CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Sister Wilona? Is that you?” Egan shields his eyes. “I heard a noise.”
“I’ve disturbed you, forgive me.” A swath of his skin, mottled and marbled with cold, is visible between the cloak folds, while his hands are reddish, wizened. She averts her eyes from his partial nakedness. “I’ll leave you.” He’s mad, surely, alone here on the hillside, half-naked in the frigid air—bad enough on a sunny day, but to crouch in the darkness?
“Isn’t it odd you and I should meet this way? Surely it’s the hand of God,” he says. “I feel as though you’ve been sent to me.”
His singsong accent is more pronounced than usual, and she wonders if his lips are frozen. “It’s not your god who called me. This mountain is sacred to my gods.” She realizes he’s wearing nothing on his feet. “Do you mean to die up here? Don’t you have brodekins and proper clothing?”
He looks at his feet as though he’s forgotten he has such things. “I hardly feel them,” he says in a small voice, and then promptly sits down in the snow.
“Are you mad?” Wilona moves to him and hauls him upright. “You can’t sit in the snow. Get up. You’ll freeze your feet. Where are your shoes? Your shirt? Have you no furs?”
She half pushes, half pulls him into the hut, being careful neither of them falls into the miserly fire. The hut is earth-floored, with a fur on the ground and an unlit torch stuck in a chink in the wall. Here and there, light lances through other small holes, although from inside, the structure seems quite solid. In fact, it’s cleverly constructed, each stone balanced so it leans against its neighbour, arcing gently inward. She glances warily above her head, imagining stones raining down, but the ceiling looks as though it will hold.
Wilona sets Egan down as gently as she can, but he lands with a thump and the thin cloak falls from him, revealing his chest. It’s pale as the underbelly of a fish, but covered here and there with deep scratches and wounds. A belt cinched round his torso is dotted with barbs that lance his flesh. She slips her pack from her shoulders and reaches to unlace the belt from Egan’s middle, but he puts his hand over hers.
“No, Sister, you must not remove it. It reminds me of my sins; it purifies me.”
“Purifies? Nonsense. These wounds will fester and kill you.” She slaps his hand away. She tosses the sinister, bloody belt to the ground. She spies a discarded bundle of clothing near the fire and reaches for it, tossing him the undershirt, woollen overshirt, and shoes. “Put your feet by the fire, else you’ll have frostbite. Surely not even your god wants you lame.”
He does as he’s told, and she averts her eyes while he pulls his arms through his garments. She stokes the fire, adding branches from a small stack of wood nearby.
When he’s wrapped more warmly, she asks, “Do you have anything for heating water? A pot?”
His teeth chatter. Wilona takes this as a good sign; his body is relaxing a little and trying to revive itself. He points to a leather pouch, in which she finds a little dried meat, a loaf of bread, and a small iron pot. She pours her cider into the pot and heats it. When it begins to steam she shields her fingers with her sleeves and plucks it from the fire. She waits until the edge of the pot has cooled sufficiently, and hands it to Egan.
“You must drink first, Sister,” he says.
“You fear I poison you?”
He smiles shyly. “I wish only to be a good host, even if you’re the one offering me nourishment.”
Wilona takes a tiny sip. The pale, brownish liquid is foggy and a seed floats on the top. The taste is sweet, clean, invigorating. She holds the pot toward him. “You may consider your courtesies fulfilled. Now drink. All of it.”
Egan takes the pot, his sleeves pulled over his palms, cupping the hot iron. He looks up at her and says, “You are an angel come from Christ.”
“No need for insults,” she says.
For a moment she thinks she’s gone too far, but then his eyes crinkle, his shoulders bounce, and he makes small wheezing sounds she realizes must be laughter. “No insult intended,” he says. “Would you prefer I name you Angel of the Mountain?”
“I am seithkona, no more, but no less,” she says.
He takes another sip and nods. “Agreed. You are all of that.”
Wilona looks around her again. Save for the pinpricks of light, and the rain they will let in, it really is a solid building, not so different from her cave by the river. For a moment she imagines Margawn’s great callused hands on her body, her breasts, her buttocks, lifting her … she blushes and rubs her hands over the fire, commanding her mind to return to the present. “What is this place? I thought you lived with Lord Ricbert.”
