh nervously. ‘What will it do, Wulf? Make flames in my stomach?’
‘You will feel nothing at first. Drink it,’ he urged.
I sipped cautiously at the steaming liquid and to my surprise it tasted quite refreshing rather like lemon balm tea.
The sun had now risen well above the trees and began to beam down strongly. Wulf built up the two fires and soon I was hot and parched. Again Wulf dipped the mug into the spearwort pot and I gulped the hot drink thirstily. This time the spearwort tasted stronger, with a musty and faintly bitter after-taste. Wulf sat on the ground in front of me and took the mug when I had finished drinking.
‘When you increase your life-force, you develop great inner power,’ he said. ‘There are many ways to develop this power using your own resources, but we are forced to work with the greatest urgency and so we are enlisting the aid of spearwort as an ally. Spearwort will greatly increase your inner fire. And when you sit between two wildfires, you enter a vast cauldron of forces flowing through you like the wind. Changes in power within you are reflected by chants outside you, for all the patterns of wyrd are present in the body in the same way as they are present in the sun, moon and stars.’
I was having great difficulty in following what Wulf was saying. He was staring into my face, his eyes holding my attention for fleeting moments before my attention wandered. His voice broke in and out of my thoughts along with the chirp and chatter of the birds in the trees. In between, my mind again pictured episodes from my childhood like reflections in a still pool; flat, silent, but accurate in every detail.
Wulf left me for a time, though I occasionally glimpsed him piling more wood on to the fires. I took off my tunic and then my shoes and sat naked on the grass, tasting the salt of sweat running into my mouth and feeling it trickling down the inside of my arms.
When the sun had climbed high in the sky, Wulf returned and crouched in front of me, examining my eyes carefully. Then he placed his palms on my forehead and the back of my neck. I could feel the heat in my head pulsing against his cool hands. He felt down the entire length of my spine with his fingers, taking plenty of time, pressing at various points on my back.
His eyes were sparkling his white teeth bared in a broad grin.
‘You are doing well, Brand. Your life-force is now increased ten-fold. Soon your cauldron of power will be boiling over and pulsing along your fibres. This is where lies the power of the sorcerer: the ability to control the source of inner life-force and raise the level to such an extent that power radiates along his fibres and throughout the web of wyrd. If you can generate enough power you will be able to project your shadow-soul along your fibres and into the Underworld, where your fibres will be re-woven like a pattern-welded blade. The magical smiths of the Underworld fire the swords and knives of sorcery by transmuting Mother Earth’s metals in the flames of wildfire. Likewise they will forge your fibres in the cauldron of your own inner fire.’
Wulf piled more wood on to the fires, building them higher and hotter. I drank two more cups of spearwort, which now tasted stronger and more bitter than before. For a time I felt sick and faint. Jumbles of thoughts and memories, especially incidents from my childhood, drifted repeatedly through my m
ind like autumn leaves on a stream. Images from childhood dreams floated in front of my eyes and disembodied voices from years ago, including my own, sounded inside my head. Eventually I seemed to sleep. I awoke at one point, briefly, feeling much better. I had surging spasms down my back which at first I took to be aching muscles from sitting so long but when I concentrated my attention on the sensations I realized that they felt like tiny droplets of heat trickling down my backbone. I slipped back into sleep.
When I awoke again I was sitting bolt upright. My head felt as if it would burst, full of heat and fire, my spine charged with surging heat, my fingers tingling, legs throbbing. I experienced a tremendous sensation of power and strength, as if I could have leaped to my feet and uprooted the nearest oak.
Wulf materialized at my side.
‘Your wildfire is melting the ice-bonds of your shield-skin,’ he said. His voice seemed to tremble, whether with excitement or urgency I could not tell. ‘In continuously breathing out our skin-shield, we thereby clamp our soul in layers of confinement; layers which define our existence but enslave our souls.’
He reached out and patted my face gently. ‘The ice of your shield-skin is dripping off your chin,’ he said.
I wiped my face with my palms. My face was drenched with sweat and my soaked hair lay matted flat against my scalp.
‘The shield-skin clamps our soul like the bonds of frost,’ he murmured. ‘The heat of your inner cauldron must be stoked to such a level that the frost melts. Just as a snake cannot grow until it sheds its skin, so you cannot extend your soul until you shed the restrictions of your shield-skin.’