by Rebecca Tope
The monks stepped back as we passed, and one said loudly, ‘God be with ye, young Cuthman.’
‘And may thy faith blossom and bear fruit,’ said the other. Their faces were solemn, as if in the presence of an important personage. I clamped my lips tight together to prevent myself from questioning the boy before we were alone on the road. Then I burst out, like a pent-up spring, the words gushing from me, ‘Tell me, son, and quick. Why do they treat you so reverent and serious? What have you been telling them?’
He spoke slowly, as if half in a dream, behind me. ‘They asked about the sheep, so I told the whole thing about the angel and the circle. And other things, just a little. How God did speak on the moors, a few times, telling how I should do this cart. They wanted to know how I lived, as a little chap. Very excited, they were. Said I was a holy man.’
‘Man!’ I scoffed, uneasily. ‘Boy you be, for all your strong arms.’
‘And my Da, too.’ His voice drifted away.
‘You never said anything about that? How you put the curse on your father? I ordered you not to do that.’
‘I did, though. They said that was a test from God.’
‘And how did they arrive at that idea?’
‘I did a bad thing, like Saint Peter. It makes me a plain mortal, see. But now I be stronger for it. And God listens to me now. I have been tempered. The monk said that.’
‘Tempered,’ I laughed. The word meant little to me, but I disliked the sound of it, all the same.
We had left the city of Exeter behind us, unvisited, skirting it to the north, since the river mouth we glimpsed far to the south would have been impossible to cross. Now the land was all folded hills, and sudden sweeps of country running from one hillside to another. The road itself was wide and well-built, and I remarked on it.
‘Tis Roman,’ said Cuthman. ‘The monks said so. But we’ll be leaving it soon, to keep by the coast. It’ll be warmer, then, and the way lies due east.’
And so the day went by, with me secretly picking at the loaves beside me, and trying to think about what I was doing, out in the cold world with only a foolish lad to mind me. When we stopped for a rest, Cuthman was annoyed at how much of the food I had taken. I chided him, saying, ‘And him so worried we’d live too easy for a sennight, with such quantities of food about us. I did thee the favour of lessening such troubles.’
He finished the first loaf, and cut himself a slab of pork, walking up and down as he ate, and swinging his aching arms above his head, first one, then the other. I almost expected him to start turning head over heels like a little child. He seemed light and changeable like a faery lad, angry one moment and jumping over the tree roots and brambles the next.
The weather had been poor all day, with a chill wind and flurries of stinging rain hitting me full in the face. Cuthman had intended us to continue until dark fell, after our meal, but the clouds rolled over us, heavy and black and he decided we should stop where we were, with the shelter of a thick holly tree to tempt us.
He ran about, gathering sticks and leaves, as on our first night, and fashioned a closed shelter, making a wall facing the holly. Then he steadily pushed me into the sharp leaves, back and down until I was under the lowest branches, with the spikes of dead holly leaves beneath me. ‘Ow!’ I squealed, like a young girl. ‘This won’t do. I’ll be all prickled.’
Cuthman laughed, merry again, despite the hard cold rain lashing down on his back, as he crouched half in, half out of the shelter. Then he knelt upright, his head knocking the holly boughs, and spread out his hands. Slowly, he brought them down to the carpet of vicious spikes, and as I watched, a white beam of light came from his fingers and spread like a mist over the leaves. Immediately, all the prickling stopped. ‘There!’ he said, ‘Tis soft for thee now.’ And a look of satisfaction filled his face.
The day had been too much for me altogether. Without another word or thought, I eased my back into a pocket of dry ground, patted the miraculous blanket of mist once, just to be sure, and closed my eyes to sleep.
Chapter Twelve
I awoke with a dark mood on me, after a dream where a great crowd stood in a circle around me, laughing and mocking, while Cuthman with a halo like Christ himself stood by and let them. He even waved at me, as if I were his own creature, something he had made for their entertainment.
