Against a Darkening Sky

by Lauren B. Davis

  And now, he hangs his head. “Am I to be defrocked then?”

  “Defrocked? Of course not. You’ve done nothing so terrible as that.” He scratches his head. “On the contrary, the abbot and I have been concerned about you. We know you’re not happy.”

  “That’s not true, Father. Everything that’s holy is here; all my life I dreamed—”

  “Yes, I know about your dreams, Brother Egan, but let’s not start all that again. You don’t quite fit in; there’s no point in denying it, is there?”

  Egan tucks his hands into the sleeves of his habit, so his confessor can’t see how tightly they’re clenched. He’s correct; there’s no point.

  Father Bresal claps his hands on his knees. “Look, my son, this is not a punishment; we want you to understand that. This is a great honour. The abbot and I have been praying and asking for guidance. You’re an unusual young man and you don’t understand your gifts. You want to spend all your time with the sheep, off by yourself, which is all well and good, but it’s not the best use of your talents, and not making use of one’s talents is tantamount to ingratitude.” He stands and puts his arm around Egan. “Come on, let’s walk and talk, shall we? I’m to take you to the abbot.”

  The day is mild and full of birdsong. The rest of the monastery is quiet; the monks are at study. The only people moving about are at the far end of the compound, in the guest house, where travellers are offered shelter. They are traders from the Pictish lands who arrived several days before. It seems an odd time for an audience with the abbot, Egan thinks. In the distance the sea is shining. Beyond that lie Eire and Egan’s family, and he prays for acceptance.

  They walk in silence for some moments, past the barn where grain is stored, past the garden in which medicinal herbs grow, and then Father Bresal says, “I wonder if you know how very blessed you are? And I don’t mean in your visions, although of course these, too, are great blessings, but rather in your skill with languages, and with words generally. Reading came almost unnaturally easy for you, as did Latin, and then the dialects you’ve learned. How many are there now?”

  This puzzles Egan. Learning languages doesn’t seem so very difficult. It’s just a matter of hearing the music of the words and then understanding which particular sound refers to which particular thing. Just as he heard the ewe crying for her lost lamb and understood at once—from the timbre of the bleat—that something was terribly wrong. The lamb was in danger, not just lost, so the mother had cried in a completely different way. If she had spoken words she could not have been clearer. And words are so much easier to understand, even if they’re different words; at least they’re in the human tongue.

  “I’m not sure,” he says. “Five or six, I suppose.”

  “Precisely. It’s a gift, Brother Egan. One which must be put to good use in the service of Our Lord Christ.” He glances at the young monk. “We’ve talked a great deal, since you came here, of the effect you have on the other monks. No, no, don’t speak. There’s no need to speak; I’m not chiding you. It’s more I who should apologize to you, I think.”

  Egan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Never, Father. You’ve been nothing but kind and your advice is invaluable!”

  “The fact is there’s something about you. Something unusual. You are unaware, I know, of the … well … I don’t quite know what to call it … but something emanates from you. A sort of intensity. See, the look on your face this very moment tells me you have no idea. But it’s there, nonetheless. I had thought that perhaps humility and time would tamp it down so you might become, more easily, a brother among brothers, content in the simple life we live here.”

  “But Father, I am content. I strive only to be of service to Our Lord.”

  “Of course. But I fear we’ve all been mistaken as to what that service may be. The Lord has plans for you, my son, and He has revealed them to Abbot Ségéne.” He pats Egan’s shoulder. “It’s good news. Great news.”

  They arrive at the abbot’s wattle-and-post hut, near his lodging, where he receives visitors and conducts the daily business of the monastery. The door is open. Inside, the abbot, a robust man with a great tangled beard, sits behind a rough-hewn table, writing on a parchment. Hearing them, he raises his face and smiles. Abbot Ségéne is not a man who smiles often, and certainly not at Brother Egan. It seems like the smile of a man who has solved a problem, and Egan, evidently the problem in question, is not reassured.

  “Ah, you’re here, Father Bresal. Good. Come in, and Brother Egan as well.” He puts his quill down and folds his hands as they approach. “Have you told Brother Egan God’s plan?”

