by Rebecca Tope
The stranger’s mobile brows jerked up to meet his straight fair fringe, and he blew his lips out in a pouf of surprise. ‘Indeed?’ he said. ‘And did man’s law not mete out punishment for this desperate crime?’
Cuthman was silent, and I suspected he had not followed the man’s meaning. I put in, ‘Take no notice - he never killed his Da. My man died from a seizure whilst threshing the corn. My son was a morning’s walk away, minding the sheep when it happened. He’s a Godly lad, and feels in need of a cleansing. My legs don’t work right, so he made me this barrow.’
With narrowed eyes, the man tried to follow my explanation, evidently suspicious of us now.
‘You have no coin, I presume?’ he said.
‘None,’ I confirmed. ‘Folk like us have no need for suchlike.’
‘Then I wish you God’s favour on your pilgrimage,’ he concluded, before beginning to walk on his way. ‘For you’ll be in need of it.’
‘Thank’ee for that,’ I threw back over my shoulder. Cuthman said nothing, but lifted the barrow’s handles and began to push again.
‘Don’t speak of killing your Da again,’ I said to him, after a little while.
‘What say?’ he queried, bending forward so his cheek came close to mine. I turned my head and repeated my words.
‘Tis true, though,’ he replied.
‘Whether ‘tis or no, it be a foolish boast to make to strangers.’
‘Hmm, hmm,’ was all I could hear. Without seeing his face, I could have little notion of how he was taking my words, but I could guess that he was struggling with a sullenness at being accused of boasting. Annoyance washed through me. The boy was scarcely more than a child, for all his physical strength, and it was my place as his mother to see that he conducted himself wisely amongst people. I resolved to keep a close watch on what he said to anyone we met from henceforth.
‘Was that man English?’ he said, later.
‘Seemed like.’ I had been drifting, half dreaming, and couldn’t think at first. ‘Light hair, and tall. We live in an English land, son. ‘Tis us that’s the strangers these days. Remember that.’
The distinctions between English and British and Celt had never meant much to the folk in the village. We understood that there were struggles between the three - and others besides - each with their own ideas of church and government, each with Kings hoping to be lord over great parts of the country, but very little of this affected our lives. Now and then a village lad would be fired up by some news and declare himself a fighter for one side or another, but it would generally come to naught, unless he knew where he might go to join the battle. Outsiders such as Edd and I had been were careless and ignorant of such matters. Nothing would change the moors and the trouble it took to wrest a living from them. How it came about that Cuthman was so taken with Christ, with so few about to influence him, was a mystery I have never properly solved.
Cuthman whistled again, which quickly became a sign to me that he was deep in thought, working out some matter in his head. Finally he said, ‘But our people were living on this land before the English came. How can we be strangers?’
‘They defeated our kings,’ I told him, feeling my head throb with the effort of making sense of the shreds of understanding I possessed. ‘They came after the Romans left, a great age ago.’
‘Ah,’ he murmured, and said no more for a long time. I fell to wondering about the ways in which a youngster gained knowledge of the world, as he grew to manhood. Edd and I had never talked about such matters with the children. Rannoc had perhaps brought word from the wider world, gleaned from travellers passing through the village. Cuthman and Wynn had once or twice walked down to visit their uncles, staying a night or two, and hearing who knows what stories. But such thin gleanings scarcely accounted for the burning passion that now filled Cuthman’s heart. He had a knowledge of Christ and the All-seeing God which seemed could only come from direct experience. Yet again, I relived the vision I had had of the angel who visited Cuthman on the moor, and knew that my son was blessed in a special way. That angel had taught him everything that mattered. It was the angel’s doing that we were on our pilgrimage now, and there was no more that either my son or I needed to know.
As the day wore on, food became our greatest concern. Knowing that Cuthman would be hungry before I was, I kept silent, trusting he would find a meal for us. We had travelled perhaps for four hours, gradually coming to lower country, with a strange tang on the breeze. Then suddenly we crested a small rise and saw a large town spread before us, with a broad river running through it, sparkling in the sunshine. I saw it first, and gave a gasp of amazement. I had not known such a great settlement could exist so close to our lonely moorland home.
Cuthman must have looked up and seen it at my gasping, and stopped to look. ‘Tis Esceter,’ he concluded. ‘I heard tell of it.’
Of course, I remembered then, and felt foolish. I had known that there was a town by some such name, but had believed it further off than a mere day and a half’s walk away. ‘Shall we be going there?’ I ventured nervously. I shrank from the idea of passing through busy streets in my strange cart.
‘Maybe,’ he grunted, heaving the barrow handles up again and heading towards the town. As the road turned southwards, we found ourselves passing below a high well-built wall stretching for a hundred paces or more. There was a gateway halfway along its length and a small group of men standing in conversation beside it. They were all dressed alike in plain sackcloth, with rosary beads tied at their waists.
‘Monks,’ I exclaimed. ‘Tis a monastery, son. They’ll give us alms, if we ask.’
The men all turned together to stare at us, as we approached. One smiled widely, even laughing for a moment before clapping a hand over his mouth. He was a stout youngster, with healthy red cheeks and bright dark eyes.
