Pilgrims

by Matthew Kneale

  Then a month or two after he was taken he started coming to me in my dreams. I’d wake with a start, shaking and sweating, and it was always the same. There he was among flames and din and screams, looking up at me with his frightened eyes. I’d try to shout out, don’t you worry, I’ll get you out of there, Sammo, but it was like I couldn’t open my mouth. Hal and Sarah said it was nothing to get troubled about. ‘Cats don’t go to purgatory,’ Hal said, shaking his head. ‘Just because he was in your dreams doesn’t mean anything.’ ‘But then why does he come back to me again and again?’ I answered. Because I knew my Sammy and from the way he looked at me I saw he was in torment, the poor little mite. What I couldn’t understand was why he was down in purgatory. At least I hoped it was purgatory and not hell, because the two looked much the same so I heard, and if it was hell there’d be no helping him as nobody gets out of there. It was true that he’d slain bagfuls of mice, and he had a temper and would get into fights with other toms, while he’d done his share of swiving so there were plenty of little tigers round the village that were the very spit of him. But how could he be blamed for any of that when he didn’t even know it was a sin? It wasn’t as if he could’ve got wed and done his fornicating godly.

  My Auntie Eva was the one who said I should go and see Father Will. Though she could be crabby she always watched out for me. Then she had no choice, so she told me herself and often. Because when my poor mother lay dying in her bed she’d made Auntie Eva promise out loud in front of witnesses to look after me. ‘That’s a lesson for you,’ Auntie Eva would say. ‘Be careful who you visit when they’re breathing their last, as you never know what troubles you’ll get.’

  Her thought was that Father Will would make me see sense and snap me out of misery. Some in the village didn’t much like the man and preferred Father Dan who we’d had before, and who’d been happiest perched on the bridge fishing, or gulping down an ale at Jenny’s. Father Will, who’d learned all his lore at Eynsham Abbey before he came to us, was just the contrary and he loved nothing better than sticking his nose in a book. If he could get the Eynsham cloisterers to lend him one, that was. He was always going over there, though it was a good step from Minster, to beg another from their library. Some in the village said he was demoniac and that the abbot had sent him to us to be rid of him and it was true that his eyes had a wild, popping sort of look. But if you needed to know something about the world there was no better man to ask than him. And he had a cat himself, who he loved dearly, a comely little black and white creature called Prince.

  So I told him about poor Sammy coming into my dreams and instead of laughing at me and telling me it was just foolishness, like Auntie Eva had said he would, he thought my dreams were so strange and uncustomable that they must have some meaning. He was no scholar when it came to animals in purgatory, he said, but he could find out and that was what he’d do, not just for Sammy and me but for his own lore too. Soon afterwards he took himself off to Eynsham to talk to his cloisterers and to read their books, and when he came back he’d scholared himself all about creatures going to heaven and purgatory.

  The wise men of the world were in two minds, so he told me. Some said there were no beasts in heaven but only folk, who had no flesh on them and floated about lighted up like little candles. But other wise men of the world said this couldn’t be right, because when the saints of ancient times had got a look at heaven in their visions, they’d seen all kinds of beasts up there. They all lived together mildly, the saints of old said, never eating each other, so wolves and lions would chew down grass like sheep, and at night they’d all be tucked up together in their straw side by side as dear friends. Father Will said that if there were animals in heaven then it stood to reason they must be in purgatory too, and some wise men of the world said they were there to bite and scratch all the wicked sinners. I couldn’t imagine my Sammy doing that seeing as he was just a little cat. But then I didn’t much care what he got up to. I just wanted him out of there.

  Father Will said I should go to Saint Frideswide in Oxford, who was famed across the land for curing every kind of mischief, from warts and bad eyes to mislaying your horse, so she shouldn’t have any trouble getting my Sammy up to heaven. He got Sir Toby’s accord for my going, which I needed, being bound. And then he wrote me a script for the road, which I needed too, so people would know I was a pilgrim and not a thief or a vagrant to be hanged. I loved watching him write his letters so fine and handsome. The month being January when the fields were bare and there was next to no labouring to do, I didn’t wait but went soon afterwards. My brother Hal wanted to come with me, which was kindly, but he’d promised to help our neighbour mend his outhouse door that wouldn’t shut, and though his Sarah wanted to come too, she had to comfort her sad friend. So in the end the only one who came was Auntie Eva. As we walked out of Minster, feeling the ground hard like stone under our feet, as it was bright and cold with a frost, she told me time and again that she couldn’t believe she was going all the way to Oxford to pray for a cat. Then she said that Hal and Sarah were a pair of lazy slugs for not coming, which wasn’t right, as like I said they would’ve come if they could’ve.

