A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  These were exciting questions for a young man who had not yet lived twenty summers. Little did I know then, as we walked north through the long warm summer days, that I would soon lay eyes on something of such exquisite beauty and dark mystery that my life would never be the same again. Leofstan had wanted me to learn from the trip, but I cannot believe he had any idea of how deep and vast that learning would prove, or what an impact that journey would have on both of our lives.

  When we reached the crossing to the island we had to wait for the tide. We rested and I watched the terns and gulls swooping and wheeling in the cloud-streaked sky. A few cormorants swam in the dark waters to the south where the heads of seals bobbed above the surface. We sat in quiet for the most part. Now that we had almost reached our destination, with the fortress of Bebbanburg looming on the horizon to our right, my excited talk had been replaced by a tense anticipation of setting foot on the holy isle. Leofstan seemed content with the peace and surveyed the land, sea and sky in silence.

  Eventually, the tide rolled out exposing the safe track across the mudflats to Lindisfarnae. The path, used by pilgrims and travellers, was marked with long staves that jutted from the dark sand.

  Leofstan led the way and I pulled the mule behind me. It unnerved me to walk on land so recently covered by the sea, and the mule, perhaps sensing my unease, refused to walk at first. I tugged at his halter and cooed low soothing words and eventually he begrudgingly trudged down through the dunes and onto the flat sands that separated the holy island from the mainland of Britain. Despite the bright sun, the air was cool here; the blustery wind redolent of the sea.

  “The way is safe enough,” said Leofstan, “but to stray from the path can see a walker stumble into deep mud.” He looked out over the mudflats to where oystercatchers strutted between pools that reflected the bright sky. “Out there you will find a quagmire that would suck at your limbs, holding you fast until the waters rush back with the next tide to claim another victim.”

  I shuddered and dragged the mule onward so that I did not fall too far behind Leofstan.

  I was glad when we reached the dry land of the island where I knew the waters of the sea would not engulf me come the next high tide. It was early afternoon and we passed the cluster of buildings that were the homes and workshops of the lay people who served the holy men and women of the minster. Men and women looked at us, but they were used to seeing tonsured monks passing through their settlement and they quickly went back about their business. A couple of children ran beside us for a time, excited to see new faces. A dog barked at the mule and chased after us until its owner, a broad man with the shoulders of one used to heavy labour, stepped out from the shade of a hut and whistled. The dog scampered back and the man raised a hand in welcome.

  Leaving the settlement behind, we crossed the vallum, the ditch that encircled the monastery buildings, and walked the final steps of our journey. The brethren were filing into the chapel and, looking at the sun, I realised it must be time for the office of None, the ninth hour. I thought Leofstan, who was never one to miss a prayer, would have me tether the mule and follow the others into the church. But before we arrived at the building, a figure hurried towards us.

  It was a young monk, maybe two or three years my senior, with hooded eyes peering out from a face ravaged by some childhood disease.

  “Brother Leofstan?” he asked, breathless. Leofstan nodded. “You are well met. Brother Oslac sent me to meet you.”

  Leofstan raised an eyebrow.

  “And you are?”

  “Tidraed, brother.”

  Leofstan gestured in my direction.

  “This is Hunlaf.”

  Tidraed nodded absently, while turning and beckoning for us to follow him. He was heading towards the largest building in the monastery.

  “Why the urgency?” Leofstan asked. “We have not even had a chance to unload the mule or to slake our thirst.”

  “We saw you coming across the pilgrim’s path,” Tidraed said. “Oslac has found something he wants you to see.” He halted and turned to face us. His eyes flicked to the chapel from where now echoed the familiar sounds of voices chanting the liturgy of None. “He thinks it best you see it now while the rest of the brothers are at prayer.”

  Leofstan scratched at the back of his head. He glanced at me, but I could not decipher his expression. With a shrug, he said, “Lead on then, Tidraed.”

  When we reached the large building, an elderly man was standing in the doorway. His pale face was lined with age and the little hair that remained about his ears was white and floated in the breeze like gossamer.

