Even that ultimate foundation of reason, scripture, seemed to be of little value here. Hermitage was well read and understood more of the words of the Lord than most of his fellows, but even he couldn’t bring anything to mind which dealt with the matter of dead dogs.
A look of sympathetic hopelessness fell upon his face only to be picked up by the figure at the fire who beckoned to him through the muffling.
Leaving the Inn Keeper to his far-from-silent mourning, Hermitage approached and crouched down to get his head near that of the seated shape.
'His wife,' the figure said, and settled back as if that was the sum and total of the explanation required to cover this situation.
Hermitage frowned at the voice coming from within the muffling. Coming from somewhere pretty deep within by the sound of it. The weather was so cold most people did their best to keep their mouths shut and avoided talking at all, if possible. This person sounded like they’d muffled themselves from the inside out.
'What about her?' Hermitage asked, 'is she dead as well?' He thought this might explain the outpouring of emotion which seemed out of all proportion to the shabby corpse of the dog.
'Nah.' the figure’s husky tones grumbled through the layers, once again assuming Hermitage knew all about the wife.
'What then?'
If it was possible, through the all encompassing clothing which constituted the entire form of the figure, it shuffled in a slightly conspiratorial manner.
'Gone.'
'Gone?'
'Gone. With the baker.'
'Gone with the baker?' Hermitage wondered if this was another one of those euphemisms for womanly functions that no one liked to talk about, or at least he didn’t like to talk about. Realisation dawned slowly that this was probably factual.
'Oh, gone with the baker,' Hermitage responded brightly, this did offer some explanation.
'Yup. And she wants half the Inn.'
'Oh dear. I can see how that would be upsetting. The poor fellow would already be in a fragile state and the departure of his beloved dog so soon after his wife would be too much to bear.'
'Well yes,' the figure said, making it clear there was more to this. 'The man loved only three things in his life; his wife, his Inn and his dog, and not necessarily in that order.'
'Ah.' Hermitage dearly hoped this tale wasn’t going to become unpleasant.
'So his wife ups and goes and says she wants half the inn. He’s only left with the dog. She says he can keep the flea-ridden, mangy cur.'
'Very decent of her.'
'Except as she walks out the door, she says she hopes it dies.'
'Oh dear.'
'Indeed. Especially when that’s exactly what it did. It always did do whatever she told it.'
'And now he thinks…'
'Well of course.'
'But people can’t make things die simply by instructing them.'
'God could.'
This seemed a remarkably theological Inn.
'Well yes of course God could if he wanted to. But the Lord would not instruct a dog to die.'
The muffled one did not seem convinced.
'Between you and I,' it was Hermitage’s turn to be conspiratorial and he leaned in closer before realising he didn’t want to get too close to this muffling, which probably hadn’t been changed for three months, 'I think Barker simply died of old age.'
'She told it to die,' the Inn Keeper had recovered enough of his senses to listen in to the conversation, but he soon lost them again when he heard talk of the death of his beloved Barker.
'My son, my son,' Hermitage didn’t really know what he was doing, but he felt simple sympathy for this fellow human being in distress. 'Your poor dog had reached the end of life. He looks like he was of great age and it’s perfectly natural that he should pass away. It is heartbreaking that he should do so at a time when you have so many other travails, but this is often the way of life. The Lord tests us in many ways and the fortitude you show now will do you great credit.'
The Inn Keeper sniffed what sounded like a bucket full of mucus up his nose, and looked at Hermitage through bloodshot eyes which, nonetheless showed a spark of understanding. Hermitage thought if he could fan the spark, the man would soon recover.
'Besides,' he said in gentle tones, 'it simply isn’t possible for anyone to command an animal to give up its life, such power is not granted to mortal man.'
As Hermitage watched, the spark did indeed spring into flamboyant life, and the pall which had weighed down the Inn Keeper’s features lifted as a new realisation dawned on him. He came out from behind the bar, which Hermitage thought was a very good sign.
'Of course,' the man said as he joined Hermitage and the muffled one by the fire.
'I’m glad,' Hermitage smiled and nodded.
'You’d have to be a witch.'
'Er,' this wasn’t what the monk had expected at all, 'No, no,' he started.
'I see it all now. She’s cast a spell on the baker, she’s charmed me out of me Inn and she killed me dog!'
'I really don’t think,' Hermitage knew what country folk could be like, and he feared this conversation was leading to a very bad place indeed. There was no stopping the Inn Keeper though.
'I’m so glad you come here brother, you’ve made it all clear. The woman was a witch.' He prodded the muffled figure who swayed slightly in agreement.
'It was a matter of old age and simple co-incidence,' Hermitage urged.
'Ha!' The Inn Keeper snorted, 'there ain’t no such thing as old age and co-incidence where witches is involved.'
'But.'
'In fact it ain’t that she was a witch, she is a witch.'
'Oh dear.' It was at times like this Hermitage usually deferred to someone of more authority and presence, such as his abbot who would have slapped the man by now. Hermitage had never been on the delivering end of a slap, and once words and reason failed, his armoury was as bare as a baby.
