The View From the Cart

by Rebecca Tope

  At last my son sat down beside me, and looked seriously into my face. He seemed ten years older than when I last saw him. ‘We must try to carry on here through the winter, Mam,’ he said. ‘I will tend the sheep, as always, and make time to gather the apples and the eggs. The hogs have all run away, but I will see if I can catch one and kill it for bacon. If you could just move a little, you can bake the bread, and keep the fire alive. You’ll need it in here, when the weather turns cold and you can’t move about to keep warm. We won’t starve, I promise you.’

  ‘And after the winter?’ I questioned, picking up the way he’d chosen his words.

  ‘We may have to leave, if you’re not better by then. Don’t think about that yet. Just make sure you eat properly and keep yourself warm.’

  ‘While you do your penance,’ I muttered, half hoping he wouldn’t hear me.

  ‘While I do my penance,’ he echoed, with a bitter laugh.

  The sheep were troublesome that winter. It was mild and wet and they became ill and miserable. Cuthman was in a like condition. He was forced to come home when darkness fell, but remained restlessly out in the barn or yard trying to keep pace with the work. The rats ate our corn and stole many of the eggs. The damp got everywhere, so that mud and mildew became the universal substance, even in the hut. I began to cough and grow thin and wished myself dead.

  We struggled on. Spenna and one or two others brought us flour and vegetables, and ensured that we had enough provisions to celebrate Christ’s Mass in a poor way. Cuthman killed a fowl and we cooked it on a spit over the smoky fire. We had a turnip and some apples baked in their skins. The clay pot we used was chipped and blackened beyond recognition from being pushed into the fire so often. It made me think of Wynn, who was surely lost to us by this time. Was she a real potter now, making pots like this? I wept at memories of my baby girl and how willing and serious she had been.

  My back did not ease as it had done the first time. It stiffened so that I almost forgot the possibility of walking. I learned to hitch myself about on my hands, legs awkwardly bent underneath me. I felt like a leper I had seen once. A group of missionaries had brought him through the village when I was young, not helping him as he made his insect-like way along, showing him as a warning of what happened to sinners. The man had been cruel in some way, and the leprosy had quickly struck him down. His legs were misshapen lumps of flesh, wrapped in dirty cloths, and his hands were turned under, like the feet of animals, so he walked on his knuckles.

  I was a constant reproach to my son, as I dragged myself across the dirty floor. It became my habit to sit all day beside the fire, keeping it fed and preparing bread or stew to cook. Cuthman set up my loom, and I wove a little, but it hurt my shoulders and I feared I would become crippled there too if I did too much. Slowly we became poorer, until we had nothing left but the sheep and a half dozen fowls. We could not barter for the necessities, and as the stores of food dwindled away, we had no way of replacing them. We never spoke of it, but we knew that some sort of decision would soon be forced upon us.

  One morning, when it was still dark, there was a great cackling amongst our few remaining fowls and Cuthman rushed out to do what he could to save them. A fox had dug its way into the coop and was laying about itself on all sides, killing every bird. Cuthman saved only a single one. Savagely he brought the dead bodies into the hut and threw them on the floor. It seemed to be the final straw for him. His loss of self-mastery frightened me, though I was partly hoping that he would forget himself so completely that he would kill me and have done with the sorry midden that was his family now.

  I watched him, a grey shape against the winter dawn. He looked young and unformed, his joints too large and no flesh on his ribs. ‘We can use the feathers and salt the meat,’ I said, when he seemed calm enough to hear me.

  ‘The fox will be back tonight for his kill,’ he snarled. ‘I shall fix a trap for ’n – to teach the sod a lesson.’ And he strode out again and was gone for an hour banging and cutting some poles into place and filling the hole dug by the fox with large stones.

  At daybreak, he came in again, looking tired and sick, but no longer angry. Something new was in his face, as if he had come through some purifying flame. Perhaps, I thought, it was merely the morning sun on him. It was a fine day, at Imbolc, and it came to me that it might well be the anniversary of Cuthman’s birth, fifteen or sixteen years gone.