“This is where I come to be alone with God.”
“How can you be with your god here, the mountain sacred to my gods, not yours?” In fact, when she considers it, she’s surprised the gods haven’t knocked him off the mountain completely. How can they let this invader build on such holy ground?
“God is everywhere.”
Stealthily, without his seeing it, Wilona makes the rune-sign of protection against her palms with her thumbs. What does he mean? Is there an army of invisible spirits somewhere? This monk, even in his fragile state, speaks the language of war.
He looks thoughtful, his eyes on the nearly empty pot. “I love the people, but now and then I need solitude. I need to hear the heartbeat of God in the song of the wind, the cry of the birds, the patter of the rain, even the stones.”
What does he know of the gods’ heartbeat? She scans the space, looking for a drum, but sees none. Does he speak to stones? Does he mean the rune stones? “I hadn’t thought Christians respect the spirits of the wild places. Doesn’t your master Paulinus say we must reject all such things, that the spirits are evil?”
He nods. Those eyes—on a woman they would be called beautiful. At first she’s so distracted by their water-weed tint, she can’t understand what’s so odd in his expression. Then it comes to her. He’s not looking at her as a man looks at a woman. There’s neither desire nor condescension in his eyes. He regards her, it seems, as an equal. She holds her head a little higher and wonders if this might be some Christian trick, designed to make her drop her guard. She wills Raedwyn—feather and wing—to come protect her. His presence comes easily enough, which is confusing, for the owl spirit is here with no scent of fear or rage. Can it be this priest is no threat? Or has he laid some charm even on her fetch?
“Paulinus is a great thinker, with large and complicated thoughts. I’m not a great thinker. At best I’m a little boat of faith in a sea of mystery.” He pauses. “Do you believe the world is holy, Sister?”
She frowns at his calling her Sister again. He’s no kin to her, yet to insist he call her Lady Wilona is pompous and self-important. “I do,” she says. “And alive with spirits.”
“We’re not far apart, then. I believe we walk through the body of God—every pebble and stalk, every thicket, stream, and mountain, animated by God’s love.”
“You speak like one who holds the old ways, but you reject the old gods.”
He tilts his head to the side, smiling. “I don’t think in terms of rejection, Sister. I only know it was through Christ I saw a glimpse of heaven. I fasted and prayed, and fasted and prayed, and one midnight, on a high place not unlike this one, an angel appeared and showed me what the world will be like when Christ’s teachings spread and men turn away from vengeance, pride, and war, and toward forgiveness, humility, and peace. She showed me that even the tiniest speck of sand bursts with the breath of Mystery.” He raises his eyes to the stones above his head, as though he expects them to part and the light of heaven to pour down on him. “I wish I could share the beauty and the power of that love with you. Believe me, it’s not a case of rejecting one thing; it’s simply a matter of longing so much for something more—for God’s ineffable love—that I can’t rest until I spend myself in its service.”
Wilona concludes that if this half-starved, elf-eye
d monk thinks the teachings of Christ, or any other god, will turn men away from war and pride and vengeance, he must be mad indeed. She half pities him, and yet his respect for the wild places seems sincere, and when she thinks of the way he treated Dunstan and Roswitha, she cannot deny his gentleness. “You confuse me, priest.”
He detaches his gaze from the ceiling. “I don’t mean to, and I’m no priest, Sister Wilona, just a monk.”
“The king’s monk.”
“I’m Christ’s disciple and I answer to Him, seeking only to celebrate His creation and praise Him. Surely we can agree the world is marvellous, full of wonder, an expression of a grace far beyond our understanding.”
“I’m a servant of the goddess, that’s all, and I answer to Her before all. But yes, I suppose we can agree on some things.”
Egan claps his hands and his face glows. “Oh, Sister, you do cheer me!”
Wilona searches his face for mockery but finds only the happiness of a simpleton who thinks wearing a barbed belt and freezing to death will bring about his vapid heaven. He laughs and then, sudden as a storm cloud, his face becomes serious.