'I must tell the rest of the village.' The Inn Keeper went back to the kitchen to get his own layers of clothing on.
'Oh this is terrible,' Hermitage said pacing up and down.
'Why?' The muffling asked.
Hermitage was incredulous, 'Well he’s going to accuse a woman of witchcraft.'
'Perhaps she is a witch?' The figure thought this was perfectly reasonable.
'Oh really,' Hermitage was exasperated, 'this is the eleventh century for goodness sake, we’re not in the dark ages any more.'
'Still got witches, or don’t the church believe in witches now?'
'Well of course,' Hermitage had to admit there were many in ecclesiastical circles who did believe in witches, some of them very enthusiastically. Usually they were the ones who searched for witches marks, which they found in the most remarkable places.
Hermitage was not of that ilk and he thought them all a primitive and unworthy lot. He kept these thoughts to himself though, he may not have had any common sense but he wanted to live.
'There you are then. And she’s ensnared the baker, and taken half the inn and there’s a dead dog to be dealt with.' The figure moved some muffles in the direction of the canine corpse.
'But any of these events could have happened anyway.'
'They could have, but what are the chances of that? Unless God really is punishing the Inn Keeper by killing his dog.'
'God doesn’t work like that.'
'A witch it is then.'
Hermitage was only good at reasoning with people who played the game. Someone who was prepared to sit there saying ‘she’s a witch, she’s a witch’ clearly wasn’t capable of engaging in a structured argument. He couldn’t give up though.
'But what if she isn’t a witch, what if it is all coincidence? An aged dog, a marriage that has run its course, all perfectly normal events which people get over. If you go saying it’s witchcraft we’ll see an innocent woman murdered.'
'Oh well, if she’s innocent, God will save her.'
He was all in f
avour of simple old country faith, but he drew the line at tying people to piles of sticks and setting light to them. And all that nonsense about dipping them in water and if they drowned they were innocent. Errant nonsense. Follow that path and there would be witches floating in ponds all over the country.
'You cannot seriously believe,' he began but he was cut off by the Inn Keeper barging past him to get out of the door.
'A witch, a witch,' he heard the man cry enthusiastically, as if he were selling hot buns as he ran down the central track of the village.
Hermitage peered out into the still ravaging cold and watched as doors were opened and light streamed out into the night. He had been here before. It wouldn’t be long before the first of them suggested fetching some kindling.
Perhaps the baker would stand up for her, although he knew what the mob could be like once they’d made their mind up. If the baker valued his own life and business he would end up going along with them.
Hermitage knew he would have to do his best alone, even though he also knew no one would take any notice of him and he would probably end up singed himself.
He stood gazing despondently into the dark as he felt the muffled figure rise and walk up behind him. He turned in time to see it re-arranging its muffling for the journey into the cold, and was completely taken aback to see the face of a woman. Of course women could go to the Inn, it was just he had assumed all along this would be a man.
'Who are you?' He asked, as the figure made her way past him.
She took his arm and looked him straight in the eye.
'You can call me Mrs Baker,' she said, then she ran after the Inn Keeper to suggest gathering some kindling.
THE END - or is it…
Finally.
Now that Bunley and the “agent” have gone, hopefully for good. I have thrown in this last piece, as pure devilment. (I am becoming rather alarmed at my own reaction to all of this. I feel positively skittish!)
It is not complete, it is not referenced and it is more of a Socratic dialogue than a proper tale, but I think it stills throws some light on Brother Hermitage.
Of course it would have Bunley in fits. No decent provenance, not academically peer-reviewed, no authentication of the parchment, but you know - I don’t care!
And the agent? Well this didn’t come from him so he’ll be having nightmares about where I get my manuscripts now. I don’t know what all this nonsense is about royalties and copyright, but he seems to get terribly het up about it all.
And best of all, I am sending this off to the printer/publisher/electro-book people, without the two of them even knowing.
I shall batten down the hatches, and may even partake in a small sherry!
Howard,
Warwick,
Alone at last.
The Battle of Hermitage
‘We’re at war’ the man at arms told Brother Hermitage and he sounded rather proud of the fact.
‘Oh dear,’ said Hermitage who, despite everything everyone told him about the glory of war, had concluded that it was a bad thing.
‘No, no, that’s good,’ the man said. He knew that religious types had some pretty odd views about most things but really!
Hermitage hesitated to start this debate once again, especially with a foot soldier. Greater intellects than his own had assured Hermitage that his views on war were misplaced, that his attitude to conflict was lamentable and that his approach to the question of injury and death was so ill-considered that if he opened his mouth in public once more he would find that he was able to comment on the topic at first hand. Still, he felt that it was his duty and he always did his duty, even if it was counter-intuitive, unwelcome and frequently dangerous.
‘What if you get injured, or worse killed?’
‘You mean killed, or worse injured.’
‘Pardon.’