  “I thought that best left to you, Abbot.”

  “Yes. Good.” He leans forward and peers at Egan. “The Lord is working wonders in the world. We live in momentous times. His word spreads throughout the land and a great opportunity has presented itself, by God’s will.”

  “Praise God,” says Brother Egan.

  “Indeed. Praise God,” repeats Abbot Ségéne. “Some years ago, as I’m sure you know, Pope Gregory sent Bishop Paulinus to Kent from Rome, to convert the pagans. He’s done wonderful work there and has recently accompanied Princess Ethelburga to Northumbria to marry King Edwin. Her brother and guardian, King Eadbald, permitted the marriage with the stipulation she remain Christian and King Edwin, thank God, agreed. Events have transpired in which the hand of God is evident—a thwarted assassination attempt against the king on the very night Queen Ethelburga gave birth to a child. The details do not matter so much, except to say the king has permitted his daughter to be baptized!” He claps his hands and Egan jumps. “Imagine, Brother, the glory of God. Should King Edwin accept Christ, it is entirely possible he will begin to sow the seeds of peace at last, instead of always thinking about the glory of battle, and these ghastly wars will end. Great changes are afoot.”

  “God is great,” says Egan.

  “And you, my son, will be part of the great changes.”

  “I will, Father?”

  “Bishop Paulinus has sent word he needs someone who can translate for him, someone who knows the dialects and ways of the people. Yes, I see from your expression you have guessed it. The Lord has directed that you shall be the very person, Brother Egan. I am sending you to the court of King Edwin at Bebbanburgh.”

  The floor seems to roll under Egan’s feet, and he raises his hands as though to steady himself on a pitching deck. “When am I to leave?”

  The abbot comes around the table and stands before Egan. “Go back to your cell with your confessor, Brother. Pray and prepare yourself. You will leave today with the traders’ boat. They will take you to the mainland and from there you will travel overland. The journey will be long, but not too long, and your skill with languages will serve you well. You’ll learn even more than you know now as you travel, and by the time you arrive in Bebbanburgh you’ll have much to offer the bishop. You will make us proud. Now, kneel, Brother, and I will bless you.”

  The sun is high over Egan’s hut when he turns to Father Bresal and says, “I’m ready.”

  “Are you?”

  “I am.” He has a light pack on his back, containing a wooden bowl and spoon, some extra linens for his feet for when his wear through, and a small psalter, a gift from the abbot himself.

  Father Bresal rubs his arthritic knees and rises from his stool. His joints pop. “Well then, the abbot will be pleased.”

  Egan goes pale. “Did he think I wouldn’t obey?”

  “Obedience and submission are not the only thing God requires, Brother.”

  “I’m ashamed if I gave the impression I was unwilling …”

  “You think of your shame too much,” says Father Bresal, as though reading his mind. “That, too, is still thinking of yourself, isn’t it? Better to set your thoughts entirely on God.”

  “You’re right, of course. I’m unworthy.”

  “And there you go again!” Father Bresal smiles, a little sadly. “The passion of youth, no doubt. I almost remember it
. Never mind. But try to pack a little joy in your bundle, won’t you?”

  Egan frowns. This new life he’s apparently to lead, this new path he’s to follow, has come upon him so abruptly he hardly knows what to think, what to do, how to behave. All he feels is that he’s being cast out. That he’s failed somehow. Father Bresal is right, though. What about joy? He does not consider himself joyless. He sees so much beauty in God’s world. Has his determination to serve God’s purpose been confused with dourness? “I will, along with a pinch of, well, humour, if I can find some, yes?”

  Father Bresal claps him on the shoulder. “A grand idea. But remember, you have the thing most necessary for the work you’re called to. You have kindness. Others have tried, and no doubt will try again, to bring the pagans to Christ through force. That’s never the way. Our Saviour Jesus Christ brings us love and gathers us gently, as a shepherd gathers his sheep.” He smiles, which causes Egan to blush hotly. “You may need a reminder now and then to walk the path of moderation, to be gentle with yourself, but there will never be a need to remind you to be kind, and I know that’s why our abbot has singled you out for this honour. God blessed you when you floundered in the sea, blessed you and kept you. He’ll never leave you companionless.” The old monk drops his hand from Egan’s shoulder. “Now, come along. The boat leaves on the tide. Imagine what you’ll learn with Paulinus! And in the king of Northumbria’s court! I won’t lie to you. I suffer from the sin of envy, just a little. Just a very little, but there it is.”

