Against a Darkening Sky

by Lauren B. Davis

  Touilt nods, as though she has said the right thing. “And the illness came upon you then?”

  “Yes, right after.” The strange energy she felt upon waking drains, as though she is reliving the moment in the forest. “It frightened me. I was alone.”

  “Were you?” Touilt fingers the wolf teeth, rubbing a large incisor.

  Wilona’s not so certain then. She had feared elves, and elf-shot. The trees had seemed malevolent. “Perhaps not. But what was there frightened me.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Touilt’s eyes never leave Wilona’s face. All the exuberance Wilona felt earlier is gone. The things in the room are just things, ordinary and functional. The little spider has disappeared. She wants only to curl up, away from Touilt’s eyes. She cannot hold her gaze and starts knotting a loose thread in the coverlet. Her greasy hair clings to her neck and she longs for a knife to cut it all off.

  At last, Touilt saves her. “You’re a most unusual girl, Wilona. I suspected as much when I first saw you.”

  Wilona shivers. “I don’t think so. You’re wise, Lady, but I’m just a girl.”

  “See, you know some truths, even now. I am wise, wiser than you.” She smiles. “And do you not wish to be more than just a girl? Have you no better sense of your fate, here, in my house, as my apprentice?”

  Hope is dangerous but, then again, so is being without allies, protectors. “I’m grateful for all I have, Lady. I owe my life to your generosity.”

  Touilt snorts. “I loathe fawning. Don’t argue with me. And do not try to hide from me.”

  Wilona raises her eyes and her lower lip quivers.

  “Wilona, didn’t you notice something else in the wood?”

  She closes her eyes and thinks hard. Something flickers at the edge of her mind, like a half-forgotten vision. She relaxes, tries not to frighten it away. Feathers. Bits of bone. “There was a tree, an oak, with droppings and scraps at the base.”

  “An owl tree,” Touilt says. “I thought so.”

  The memory returns in a rush, and with it, a flare of wild excitement, a longing for the tree-root ride. “Oh, the owl! I dreamed of him.”

  “Yes,” Touilt says, “but it was no dream.”

  Touilt is right. Whatever happened does not feel like a dream. It’s more than that—something bigger, meatier. Wilona tells Touilt of the flying descent upon the tree root to the owl’s cave-like nest. Touilt’s eyes widen and she makes complicated symbols with her fingers in the air.

  Touilt leans back and folds her arms. “From this it’s clear—your fetch, your soul-self, your true nature—has come to you in the form of the owl. He is both you and not you; he is the part of you that lives after death. He is your guide, your wisdom, and your power. Did your fetch reveal his name?”

  Raedwyn. The word that echoed as she fell asleep. Raedwyn.

  “He did, Lady.”

  Touilt nods, and then stands. “And so you are twice claimed. Once for the goddess, Eostre, once for your fetch, the owl. You progress more quickly than most do. I was older when the wolf came for me. It bodes well. And your owl protected you, child.”

  Touilt frowns, bites her lip, and drops her eyes. She considers the floor for several minutes, and Wilona senses there’s more she wishes to say, and so she waits. As the minutes pass, her uneasiness grows.

  “How should I put it?” Touilt looks at her. “Not all who are chosen survive the testing. You’ve been tested twice. The spirits rode you when you wandered the moors. They rode you again in this illness. Strong magic. Powerful danger. Lord Caelin will be pleased. You’ll prove useful.”

  Wilona grips the blanket over her chest, to keep her fingers from trembling. “And is it over now?”

  Touilt shrugs. “Who knows what the gods have in store? We must ensure you carry iron with you at all times. I’ve placed some in the pouch around your neck.”

  Wilona reaches for her neck and finds there a new leather thong with a small pouch attached. “Thank you, Touilt.”

  “There’s something in the pouch you were carrying at your waist when we found you; it is not mine to touch.”

  The feather. “Yes.”

  “Place it with the iron. No evil will pass it. Do not remove it. For now, rest. Tomorrow will bring what it brings, and take us where it will take us.” She removes a small vial from her apron pocket and pours a little of the contents into a cup of water. “Drink this.”

