Against a Darkening Sky

by Lauren B. Davis

  “It seems he thought of everything,” she says sourly.

  “He cares greatly for you, Sister.”

  The dog sits up, leaning against her leg for reassurance. She cannot help it; she scratches his great shaggy head. Wilona sees that Margawn has tried to tie her to this place. She can’t abandon the dog he loves, cannot refuse the gift he’s given her, but she can’t tell this monk of her plans, and unless she does, and arranges to have the meat brought to her by the river, how will she feed the beast?

  “Send the boy to me and I’ll decide what to do once I hear the promise from him.”

  “You can believe me, sister, I assure you.” He sounds more baffled than hurt.

  Surprisingly, she finds she doesn’t want to insult him. “It’s not you I question, monk. It’s the memory of servant boys.”

  “Fugol’s a good boy.”

  “Send him to me or take the dog back.”

  “As you wish, Sister. And know you can rely on me for anything you need. I would be honoured.” He looks at her with nearly the same expression as the hound. “You’re not alone here.”

  Wilona bets he would be happy indeed to have the seithkona in his debt.

  “We hope you’ll join us for the feast on Eostre’s moon.”

  “I’ll think about it. Good day.”

  “Peace be with you, Sister.”

  When Fugol arrives, she threatens him with a curse upon his testicles if he reveals anything.

  The skinny, black-eyed boy blanches. “Lord Margawn, he’s my friend. I don’t need threats to do right by his woman.”

  “Perhaps, but trust is earned, Fugol, and I’ll see you earn it, believe me. I’m a good friend to have, but a terrible enemy.”

  She tells the boy where he’s to find her. “Do you know the place?”

  “I can find it.” His eyes grow wide. “You’re a brave one.”

  She clears her throat to hide the chuckle. “I want you to take a message back to the woodworker, Dunstan, and his wife.”

  He nods.

  “Tell them to care for my cow, that they can use the milk for the coming baby, and any calf born they may call their own. They’re the only ones you may tell of my whereabouts. Yes?” Roswitha will tell others, and likely the boy will as well, but it will take a few days, and by then she’ll be settled. “Now, be off with you. And mind yourself, lest you find prunes dangling between your legs.”

  The boy just shakes his head.

  She spends the rest of the morning packing and sorting her few belongings. She can’t help but compare this journey to that other one she took so many years ago. As she looks around the small hut, which has been her home for all these years, the child she once was returns, wandering, stumbling over the moors. That hearth, those rafters, the corner over her bed where the spider spun its web, the place where Touilt’s bed had been, the spot where the vision-platform stood—so many things to say farewell to. Again she is a cast-out orphan, and although the journey to the cave is not so very great, it feels as long as the road between lives.

  She rubs a knuckle across her cheek. No time for tears. Bana pushes his head against her, sensing her distress. “Good boy. It’s all right.” She bends down and hugs him. She hates to admit it, but having the dog with her is a deep comfort. When she’s ready at last, she begins to place Elba between the wagon shafts, but thinks better of it, harnessing Bana instead. He is, after all, the size of a pony, and Elba may well be pregnant. She ties Elba to the back. The cart is laden with her jars and bundles of herbs and roots, tinctures and salves, her small trunk, a stool, loom weights, the dismantled loom, and four chickens in crates. The sheep will fend for themselves, and she’ll return in a day or so to bring one or two back with her. It’s true that now Bana is with her, there will be less danger of wolves. The black cow with the milk-white horns will calve before long, but she won’t fit in the cave for safety at night, so must be left with Dunstan. Tears sting Wilona’s eyes and she swipes roughly at them. It is a cow. Just a cow.

  She can’t linger. She might be able to make a second trip before the sun sets. She has her food stores, roots and herbs, cloth and cooking pot, bowl and cup, broom, distaff and spindle, blankets and furs, lamps and candles, as well as two pretty enamelled bronze and glass brooches, and the carved comb she carried to Ad Gefrin. A woman could live with much less. As she closes the door behind her she rests her forehead against the wood. She reaches up, runs her hand along the wolf head, scarred from Coifi’s axe.

  She walks along the river, Bana pulling the wagon. When she comes to the hollowed-out, lightning-struck oak and the path narrows, she unhitches the dog and secures the wagon with stones beneath the wheels. She ties some of the goods to Elba’s back. The woman, the dog, and the pig continue until they come to the bend in the amber-coloured water and the cave. She’ll sleep on the earthen platform tonight, after shaking out the furs, and tomorrow she’ll gather fresh grass for a mattress. With spring about to come into full bloom, it is a good time to plant a garden, but in the meantime, food will be scarce. She’s carried what she could—honey and smoked ham, some grain, a few onions. She’ll have to set traps for game, fish, and eel.

  The river dances high, frothing with spring runoff. There, she thinks, is where I will set the eel-buck. There is where I can build a weir. She’ll have to plant a vegetable patch on higher ground beyond the leafy canopy of trees growing along the river, but in winter, when the trees are bare, it will be bright enough, and in summer, pleasant in the shade.