‘A penitent!’ cried another. ‘Bless my soul, a very real penitent, carting his ancient relative before him.’
Did I seem so old? I wondered. I didn’t feel any older than I had on the day I married Edd, despite my crippled legs and helplessness. I still had my moon-bleeding, could still grow and nurture a child if I chose. There was grey in my hair, perhaps, and lines on my face from the harshness of my life in recent times, but for all that, I was displeased to be so perceived.
The monks crowded round us, welcoming and excited. They escorted us in through the gate, and in a whirl of attention we were quickly settled onto a wooden bench in a large room with rich broth in bowls before us and large hunks of oaten bread. Many other monks came to view us, and to question Cuthman. They seemed to regard me as a kind of doll, with no brain or tongue of my own. They gave my son strong drink, which made him talkative and boastful. But I noticed he was careful not to say too much about what had befallen us. He portrayed himself as a shepherd boy who had failed to provide for himself and me, due in part to the thin land and my being crippled, but also to his own sinfulness. He told them he had a call from God to leave that place and take his mother with him. ‘I have a purpose,’ he said. ‘And if I can fulfil it, then God will forgive me my wicked acts.’ The drink was strong, and he wept a little at these last words. But it seemed to me something of a pretence, with none of the anguish I had witnessed in months gone by.
‘It is customary for penitential pilgrims to spend never more than a single night in one place,’ said one monk. ‘Might this be the case with you, young Cuthman?’
I could see that this was a new thought for the lad. Glancing quickly at me, he nodded. A weariness fell over me. We were never to settle, then, never to lay our heads down with a sigh of relief, knowing we could make the place our home for a week or so. How long would we manage to continue in such a way, always moving on, meeting and parting, building shelters and leaving them again next morning? If we had so soon reached Exeter – as the monks pronounced it - would we not reach the eastern borders of this island home within a blessedly short time? At least, I thought, we might find Cuthman’s mysterious purpo
se all the sooner for our constant travelling.
We were fed handsomely by the monks, in a great hall warmed by massive fires. There was music and song which made me think of angels and joyful things. More people than I could count were there, laughing and talking, embracing each other with a light in their eyes that I had never seen before. I watched my son as he gazed around him, a daft grin on his face. ‘Here is the true meaning of God’s love,’ he whispered. ‘I feared I might never find it.’
The young red-cheeked monk came to sit with us when the meal was over, and told us there would be a storytelling. ‘We have them most evenings,’ he said. I gasped in amazement. Such idleness! Such luxury! Since Bran had died, I had not heard of a single storytelling in our village, though there may have been a new young successor practising in a small way.
‘We have many here who can unfold a tale for us,’ the monk continued. ‘They take turns. Tonight we have a lad by the name of Samson, baptised after the great Saint. He does well enough.’
I was eager to hear the story, and was restless until it began a little while later, all the people settling comfortably on their benches, elbows on the great oak tables, the younger ones squatting on the floor close by one of the fires. Their shadows flickered, blurred by wisps of woodsmoke, and I was powerfully reminded of the night we had heard the story of Geat and his lost wife, when Cuthman had been such a little fellow.
The young Samson strolled to his place, and looked up at the rafters for a few moments until everyone fell silent. Then he began abruptly, his voice much louder than I had expected.
‘When Jesus’s cousin John was murdered, the Saviour was stricken with grief. King Herod had so hated and feared the message of God that he cast John into prison. Herod had broken a holy law in taking his brother’s wife as his own, and the Baptist would not keep silent about this. The King believed that he was above all law, and could do whatever he liked. The woman was beautiful, and there was nothing more to be said.
‘But this is not the story of John the Baptist. You know that one well enough. How Herod ordered him to be killed, down in the cold dark dungeons, and his head was severed with a great sword, and put on a great golden platter, and served to the wicked new Queen, just as she had wished. No, I will not tell you that story tonight.’
A cheerful roar of protest filled the hall, and some monks banged their fists or cups on the tables. Samson put his hands together and bowed his head, waiting. With some whistles and calls, the noise died away and he looked up.
‘As I said, our Lord was filled with sadness when he heard the news. Herod had killed God’s first great messenger since the Messiah had been born, and now it was His time to walk out and take the Baptist’s place. And much more than that, indeed. He had to show Himself as the true Messiah, knowing of course, how it would all end for Him, before He even began. He must call upon all the people in the land to follow God and change their wicked ways. He must give great signs of His purpose, not just to a few people in the narrow city streets, where He had healed the sick and told His parables, but to multitudes. Imagine, brothers, how He felt then.’ He paused, looking round the hall, as I remembered Bran had done. I felt pictures coming into my head, of the lonely Christ, afraid of what He must do, perhaps uncertain of how He should do it. In my mind, the figure of Christ had my son’s features, and He sat on a moorland tor, with sheep all around Him as He pondered his task.
‘So, He found a way to get away for a few days, that He might gather His strength for what was to come. He took ship, onto the open sea, and travelled a distance to a desert area. It was a test, perhaps, for Himself and the people. If they had enough faith to follow Him out of their comfortable cities into the hot stony desert, bringing no food with them, not knowing what would be said or what they might be persuaded to do, then the mission would have begun.