  “It is good to see you, Brother Oslac,” said Leofstan, stepping forward and holding out a hand.

  “There is no time for that,” said the old monk. Turning, he hurried into the gloom of the building. Frowning, Leofstan followed. I left the mule cropping at the straggly grass that clung to the sandy soil and rushed inside. I had no idea what I was about to witness, but Oslac exuded a nervous sense of expectation that kindled my imagination.

  Inside the long hall, the afternoon light slanted in through the unshuttered windows. Motes of dust danced in the sunlight. It was cool and still. I blinked after the bright daylight. But the smells that pervaded the air told me the story of the place before my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. The acrid bite of the vinegar, copperas and oak galls used to make the encaustum, the faintly animal tang of the vellum, the liberal dusting of pounce, the oily sweet scent of feathers. As my eyes adjusted I saw the writing desks, the scattered quills, and the stacks of books and scrolls, but I already knew I was inside the fabled scriptorium of Lindisfarnae.

  I breathed in deep of the familiar smells and gazed about me. The room was easily twice the size of the scriptorium back at Werceworthe where I spent most of my days. The number of books dazzled me. I wanted to reach out and touch them all, to leaf through their pages and drink in their wisdom. I stepped towards the nearest writing desk to peer at the finely styled writing on the smooth calfskin vellum. But before I could begin to engross myself with what looked like a new rendition of the Calendar of Saint Willibrord, I saw that Leofstan, Tidraed and Oslac had reached the far corner of the room.

  “Can the boy be trusted?” asked the old man, peering back at me.

  “Of course,” replied Leofstan without hesitation. “And he is as sharp as any student I have ever had. I would not have brought him with me otherwise.”

  Oslac beckoned to me impatiently. I hurried over, my heart swelling with pride at my teacher’s words. The three of them were looking down at an object on a table. As I approached, Oslac pulled away a cloth that had been covering it and their faces were lit in a warm glow, as from a fire’s embers.

  Leofstan crossed himself. I could not see what they were gazing at and had to lean over Tidraed’s shoulder to get a glimpse. I gasped and for a time I was unable to breathe or speak, such was the beauty of what lay before me.

  It was a book, but a book unlike any I had ever seen before. All books are of great value, of course. They are made from the hides of many animals, be they calves or lambs, the letters are painstakingly scratched onto the parchment and the ink is expensive. The best books have coloured pictures and patterns on their pages, and sometimes even a thin layer of gold is applied to highlight certain characters or images. The covers are likewise decorated and adorned with patterns and in rare cases even gemstones and precious metals. At Werceworthe, Leofstan had allowed me to read a copy of the Gospels. It was the most precious of all the books in the minster, richly decorated inside and out; a tome of staggering beauty and value. But nothing I had ever seen before had prepared me for the book that Oslac had uncovered.

  The light spearing through the dark of the scriptorium from the nearest shutter fell upon the closed book, reflecting from myriad gems and the finest golden scroll work. The distant sound of the brethren singing in the chapel drifted through the open window, as if they sang in praise of what we gazed upon. We stood in sil
ence for a time, all seemingly unable to speak, or perhaps unwilling to break the spell cast by the masterful craftsmanship of the cover’s decorations. I drank in the swirling images, picking out details of what looked like letters that formed no words I recognised. The twists and turns of gold swarmed over the cover in designs so complex I was sure they had a meaning that eluded me. Such was the elaborate detail of the ornamentation, I felt stupid to stand in its presence. The book was about the length of a man’s arm and perhaps half as wide. It was encrusted with jewels dotted over the cover. They glimmered in the dust-swirled light from the window, like animal eyes staring out from a thicket of golden branches. At the centre of the tome nestled the largest gem of all, a brilliant blood-red stone, held in an intricate nest of golden threads that flowed away like roots of a tree to join a solid band of gold that spanned the middle of the book’s cover.

  Leofstan broke the awed hush.

  “Where in all of God’s earth did you find this marvel?”

  “How it came to be here is unimportant,” whispered Oslac, his tone tense. “It is what we do with it, that must be decided.”

