The View From the Cart

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘After their long day, with the miracle of the loaves and fishes still so fresh in their minds, they were too tired to be courageous. Without their master, they believed they would drown, and resigned themselves to their fate. Then Peter noticed a ghostly white figure walking towards them. “Look!” he cried. “What can that be?” The others all stared through the darkness, the stormy clouds hiding the moon, so they could barely see anything. Then the clouds cleared, and in one voice, they cried, it is the Master! But someone said, “It cannot be. It is a spirit. We will drown now, for sure. It is Death, come for our souls.” And the others all believed him, and fell crying and moaning to their knees.

  ‘So Jesus called out to them, telling them to cease their wailing and have courage. Little by little, they stopped their noise and watched with open mouths as He walked across the sea to them. Peter, still unsure, demanded, “Lord, if it be Thou, help me to walk on the water with Thee.”

  ‘Jesus smiled and held out his hands. “Come then, Peter. See for yourself.” And Peter climbed over the side of the boat and began to walk on the water, towards his Master.’

  Again Samson looked towards Cuthman, this time miming the unsure steps that Peter took across the sea. ‘Walking on water, lad. What d’ye think of that? Would you have had Peter’s courage, in the dark windy night? How would you place your feet, with naught beneath them but deep water?’

  Cuthman stood up once more, his narrow boy’s chest swelling with the certainty of his answer. ‘I should have done it willingly. Had they not just seen how he fed the great crowd with next to nothing? I should have done it, and thought little of it.’

  The whistling was less boisterous this time, but once again Cuthman gained approval for his words. I saw Samson smile to himself, as a wise man might smile at a promising child - as if he might be sure there was some hope for times to come if there were lads such as this growing to manhood.

  ‘But Peter was not like you, my boy,’ the storyteller confided, with a sad shake of his head. ‘Peter did think about it. He looked about him, at the tossing waves, and the boat away behind him, and the Lord Jesus many paces distant, and he felt very much afraid. And as soon as that fear seized him, he was lost. The water opened up beneath him, and he began to fall through. “Save me, Lord,” he cried. And in an instant, Jesus was holding him, safe in those holy arms. He carried Peter back to the boat, and with a wave of His hand, He calmed the wind, so that they could sail peacefully into harbour.

  ‘From that day, all the disciples believed, beyond any doubts, that Jesus was the Messiah, the Son of God. And we must believe it, too, even though we may, like Peter, now and again need a sign to convince us.’

  Something about these final words inspired me, and I waved my arms above my head. ‘We have had a sign!’ I cried, quite forgetting myself. ‘My lad performs miracles, to give us all faith.’

  Cuthman was looking at me with a face full of horror. He hissed at me to be quiet, but I paid no attention. The great hall full of monks were all looking at me, some standing on benches to see where I sat so low down and hidden.

  ‘He made a magic circle, to keep his sheep from straying,’ I continued, faltering a little. ‘He called upon God for help, and an angel came and showed him what to do. It is true, brothers, I swear by Holy Jesus.’

  The monks muttered and laughed amongst themselves, and nobody seemed moved to question me further or take my story seriously. Those closest to me were kind and attentive, but they made haste to help Cuthman remove me to our sleeping place.

  ‘‘You shouldn’t have said that, Mam,’ Cuthman complained, as we lay down to sleep. ‘‘You made a show of me.’

  ‘The show was made before I said my piece,’ I argued. ‘And ‘tis true, every word. Seems to me, it should be spoken of, or what would be the purpose of it?’

  Cuthman grunted at that, and said no more.

  Chapter Eleven

  We slept late next morning, despite the early rising of the monks and their chanting and prayers. Our young friend from the day before finally came to rouse us with milk and bread to break our fast.

  ‘You come at an auspicious time,’ he told us. ‘We begin our Lenten fast tomorrow, and will be giving quantities of food away as alms. The storerooms are sorting the perishables today, and the kitchens are baking the Shrove cakes. If you go there before you leave, you’ll be given food enough for a week’s journeying.’

  We thanked him, although Cuthman appeared uneasy and awkward. When we alone again, I asked him the reason. ‘Tis too easy,’ he mumbled. ‘If they give us alms for a sennight, we’ll live too easy.’