  It was a long mile to Oxford and it was close to sunset when we finally got there. I’d never been before and it was a comely place. It had a high wall and big strong towers so it made Burford, where we went to market when we went, which wasn’t often, and Witney, which I’d also been to, look like a pair of dirty pimples. When we walked in through the West Gate Eva said we must be careful of getting caught in wars, which they had sometimes in Oxford between the scholars and the town folk, but thanks be to God they didn’t have one that day, though I saw lots of scholars, as I guessed they must be, through the doors of the alehouses, drinking and talking loudly.

  The other thing Auntie Eva said we had to be careful of was Jews, as there was a good crowd of them in Oxford and to reach Saint Frideswide’s we had to go right through their nest, which was called the Jewry. We must walk fast and not look at them let alone talk to them, Auntie Eva said, as they might put a curse on us, or magic us with a spell, as they were famous magicians. Or they might take us off and crucify us like they had Jesus, which was another thing they loved to do to godly Christian folk, to scorn God’s true faith. So I walked fast and with one hand I held tightly onto my cross and with the other I held tightly onto Auntie Eva. Though, being curious, I did throw a few glances at them as they stood in their shops and leaned in doorways talking to each other. I’d thought they’d have red faces and horns like the devils in the paintings in our church but they didn’t have either. Another thing I expected was that they’d have gold hanging off them by the pound, being so rich from stealing good Christians’ money, as Auntie Eva said they were. I thought they’d have gold necklaces and brooches and even gold hats, but they had nothing much. The men Jews had funny little round caps that sat on their heads but otherwise they looked much the same as all the other Oxford folk and some had almost as many patches on their clothes as me.

  Saint Frideswide’s was as fair as any church could be, painted lovely colours inside and with pictures in the windows that were lit up by the last sun. Dear Saint Frideswide’s tomb was covered with jewels and little hanging silver hands and feet, which were thanks from those she’d cured, so I heard the monks telling some other folk. There were four more already there begging for her to help them, which made me worry I should’ve got there sooner, as Saint Frideswide might be so busy with them that she wouldn’t have time for Sammy and me. One was an old man with a canker in his neck that was half the size of his head, and that he kept rubbing on her tomb as he moaned. Another was a wild man who laughed and twitched till he’d manage to stop himself and pray to stay tranquil. There was a woman who prayed and dabbed blessed water on her eye that was all red and swelled up. And there was a younger one who kept very quiet, and who’d cut her wrists and tried to die, so I heard the monks say to someone else. They didn’t say much to me. I suppose they didn’t l
ike the look of my rags and when I told them about Sammy they just sort of snorted, as if I should have had a more rightful cause like the canker man and the rest.

  Auntie Eva, being tired from the walk, lay down on a bench nearby and was soon snoring away. I started to pray, ‘Dear Saint Frideswide, I beg you please, ask God to get my poor Sammy out of purgatory and up into heaven, which is where he belongs, as I swear you never met a finer, friendlier cat than him.’ I’d heard the monks say Saint Frideswide was more likely to help if you prayed all night so I decided that’s what I’d do, though it was hard to just keep praying and praying. Sometimes I’d stop for a moment and ask the canker man, ‘Is your wound getting better?’ and he’d answer, ‘I think so,’ which was good to hear, though it didn’t look different to me. Or I asked the woman about her eye and the wild man if he was less demoniac and the younger woman if she still wanted to cut her wrists. Till finally the monks made me stop, telling me that wasn’t how Saint Frideswide did her curing.