  “You mean…” Leofstan’s voice trailed off.

  By way of answer, Oslac took a deep breath and, trembling as if the book might burn his fingers, he swung open the cover.

  The first page was almost as elaborate as the cover. It was entirely taken up by a convoluted diagram. I peered at it for a moment, marvelling at the draughtsmanship, but making no sense of what seemed to be interlocking streams and paths. Close to the centre there was what looked like a great tree, around which water flowed. Above this were several curved lines that reminded me of the rings you see within a tree’s trunk when it has been felled. All over the picture were symbols and the images of people and animals.

  Leofstan frowned and turned the page. This was filled with words and I pushed Tidraed aside so that I might get a better look. I quickly saw that the words were written in Latin. They had been formed by a master scribe. Despite the fine penmanship and brilliant colours of the inks, the book exuded a sensation of great age.

  “The Treasure of Life,” I read aloud.

  Oslac looked at me sharply and made the sign of the cross.

  “I told you he was clever,” said Leofstan.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Leofstan, as interested as me to know the answer, looked at Oslac, but the old monk shook his head. He held up a hand to his ear. I noticed that the sound of singing had vanished. The monks in the chapel would be finished soon.

  “It is the teachings of a prophet named Mani,” Oslac said, “but there is no time to talk now.” Reaching over, he slammed the book shut and began wrapping it in the dusty cloth.

  “Mani?” Leofstan whispered, his eyes bright. “Heresy then?”

  Oslac finished hiding the tome’s lustre beneath the linen. He nodded to Tidraed, who picked it up and carried it to one of the many cabinets that lined the rear wall.

  “It is knowledge and a thing of great beauty and worth,” he said. “It must not be destroyed.”

  Leofstan’s face was sombre as he nodded in agreement.

  “Destroyed?” I hissed, horrified at the thought.

  Oslac smiled wearily.

  “Alas, not all are as open to learning as you seem to be, young Hunlaf. There are those here that would burn any work they deem to stray too far from the established doctrine. They fear such heretical writings would pollute otherwise pure minds, leading them into temptation. Even damnation.”

  I shivered.

  “Is it the work of the Devil then?” I asked. Was the lavish binding, with its gems and gold, designed to entrap the unwary and doom them to hell for opening the pages and allowing the accursed words into their minds? I took a step back, making the sign of the cross.

  Leofstan placed a calming hand on my shoulder.

  “It is but a book,” he said. “Words and images on parchment. The work of men. Nothing more.”

  “But what if it is evil?” I shuddered, imagining the flames of hell licking at my ankles. “Perhaps it should be destroyed.”

  “No, Hunlaf!” Leofstan snapped. “Do not speak thus. I know you. You love books as much as I. They are a window into the past, into the minds of men long dead. Never speak of destroying them. Such is not God’s will.”

  I nodded uncertainly. It was true that I loved books, but this talk of heresy had filled me with fear.

  “You must speak to nobody of what you have seen here,” continued Leofstan, his voice earnest and stern. “Not until I have had time to study the contents at least.” He sighed. “Even if the words within the book are evil, they are but words. God is all powerful and fears nothing from words on pages in a book.”

  Outside, we could hear the approach of the monks who had finished their prayers. Leofstan stared into my eyes and saw my unease.

  “Remember how you felt when I told you the tale of the library of the Mouseion at Alexandria. You would not see this book burnt like all of those, would you?”

  The story of the destruction of so much learning had appalled me. Such was my dismay, I had later dreamt of the great conflagration. In my dream, I had been trying to enter the flames to rescue the scrolls, but the intense heat had kept me outside, watching with tears streaming down my face at the terrible loss of such vast quantities of knowledge.

  “No,” I said.

  “Good. Then speak to nobody of what you have seen until we have had time to investigate more fully and decide what is best.”

  He held my gaze, a fervent glow in his eyes I had never seen before. I nodded again.

  The first of the monks was entering the scriptorium now and Leofstan relaxed and turned at the sound of a new voice.