  I sighed, a deep sigh of irritation. ‘Son,’ I reproached him. ‘They give us naught but food. You still have to push the cart, up hills and over rough tracks. You have to make shelters from sticks in the winter cold. Tis sure to rain or snow on us, besides. One of us’ll fall sick, no doubt, and folks’ll scorn us as we pass. Is that not enough for you, without having to kill things for food?’

  Stubbornly, he stared at the ground. By the way he had put on his outer tunic I could tell that his shoulders were stiff and sore from lugging the cart. And I had seen his hands were chafed and red, too. To judge by the chill air that had come in with the monk, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, too. From my vantage point, easy was not any kind of right word for our lives.

  At my insistence, we went to the kitchens, which were across a wide paved courtyard with a wooden statue of Christ as teacher in the middle. It stood, twice life size, looking down at an invisible group of disciples, one hand raised in admonishment. I could almost hear him telling Peter to have faith, or inviting the multitude to share the bounty of his five small loaves. His face was soft and compassionate. As I looked at it, I felt bathed in love, for me myself, without reservation. It was the first time I had truly understood why people follow Christ, although it seemed to me that the God who Cuthman was obeying was something quite different from this forgiving figure.

  Dogs and goats strolled freely about the monastery grounds, and there was laughter coming from a building close by. In another direction, a group of young boys was singing, like angels. A pile of stoneware jars beside a doorway indicated a pottery, and cowhides set to dry in the sun betrayed a tannery, too – which explained a lingering stink emanating from a workshop in a corner. This, I realised, was a community of craftspeople and teachers, devouts and pupils, together producing all they required for a rich and godly life. Small groups of monks walked in conversation, or helped each other with some task. Women and children, too, could be glimpsed in some buildings beyond a low wall, living alongside the menfolk. Wistfully, I imagined myself living here forever, sharing in the spirit of the place, which seemed to me to contain everything a person could ever wish for.

  But Cuthman evidently felt no such temptation. Purposefully, he pushed me in my barrow to the kitchens, and stood beside the door, still holding the handles, though resting the legs on the ground. ‘What are we waiting for?’ I asked, impatient for something to eat. There was a strong smell of baking about the place which increased my appetite.

  Before my son could speak, a stout man came to the door and noticed us. ‘Well, well,’ he bellowed, the image of ample generosity, ‘I see we have the miracle-maker and his crippled parent. I heard your claim at the story-telling,’ he said to me, bending his face down and shouting as if I must be deaf. ‘The lad casts spells on his sheep, do he?’

  ‘‘Tis true,’ I asserted, glaring at him. ‘And more besides.’

  ‘Hush, Mam,’ hissed Cuthman, turning a fiery red. ‘No need to speak of it.’

  ‘Be easy,’ said the great baker. ‘I believe ye. Why not?’ And he disappeared back into his kitchen without any further words. We waited, glancing doubtfully at each other, until he came back, his arms full of loaves and other foodstuffs. Carefully, he placed it around me in the barrow. A large piece of salt pork, two loaves of bread and some unleavened griddle cakes. Smacking himself on the head, he went back
for something more, and returned carrying a small linen bag, which he opened to reveal a quantity of nuts, coated with honey and hard-baked. ‘Try one,’ he offered. ‘They’re my special treat. Everyone loves them.’ Eagerly, I dipped in and popped one into my mouth. Trying to bite it, I found it dangerously hard, and desisted before I cracked a tooth. The honey coat melted slowly and deliciously as I held it in my cheek, and then the nut, with its clean crisp taste mingled with the sweetness. Amused, the man and boy watched my pleasure.

  ‘Like a little child,’ remarked the baker, but kindly. It was a struggle not to weep, so I busied myself with arranging the alms where they would be safe and not a discomfort to me.

  Cuthman cautiously took one of the sweet nuts for himself, before thanking the man and turning the barrow away. I thought we would leave then, without farewells or further business, but he pushed me back the way we had come. The cold wind persuaded him to shove my cart into the chamber where we had spent the night, edging it through the doorway until it stood strangely on the clean floor. Cuthman said I must stay there a while, for he had something he must do.