The weather was as chill as ever, but the rain had stopped. We crawled from our shelter, and ate some more of the food which Cuthman had kept carefully wrapped and covered in the cart, so that wolves or foxes would not steal it. I enfolded myself snugly in my woollen shawl, prepared for a long day out in the cold, and Cuthman fastened his hood securely, so it would not blow back as he pushed me along. Then we rejoined the road and faced east once more.
We passed two burial grounds during the day, the barrows high and fearful in their dark significance. Cuthman talked more than before, passing on the knowledge he had received in those hours spent with the monks. It seemed they had told him the history of Dumnonia, Wessex and the Welsh, nothing of it known to him before. They told him of the Romans and the great temples and villas we would see as we journeyed, though many in such ruins as to leave mere marks on the ground, these four hundred years after the Romans departed our land. There had been fierce battles ever since that time, the latest one only five years before, and renewed warfare expected at any time.
They had told him about saints travelling the world, in ships and on foot. Men who burned with such love of Jesus that they convinced whole cities and tribes of the truth of the Christian doctrine. And other tales, which Cuthman had found less compelling, about arguments between learned men on the details of the Gospels. There had been a great gathering in Deira, nearly two hundred years before, where the decision on how to set the date of Easter had been made. The lad laughed as he told me this.
‘Seems that they all got highly enraged over it, shouting and speechifying. It mazed me, to think it could be important.’
‘Could be that God really cares,’ I responded. ‘Easter is a big festival.’
‘They talked of how Dumnonia was a strong Christian area, with the faithful fighting for God against the invaders. Made me feel proper proud.’
‘No wonder you spent so long with them, making you feel so good,’ I remarked, a little tartly. He ignored my tone and chattered on, repeating all kinds of bits and pieces, much of it only half-understood by him and of little meaning to me. At least it was clear that the monks had been encouraging of our pilgrimage, and ready to take us seriously, which I found a surprise. Hadn’t they laughed when they first caught sight of us? I said a little of this to Cuthman.
‘Tis you as did it,’ he mumbled, so I could barely hear him.
‘What?’
‘Pushing this cart with you in it. Seems they have a seer, who foretold that we’d be coming past. Said we’re destined for something. They wouldn’t say exactly what.’
I said nothing to that, seized as I was by a great fear. Destiny was not a thing to seek. I wished I’d kept silent about the trick with the sheep. The wind blew even colder in my face and I closed my eyes. I no longer wanted to look ahead and see where we might be going.
The motion of the cart, slow and jerky, as Cuthman placed his strides between the handles, shorter than he would normally step out, lulled me into a doze, and I huddled as low as I could, wishing he’d thought to put a roof on top to keep the weather out. The afternoon was well advanced when he took a side road, heading for a thick patch of woodland some distance away, where I presumed he intended us to stop the night. I roused myself a little, holding onto the cart sides as we bounced over some rough ground. It seemed as if I was dreaming when I saw a strange building, tucked secretly between the trees, with a wisp of white smoke coming from the roof hole.
It came closer, and I blinked and shook my head, unable to credit what I saw. A house, big enough to hold a man and some sticks of furniture, built exactly the same as the toy I had made from straws, those many years ag
o.
‘Tis magic!’ I said, low and fearful. ‘It can’t be real. That be the little house I made the day thee was christened. You wouldn’t remember it.’
‘I do, though.’ came his voice behind me. ‘Wynn called it the faery house. She and I played with it, and I saw faeries inside. Might be some inside this one.’ He sounded incurious, resigned to whatever might befall. Exhausted from pushing the cart so far, I concluded with a flicker of concern.
The light was fading, and the house was in deep shadow. In place of straws, the walls were of neatly-cut logs, set tight against each other, the roof of woven thatch, lashed firmly in place with hemp. Cuthman released his hold on the barrow, ducked out of the straps, and touched a finger to his lips. Then he walked cautiously to the low doorway, where the door stood open. and peered inside the little house. After a moment’s hesitation, he went inside. I waited with the impatience that was becoming a familiar mood. I could only abide my helpless state when Cuthman was with me. Alone, I was not only frustrated, but afraid. What if he never came back for me?