  By nightfall the animals are fed, a fire burns in the rough hearth, and Wilona rests under her cloak on the sleeping platform, which is made soft with pine boughs and deer hide. She needs more furs and tomorrow must set snares for otters, beaver, wild cats, and hares. Bana lies between hearth and entrance, Elba on a pile of straw at the back of the cave. Wilona’s wedged a yew bough above the entrance, and it acts as a boundary between the outside world and her home. She’ll find mistletoe and other sacred plants to wind around the limb, further strengthening its powers. She has the end of a loaf Margawn brought. It’s hard now, but with a little softness still in the core. She sucks on the dough, coaxing every last drop of flavour. Who knows when she’ll taste bread again? She chews and chews until it’s only a memory and swallows at last with deep regret.

  The night world begins to stir and, burrowed in the earth as she is, it seems a closer, more intimate world than it ever has before. Something snuffles and roots outside, an owl screeches, a fox barks, and some small creature cries out. She’ll have to find a way to befriend the spirits of this place. She lifts the owl-feather pouch from its place between her breasts and presses it between her palms, blowing on it between her thumbs. She rocks back and forth, singing the sacred song, now and then tossing wood on the fire. From the entrance, above her, around her, she senses the flutter of wings and feather. Where else would Raedwyn be but here, in this wild place? She’ll become more owl than human. Her fetch is constant, ever-abiding, faithful. She sings and rocks until at last her spirit drifts from the cave, out into the vast star-bright night, floating.

  She dreams of a dew-damp meadow near ancient mossy oaks. Figures no more substantial than river-mist lead her toward a small mound in the earth. Looking down, she sees a stone set upon a little hole. At the urging of her wispy companions, she places the toes of her right foot upon it, and perhaps she dwindles to the size of a field mouse, or perhaps the earth mound swells around her. Either way, she crosses the threshold, for that is what the stone is, and finds herself in a long tunnel, which should be black as pitch but is not. She makes out the roots of trees—polished to a bronze glow—snaking out of the walls and back in again, creating a complicated design like the veins on the back of an old woman’s hands. The ground beneath her feet is smooth and warm, and although she wonders if she ought to be afraid, she cannot rouse fear, just walks on and lets the wraiths lead her.

  In the morning, as the entrance of the cave is turning pewter with early light, Wilo
na wakes up and feels something important has happened. For a moment she thinks she might be trapped in the faery mound where she dream-travelled, but no, that’s only the sound of the river laughing, and there is the entrance to the cave, Bana shaking himself, and the pig with her mischievous expression. If the elves took Wilona, they brought her back. If they were curious about her, then whatever they discovered in the sleep-thin night has given them cause to trust. As well they should. She’s given up much to remain faithful to the spirits of the wood, the water, and the oak. She smiles as she stretches and scratches Elba’s back, thinking perhaps she’s not as alone here as she feared. She has a little honey, which she’ll leave for the spirits, and perhaps, if she can arrange with Roswitha for some milk now and then, she can offer that as well. If she’s to live in harmony with these creatures, they’ll expect offerings.

  She throws back the fur and looks around, imagining her new home as it might be. She’ll gather rushes to freshen the earth floor and absorb the damp. There are places where she can fit branches in the ceiling for hanging herbs and she can hang game to smoke over the fire. She’s brought a stool and the smaller of the trunks, and it’s enough to have a place to sit by the fire and a place to keep those small things that have meaning—her mother’s comb and Touilt’s brooches. Although really, what value do such things have here and now? She can’t eat her baubles and they won’t keep her warm and dry. Still, if on some lonely night it gives her comfort to hold a bit of sparkly metal in her hand and fancy she sees her foster mother’s eyes in the glint of firelight, who will blame her?

  She stands, stretches, and scratches at a bite. She’ll have to pick a big bunch of mint to place in the bedding and keep the nits at bay. The chickens squawk unhappily from their cages. She’ll have to build a sturdy coop outside. She releases them and moves aside the woven door. Elba rushes past her, trotting into the dawn to scrounge her breakfast from the forest floor. Bana pads off a little ways to leave his mark against the tree trunks. The hens flap angrily and dash from the cave, pecking at insects. Wilona follows them outside. She’ll have to dig a netty downriver, but for now the bushes will do. When she’s done she washes quickly in the chill river and then returns to the cave, where she stokes the fire, empties some of the water into a pot, and throws in a handful of oats.

  Food first, comfort later. While the oats are cooking, she ties snares. Her hands work automatically, tying knots while her mind wanders ahead, considering where along the animal trails she will place them. She eats her oats while seated at a flat rock near the opening to the cave, listening to the grackles chatter in the trees and the sound of water sluicing over the stones.

  “Do you think we should look for her?” asks Egan.

  “I do not,” says Ricbert.