  In the end I managed to stay awake, praying right through till first light, which was when a lot of noise started up. The monks gathered round the canker man and made him and his kin pray louder and then louder again, till one of them called out to him, ‘Does it still hurt, Ben?’ and he answered, ‘Not so much, I’d say,’ and they all cheered and said it was Saint Frideswide’s miracle. After that they did the same with the wild man, who shouted out that he wasn’t demoniac any more, and the woman with the eye said she was better too. The only one Saint Frideswide didn’t cure was the one who’d tried to murder herself, and who didn’t pray with them but just looked at the ground making little whimpering noises. I hoped they’d come and pray with me and Auntie Eva, who’d been woken up by then from all the shouting, but they didn’t. I suppose they didn’t like the thought of praying for a cat. And then they were busy with their book, where they wrote down how Saint Frideswide had cured the canker man and the eye woman and the demoniac, and how she was better at curing mischiefs than Tom Becket or any other saint.

  I gave them my farthing, which was all Hal had said we could spare, and afterwards, walking back to Minster, and having had no sleep, I felt light and dreamy. You’ll be all right now, Sammy, I thought. Saint Frideswide remedied three out of the four of them while the fourth was a sinner past hope, so I don’t doubt she’ll look after you, Sammy, especially seeing as I kept awake and prayed all through the night. Come into my dreams soon, my little beast, I thought, and show me how things are in heaven, as I’d dearly love to see what it looks like up there.

  But then as we got near to Minster Auntie Eva grouched that Hal had been scarce only giving me a farthing to give to the monks. ‘I saw their crabby faces,’ she said. ‘Mark my words, Saint Frideswide won’t be content with one little farthing.’ The canker man had given her tuppence ha’penny, she said, and even the demoniac gave tuppence. ‘And you know how saints get if they think themselves slighted.’ Which I did, as everyone had heard tales of folk who’d been cured but then hadn’t given the saint what they’d promised, and who found their misfortune came back a hundred times worse than before. That was when I felt my joy dribbling away. And then that very same night I woke with a start, gasping for breath, as I’d just seen Sammy mewling worse than ever, poor little beast, surrounded by fire and smoke and screams.

  After that I truly was lost in darkness, as the thought of Sammy being stuck down there for years and years tormented me worse than I can tell. But then, just when I’d almost given up all hope, an answer came and from one I’d never have guessed, which was Hal’s Sarah. ‘I know what you should do,’ she said one morning when we were breaking our fast, dipping our bread in milk from the neighbours’ cow. ‘You should go as a pilgrim to Rome. Never mind Saint Frideswide as Saint Peter’s the one you need. He has the keys to heaven and can whisper in God’s ear and have him forgive anybody’s sins, however bad. If he can get murderers and fornicators out of purgatory then he’ll have no trouble with your little cat. I heard there’s a pair over in Asthall who are going. You could go along with them.’

  My Auntie Eva said it was the giddiest, most brainless idea she’d ever heard in all her life. ‘Sarah and Hal just want you out of the house,’ she said. ‘They want you out of their bed. Sarah’ll be after your end of it so there’s room for her baby.’ Because she was with child by then. Besides, I’d never get to Rome, Eva said, not a witless dotard like me. Of course I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I asked Father Will about the way and he said I’d have to go across the sea, which I’d never set eyes on and couldn’t imagine except that it must be like our pond but going on forever. Then I’d have to go through foreign lands where nobody spoke a word I’d understand. And I’d have to climb mountains that were so high they reached halfway to God’s kingdom. All the while with every mile I might be set upon by robbers and murderers. But God would help me, Father Will said, as he loved pilgrims.

  The more I thought about it the more I thought perhaps I should go. True it was far. Oxford had seemed a long way and that had only been one day’s walking, while Rome would be dozens and dozens of days. Yet folk went and most came back home again. As Sarah said, if anyone could save my poor Sammy it was good Saint Pete. For all of its fighting scholars and magician Jews I’d liked seeing Oxford, while going as a pilgrim to Rome would be something to talk about, no mistaking. A few in the village had been to Canterbury or Norwich or Lincoln, and Sir Toby’s father had gone all the way to Saint James in Spain once, but none of them had ever got to Saint Pete in Rome. If I managed that I wouldn’t be just Simple Tom any more. I’d be Simple Tom who’d gone to Rome.