‘Oh yes, it would be much worse to be injured, especially if it was something nasty and permanent. I wouldn’t be able to work and my family wouldn’t get anything. Dead though, that’s much better, all over pretty quickly with any luck and then the family looked after. In fact I shouldn’t say this,’ and he leant conspiratorially towards Hermitage, ‘if I get injured badly, I’ll just have to make sure it’s fatal, know what I mean?’
‘Oh this is awful,’ Hermitage sighed and shook his head. ‘Surely it’s better not to have a war at all?’
‘Now you’re just being silly.’ It seemed that there was no more to say on the matter, but as Hermitage kept the expectant look on his face, the man at arms felt obliged to go on.
‘You’ve got to have wars haven’t you?’ The man at arms said in the voice he reserved for idiots
‘Have you?’
‘Yes of course you have. Look, I’m obligated to give the Lord a week’s service every quarter, right?’
‘Right.’ Hermitage was happy with this concept, perfectly reasonable.
‘And if I do, I have to go along and till his fields, muck out, build stuff, all of that. But our Lord tends to let all the days build up until harvest, then he calls us all in to get his crops for him.’
‘I see.’ Hermitage didn’t really, as the practicalities of life had always been a bit beyond him. Or beneath him, or a mystery to him, he could never determine which despite his father helpfully trying to beat it into him.
‘Well that’s no good. I’ve got me own harvest to bring in, and by the time I’ve done a month for him, my crops could be ruined.’
‘Ah,’ Now Hermitage got it.
‘But war, well that’s much better isn’t it?’
‘It’s better to be killed than to have some ruined crops?’
‘It’s better to be serving at arms because that counts four times. I only have to do one week at arms and then I’m clear for the year. If we have a war in the winter, like now, it’s even better. We get taken away from home and fed, means we don’t eat our own food, we work off our debt and then the Lord has to pay us if he wants us at harvest. Winners all round.’
‘Unless you’re dead?’
‘No, as I say dead’s good.’
‘Or injured?’
‘Yeah well there’s not much chance of that to be honest.’ The soldier had a smirk on his face.
‘Are you a good fighter then?’ Hermitage was starting to see that there was no way of dragging this man up to the moral high ground.
‘Well not bad, but I don’t think there’ll be any serious fighting.’
‘How can you know?’
‘There wasn’t last year.’
‘Last year? You mean this war has been going on for a year?’
‘Oh good Lord no, we couldn’t afford that. No we had another war this time last year.’
‘And were there many casualties then?’
‘Nah.’
‘I didn’t know the country was at war anyway.’ Hermitage said, becoming more and more puzzled with every bit of this conversation.
‘Oh it’s not the country. No, no, we don’t want the country at war, that really is dangerous. Once you get kings and the like involved it all gets horribly messy and a feller could end up getting hurt.’
‘Then?’ Hermitage was so far out at sea that he really didn’t know what to ask next.
‘We’re at war with the Lord next door.’
‘Are you allowed to do that? I thought the king had said something about Lords having wars with one another. Don’t they have to ask permission first?’
‘Yeah well, the king ain’t here is he?’
‘Well why are you at war?’
‘Land’
‘Land?’
‘Yeah, land.’ The man paused for a moment, and seemed to have another thought. ‘Or an insult to his daughter. Or a kidnapping. Or something to do with wells, I’m not sure which to be honest.’
‘Yet you’re still willing to go to war?’
‘Forests.’
‘What?’
‘Forests, that’s it. Deer and rights to timber and that. It’s
forests this year.’
‘You say it like it happens every year.’
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
‘Well why don’t the two Lords just talk to one another and avoid the conflict?’
‘You know what brothers are like.’
‘They’re brothers?’ Hermitage was astonished. ‘This really is intolerable. I must see what I can do to bring an end to this cycle of violence.’ He had made up his mind to go on to the main house and see if he couldn’t reason with these people.
‘Don’t you dare,’ the man at arms said, and Hermitage thought that he lowered his pike slightly.
‘But.’
‘Look monk,’ the man said, and there was a real change of tone in his voice. ‘The Lord on the other side operates the same as his brother. His serfs don’t want to be working during harvest, they want to get their duty done in one week during the winter when there’s nothing else to do. Anyway no one gets hurt so what’s the harm?’
‘Harm? It’s a war, there’s a principle here. You don’t have wars just because it’s convenient. Where would it end?’
‘Oh please. I’ve got a wife and four kids to feed, I can’t afford principles.’
In all of Hermitage’s travels, in all of his wanderings around the country since he had been invited to become a journeying monk, well, since he had been asked to leave his monastery, he had been puzzled by the complexities and contrivances of life outside of an order. He knew himself well enough to realise that a lot of this puzzlement was down to his own nature, and his unfamiliarity with normal life.
He knew that he was an innocent in many ways, this had been made clear to him. He knew that he had a simplistic and overly direct approach to events, this had been made clear to him by some shouting that the abbot had done. And he knew that he could be irritatingly persistent at times, this had been made clear by some dung that had been thrown at him by children. He also knew that there was no denying his nature, even if that nature had all the properties of something so tiresome that people were inclined to stamp on it.
Brother Hermitag, the Shorts Page 8