  “Brother Leofstan,” said an old man, who wore a large golden cross on his chest, which indicated he must be Hygebald, leader of the brethren here. Despite his age, Hygebald walked purposefully forward with arms outstretched. “What a delight to see you again. Who have we here?”

  “Hunlaf, your Excellency.”

  The bishop appraised me with a glance and I noted he had kindly eyes.

  “Welcome, Hunlaf,” he said, then continued to Leofstan. “Have young Tidraed here and Hunlaf unload the mule. You must come with me and tell me tidings from the south.”

  And with that he led Leofstan away.

  All about the scriptorium, the scribes were seating themselves, sharpening quills, adjusting the pages before them, stirring encaustum and setting to the laborious task of copying whatever text they were working on. I wished that I could join them and fill my mind with the painstaking job of transcribing a document. Such work would have consumed me, occupied my hands and my mind, leaving no room for my troubled thoughts of heresy and cursed books.

  But as I followed Tidraed outside, I could not push aside the vision of the book, blazing in the sunlight, gems gleaming. I wondered at the words I had read within the book. The Treasure of Life. What could it mean? Who was Mani and what could the detailed images I’d seen signify?

  As I helped Tidraed to lift the reams of vellum from the mule and carry them into the gloom of the scriptorium, my eyes strayed to the far cabinet where the wondrous book was hidden and I knew I would not be able to rest until I had seen it again and deciphered its secrets.

  Three

  I didn’t see Leofstan for the rest of the day. I joined in with the office of Vespers and then sat with the brethren in silence at the evening meal. Tidraed sat across from me and only offered me a single brief signal with his hands that I recognised as a perfunctory welcome to the refectory. He glowered at me for a time and in the end I looked away, unsure of what had provoked his evident dislike of me.

  After Compline, when it grew dark, I was shown to a small cell for visitors. There was no sign of Leofstan as I lay down to sleep on the small pallet. I noted that he was still not there when I awoke in the darkest part of the night for Vigils. My mind was in turmoil, but the rhythms of the minster were comforting to me
and I rose again before dawn with the rest of the monks to walk over the dew-wet grass to the chapel for Matins.

  After Hygebald gave the blessing, the brethren dispersed each to their own tasks and I found myself with the unusual situation of having nothing to do. So I wandered away from the minster, the sun tinging the east with golden light that reminded me of the cover of the heretical book Oslac had shown us.

  I wanted time to think and I had a vague idea that, should I be berated for not attending Prime, I would say I had become lost. I crossed the vallum, and headed towards the cluster of huts occupied by the lay people. The scent of woodsmoke and fish was strong in the air as mackerel was being smoked on timber frames over fires on the beach. A mist lingered over the waves that whispered on the sand and stones. The smoke from the fires hazed the air, mingling with the mist. When I looked back towards the thatched roof of the church, I realised I could no longer make out the shapes of the buildings. A scratch of worry ran down my spine as I thought of the punishment I might face if I was found to have left the monastery. But the fear was only a dull nagging, easy to ignore. It was as nothing to the anguish I felt at keeping secret the existence of The Treasure of Life, which was how I had come to think of the book. I told myself I would speak to Leofstan at the earliest opportunity and demand answers. But in truth I knew I would do no such thing. He was my teacher and I feared him. And, I realised, as I walked onto the sand, I respected him. If he’d told me to keep this secret, it must be for the best. He would not wish me, or anyone, harm. I was sure of that. He was a firm master, but he was fair and just. And if what he’d said about people wishing to destroy the book was true, we had to proceed with caution.

  My footfalls made little sound, as I stepped onto the strand, muted by the smoky haze in the cool morning air.

  That was when I heard it: a lilting singing that rose and fell as though with the waves rolling up the beach. It was the voice of a young woman and she sang with effortless abandon, her mind clearly focused on something else. The song entranced me. There was something haunting and familiar about it, as if perhaps I had once heard it in a dream. Hesitating, I listened for a while before moving forward more slowly, not wanting to interrupt the creature that made such beautiful music, but also needing to glimpse the face of one whose voice was so sweet.