‘News spread that the strange prophet Jesus was in the hot desert and would speak of the Kingdom of Heaven and the glory of God to anyone who would go and listen. And so, brothers, a wonderful thing happened. Hundreds and thousands of people walked out of their cities, bringing their old and their sick and their new little babies, to hear this man. Imagine it, if you can.’ And he fell quiet again. Now my head was filled with images of barefoot people, brown-skinned in the blazing sun, walking steadily to a far spot where nobody ever went, leaving their work and their animals to care for themselves. Young children struggled to keep up, crying when they became lost or tired. Some dogs would have followed this extraordinary crowd, and perhaps a few lonely shepherds who lived in the desert would have left their sheep and followed, curious to discover what was happening.
I knew already about walking into the unknown, and about the power of a great speaker to bring colour into hard lives.
‘Jesus waited, in the sun, praying to his Father in Heaven and sending blessings on the soul of his dead cousin. Slowly, he understood that his plan was a greater success than he had ever imagined it could be. When he roused himself from his meditations, he saw a vast multitude of people spread out in front of him, quietly waiting for his words.
‘I believe, then, that He wept a little. For one man, such a thing might be too much. His heart filled with love and gratitude and concern at the cut feet and the weariness of the old who had walked so far. Eagerly, He went amongst them, smiling and greeting them. He laid His hands on those with hurt bodies, and made them well again. He was filled with understanding of their needs. Not just their bodies were tired and sick, but their spirits also had become pale and mean, for lack of anyone to guide them.
‘All day He walked among the people, and spoke to them, making them feel that they were loved and cherished by the Almighty God, who knew all their thoughts and forgave them for their wrongdoings.’
Cuthman stirred at this part, clutching his hands together and darting a look at me. I knew why he did so, and smiled my reassurances. I was reminded very strongly of the little lad who had heard Bran’s story, so many years before, listening as intently as he did now. What power these tellers of tales possess, arousing passions they might barely understand.
Samson’s voice was dropping to a quieter pitch, as his story proceeded. ‘Evening came, and the people had eaten nothing all day. The disciples came to Jesus and said the people would have to go and buy food, since there was nothing for them to eat in the desert. The children were whining with hunger and the whole crowd had become restless and worried about the night to come. There were villages not too distant that they could go to, if they left before darkness fell.
‘But Jesus said He did not want the people to leave, and they would be fed where they were. The disciples protested, saying there was really no food to speak of. There were five thousand men in the crowd, as well as countless women and children, all wanting their bellies filled. Between them, they could find no more than five loaves and two fishes, which was hardly enough to feed ten or fifteen men.
‘But Jesus said the loaves and the fishes would do handsomely. He put the food in a small pile beside Him, and then He closed His eyes and raised His face to heaven to say a blessing on the food. The crowd of people waited, uncertain whether they should trust Him - well, how would you feel?’ Samson suddenly looked directly at Cuthman, and frowned. ‘You, lad. If you had gone all day with nothing to eat, and night-time was drawing on, would you believe that a paltry collection like that would be enough to share amongst so many thousands? Think about it. How much would you expect to get to yourself? Less than a single crumb! Am I right?’
Cuthman stood up, which I thought was more than he need have done. ‘I hope, sir,’ he said, in a defiant voice, ‘that I would have enough faith in the Saviour to wait my share. If I had spent the day in such blessed holy company, I think I might learn to trust him.’ He stood silent for a moment, and then a great noise of banging and whistling echoed around the hall, as the monks showed their approval for his words.
‘Well said, boy!’
‘The penitent is a holy fellow!’
Samson waited for silence and then continued. ‘You know how the miracle turned out. Jesus caused the multitude to sit in orderly ranks, and broke the loaves and fishes into pieces, and handed the pieces to the disciples, who carried them to the crowd. The food was passed along the lines, so that everyone had all he needed. Crusts and pieces of broken bread were dropped on the ground, as the people ate their fill. Baskets were produced to collect all these broken fragments, so as not to leave a great disarray behind. When this was done, there were twelve baskets full of uneaten pieces of bread. So, young man, you would have been right to trust your Lord, would you not? Not one of those many thousands went hungry as they left the desert and went home to talk about the wonderful man they had seen and heard that day.’
Thinking the story finished, I began to flex my arms, and try to rub some life into my useless legs. Then I turned to Cuthman, intending to ask him to take me to our sleeping place. But before I could speak, Samson began again, after only a momentary pause.
‘The story tells us more about that remarkable day. Jesus told His disciples they should return to their homes by ship, as they had come, while He remained to oversee the departure of the multitude. He loved those people so much, that He wanted to wait until the last of them had left for their walk home, which would take many of them far into the night. He wished them God speed, told them to be joyful and trustful, and to remember the things He had said to them through the day.
‘When they had all gone, he went up to a mountaintop, to pray and to consider all the events of the day. He stayed there through the first part of the night, but then was disturbed by the knowledge that His disciples were having difficulties in their ship, out on the open sea. The wind was tossing the little boat from wave to wave, until the men in it were terrified for their lives.