  ‘What thing is that?’ I demanded. ‘Take me, too. I wish to say my goodbyes to these kind people.’

  ‘I’ll say it for you,’ was all he replied, and walked off.

  He was gone a long time. I nibbled two more honeyed nuts, and tore several chunks from one of the loaves and ate them, while I waited. Nobody passed by who might have come to talk to me. If I had known how long he would be, I’d have asked to be taken out of the barrow again, so I could have moved around, if only at a creeping gait, and perhaps gone to the door and stopped a passing monk. After some time, I began to suspect that Cuthman had deliberately confined me, and I became angry. For the first time, I considered climbing out without any help. If I gripped the back of the barrow, close to the handles, I could perhaps drag myself over the board which supported me as we travelled. Then I could drop down to the floor, hands and arms first, without upsetting the whole cart and possibly hurting myself. But first, I would have to turn around, and twisting was always the most painful movement I could make.

  Carefully, I thought through how I might do it, shifting my weight onto one buttock, and trying to pull my legs round inside the barrow. There was not enough space. The narrow point at the front confined my feet and lower legs, and to move as I wanted would mean dangling them over one side. That would risk tipping over. Furiously, I admitted that I was trapped.

  So I began to shout. To start with, I was not too loud, thinking perhaps Cuthman was close by and had simply forgotten me in some absorbing conversation. The only thing I could think to call was his name. ‘Cuthman?’ I croaked, then cleared my throat and tried again, ‘Cuthman!’

  Nothing happened, so I raised the volume, as well as the pitch, until I was almost screaming. Quite suddenly, there were six or eight monks crowding into the doorway of the room, concern on all their faces. ‘The lad has forgot his mama,’ said one, partly in pity and partly derisive.

  I was in no doubt that I made a figure of fun, and this only increased my fury. Snarling like a captive wild beast, I told them to find my son, or to take me out of the cart and let me find him myself. A large smiling monk I didn’t remember seeing before stepped forward, both arms outstretched. He was pale-skinned, with the look of a child in his light eyes. I did not remember seeing him before.

  ‘Hey, Bartie!’ guffawed one of the others. ‘Now you can be a hero.’ His tone told me that this monk was not regarded seriously by the others. No doubt he was short of a few wits, and had been accepted into the monastery as a charitable favour. It mattered nothing to me. He was strong and willing, which was what I needed.

  ‘Here, Mother,’ he soothed me. ‘Let me help.’ His gentleness seemed to leak from him, without his meaning it. He lifted me, and I clung to him for a moment, enjoying the strength and man-smell of him. Then he cast round for somewhere to put me, settling finally on the low bed where I’d slept in the opposite corner to Cuthman. Fighting hard to keep my dignity, I sat up and pulled at my skirt.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, looking up at him. Behind him the other men were whispering and I remembered myself as a figure of fun. It seemed now that there were two of us to be sniggered over. The kind monk had caused me to think of myself as a respectable woman for a few moments, but it seemed I could no longer be something so ordinary. A new discomfort assailed me, as I realised an urgent need to piss. This would be my final humiliation, and I had no intention of bearing it.

  ‘I am better now,’ I said firmly. ‘Kindly find my son for me, and leave me to myself.’ For a moment, it seemed they would go with no more argument, even my gentle rescuer; but after his friends had shuffled outside, he seemed to think again and he turned back towards me.

  ‘Come, Mother. Let me take you out to find him for yourself. It pleases me to carry thee.’

  ‘There isn’t time,’ I objected, hastily. ‘We shall be leaving at any moment.’

  ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘We haven’t even found your son yet.’

  ‘At any rate, I must piss,’ I stated, throwing care to the winds. I began to propel myself across the floor to the pot in the corner, which Cuthman had emptied before he disappeared. The monk did not move, but his face darkened. When I glanced back at him, I thought it was anger at my crude words. Pissing had always been as open as spitting or sneezing amongst my people, but I had an idea that this may not be so amongst all folk, least of all in a monastery.