  ‘I be late for the sheep,’ he said, and went out again, seeming to be in a daze. I realised too late that he had left without eating, and had taken nothing with him. By midday he would be starving. There was nothing in the fields to gather, unless he killed and ate another forbidden hare.

  That day was a fateful one, from the first. I sat plucking the dead birds, gathering the feathers into a bag, enjoying the warm softness of them, dreaming of how it might be to have an angel to care for you. How those great wings would feel, wrapped close about a suffering body, so loving and safe. How it had always been a pleasure to feel beneath a sitting hen, where there was a tiny world of delicious warmth. I drifted into a trance of some kind, seeing my poor thin lad on the moors, watching his disobedient sheep, who always tried to reach the furthest tors from home. I could feel his hunger, the pain it brought him and the restless misery.

  And then I saw, as if painted on the greenish wall of the hut, a great glowing angel come to him, and promise to care for the sheep while he came home for some food. The angel showed him how to draw a circle in the heather, around the flock, which would confine them while he was away. He took his crook and drew the circle, and then, with a single backward glance, came leaping down the steep hillside to the hut. Quickly, I dragged the stewpot closer to the fire, to warm the gruel it contained. And I fetched out the last piece of bacon we had, and set it on the griddle above the fire, banking up the peat and adding some sticks for a quick heat.

  Cuthman came in as the second side of the bacon was beginning to sizzle. The strange glow that had been on him in the morning was now a great radiance.

  ‘We’re saved, Mam!’ he shouted. ‘God has forgiven me!’

  ‘I know, son. I saw it all.’ And we hugged, tight and long, from the relief and the sense that we had been most undeservedly fortunate.

  Chapter Eight

  The sheep were as if frozen into stone statues when Cuthman went back to relieve them from their holy circle. He described them to me later, in wonderment. The angel was gone, although he looked earnestly for it. I had no more visions of what was happening on the uplands. But everything had changed. Cuthman knew now what he must do. He spoke to me of it that same eventful day, when he came in at nightfall.

  ‘We must sell the sheep and go away,’ he told me, as if it had been quite plain all along. I stared at him, trying to make sense of the words go away.

  ‘There be monasteries and such, where folks can find food and lodgings. ‘Tisn’t right here. There’s somewhere better awaiting us. I’ll find it.’

  ‘But,’ I whined, ‘I can’t walk.’

  ‘I’ll carry you,’ he laughed and I couldn’t argue further. He was so changed, all the shame and misery fallen from him now that his God had pardoned his sin. It lightened my heart so much to see him that I half believed I could walk again if I tried it hard enough. So much was different since that morning, it seemed possible that Cuthman would indeed carry me across the country until he found whatever it was he had been promised. I felt no grief at the prospect of leaving the cold hut with mildew on the walls, though it chilled my heart to think of leaving my husband’s grave all alone outside.

  Next day, he set his mind to the problem of how I could be transported, and came home with an idea for a wheeled barrow, with two stout handles, in which I could sit. I was horrified. ‘I’ll be too heavy,’ I protested. ‘You couldn’t push me more’n a half mile before your arms dropped off.’ He scratched his head, and thought some more.

  Selling the sheep proved not to be easy. It was the wrong season for taking t
hem into market, heavy with lamb as they were. Any buyer would have to find grazing for them and a shepherd to watch them. It was coming to the busy time, preparing ground for seeding and scraping around for foodstuff for people and animals, after a winter of using stores, and nobody had time or coinage to spare. Cuthman grew restless and quick-tempered. At last he said, ‘The Devil can take the sheep. We paid naught for them, so it isn’t right to get payment for them now. They can go free and take their chances on the moor.’

  The thought of leaving the hut with no possessions and nothing to barter with was so terrifying that I scarcely allowed myself to consider it. Something would save us, or my back would be cured. Some wonder would occur, which would make it possible for us to stay. Days went by and Cuthman said no more about the wheeled cart. But the weather turned bitter, and my chattering teeth and aching limbs took my mind away completely. I was a helpless bundle, ready for any fate that might befall me.