  It smells like the barn floor, but Wilona does as she’s told, and after she drinks, Touilt leaves her. Wilona lies still for a while, wishing she could bathe, and then she imagines the tree root against her chest, feathers under her fingers, and the slip-slide down … Raedwyn.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bebbanburgh

  Egan wakes up in the dark. Each dawn is a miracle, a reminder of God’s first act of creation. It amazes him anyone would miss it, and yet, here in the great fortress Bebbanburgh, the royal court is not much disposed to pre-dawn prayer. Egan shakes his head.

  Bishop Paulinus, Queen Ethelburga’s confessor, sleeps in a tapestry-laden chamber next to her quarters. Paulinus arrived in Northumbria from Kent convinced the king would quickly convert, and is displeased he still refuses to deny the old gods. Last year, Edwin promised to convert if Paulinus’s prayers for King Edwin’s victory against the West Saxons were answered. Even after defeating his enemies, he did not fulfill his promise. Pope Boniface V himself has sent letters, urging his conversion, but still … Egan prays for the king to see the wonder of Christ’s message, and the queen is tireless in her efforts.

  While Egan’s prayers for the king have not been answered, others have been. He’s been allowed to move to this small wooden hut just outside the fortress’s southern wall, near where the shepherds keep the flock on the plateau sloping up from the sea. Bishop Paulinus had at first insisted Egan sleep in an antechamber near his own quarters, so he might be available whenever necessary, but apparently he had kept the Father from his sleep, and thus, after several weeks, was granted permission to remove himself. Now, Egan sighs, rises from his pallet, lights a candle, and washes his hands and face in a stone basin of cold water he placed by the bed the night before. Something tickles his skin and he realizes a beetle has crawled into the basin. He coaxes the drowning creature onto his finger and sets it outside the doorway. “Be safe, brother beetle.”

  He straps on his sandals and heads to the shore. To reach the sea he must walk round the long, high fortress wall to the gate near the narrow harbour. The path is adequately wide, but men have been swept off the edge in the devilishly high winds of winter, and even now Egan must be cautious. When the tide crashes against the cliff walls he prays, standing before his hut, occasionally joined by indifferent sheep, but this morning the weather is calm enough.

  As he reaches the gate he coughs, so as not to startle the doorkeepers. They are not accustomed to anyone approaching at this hour, even though Egan comes here whenever tides permit. Still, it’s prudent to alert them of his presence. He greets the huge, black-bearded twins standing guard and they nod silently in return.

  He descends the slippery rock steps. The air smells clean, and salty, and slightly overripe from the seaweed festooning the beach. In the near-dark, he puts his life in Christ’s hands, offering each step into the unknown as a confirmation of his faith. This time of day is the most blessed but also the hardest. Without the distraction of work and the bustle within the fortress walls, Egan is ragged with longing for the simple life of the monastery. The rejection he suffered there seems but a distant memory in the face of all the complexities of the royal court. The stretch of sand before him is pocked with lugworm castings. His eyes rise to the sweet plumish-rose ribbon of light on the horizon. The sun is still nothing but a pearlescent promise.

  To his left, in the distance, he can just make out the tidal island known as Medcaut. He has been told there is another island, just a tiny one, near it. He closes his eyes and imagines a small hut, with a door facing the r
ising sun. He would sing songs to the seals and whales. He would have a patch of garden. Protected by the wall of tides, he would be alone with God’s miracle, free to give himself completely. His heart feels as though it bleeds into his belly.

  He kneels on a rock, picks up several small stones, and sets them beneath his knees. He must drive out desire. He grinds his knees into the stones and clenches his teeth against the pain shooting up into his thighs, his loins. God is everywhere—in the great-spanned bird, the seal in the cove, the raven, the red deer, the lamb, the hound, the otter, the hooded crows. God is in the grasses and the sandy beach, in every rocky crag and cloud and star, in every iris and orchid, in every patch of hogweed and lowly bracken. An eye-shatteringly bright bump appears on the horizon, and as it does, the world, in that suspended moment, once again turns toward life and light, away from death and darkness. Terns wheel overhead; a flock of gulls appears as if by magic and squawk just offshore, probably over a shoal of herring. The air fills—kittiwakes, eiders, razorbills, and guillemots. On the sea’s surface, shapes materialize. Smooth round heads. The seals have appeared.