  The closer I got to the corner, the more urgent my need became. Since hurting my back the second time, I’d lost some control over myself, and knew it was unlikely I could hold on. The thought of a sodden stinking skirt chilling my backside and legs forced me to try, more than any worries about the gawping monk, still standing beside my bed.

  From long practice, I had learned how to balance myself on one hand, whilst hoiking up my skirts with the other, and pushing the pot underneath me. It must have looked ungainly, with my limbs at all angles and my bare white skin flashing out, but I had scant concern for that. A trickle had begun before I was properly seated, but no more than that. The flood, when it came, was prodigious. I closed my eyes with the relief, and the pleasure of a task achieved. Only a stifled gasp from the monk aroused me.

  He stood there, as before, but had a hand to himself, through the folds of his robe. I watched in round-mouthed amazement as he fiercely gripped and rubbed, gasping again, his face almost black. Then a great hilarity swept through me, and I had to keep both hands flat to the floor to prevent myself spilling the pisspot and myself into the resulting lake. The fellow was excited by my antics, I realised. Though how in the world a hag such as I was, bursting her waters in a shady corner, could be seen as an object of lust was a mystery. Fortunately, kind as he was, or perhaps sufficiently repelled by my age and infirmity, he had the wit to attend to himself. Once I had come across Edd in the same pursuit, in the barn, and then too had been amused. Like dogs when they scent a bitch in heat, I thought. They scarcely have to touch the thing and it spouts. I hoped the monk would find his sticky robe a discomfort for the remainder of the day, as I saw he had finished.

  The supreme challenge before us now was to part company without acknowledging that anything had taken place. A single word from either of us would be intolerable. It seemed he realised this, and swung himself towards the hut door, before the heat in his face could subside, and to judge from his curious spraddled gait, before he was quite abated between his legs. But my relief was premature. He turned back to me, tears standing in his eyes.

  ‘You have made me sin,’ he moaned. ‘I am not to do this thing; the Brothers have beaten me for it many a time. It was you, woman, who did it. Not me. I shall tell them that was so. There was no help for it. It was not my fault.’

  ‘Why tell them anything?’ I snapped. His misery was awful to see.

  ‘God has seen me. I must atone, and do penance.’ He turned away again, and this time left the hut.

 
With infinite care, I raised myself off the pot, and crept back to the bed. The chamber smelled now of human detritus and I spent some moments in thought. How seriously men took their organs of generation, attaching so many prohibitions and shamefulness to it. And what a price women paid for these attitudes. The monk truly did blame me for his weakness. Merely by making my body apparent to him, I had made him lose control. A small event, surely? Smaller and briefer than my pissing had been, in all likelihood. Would his God punish him for it? Had he weakened his immortal soul by it? Had it outweighed his kindness to me and the gentleness of his character? How trivial a thing it was, and yet it had been somehow terrible.

  There was something pushing at the back of my mind, connected to what had just happened. With a frown I searched for it, until it came clear. This was what Cuthman had done, or so I believed, out on the moor with his sheep, and as a result we were now on this quest. Cuthman had cursed himself for it, in some way I didn’t fully know. It was a sin which men alone comprehended, and for which they needed to atone so fiercely that the atonement could wreck their lives.

  It seemed important to me to hold onto this piece of wisdom. It made me feel powerful and I was grateful to the monk for his indulgence, which seemed now to have been most extraordinary. As if I had needed to witness what he did, before my own understanding could dawn.

  Cuthman came back then, and I could see that he too had learned something that morning. Two monks were with him, and they cast strange glances at him as they spoke between themselves, as if he were something amazing. The lad himself half smiled as he came to me and gave a brief apology for his long neglect of me.

  ‘We’ll be going now,’ he said, and gathered me into his arms without further debate. ‘Headed east, as before.’

  He settled me into the cart, a folded sack behind me and the alms tucked closely by my side I lifted my legs until my knees bent comfortably and my feet would lie snugly in the pointed front, as I always did. Hands in my lap, and head held high, I tried to act as if only the best of women find themselves transported in this way. I think something about Cuthman’s new demeanour influenced me. He seemed so much more sure of himself from that morning onwards, a man with a purpose, rather than a frightened boy fleeing from a hopeless poverty.