  Egan would gladly change places with Father Bresal, but of course that is not an option. And so both of them must deal with their envy.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ad Gefrin

  Wilona fancies she can see through her closed eyelids. There is Touilt. Touilt’s face, however, does not look like her own—her eyes are strangely yellow and her jaw snoutish. Her teeth are sharp and the smell of the deep-earth den is all around her. Something in Wilona’s mouth tastes of roots and bitterness. She gags, but a hand covers her lips, forcing her to swallow. Smoke burns her eyes, and in the wafting, bluish haze, grey imps and spirits hover and squirm. It’s as though slivers of ice have been worked between her skin and muscle, sharp and freezing to the bone. Hands float near her, and she knows they are her mother’s hands, but they never get close enough to save her. Her mother wants to tell her something, to bring her somewhere. A great tree towers in the muddled shadows, with roots twisted and intricate and deep into the ground. Her mother is not her mother then but a great owl, the colour of storm clouds, and swoops above her. Yet, the owl cannot be her mother, for it is not a female owl. She thinks of it as him. The owl folds his wings around her, moulds itself to the curve of her shoulder, the length of her arm. She is lifted up, rushing along a beaten path, sweeping the tops of trees, and then she plunges down, down into the heart of a great oak, slip-flying along one of the great roots, down, down, into the earth itself; she flies down the tree root, as though the dirt and roots are air, twisting, turning, falling … And then everything is black, but safely so. The heart nest, she thinks. I am in the heart nest. Soft and dark and hidden away from danger, and she can sleep here, while the moor-scented owl watches, sleep until the end of time if she so desires, and she does; she craves it so …

  A woodpecker is drumming against a tree. Something metal clatters. Rough burlap lines her mouth; her tongue is thick. Her eyelashes stick together.

  “So, you grace us with your presence.”

  Something tickles unpleasantly on her neck. She raises her hand to brush it away and finds it is her hair, greasy and damp. Wilona opens one eye and then the other. Touilt is sitting on a low stool by the fire, stirring a pot.

  “I’m relieved.” Touilt stands over her now, feeling her forehead. “Cool. Good.” She turns, steps outside, talks to someone.

  Wilona drifts off again. When she opens her eyes next, Touilt is holding a cup. She places an arm behind Wilona.

  “Come on, then, little one. Drink a bit of this.”

  Suddenly, Wilona is thirstier than she’s ever been. She grabs the cup. Her tongue reaches for moisture. Broth. Sweet with onions, rich with beef marrow.

  “Greedy! Not so quick. You’ll be sick.”

  The cup disappears and Wilona groans, too weak to do more.

  Touilt laughs. “You’ll live. But you did give me a scare, and Dunstan, too, I’ll warrant—his poor face.” She winks. “It’s much better now.”

  The shadows under her eyes, and the lines around her mouth, are proof Touilt has been worried. Touilt hands her back the cup and Wilona sips, although it’s hard not to gulp. The warm, rich brew hits her stomach and it cramps. “How long?” Her voice croaks.

  “This is the fourth morning.”

  “Are others ill?”

  Touilt shakes her head. “Only you. It came to you alone.” She wipes Wilona’s face and neck with damp linen. “We’re lucky in that. Rumour spread that your dark luck might have finally caught up with you.”

  For a moment Wilona fears she’ll vomit. “Lord Caelin?”

  “Ricbert persuaded him to wait, before … well, it’s no matter now.” She takes Wilona’s chin in her palm. “Sleep. I’ll return later. We’ve much to talk about.”

  “You’re sure? Lord Caelin—”

  “We have nothing to fear. He’s had a boy watching us. I’ve told him to go back and tell Lord Caelin you’re returned to us.”