  Egan raises his arms.

  A short time later, he ascends the steps and already the sun warms his back. The bang and clatter of the metal workers who ply their trade just inside the fortress near the gate, along with their good-natured shouts, reach him and he thinks perhaps today he will offer his services there, if Paulinus has no need of him. The smithies are rough men, but patient, and since he asks no pay and doesn’t complain no matter what’s asked of him, his hands are welcome. In truth, his services as translator do not seem to be much needed here, since Edwin, and most of the court, speak Latin fluently.

  Hourly, he tries hard to accept this mission to the royal court, but with the stench of decadence, the perfume of politics so thick in his nostrils, it’s difficult. He supposes it’s to be expected that even good souls might be seduced by the gold and the velvet, the soft beds, the ale and wine, the fine jewels and furs and rich food. Bishop Paulinus confuses him. That he is pious and devout is beyond a doubt, but his apparent attachment to gold crosses and fine linen robes, to scented oils and a diet that includes meat shocks Egan. He wants to believe the elder priest behaves this way so as not to offend his hosts, but it does seem in contradiction with the simple life Christ exemplified.

  “Brother Egan!”

  He is startled out of his thoughts and looks to see who’s calling. It’s one of the young slaves who serve Paulinus, and he looks decidedly unhappy.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  “Except, of course, where I was, and since I am now where you are, it’s worked out well enough,” says Egan, trying not to laugh at the indignant expression on the boy’s face.

  “Lord Paulinus says you are to come at once. And that was long enough ago that I’m bound to be beaten for it.” The boy pulls at Egan’s tunic.

  “All right, lad, I am coming and I’m sure the good father wouldn’t beat you.”

  The boy rolls his eyes.

  A few minutes later, Brother Egan is standing in front of the bishop’s quarters, sweating in spite of the chill wind, and he can’t help but wonder if Father Bresal would still envy him. With a small prayer, he steps over the threshold and is surprised to find Paulinus pacing. The man is tall and he stoops slightly, as though to disguise himself as a man more like other men. He strikes Egan as a kind of predatory wading bird, picking his feet up slightly higher than necessary, as though afraid he might trip on something; bobbing his head with each step, as though looking for a plump frog to skewer on his beakish nose.

  “You wanted me, Father?”

  Paulinus claps his hands as he swings round to Egan. His eyes gleam. “Great tidings, Brother Egan! Everything is about to change, praise God! Yes, yes, the tide is turning! By the grace of God, King Edwin is ready!”

  “Excellent news! What’s happened?”

  Paulinus tells Egan how, years earlier, when King Edwin was in exile in Kent, he dreamed of a stranger who told him power would be his when, in the future, someone laid a hand on his head. “This morning I recalled that dream to him and laid my hand on his head. He could not deny it was the prophecy fulfilled. He will convert.”

  “But how did you know about the dream?”

  Paulinus chuckles. “It was revealed to me by our Lord, of course. What other way could there possibly be?”

  Brother Egan falls to his knees. “Praise God!”

  “Get up, you fool! We’ve work to do.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A.D. 627, Second Travelling Month, Ad Gefrin

  The day is as mild and fragrant as udder-warmed milk. Wilona, her skin stained russet-gold by long hours out of doors, is nimble as a sheep as she steps lightly along the worn path running by the edge of the grassy riverbank. On one shoulder she carries a basket filled with herbs and flowers; on the other a creel, inside which two bright trout rest on a bed of leaves. The light dapples through the trees, shining on the amber-coloured water. Here, in what she considers her place, great rocks have piled up in the bend, with a flat slab in the downriver spot, a sheltered and perfect seat for a moment’s rest. Behind her, more moss-covered boulders sit on a slope, half buried in earth, forming a fair-sized cave. She first ventured inside one day when she was caught in a thunderstorm, and found it snug and surprisingly dry. She nodded off and dreamed of Raedwyn, the owl, and when she woke she felt the place was meant for her.

