The View From the Cart

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘They might come searching for him.’

  ‘Then we must hide him.’ My nervousness was gone as I recovered my reason. We had given shelter to a straying dog, on the moors. How much more necessary to embrace this lost child?

  When the newcomer returned with the skin slopping river water over his feet and his dirty hair in hanks over his eyes, I tried to see him through Cuthman’s eyes. He was an unhealthy creature, I saw now. His skin was more grey than white, and he walked with a dragging limp. He might be older than I had first thought, but undernourished and timid from ill-usage. There was no spark of quick-wittedness in his eyes, and no humour about his mouth. He was a poor motherless brat, and I had to acknowledge that there was little reason to suspect him of any kind of great destiny. The contrast with Cuthman was almost grotesque. My boy had always been clear-skinned, brown from the sun and reasonably clean. His hair grew with its own vitality, springy to the touch, and he walked eagerly, as if something better was always ahead. I could understand that it might seem only good sense to cast this creature aside, as one of God’s lost souls. Too late to save him, and too difficult to accommodate him.

  And yet – the child had found the courage or wisdom to follow us and creep into my arms while I slept. We had not sought him out. God had sent him to us. ‘I think he is a test for us,’ I said, the thought popping from my mouth before I had time to consider it.

  ‘Test?’ My son was scornful. ‘How might such a piece of refuse serve as a test?’

  The child shrank against me as Cuthman took a step towards him, his eyes narrowed. It was plain to me that he had been schooled to expect violence and impatience. I squatted with my back to a sturdy oak, and folded my arms around my new charge. ‘Leave him,’ I ordered. ‘He has offered you no harm.’

  ‘What if he be a spy for those men?’ Cuthman said, still glaring malevolently at the lad. ‘Following us, so they can kill and rob us of all we have.’

  ‘We have nothing. And we are easily found without such elaborations.’

  ‘Then he might bring sickness to us. He seems barely half alive. You have touched him. There may be contagion from him.’

  A reflex made me push the boy away for a moment, at that, until my wits caught up with my hands and I caught him back to my breast again. ‘Nonsense,’ I snapped.

  His reasons all exhausted, Cuthman set to preparing us a small meal from the bones of a pigeon he killed the day before and a handful of sprouting acorns which were lying under the oak. The budding oak roots were like the tender cock of a new baby boy, and I disliked to eat them. The impression was made all the stronger for the red skins of the split nut, as it came to life after the long winter lying dormant on the cold earth. Peeling off the shells revealed creamy yellow flesh which was as crisp after the long waiting months as when they first grew on the tree in the autumn. And as bitter. Only by chewing them round and round did the bitterness slowly fade and a pleasanter nut-taste develop. Six acorns are all anyone could eat at a time, I think, and they have to be followed by a long drink to wash the bitterness right away. They sit in the belly for long enough to prevent further hunger for some hours, which is the main requirement of food, after all. The little boy ate two, his mouth puckered and his eyes watering. I concluded that he had not gone so hungry with his rough associates as to be reduced to such fare as Cuthman and I had grown accustomed to.

  The scraps of pigeon meat still on the bones were scarcely worth the labour of biting and swallowing. Nor did Cuthman consider it worthwhile offering any to our new companion.

  ‘We’ll find something later,’ I promised the child. The forest was well supplied with birds, and we sustained ourselves adequately most days.

  ‘What is your name?’ Cuthman demanded abruptly.

  ‘Hal,’ whispered the newcomer. It was the first thing we had heard him say.

  ‘Not deaf, nor mute, then,’ commented my son. ‘Hal, hmmm?’

  It was not a name we had heard before. I had expected him to have the name of some creature or tree, as the heathen country folk mostly do.

