WHEN MORGUND AWOKE, something was different. His eyes slowly adjusted to his new surroundings. The door was ajar. Through blurred vision he saw a man in the doorway, who said, “Your friend has paid me gold to open this door I slipped the key out whilst others slept. When you walk out the door, turn right. When you come to a flight of stairs, the door at the bottom will be unlocked. I must go before I am seen.”
Morgund looked through the doorway, to stonework beyond, and to a freshly lit lamp on the wall. Rising, shakily. Walking. Outside, he turned, stumbling into a run. He saw no one. So far he had escaped attention. Luck hadn’t entirely deserted him. Descending stairs he opened the door and walked outside. Seward met him, slipped a cloak over his shoulders, pulled the hood up so as to hide him. As a steady downpour started, Seward helped him onto his horse. Then they slowly made their way to the gate. Another group of horseman entered the courtyard at the same time and one of them came close. Lightning flashed onto Buchan’s face. “You men, where are you going?” Buchan asked.
None dared answer for it would mean discovery. In a whisper Seward said to Morgund, “ You’re injured, and on a small horse. When you are through the gates, stay off the road, if you don’t, they will catch you. Runnymead is where we will meet.”
It was dark but Seward knew dawn was not far. He leaned near William. “I will meet you in Runnymead. Don’t tarry William, there is more chance of success if we separate.”
Seward rode up to Buchan, kept his hands on his reins so as not to alert him, and kept his head down.
“Where are you going?” Buchan asked.
Seward replied in a muffled voice, in a bid to hide his identity. “We make an early start we are pilgrims.”
Behind Seward, Morgund and William made their way to the gate as the rain became heavier.
“Drop your hood so I can see who you are,” Buchan commanded.
Seward came on and when Buchan was within his reach punched him squarely in the face dislodging him from his horse. Seward pulled his mount sharply around and sped off. Quickly he caught Morgund and stayed with him.
Buchan’s followers assisted Buchan to his feet. “Go after them,” he said. “A bag of gold to whoever catches the smaller one.” He got to his feet and climbed into the saddle himself.
They were halfway across a field when Seward called out to Morgund. “The hill, go there and then head for the forest, it is as yet, too dark for them to make us out, especially with such rain falling. We will separate. Good luck Morgund. William, leave Morgund. We will meet in Runnymead! Ride for your life Morgund, they are coming.” Seward galloped onwards.
Morgund looked behind him. They were catching up. He rode across a bare hill. Beginnings of the forest were not too far. Slapping his horse to gain extra speed he was now amongst the trees. It was getting lighter. He must lose the pursuers for they had come considerably nearer. Racing into a thick clump of timber, dodging around sweeping branches riding through tiny gaps in the trees, he paused to look behind him, slowing his horse.
A symphony of bird song greeting him as he lifted his head up to a sudden sharp pain. His horse was gone. A low limb stretched across a narrow opening between trees, horse tracks continuing on. He had hit the limb. How long he had been here, he didn’t know.
Hearing the sounds he least wanted to hear. Dogs, and men. Morgund got up. Ran. He saw a group of men with dogs and changed direction to avoid them. The men released the dogs. He gasped for breath, heart pounding. The dogs were just behind him, almost on him. Running down an embankment, he fell. Rising and running once more. Nearly at his end, each breath wracked in his ribs, heart exploding within his chest, he ran up and over a rise, ran thereafter down headlong, with the dogs ever closer.
Losing his footing, he rolled down a steep descent for twenty metres. Arising, unhurt. He ducked down to get under a low tree scraping his stomach on a sharp rock. Up, for a few more steps, then through a series of falls and risings, until he heard water. A mighty river. Suddenly the ground ended, and he went out into air. This time falling onto hard ground far down. Barely was he able to get up, the fall had knocked the wind and sense out of him, “I will fight,” he told himself, “For I have been shown how to.”