Much to my relief, he appeared again only moments later, with someone alongside him. With my increasingly imperfect sight, I could not make out any features, but it seemed to be an old man, with white beard and ragged clothes. At the sight of me, he threw his hands in the air and laughed. Then he performed a little caper and smacked his palms against his sides. A madman, I decided, with some nervousness. Cuthman seemed to be thinking the same thing.
‘Discovered!’ the strange figure shouted, although the word was so distorted by a strange buzzing in his speech that I could barely understand it. He said something further, which made no sense to me at all. It sounded to be all ‘zzz’ and thick throaty sounds.
‘Seems he’s from a foreign place,’ I remarked.
Cuthman nodded. ‘Unless he be a faery,’ he smiled.
‘Goblin, more like,’ I muttered.
The old man came closer to me, and fixed me with a glittering stare. His eyes were large and black, his skin strangely dark with a rough dry look to it. The white beard was wiry, curling in all directions, the same as his hair, which was a mix of black and grey. ‘Woman,’ he said, too loud, but clear enough. ‘What are thee about?’ He was making a deliberate effort to be understood, thinking before each word and shaping his mouth carefully. The question itself was not one I could answer, all the same. I tried a friendly smile.
‘Me holy man,’ he continued. ‘Live here, nozzing else.’ He swallowed and blinked his great eyes. I nodded.
‘A hermit?’ I suggested. The man did not respond, and I fell silent. Cuthman came forward and prepared to lift me out of the cart, which surprised me. ‘Are we stopping here, then?’
Cuthman nodded, and the old man mimicked him, his head bobbing eagerly. ‘Beds!’ he said, pointing to his hut.
‘Tis true,’ Cuthman confirmed. ‘There are two extra beds in there, builded up on wooden frames. Tis like he expected us. Meat, too. He wants us to stop with him.’
The man danced before us as Cuthman took me into the hut. It seemed much larger than I’d guessed, with a clean table, two stools, a wooden bench and three beds, as my boy had said, in a row against the back wall. They had sheepskin covers, which looked warm and welcoming. Decorated pots and bowls were arranged on a long shelf, with a curiously fashioned lamp and other things I had no knowledge of. The fire burned merrily, banked up high, the smoke drawing better than it ever had in my old home. Cuthman set me onto the bench, where I could support myself with my arms on the table. In that position, I felt like a whole person again, not a creature of ridicule in a barrow.
‘Discovered,’ said the goblin again, staring intently at me. Despite his energy and capering, he did not smile.
‘Are you hiding, then?’ I asked. The house was easy to see from the track we’d taken. If it was meant to be concealed from sight, I did not think it a great success.
‘Folks mainly pazzes by,’ he said, waving an arm to indicate their passage. ‘I’zzz inwizzzble to most.’
I looked around; the house seemed real enough, but my first glimpse had been a magical one. Cuthman coughed beside me, and we both looked at him. He seemed excited and full of himself. ‘‘He has a message for us,’ he said, with certainty. He fixed the hermit with an expectant gaze.
‘Belikes a tale to tell,’ was the slow reply. ‘Ifn ye can follow my tongue.’
‘Gets clearer by the minute,’ Cuthman assured him, and it was true. Perhaps the man’s solitude had stiffened his tongue, and it was loosening now - or our ears grew accustomed to his speech the more we listened. His buzzing sounds were lessening, too.
Outside it grew dark and the strange man produced meat and bread and honey for us, brushing away our attempts to share the food we still had with us. ‘Guesssts,’ he said, brooking no debate. The fire warmed us through, and the strange lamp shed a friendly yellow light. In the forest we could hear wolves some distance off, and the usual concert of owls, all trying to outdo each other. Squabbling squirrels in the tree above the house knocked debris onto the roof.