  As Cuthman and I made our usual preparations for continuing our journey, Hal watched us intently. The brushing out of my barrow, and rearranging of the contents for my comfort; the assembling of whatever food supplies we might have; the careful adjustment of the worn leather strap over Cuthman’s shoulders - all were done by this time with little thought. There was a numb strip across the middle of my back, where I had rested against the wooden edge for so many weeks. My feet went automatically into the narrow front of the vehicle, tucked snugly side by side, and I held on loosely with both hands, ready for the first jolt of the day. Not once had Cuthman allowed me to be tipped out, although many a time our wheel had slewed into a deep rut and he had been forced to wrestle the whole contraption back onto the level. He would tilt one shoulder and brace that same arm, leaning all his weight against the will of the plunging cart.

  The little boy waited until we were ready, then set off with us, walking alongside me, where I could see him. It showed me how starved I had become of a human face during all our long walk, having my back to Cuthman and seeing so few travellers on our way. I delighted to watch his quick expressions, of fear at the roar of a bear in the deeper part of the forest, and amusement at the frisking games of a pair of squirrels on a branch close by. Their red ear tufts and clever hands made them like little people. Soon, I could see weariness, too, and the nagging pain of hunger. I was tempted to suggest that Hal ride with me, perched on my lap, but I could not do that to my son. The child had chosen to come with us, and he must do it in the least annoying manner he could. If he once became a real nuisance, Cuthman would drive him away.

  The moon was past its first phase, waxing now, and bringing the spring with it. Everywhere the outline of the trees was changing, with the fuzz of new leaf and the furry balls of pussy willow showing themselves off to us. Easter was coming, and soon we would find eggs in every nook of the forest, and young things easily caught for meat. Pale sunlight forced its way between the branches, making stripes of light and shadow all along the track ahead of us. There had been ox carts quite recently, collecting wood for fuel, and the ground was well packed. By aiming the cart’s wheel between the ruts, we secured a good even progress for the major part of the day, heading always east, but tending a little to the south, too. We knew nothing of what might be beyond this great forest, and sometimes I believed that we would be in it for ever. Other times, I imagined us pushing out into a wide open landscape with blue sea glittering and gentle grasslands sloping away from us. Or, perhaps, granite moors such as we had left behind. The closed-in gloom of the woodland made us all apprehensive and quiet. We had heard bears and wolves close by us on several occasions, and were careful not to present them with any provocation. I felt we were visitors in a place where the wild creatures were the natural rulers, and must thus tread warily. It did not help that my head was full of ancient tales of children lost in the forest, attacked by wolves, or led astray by goblins and faeries. It was easy to see grotesque faces in the bark of the thorn trees and yews, or to hear whispered discussions taking places beneath the thickets of bramble.

  ‘We must find food,’ I said, some time after noon. ‘Not one of has anything inside our bellies.’ For a few moments, nothing happened. Cuthman walked on, the rhythm of his steps now as familiar to me as my own breathing. Hal glanced back at him, but I could read nothing in his face. Then he slowed, and stopped, dropping the handles so that I bumped backwards. This was not his usual way, and I turned for an explanation.

  My son’s face was grey, with sweat running down it. I understood immediately that he was ill, but could find no reason for it. Hadn’t he seemed perfectly well that morning? Concern and fear gripped me. This was not a thing I had anticipated, and I could think of no quick remedy for it. But I was his mother, and as such had practice to fall back on.

  ‘Sit down,’ I ordered him, struggling to climb out of the cart. As always, I was stiff and awkwa
rd, heaving one leg over the side, counter-balancing by leaning as far in the other direction as I could, before backing my other leg and buttocks after it. Once both feet touched the ground, it no longer mattered if the cart tilted a little, though generally Cuthman was there to hold it steady for me. Hal made no attempt to assist, but darted frowning looks from me to Cuthman, holding himself tight over his empty little belly and shivering.

  My son’s head felt clammy to the touch, and he too shivered. The day was mild, but there was yet a March sharpness in the air. It struck me then that Hal might be a demon in disguise, come to make us sick. Had I done wrong to allow him to stay with us? I knew that the devil could send his messengers in all kinds of shapes, and what could be more artful than to fashion this little child as temptation for a mother? It seemed obvious now that Cuthman was ill because of Hal, and I turned to accuse him and drive him off, to do his evil elsewhere. As if expecting just that, he withdrew, stepping backwards, agile and light as a young fawn. His eyes were fixed now on Cuthman, and his mouth grimaced.