Saying this was enough to instil the determination to push himself on. He crawled on, and didn’t see the cliff hidden by the long grass, next he tumbled over and over, finally losing awareness of how far he had fallen, before landing in water. Reaching out to the surface of the water far above, struggling to rise with the air that escaped his anguished mouth now shut to avoid drowning. Coming up, gasping, trapped in a surging current, which, thank God, took him away quickly.
Swimming with the current he heard the sound of water crashing over a precipice. Suddenly meeting the River God awed by his power. A magnetic pull fixed onto him, enslaving him, drawing his body to the precipice. When he fought to break the river’s grip, it only fastened tighter, dragging him down. This way was up and then, that. Head above water, for a quick breath. Then dunked again below the surface. The waterfall was menacingly near.
Rumbling water plunging over the drop. For a second he was dead and alive all in the one, and lost. The fall over the waterfall was almost now. He was below and above, both alive and downstream, and trapped about to plunge to his death, simultaneously.
In a moment of clarity approaching the falls, he realized there was nowhere to hide! Even if he couldn’t resist, the will to resist was in itself noble. Somewhere, within him, if only he could find it, he would find a way to affect his fate and live. He was alive, and inside serene nothingness he calculated what action to take. For a brief moment he could move, hopefully enough to miss those dreadful rocks, beneath him. The rocks, were there. Nothing he could do to avoid them.
Splashing, crashing, landing, torn asunder, white, white, white and more white. Fear … relief, as he lived. Until the river God slackened in the hunger for his life, he must, just, outlast him, and might not he be rewarded for his courage. Surely this ancient entity, the river God, would, as all things do respect an unconquerable will. Unconquerable will creates, it isn’t allowed to die, unfulfilled. A divine law he was about to test for a second great spill down awaited him.
The rocks grew ever larger, until, he hit them. Or did he, his eyes were closed. They were past. His mind relieving the recent past was attempting to process what had just happened. Seemingly, unhurt. Down, driven down by the surging water, water landing on him from above, but by pushing briskly, he was clear. Swimming with the current through a series of gorges, he came to where two rivers met. The water’s tempo lessening he swam to a bank. Reaching shallows he strode out onto soft sand where he fell.
A girl sitting near the river saw him. Hiding, watching, she noticed a number of things. Firstly, that he was armed with a long dagger and wore the clothing of a nobleman and also that he was handsome, and of course, wet through. Some mishap. Then, waking up to the danger she decided to get the men folk. As she ran, excitement grew. This was special, nothing like this had happened before. The excitement generated from this would last for days, even weeks, she would tell how he looked when he came out of the water, of him being armed, and her bravely creeping up and watching him. What else could she add? She would think of something. Returning some time later with her family, to Morgund lying on the sand asleep, it was sunny and warm. Perhaps this would be the last such plentiful sunlight to fall upon them for summer was almost gone. The lad must have exerted himself strongly they surmised, for he barely cleared the water to lie down.
Morgund opened his eyes and saw them, three sturdy men, two younger, and the third, perhaps the father, of the other two.
“I told you, he was here. He came straight out of the river, he did.”
He looked at the girl who spoke. He had nearly missed her, she was so small next to these three sturdy men, his age and pretty. If they meant him harm, they had had ample opportunity whilst he was sleeping, and they would not have brought the girl, so he addressed th
em in an easy relaxed manner, suitable to the occasion. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long,” came the answer. He wasn’t sure from which one.
“Greetings young sire.” This from the older man. Spoken softly, with an educated accent. Odd, considering his rustic appearance.
“And I return them, to you sir, and your companions. And you Miss.”
“I am Edith, not miss. No one’s ever called me that before. Father, he called me a name, like a gentry. My name is Edith,” she laughed, getting over her amazement at his greeting. That he could talk was amazing in itself.
This whole event had the touch of a dreamlike quality, shocked as her family to find him here, believing somewhat that her imagination was to blame, for as she well knew, the river and woods played tricks. She had almost expected to find no boy there at all when she returned.