  And I could ask Saint Peter to have God forgive my own sins. I’m not saying I’d done much, not compared to what most of them in the village had got up to, but I wasn’t spotless white either, and you never knew how things might go on Judgment Day. There’d been the time at Meg and Stephen’s wedding when Hare Lip Joe kept singing, ‘Ragged Tom, Ragged Tom, he’s a slutty witless grub,’ till I got a stick and whacked him so he fell in the river and his mother screamed I was a murderer. And though he was all right in the end, just wet with a bloody ear, that was anger, clear as day. There were times when I’d sneaked a scrap from the pork that was being smoked above the fire, even though I knew it was a fast day, which was gluttony. And there was the summer’s day when Pale Liz had been thrown over by her sweetheart Rob, and I saw her sitting in the meadow all by herself and she waved me over saying, ‘Even you’ll do today, Simple Tom.’ And though she sobbed through it all she kissed me and had me touch her and then played me off with her fingers very sweet. Which was lust of course, and fornication, and spilling my seed, while it was worse again for being done on a Wednesday, which was sinful even if you were married. Not that it stopped me from walking down to the meadows and hoping I might find her weeping there again, though I never did.

  So, although I still hadn’t yet made up my mind if I wanted to go, one morning that was so foggy I could hardly see my own feet, I went over to Asthall and paid a visit to the two who Sarah had said were going, Hugh and Margaret. They were a funny pair, though. He was a little stick of a fellow with eyes that were so narrow and squinting it was a wonder he could see out at all, while she was a big marrow of a thing, bursting out of her gown. Yet they seem kindly enough, Sammy, I thought. Hugh gave a hard look at my rags and asked me, ‘Are there any real clothes under there?’ which was right, though as they were so patched I could hardly remember what they’d been in the first place. But he gave me hospitality, inviting me inside his house, where his three sons were crouching by the fire, and he told his thrall to get me a cup of water. Then he told me how he was going to Rome to have good Saint Pete get his poor dear mother and father out of purgatory, and then Margaret told me she was doing the same for her mother and father, and when I said I was going for my cat they laughed like everyone always did.

  But the strangest thing was how short of silver they were, which I’d never have guessed in a hundred years. They were
delvers, not bonded like me but free, and their house was quite a palace, with an upstairs, which I didn’t get to see, and a storeroom, which I saw through the door and which had a plough and a cart. Through the fog I could hear hogs snorting and cows lowing and cocks crowing, which Hugh said were his and were in an outhouse. Yet he hardly had a penny to his name, so he told me, which was because his neighbours were cheating thieves who never paid him what they owed. ‘Don’t listen to what anyone says,’ he said, leaning close to me and looking at me with his little squinty eyes. ‘The truth is you’ve probably got more than I do.’ So I told him, ‘A penny and three farthings, that’s what we’ve got in our box in the house,’ and he clapped his hands. ‘There you are, see, Tom. I’ve only got two farthings.’ Now he gave me a smile like he was telling me a secret and said, ‘So I hope you’ve got a begging bowl as you’ll need it. Because if you run short, though there’s nothing I’d like better than to help you out, I won’t be able to, see?’ ‘Don’t you worry,’ I said. ‘If I go, and I still haven’t fixed myself on it, then I’ll take a begging bowl, no mistaking. I’ll carve it myself.’ Then Hugh slapped me on the back and said, ‘I can see we’ll get along nicely.’

  After that he started telling me how he didn’t want to go till after the harvest was brought in, as he didn’t trust his three boys, who he called his idiots, which they didn’t seem troubled by, being accustomed to it as I supposed. But he never quite finished because then something strange happened. I’d been looking towards the front door and I saw the boards below it went dark from a shadow. But instead of someone shouting hello cousins and stepping inside like I expected, the door clattered on its hinges and sort of shivered for a moment and the shadow was gone. Then one of the sons jumped up calling out, ‘Not again,’ and they were all running outside. I stayed crouching by the fire where it was warm, and then the little thrall female came over to take my cup. She was a sportful one, though. ‘Don’t you believe a word they say,’ she told me, ‘as it’s all lies. Margaret’s not going for her parents’ souls. She just wants to have more pilgrim badges to sew on her hat when she goes to church on Sundays. She and the miller’s wife are in a war over them, see, and they’ve both been to Canterbury and Lincoln and Walsingham and goodness knows where else. Last year the miller’s wife went all the way to Saint James in Spain, so of course Margaret has to vanquish her now by going to Rome. As for Hugh, he’s not going for his mother and father but for his own soul, which is. . .’