  Perhaps it was this powerlessness which gave me the idea. Or perhaps the spirit of my mother’s mother was watching me, and entered my head one sharp morning when flurries of snow whirled over the moors, and Cuthman wrapped himself as warm as he could in felted clothes and boots, before going out to bring in water and turnips. I fed the fire with the meagre sticks we still had, and rubbed my hands hard, stroking them over my face, to give it some warmth. I remembered, then, that my grandmother had done this same thing on a cold day, sometimes laying her glowing palms on my cheeks, too. Her hands were always warm.

  The human spirit is unquenchable, it seems to me. There I sat, awkward, cold, hungry. More like an injured animal than a child of God, my thoughts rambling aimlessly, scarcely noticing what my son was about. We might be leaving the hut, to journey who knows where, or we might simply starve and freeze to death before any such plan could be put into effect. I can’t recall now that I cared unduly which fate might befall us. But somehow a voice began to speak, inside my head, slowly repeating the lines that my grandmother had taught me.

  Good against evil; youth against age; life against death; light against darkness.

  All must struggle. Armies, enemies, foes, all struggle across the land, laying blame each on the other.

  Watching the flickering smoky flames of my fire, I savoured the words, which seemed to contain all the truth of existence in them. And there was more. The words were the opening to the magic poem of divination and prophecy that explained the rune signs. I had not remembered it complete for twenty years or more, but now it returned, and I knew I must make good use of it.

  Propelled by some force outside myself, I took an old earthenware crock, and smashed it against the hearthstone. It broke unevenly, and I carefully reduced the larger pieces to smaller shards, until I had enough for each of the rune signs. Cuthman came in, but paid me no notice. My fingers were stiff and scrabbling, but I was performing a task that seemed to be of great importance. With an old nail, I scratched each sign on the plain side of the crock, repeating as I did, its name and the lines concerning it from the ancient poem.

  Feoh, I began, my heart already lifting at the first propitious symbol. Wealth is a comfort to all men, yet each must give freely for the good of his soul. And wealth brings the wolves from the forest. I formed the simple upright with two side shoots, pointing upwards.

  Ur. The next was equally simple, three lines, standing sturdy, the lefthand leg longer than the right. The auroch is fierce, with great horns. It is a mighty moor-stepper. Strong and fearless, willing to fight. But a man with courage and cunning can kill the auroch.

  Thorn. Sharp and painful, cruel to those who live amongst them. Living with thorns will bring fiends on your head. Thorn-dwellers endanger their own souls. I marked it, a standing stroke with an angled line like an arm akimbo on the right hand side.

  Os. The mouth, bringing a message of hope, Woden’s prophecy comes in words of wisdom. This, the fourth rune, had been chosen by Wynn at her girlhood ceremony. Messages and gifts. As I scratched it, I thought of my girl, separated from me forever now, carrying her own blessing with her. I was comfortable about her now, glad that she no longer shared the cold and hunger of her childhood home. Fancifully I drew the simple double lip lines, appended to a vertical, as thorn was.

  Rad. A journey, long and hard. Only the prepared should undertake to travel. It is easier to dream than to do the act. But it is travellers who determine the affairs of man. The foolish should bide at home. I mumbled the words aloud, forming the sign awkwardly, thinking of the promised journey ahead of me, half hoping that Cuthman was merely dreaming about it, and not ready to undertake it in reality.

  Cen. A torch to bring light to all creatures. It gathers all those together who share a common purpose. Wisdom and hope are the torchflames, courage makes it burn more brightly. A rune that resembled the brazier, perhaps, containing the pitch for the burning torch. I drew it firmly, the nail digging through the surface of the shard. My grandmother, I recalled, had favoured Cen as the rune she most wished to draw from the closed bag.

  Gyfu. A gift. Giving brings its own rewards. No-one is so rich that he will not welcome a gift. It may be easier to give than to receive. Be sure to respect those who make you a gift. I considered this thought for a moment. What gift would I ever have to give to anyone now? Even my body was a piece of wreckage. I made the mark for Gyfu irritably – two crossed lines, careful to meet each other centrally.