  ‘Tis the fever,’ he said, shakily. I stared at him.

  ‘No fever,’ I argued. ‘His skin is cold.’

  ‘Cold, then hot,’ he nodded. ‘He’ll die.’

  ‘You have seen this before?’

  Again he nodded. ‘My mam.’

  It was unthinkable. If my son died, then so would I, wandering lame and unprotected in this great cursed forest. Cuthman was not dispensible. I could not permit him to die.

  I had to use what was to hand. Looking hard at Hal, trying to see into his eyes, where perhaps the demon would let itself be detected in a careless moment, I took a deep breath. ‘Do you love the Lord Jesus Christ?’ I asked him. He scowled at me, and my heart sank. ‘Will you praise the Lord God with me?’

  ‘Ma?’ Cuthman’s voice came reedy and young. ‘What are you about?’

  I turned and hissed at him, hoping the child wouldn’t hear. ‘He might be a demon from Hell, come to turn you from your pilgrimage,’ I whispered.

  Weak as he was, Cuthman laughed. ‘I think not,’ he said. ‘A nuisance, perhaps, but not a fiend. Make use of him - he’s all we have. He may have skills as a bird-catcher.’

  Angry now, I looked at Hal. ‘Can you snare us something to eat?’ I demanded.

  Bewildered, he shook his head, and I saw how impossible it would be for such a small child. Even if he knew how to set a snare, the long wait for something to happen by would see us all dead of hunger. ‘Then can you find food in some other way?’ I asked, more gently.

  With a shrug of his small shoulders, he turned and dived into the dense undergrowth alongside the track. It seemed to me that he had gone directly into a vicious thicket of thorny brambles, and I imagined him torn and bleeding and useless. Forgetting him for a while, I tended my son. It seemed impossible that he could have pushed the cart so far, for so long, in this weakened state. He lay curled up, eyes closed, hands clasped between his thighs. When I felt his brow again, it was still cold and clammy, with no hint of the burning fever that Hal had predicted.

  I clamped my lips against all the questions I wanted to ask him. Had he felt ill all day? Did he know what ailed him? Did he have any idea of what would remedy the sickness? Important as they were, I concluded that rest and warmth were of greater value - and food. I clung to the hope that this was no more than extreme hunger, and that once he had eaten a bellyful, all would be well again.

  But food might be a long time coming - if it came at all. I covered the invalid with all the hides and rags I could gather, and added my shawl. Then I huddled close to him, to share my own warmth, and sat still, waiting. My own belly griped with hunger, impossible to ignore, and I began to pray silently that Hal would find sustenance of some kind. Anything would do, I told God. A rotting carcase, more acorns, tiny birds - anything to fill the hollowness inside.

  More likely, the child himself would be snatched by a newly-wakened mother bear, with cubs to nourish. Although the southern forests had been well hunted by the king’s men, and bears were not numerous, we knew some remained. Even a boar could readily kill the slender Hal, if it so chose. Not for food, but out of a desire to keep its family safe or its territory uninvaded. And the bramble scratches would bleed, thus attracting all kinds of creatures with the smell of new blood. Wolves could pick up such a scent from great distances, and great hawks might be tempted to dive at him, snatching scraps of flesh from his living body, if he fell down.

  Misery gripped me ever more fiercely as the sun sank and the shadows deepened. Cuthman slept uneasily, muttering and restless. We had not made our usual preparations for a night’s rest. There should be a fire, and some shelter. Water, too, had become an urgent necessity. I fixed my eyes on the fork of a great oak tree, and promised myself that when the setting sun had passed that point, and the sky changed colour, I would rouse myself and at least go in search of water. There were springs and rills in plenty, and I had no real doubt as to my success. Leaving Cuthman alone and exposed was my main worry.

  Just as the little patch of sky had become grey, Hal returned. As suddenly as he had gone, he emerged from the same bramble patch, and stood before me, empty-handed.

  I spoke to him with the rage of hunger and thirst. ‘Have you the bare face to come back with nothing?’ I demanded. In the evening shadows, I could not see his face at all, to read his expression. It was a few moments before I understood that he was beckoning to me.