“My name is Morgund.” He smiled at her.
“You’re not from these parts.” One of the young men addressed him.
“No, from Scotland.”
“What brings you here to our forgotten corner?”
Remembering Seward’s advice that when answering questions to be careful, he opted for this approach. “To ask for your sister’s hand. I have faced many dangers to get here.”
“He’s lying father. How would he know I was here, only you, and John and Simon go to town. Ah, I know. You have told people in town how pretty I am, and that has brought him.”
She went along with this and beamed at him, he was very good looking, after all, she thought.
“No, truly what brought you?” The younger man persisted.
“John, the fellow has been through great turmoil and it is not manners to question, leave him be. He is our guest.” In a fatherly tone the older man smiled and came closer. “Morgund, we live close by. Come with us and we will give you a warm meal and find you a change of clothing.”
“Thank you. That is kind.” Morgund answered.
“What have you heard about me?” Edith said, flirting, as they walked.
“That you are as beautiful as the sun after rain. With many colours that lift the spirits.”
“You have heard that.” She raised an eyebrow. “Father, what did you tell them about me in town?” She enjoyed the banter. A slight sway in her brows as she said. “We don’t often get to speak with strangers.”
One of the brothers looked at Morgund. “I had heard that you are all devils with tails,” softening his look, thereafter, conforming to his father’s wish not to extend ill intent.
“Not I, my mother hid me from the rest being so ashamed of me without one.” Morgund asked Edith. “I have heard similar of the English, is it not true?”
“You mustn’t tease.” Edith scowled and punched his shoulder.
“Your tail is showing, I can see it.” She smiled.
It was ridiculously pleasant and warmed his heart, Morgund thought. “Father make him stop,” she giggled. “He’s teasing.”
The menfolk laughed. They were on a rough path crossed with many branching trails that only an experienced woodsman could have stayed on track on, in dense forest. Coming to a cliff they climbed a woven ladder immediately retracted after their ascent.
Morgund asking about these elaborate precautions was told that long ago when Cristo’s wife Sylvia still lived they resided in a hut in another part of the forest. Cristo was away trading when group of nobles chanced upon their dwelling, they believed the forest to be solely theirs. Poaching was a crime punishable by hanging. To live in the forest an even greater crime. Sylvia hid with the children, but on seeing the intruders prepare a torch, she ran to them, pleading with them that they not burn them out as winter was coming, without shelter they could perish. She accosted a rider who bent down and drove the hilt of his sword into her face, felling her. Her eldest son, John, ran forward as the lifeblood spilled thick.
Riders swept past, right and left, leaving their hut burning to the ground, Sylvia diminishing, a mess of broken teeth, her face bent unrecognisable. John and his brother did their best, but the injury was too great, they couldn’t stop the blood. After lingering in pain for a week she died. A cave sheltered the family throughout winter. Cristo killed a bear thus saved them from starvation but hardship extracted a toll. Many times empty stomachs had ached and Edith sobbed. Those older endured their pain in silence.
“It is a sad tale,” Morgund said.
“It is not a tale. A good woman killed for nothing.” Cristo, his voice breaking. “The woman I loved, still do.”
Morgund avoided Cristo’s eyes. Deep emotional scars would rip asunder if faced with an unflinching stare, Morgund knew. He lived each day appearing to be a whole person when he knew he was not. He was playing a game which couldn’t continue. These people endured suffering and he felt kinship towards them, understanding. But still he kept his problems deeply hidden.
The gulf of blackness got deeper. Cheerful faces he suddenly found disturbing. Coming over a rise, Morgund saw a small cultivation and a field lying fallow. Some sheep and cattle grazing in an adjacent field and a large substantial house stood to one side of the fields and the house, he noticed, had a loft.
“Its a fine place you’ve got,” Morgund said distractedly.
“With two fine sons a man can accomplish much.”