  Now, she puts her baskets down and lies on her stomach, trailing her fingers in the cool water. She adjusts the pouch hanging between her breasts. The tiny iron hammer Touilt gave her after her soul-sickness is still there, as is the owl feather. Behind the cave, the earth rises into the thick woodland, full of damp, twisted, moss-furred oaks, and to the meadow beyond. Past these stand the yew tree, the sacred well, and Touilt’s hut. Wilona daydreams, recalling the sacred rites of Eostre’s spring festival, when the new fires were lit, and the cattle driven through it to purify them. Girls and women danced and wove their garlands about the trunk of the stripped Yule tree. Touilt, as seithkona, oversaw the ritual alongside Ricbert. Lord Caelin and Lady Elfhild sat beneath a bower festooned with spring flowers. Wilona was permitted to join the other girls, weaving her blue ribbon in with the rest, their hair unbraided, their bare feet muddy. Twice as she twirled round, she caught Lord Caelin staring at her, with a strange, fierce expression on his face. The first time she thought she must have been mistaken. The second time his eyes clamped on her like hands. She missed a step and nearly stumbled. When she came round again he was talking to Lady Elfhild and she dared not look after that.

  When the dances finished Lord Caelin thanked the girls for their efforts, patting some on the head, pinching others on the cheek. He stood before Wilona and smiled in a way she found confusing, and then passed on without saying a word. He led the men and older women to the hall, where a roasted ox waited and ale flowed. The girls, with Touilt leading them, made their way to the river, to bathe and pray for rain. No men were permitted to watch the girls in the water, of course. And when the last of the prayers were said, Touilt left them as well, but Wilona, with Touilt’s permission, stayed.

  She set off with some of the other young female servants and slaves who were not expected to marry. Each found her own path through the woods, and soon giggles echoed off the trees. Wilona went to the riverbank, by a lightning-struck, hollowed-out oak, the cleft deep enough to fit three. The spring forest’s clean, rising-sap scent was like a veil around her, and she waited for the gods to reveal what they might. It was Godfred who found her. He’d grown even taller since the naming ceremony, when he’d dared to put his arm about her waist. He was one of Lord Caelin’s bodyguards now, and the muscles in his shoulders were bunched from hours of practice with sword, shield, and spear. His hair flowed down his back, and two braids framed his face. His beard was soft. His thighs were strong. His breath no longer stank of a rotten tooth; it was sweet as clover. He took her again b
y the waist and whispered that he had scoured the woods hoping to find her, only her. Her heart felt like a trapped sparrow beneath her breast and she shivered. He pressed her back to the oak and himself upon her, his cock a staff against her. Warm honey flowed to her belly. She opened her arms, and together they lay back on the pine needles. She opened her thighs, and after the first piercing pain, let him teach her what pleasure might be. When she returned to the hut, Touilt did not ask where she had been, or with whom, but the next morning she reminded her which herbs were useful should a woman not wish to conceive.

  Now, remembering Godfred’s tongue on her nipple, his hands on her buttocks, the sensation of his belly pressed up against hers, Wilona smiles and blushes, her knuckle rising involuntarily to her mouth. She giggles, pushes herself to her feet, dusts off her patched tunic and re-shoulders the baskets. She walks along the worn path; the shadows tell her it’s mid-afternoon. On the margin of the woodland Wilona bends and runs her hand over the grassy mat of hare’s-foot clover. She snips some and places it in the basket. It will make a good tea for Touilt, who’s suffered with a stomach ailment the past week.

  She crosses the meadow, and as she nears the well and the yew, she sees someone in front of the house. Roswitha, Dunstan’s wife. The two were married the past Yule, for Alwyn, the woodworker to whom Dunstan was apprenticed, died fighting with King Edwin against the West-Saxons the previous Weed-Month, and so Dunstan now has a trade to support a family. The wound Dunstan earned during the same war has irreparably weakened his spear arm and made him no good for fighting, but Wilona thinks this isn’t such a bad thing. She knows, though, that the loss of honour stings him. He’ll never rise in Caelin’s favour now. Roswitha says she’d rather have a live husband than a dead hero. At the handfasting Wilona had offered her blessings and truly meant them. Roswitha had put her arms around her and called her sister. Wilona rolled that word around in her mouth for days. It had a pretty taste.