  ‘What do you want?’ I whispered, fearful of disturbing Cuthman.

  ‘Help me,’ he said. ‘Over here. Quick.’ An energy in his voice brought me some hope. Curious, I heaved myself up and began to follow him. Weakness from hunger prevented me from straightening my back, and I was almost bent double as I pushed through the undergrowth. There was a kind of tunnel between the brambles and roots and coils of ivy. Old beechmast crunched under my feet, once I was beneath the larger trees. Moss grew on some fallen trees, and I was hungry enough to snatch tufts of it as I trailed behind Hal.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked, in a more normal tone.

  ‘Just here,’ he pointed upwards, into the dense prickles of a holly tree. Fearlessly, he plunged his arms through the sharp spines and retrieved a large fish. Amazement made me numb. There was no explanation for this miracle. I looked around in the gloomy forest for some faery or angel which might have done this thing. But there was more. Thrusting the slippery creature at me, Hal turned again to the tree. This time he brought a smaller fish in one hand and a dangling dead frog in the other. Its legs splayed out, making a shape like the seventh rune, or perhaps like a little man. I had never before eaten a frog, and was unsure about the rightness of doing so, but I could see that it was big enough to provide us with some welcome flesh. Finally, he collected our water skin, full now and heavy. I took it from him and hung the strap around my neck, so that it slapped against my breast as I moved.

  Hal led me back again, wasting no time. The big fish slipped through my fingers, so I had to clutch it to me, letting its slime stain my garments, disgusting me with the knowledge that I would carry the smell and the mark for days to come.

  ‘There is a river then?’ I said, my wits at last returning. I could not hear water running, and wondered how far he had travelled to find it.

  ‘Aye,’ he said.

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Snails.’ He shrugged and perhaps grinned. He could with justice expect a generous share of his catch, once we had made a fire and cooked it. It was a while later that I noticed that there were no scratches of any kind on his hands or arms, in spite of his encounters with the thorns and prickles of the brambles and holly.

  We crawled back to Cuthman, lying conspicuous and vulnerable alongside the track. It was a terrible resting-place, but even with Hal to help, I couldn’t hope to move my sick son. We woke him from his fitful sleep and I felt his head again. It was warmer, but still by no means feverish. His eyes
were filmy and wandering and he would not speak. Quickly, we wrapped the gutted fish in what few green leaves we could find, and baked them in the fire I had built. The frog I left to Hal to deal with. It seemed to me an unnecessary extra, and I did not intend to eat any of it.

  Cuthman ate slowly, chewing the half-cooked flesh over and over before painfully swallowing. I felt his throat and found great swellings on either side, which explained his difficulty. We drank almost all the water, which had a strong taste of plants and some bits of dead leaf in it. I could imagine the little boy leaning over a wooded riverbank, collecting the water from amongst weeds and rushes.

  It was wonderful to eat, and we ended the day by edging into a hollow beside the track, covered with dry bracken and leaves. Nobody had passed us since we had sunk down there, and our fire was damped into a small glowing heap which would give us a little warmth, but not attract attention. Once more, Hal nestled against me, as if it were the only rightful place for him. I could feel his bones, sharp and fragile as a bird. Cuthman soiled himself, but I was too weak and tired myself to do anything for him. The next morning would be soon enough for that.

  We spent seven nights close to that place, although we moved away from the track on our second day. Hal kept us supplied with food. When I asked him how he had found the river and caught the fish, he replied, ‘The man showed me.’ At first I wondered whether Cuthman had somehow sent his spirit to guide the child. I remembered all the strange things that Cuthman had performed since he kept his sheep in their place on the moor with his sacred circle. He had been asleep, or out of his body throughout that first day, and I could see no sign of his real self being present. It seemed all too likely that my wonderings were correct.

  But when I pointed to Cuthman and said, ‘That man, do you mean?’ the child shook his head.

  ‘A shining man,’ he said, looking over his shoulder at the dark forest behind us. ‘He carried me.’