“The cattle and sheep, how did you get them here?”
“I make a good living trading furs. Few others risk it. It was much hard work getting the beasts here. I bought the calves and lambs at market. We drove them through the forest, and hauled them up, a process I wouldn’t care to repeat. Of course, it took many trips, as each time we could carry only three. We require a sure supply of meat and the sheep feed us and keep us in the garments of the town men.”
They entered the house. Morgund received new dry clothes and was fed. When the time came to tell his story, whilst living through it in his mind, this his latest period of calm broke. His spirits crumbled. Tears streamed down his face.
“What has caused your pain?” Cristo asked, comforting hi with a smile.
“A sorrow so great I cannot bear to speak of it.” The wetness sprung from his eyes unstoppable.
“Then don’t … If friends you need, we are they.” Cristo crossed over to Morgund and put a blanket around him.
Edith ran over and kissed him, then touched his face. “I know why you came.” She squeezed his hand and smiled. “To ask for my hand.”
Morgund smiled. The others laughed. It was a good attempt to overcome the pain. He knew he would tell them when he was able to, and that it would help him. Cristo arranged some bedding on the floor, away from the others.
“You will be all right Morgund. As I’ve said, you’re amongst friends. Stay with us, no harm will come to you,” Cristo said.
Morgund nodded and was left to think alone. One day hurt might end and perhaps he could rebuild his life. He could not go to Runnymead. That he could not do. No longer could he live up to Seward’s example of bravery and toughness. Hopefully Seward would believe he had not survived. He knew these people had endured great suffering, however, they had each other, that explained their strength. He had no one.
How could he have told Seward of his fears, he was too ashamed to admit to his weakness. He desired Seward’s respect, not his pity. Could one so brave as Seward understand his dread, he doubted it, and without Seward to fall back on, his courage was evaporating.
In the morning hearing the swing of an axe and of wood being chopped. Morgund went out and saw John. Up and down, another block, halved. John, had his shirt off, his upper body rippling with muscle as he manoeuvred the axe. Morgund, who had filled out somewhat since beginning training with Seward realised that this activity would increase his size and strength.
Noticing Morgund watching him, John turned to him. “I’ve had enough, take the axe.” John’s heavy eye fell on Morgund.
It felt weighty, difficult to balance in the downswing but concentrating on hitting the centre of the w
ood, soon he had the axe there and liked the sound the axe made as it struck, a thunk, little shifts of body weight gave him extra power.
“Letting the axe do the work is the secret of being a good woodcutter,” John said.
And Morgund was doing just that, his ability in swordsmanship giving him a head start in acquiring the axemans art.
“That will do,” John said. “Have a spell. You’re stronger than you look and handle an axe well.”
“Thank you, John. It is peaceful here.
John smiled. Morgund’s face was transformed into a look of beauty. In between the sound of the wood being cut bird song from the forest drifted up to him. Surrounded by mountain scenery, Morgund could afford to lose himself in simple chores. He took the axe again. It was calming to his mind, this, he submerged himself in it.
Abruptly the source of his contentment vanished when Edith called, “Morgund and John, come inside, I have prepared hot cakes.”
Work of the day would have to wait, and the cut and thrust of conversation was upon him. He tried to dispel ill humour. Edith meant well and he would be companionable to her. A routine developed the pace of life slow. The days filled with hard work, the nights spent in quiet contemplation, fair fellowship and serenity. As serene and calming as it was he knew he must leave but until he did, must use his time here well. Morgund felt compelled to review his situation and cast about he did for a way to take his destiny into his own hands. Seward told him no matter how long it takes, train hard, forget the goal, concentrate on the small details of it thereby you will attain the goal, wise words from a hardy warrior, a forged path for him to follow. A road to Damascus.
A road of self realization. He could no longer live meek, he had seen power. Felt a dull thudding ache to be a swordsman, as great as any. Better. Godlike. Dispensing death. To be someone they told tales about many generations on.
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