“But what brings you here today? And how may I help you? I owe you something, a great deal in fact, for the cider, not to mention the future use of my toes.” He looks shamefaced. “Surely I was spared by your appearance only because I’m still of some small use. So, tell me what you seek here.”
Wilona purses her lips. She doesn’t want to reveal the reason for her journey, and at the same time she’s aware she must hurry if she’s to perform the rites and return to Touilt before mid-winter’s early dark. Already the shadow moves along the entrance, slanting farther than makes her comfortable.
“I’m seeking guidance, I suppose.” Egan looks at her encouragingly, and if the concern in his elf-eyes is false, he’s a better liar than she judges him to be. “Lady Touilt’s not well,” she says, before she’s made up her mind she wants to tell him. It’s terrible, the relief she feels just to have told someone, even this half-mad Christian.
“Not well!” His brow furrows. “How so?”
Touilt’s face, sharp-toothed, wolfish, snarling with fury, flashes before her. Touilt will tear out her throat if she reveals the seithkona’s weakness. She’s said far too much, and anger bubbles up, bitter and hot. Damn his kindness, damn his talk of compassion and wonder. He’s enchanted her into letting down her guard. “It’s nothing, I’m sure. Dyspepsia.”
She gathers her things, and Egan rises to his feet and then sways, his hand to his eyes. Spots of blood have soaked through his tunic.
She reaches out to steady him. “Are you faint?” Is there no end to the weakness of this idiot?
“No, no, I only rose too quickly. It will pass.” He takes her hand in both of his. “I’ll pray that Sister Touilt’s health may be restored.”
“As I said, nothing more than a bit of bad pork, no doubt.” Wilona shakes her hand free. “If you can’t make your way back to the village alone you must wait for me to return and I’ll help you; otherwise let us part here.”
“You mustn’t let me take up any more of your time. I’ll return to the village and light a candle for Sister Touilt on Christ’s altar, asking for your foster mother’s healing.”
“She has no need of your intervention; her wyrd is decided by the gods. Can I trust you to keep what I have told you between us? Do you swear it?”
“Upon my vows, Sister, but don’t you think your friends will want to know? They’ll want to care for you both.”
“You may not have noticed, but we have few friends in the village these days.”
Egan presses his palms together as he touches his index fingers to his lips. “It’s a time of adjustment. People are perhaps confused. I’ll speak about the virtues of mercy and compassion.”
Can that be the kindness foreseen in the rune? The hairs on the back of Wilona’s neck lift at the thought of this Christian petitioning her neighbours on their behalf. “Just honour your oath and keep your mouth shut,” she says, more severely than she intended. Egan looks as though she’s slapped him. She can’t bear to be here a moment longer and, without another word, steps out of the hut.
“You’re my friend,” he calls after her. “I’ll not betray you. May God bless you and Sister Touilt.”
Wilona grinds her teeth and flinches as a particularly bitter gust of wind strikes her. If Caelin listens to this man, as Margawn said he does, he’s not the fierce warrior he once was. She suspects Margawn, for the first time, of deceiving her. The rune again … She shifts the bundle on her shoulder and tightens her hood. There’s no time to waste. Perhaps the Christian had, by some sorcery, set himself in her path to delay her. She glances over her shoulder. Egan stands in his doorway, watching her. He’s so thin and pale that were it not for the stone structure around him, she fancies he’d fly off into the ether. He raises his hand to wave but she turns away and quickens her pace, a spell of protection on her lips.
Egan watches Wilona walk determinedly up the hill, slipping a little here and there on the snow. She leans into the slope as though she were pulling a great load, every step stiff-legged with determination. The news her foster mother is ill is distressing for him—how much more so for her. He’s tempted to break his vow and inform Lady Elfhild. Surely she would find a way to soften her husband’s heart. But he has promised. There is so little he can do for Wilona. He had thought himself quite clever when he’d secretly left baskets of food for the women and, knowing Touilt and Wilona would refuse any gift that came from him, cleverer still when he’d made Margawn promise he would take credit for it should the occasion arise to do so. Now it seems like a paltry gesture. What loneliness the girl faces.