After we had eaten, our host fetched a cloak from a nail on the wall, and wrapped it around himself, more, I thought, for ceremony than for warmth. It was woollen, blue-dyed and eye-catching. He stared at me again, for many minutes, and I was filled with some new sensation of importance and power. I had only been regarded as a figure of fun, since we began our travelling, except for the aroused monk, who had perhaps seen something more in me, though heaven knows what. This hermit appeared to regard me as of greater importance than my son, which struck me as very peculiar.
‘I tell of war and love and evil magic,’ he said, settling himself cross-legged on one of the beds, with his cloak tightly closed and his hands concealed. ‘A tale from the green and misty isle to the west and north, where I spent many long years. Everywhere our history is of war and love, but this isle tells of more blood and more passion than any other.’ His speech became clearer with every word he spoke, as if a curtain had been drawn back to reveal his meaning. But I was in discomfort on my bench, and I held up my hand to halt the words.
‘I should be easier on the bed,’ I told him. ‘If the lad might shift me there.’
‘Ye could walk there unaided ifn ye chose,’ he said, in a low voice. Fear struck through me, sharp as a knife. And a hot rage at the falsehood almost choked me.
‘No!’ I spat. ‘Tis a lie.’ And I beckoned Cuthman to me, wrapping my arms around his neck to be lifted.
The lad had a tight closed look as he moved me, and he said nothing, though he must have heard the man’s words. I made a small moan as he set me onto the bed, and put a hand to my back, though in truth it scarcely pained me. Like a conspirator, my boy bent over me, and laid his hand on top of mine. Then he went back to one of the stools, so the hermit was positioned between the two of us, forming a triangle.
‘Tell the tale,’ Cuthman invited.
There was a long silence. The old man sat with his head bowed, so I could not see his face. I concluded that he was praying, and tried to put myself into a like state. Stories have a message that is rarely clear when first you hear them. I prepared myself, as best I could, for whatever might come to my ears and heart.
‘There was once a man,’ came the first words, loud and startling, ‘by the name of Malcolm Harper, though he played no harp and sang few songs. He was a plain man, of little vision or understanding. He believed that life was a simple matter, readily set beneath his control. He lived in comfort, with a wife but no child. One day, he happened to meet a seer, who told him his future could be read, if he wished to know it, and there was a remarkable aspect to it. So Harper asked to know the destiny before him, and the seer told him he would have a daughter of astounding beauty. This daughter would cause great bloodshed, most especially that of the three finest young men in the land.
‘ “It shall not be so,” countered Malcolm, firmly. “I shall take the necessary measures to prevent it. Have we not a free will?”
‘ “I see what I see,” said the soothsayer, and went away.
‘It happened, of course, that a daughter was born, and she was named Deirdre, and was beautiful from the first. Malcolm’s wife died soon after, and the child’s nurse had all the care of her. Harper remembered the seer’s prediction, and since so much was already unfolding as was foreseen, he determined that the last part would not transpire. And so he instructed the nurse that she and the child should go to a far-away mountain, where nobody ever reached, and there to build a secret dwelling, dug into the heart of the mountain. No living being would ever come to them, except himself, and Dierdre was never to be told that there were such creatures as men in the world, only her father.
‘The nurse was a wise and loving woman. She taught the girl the name of every plant and animal, every bird and star, but she never told her that there were men in the world. Deirdre grew up as lovely as can be, quick of wit and contented, until she reached sixteen years of age.
‘Then one night a hunter, far from home and lost, happened to come close to the mountain where the nurse and the girl lived. It was cold and dark and the man was weary almost to the point of death. He fell into a deep sleep and dreamed he heard faery music and smelled faery cooking, and he called out, in his sleep, to be allowed into their shelter.
‘Dierdre heard his call, and asked her nurse what could be making that noise. As she listened, she heard the words, “For the love of the Great God of all the Elements, permit me to come inside.”
‘ “Tis just the birds crying and calling,” said the nurse.