  Wynn. I had named my firstborn for this happiest of all the signs. Joy, was her name in another word. Those who are winsome are contented yet compassionate, generous and open-hearted. The wynn rune conjures a happy laughing child to mind. To draw it in divination brings a lifting of the heart, a promise of comfort and delight. A neat arrowlike shape.

  Hail. I looked out into the chill day, where the sky still spilled sleet. It was close enough for this rune to carry forever afterwards the memory of this scene, for me. Hail is a destroyer, laying waste the crops standing ripe in the field. Hail swirls in the cold wind, and then returns to water.

  I drew it small, on one of the lesser shards, hoping it would hide away at the bottom of the bag and never come forth at the divining.

  Need. The sign of a crooked cross, an unhappy rune, bringing hardship and discomfort. Need can bring help if attended to from the first, it can bring contentment if we confront it. Need of a friend can hurt more than need of a loaf. I had never fully understood these lines. To be cold and hungry, with no hope of heat or food in view, has always seemed to me the worst fate of all.

  Ice. The easiest to mark on the shard of crockery. A single standing line. Ice is cold and slippery. It is hard to hold, and we can make no headway when we try to walk on it. In icy times, we can only wait and do nothing.

  Year. The four seasons, the Queen of Heaven, Frey, making the earth give forth its richness. Use her gifts wisely, and be patient.

  Yew. An ancient tree, strong and always green. Its roots go deep into the centre of the earth, where the elves and dwarves do dwell. The seven worlds, like the Web of Wyrd, all know the yew.

  Theord. Music and laughter, storytelling and companionship. Friendship together, in a time of ease.

  Elksedge. The bullrushes growing at the edge of the fens, its roots in the water. It wounds and burns those who grasp it. Be wary of grabbing for support at that which comes to hand. This way can lead to pain and sorrow. A mark like the horn of the great stag that roams the moor, calling harshly in the rutting season, dangerous to confront. Elksedge seemed the most masculine of the runes. A risky companion, liable to betray.

  Sigel. The sun, over the great ocean, bringing joy to the seaman, bringing a fair journey and good fortune. Its bright light chases away fear, and warms the sea and the earth. Not the simple life-giving sun in all its many glories, but the sun that lights the traveller to the end of his journey – in particular the traveller over water. I closed my eyes for a moment, hoping earnestly that my son and I would have no cause to travel over water. Such a prospect was more than terrifying.r />
  Tiw. The warrior’s friend, the God of courage, aggression and glory. He shines like a star out of the darkness, and is always there for those who need him. He is the most powerful of the Sky Gods. Warriors and travellers look to his brightly burning light. Tiw is an arrow, a spear, shining and trustworthy.

  Birch. A tree that is glorious in its branches and pale trunk, heavy with leaves, high in the sky. The tree of fertility, healing and magic. It sprouts many shoots. Woden marked runes on the twigs of the birch. The tree of the sorcerer and witch, the wood of rune wands and magic. Birches grow straight and tall, but the rune was not like that. It was not easy for me to mark accurately, with two bulges, one above the other, on the right-hand side of the upright. I made it clumsily, my hand tiring of its task by this time. There were always more runes than I recalled at first. Tumbling symbols, messages from the other world, between them summing all the experiences that mortals are prone to.

  Next comes Eh, the old word for the horse. Friend of the rich and restless, an object of great pride to his owner, aid to fast travel and great adventures. I had seldom seen a true horse, only the smaller ponies that lived wild on the hilltops. Kings had horses, and armies used them for the battles.

  I sat back, with my growing pile of finished shards. Still another dozen to do and already the light was fading. I could not slacken from the task. As I worked, the project seemed more and more important. These scribbled fragments would be my constant companions. With them, I could perhaps foresee something of what was to come, and be prepared. My grandmother had been well known as a seer, who never betrayed surprise at events as they unfolded. If I could attain something of her calm, I would be well pleased. Why, I asked myself, had I not done this long ago.

  Man came next. Man as betrayer and friend, Loyal but suspicious. Living in society, but always alone. We die in solitude, the gaping grave awaiting us.

  Water followed. The terror of voyaging by ship, the crashing waves always a threat. No-one can truly conquer his fear of the sea, and yet it will take him to far-off lands, to meet with strangers.