Perhaps he and Wilona are more similar than they are different. She seems to have adapted well to her life apart from the village. Although it is a sin, he envies her. What he wouldn’t give to be able to stay here in this little hut forever, with the majesty of creation, God’s greatest miracle, filling his senses. He never has to strain to see God in the deer and weasel, the stones, the trees, the stars; it’s only among humans that sometimes, sometimes, he doubts.
Wilona grows smaller until at last she rounds the hillside’s curve and is out of sight. Egan falls to his knees. “Oh, praise and glory be to you, My Lord, for sending her to me. Show me how to reach her, Lord. Show me.” He prays for guidance until a niggling sense he has neglected his flock too long creeps in, and he rubs life back into his cramped limbs. It’s some minutes before he can stand. When he does, he raises his eyes to the summit. Fog rolling in, and no sign of Wilona. She’s in God’s hands. He says a blessing for her safety and begins his descent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Wilona steps into the ring of ancient stones. The wind howls and whistles and clouds sweep in, turning the landscape foggy and grey, softening shapes and allowing her to see no more than a few feet. It would be easy to think she’s been transported into the misty world of Niflheim. Quickly, she takes the firewood, the hare she’s brought as a sacrifice, and the tinder and flint from her bundle. With her staff, she draws a protective circle around the west-facing stone. She builds a fire, and then bathes herself in the smoke. She holds the hare aloft, the fur soft between her fingers. She calls Raedwyn, until she feels him around her.
The mist rolls away, and sunlight floods the mountaintop. The snow is a glittering dazzle of eye-piercing white. Wilona’s heart soars, flying on the wings of the unseen owl. She sings the song honouring and inviting the spirits … from the east … Winged One, Spirit of Air, your daughter calls you … from the south … Fierce One, Spirit of Fire, your daughter calls you … from the west … Swift One, Spirit of Water, your daughter calls you … from the north … Hoofed One, Spirit of Earth, your daughter calls you. She calls the spirits of moon and stars, of the earth creatures, and of air and water, those that burrow or crawl or fly. She asks them to bring her any messages from the gods. She asks Eostre to come, and Freo too, goddesses of healing and
protection, of life and strength. She purifies her dagger in the fire and opens the belly of the hare so the entrails spill on the sacred ground. In thanksgiving, she offers the carcass to the spirits. She stands before the flames, closes her eyes, to receive what may come. Burning fur, woodsmoke. Snow. Stillness, flame-crackle, wing-flutter, wind-whisper.
Something murmurs, a high-pitched whine. The spirits come. Her skin flushes warmth, and it’s all she can do not to open her eyes and look, but she knows if she does, the spirits will vanish. Two voices hum, one in each ear. She concentrates, but it’s impossible to catch every word.
“Into shadow …”
“… all suffering ends …”
“… to barrow and fire …”
“… what tears then mends …”
A hot whirlwind swirls round her and then is gone. In her mind’s eye she sees an overturned cart, charred black, the wooden wheels slowly spinning, like the flailing legs of a dying beetle. One of the shafts is broken, and the cart rests unevenly on stony ground. She cries out and her eyes fly open. An opaque wall of fog surrounds her. Under its wet mass she can’t see beyond the circle, and even the sacrificial fire seems blurred. Bitter smoke stings her nostrils. Her muscles are cramped. The hare’s carcass is twisted and black. As always with such ceremonies, more time has passed outside her than inside. With the fog this thick, it is impossible to tell the position of the sun, but the light is dying.
What she saw lingers—the overturned wagon, symbol of the rune raidho in the reverse. Disruption, crisis, death. Wilona’s heart is like a stone tied to her foot, dragging her down into the river of grief. She tries to find an alternative meaning. The spirits can be obtuse. If all suffering is to end, and what tears will mend, then surely there’s the possibility of healing. One voice spoke of shadows, barrows, and fire, but the other … Can it be Touilt’s fate still hangs in the balance, that the Norns have not yet finished weaving their pattern?
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