  Wilona studies her guardian’s face but detects no dissemblance. She’s safe. What Touilt might have to discuss with her is puzzling, but Wilona’s far too tired to think about it. She’s permitted to drink a bit more of the broth, and she barely swallows before she feels the gentle slide leading to sleep. Raedwyn. The word echoes along beside her as she glides into a dreamless land.

  When she wakes, the room is bright and sounds drift in through the open window—a hammer ringing in the forge, the twitters of wagtails, the fluting too-eet of a redstart, the wind’s hush through the leaves. Wilona is weak, but a strange itch spreads through her. She remembers seeing a pair of fat and stubby fox cubs walking along a low rock wall at the edge of a meadow last spring. They rubbed their still-blunt muzzles against tree trunks, gambolled and jumped and tussled, and generally seemed to have more joy inside them than could be confined in their limbs. Wilona feels like that. She wants to run somewhere, and her toes twitch.

  She’s alive, and grateful for it. She’s also ravenous. She thinks it odd, this vigour, but fears that questioning it will chase it away. She wiggles her toes and shakes her legs under the coverlet. Everything in the room seems clearer, brighter—the stool in the corner, the shutters thrown back from the window, the stone lamp, the ivy-and-garland-patterned hangings on the wall, the reeds on the floor, the ant crawling there. All things are distinct, pure unto themselves. The threads in the hanging cloth stand out so clearly it’s as though each one has a name of its own. The glint of mica in the lamp glistens like a precious jewel, and the cracks in the wood of the stool are like ravines in a great dry landscape. Even the spider, waiting patiently in a web in the corner, vibrates with life. A loaf of bread and a bowl of wild strawberries, along with a jug of water, sit on the stool next to her mattress. She reaches for them greedily and, as she does so, the odour of her own body wafts out from under the bedclothes. It’s almost enough to put her off her food—almost. The bread is warm, and when the crust breaks beneath her fingers, the yeasty aroma sends water rushing to her mouth. The bread tastes like life itself. The water is cool and sweet. She wants to laugh out loud. Surely, nothing in the world is better than fresh bread and clear water. And then she stuffs a handful of red berries in her mouth, where they explode—sparkling, acidic, and sweet.

  A sound, a chuckle, and there is Touilt in the doorway, a half-smile on her lips. Her face is softer than the last time Wilona saw her, although some shadows remain beneath her dark eyes. Her head is bare, and her hair, streaked with grey, falls loosely about her face. Wilona swallows the bread. It seems
drier than it had a moment before. It’s not right she should be in bed when her mistress stands. She makes a motion to rise.

  “Stay.” Touilt holds her palm up. “You’re ill yet. Another day or two of rest, I think.” She pulls a stool close to the bed and sits, her eyes boring into Wilona. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m well.”

  Touilt arches an eyebrow.

  “Better, Lady. Grateful for your care.”

  “As you should be. It was dangerous.”

  Wilona doesn’t know what to say to that, so she says, “Thank you.”

  “You were away from us.” Touilt doesn’t blink as often as most people, and under her stare Wilona makes an effort not to fidget. “I have questions. Pay attention.” Wilona nods. “What were you doing right before the fever came upon you?”

  “I was in the forest, gathering kindling.”

  Touilt leans her elbows on her knees and the necklace of wolf-teeth around her neck rattles. “Where in the forest? Be specific.”

  Wilona tries to remember. Where was she? The forest is a sacred world unto itself, and within it are places more sacred yet—the place in the river where the great rocks sit like sleeping giants; the mirror-still pool; the elder tree where the Old Mother lives, her head covered in tiny, creamy flowers; the ash tree near the clearing. “Near the stand of oaks, to the west.”

  “And what did you notice there?”

  As Wilona concentrates, an undeniable sense of presence returns. Not frightening. A whiff of heather and the night moors. Owl scent. The scent triggers memory. “Birds in a tree. A squirrel. The birds chased him to protect their eggs. And then a hawk.” It seems childish, this small forest drama.

  “What about the hawk?”

  “It killed the squirrel. It was so fast. I …”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s silly, but I felt the squirrel was badly tricked somehow. He was just going on … and then the hawk came. It didn’t seem fair.”