  The two men walk up the path from the abandoned hut. When Wilona didn’t appear in church at the feast of Christ’s resurrection, Caelin had been livid and sent them to find her. But the door of her hut hung open and the hearth was cold. When Egan stepped inside, a mouse skittered across the floor, and for one unsettling moment, he fancied she might have turned herself into the tiny creature. The table was bare. No furs lay on the bed. The cooking utensils were gone, and the iron chain where once the cooking pot had hung was missing. Even stripped, though, the place reeked of magic. It was curled into the thatch like smoke, but he hadn’t felt anything evil. The spirits he sensed were outcast ones, thin as marsh gas, despairing as lost lambs. He sprinkled holy water into the corners and prayed for their release and peace.

  “We don’t really want to find her, do we?” Ricbert now continues.

  Egan looks back over his shoulder to the hut, so small and lonely next to the great yew. “I suppose not, but what if she’s ill or has met with an accident?” Egan didn’t like to think of her alone and frightened somewhere, with a broken leg or worse.

  “She took her belongings. An accident seems unlikely.”

  “She asked to see Fugol the day I brought the hound.”

  “Ah. Well then, I suspect we’ll hear where she’s gone before long.”

  “And Lord Caelin? What will he say?”

  “He’ll no doubt be glad to be rid of her. It might just appease him. I suspect she’s fine.”

  Ricbert knows something, Egan is sure. The man’s too calm. He’s fond of the girl and surely, if she truly vanished, he’d be worried. “And I suspect you do more than suspect,” says Egan. “Come on now, tell me what you know.”

  “I know only she isn’t here.”

  “You needn’t lie to me, Brother. I wish the girl no harm; you must know that by now.”

  “And if you were to find out where she is, and Caelin asked you if you knew, would you lie to protect her?”

  “I could honestly say she’s in God’s hands, since no matter where she is I know that much.”

  They’ve reached the animal pens and Ricbert stops by the fence, leaning on one of the posts. Some of the sheep run away, others stare disinterestedly. For a few moments Ricbert says nothing, and Egan is content to wait.

  “Margawn came to me before he left. Asked me to look out for her, to do what I can for her. She told him of her plans.”

  “Brother Margawn came to me as well. I thought, well … that he might have trusted me.”

  “I think he hoped you taking the dog to her would make her see sense.”

  It strikes Egan again what a stranger he is among these people. They make alliances and allegiances, while he stands gawping like the village idiot. Longing creeps in—for the shining island, his little cell, even the uneasy company of his fellow monks, the unity of their chanting voices. Must he live his whole life as an outsider, in the shadows farthest from the hearth? Ah, but it’s hard to submit to God’s will, if it means such loneliness. I must not think of myself. Think of the girl. “Plans? Meaning what?”

  “He told me she’d decided to take herself away. She’s chosen a place not far. Quite clever, actually, if she can abide it.” He looks at Egan, a question in his eyes.

  “You wonder if I’m worthy, Brother. I wish you’d learn to trust me. I do long for a friend.” He’s surprised to hear his own words, and when Ricbert’s mouth turns down in contempt, no doubt for his weakness, he would give anything to take them back.

  Ricbert clears his throat. “I know you’ve good intentions. It just seems we’re … how to put it … a fair bit more complicated than the life you’ve come from. Mistakes can be made without one’s realizing it. Costly mistakes. There’s a way to handle things here, a certain delicacy …”

  Egan sees Ricbert doesn’t want to offend him, which he supposes might be something like the beginning of friendship. “Tell me only what you’re comfortable with, Brother. But rest assured, I’ll do nothing concerning Wilona without consulting you first. I’ll betray no confidence. My aim is only to bring the love and peace of Christ to those God sees fit to put in my path.”

  “Yes, a noble aim.” Ricbert looks decidedly unconvinced but tells Egan what he’s heard about Wilona’s plan to live in the cave. “At first I thought it a stupid idea, but frankly, the more I think about it, the smarter I think she is. She can’t survive alone, but once people find out she’s there, they’ll seek her out for …” He pauses, casting a sidelong glance at Egan. “… for healing charms and so forth. That should provide her with something to live on, and it gives Caelin an excuse not to have to deal with her. Lady Elfhild wouldn’t want her to come to harm, and may even convince Caelin to turn a blind eye if nothing happens that can be blamed on Wilona.”

  Indeed, thinks Egan. An illness among the cattle or the people, a blight on the crops, drought or flood, milk too quickly turned, malformed calves—he shudders. God forbid harm come to any more babies in the village. She’s chosen a path even lonelier than his. “Surely she can’t stay there forever, though.”

  The old man looks grim. “Who knows what the future brings? Things change, Brother Egan—you more than most should know that. Caelin may soon have graver matters
on his mind than an errant woman.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A.D. 629, Weed-Month

  Egan stands over Ulger, the oldest shepherd, who lies on his pallet in the tiny hut. Egan’s hand is on the man’s forehead. The skin is waxen, tight, and burning. The air reeks of vomit and loose bowels. Ulger reaches for Egan’s hand and holds it weakly.

  “I don’t want to die,” he says, through fever-cracked lips.

  “Put your faith in Christ, Brother Ulger. Did he not give sight to the blind, heal the sick, and raise the dead?”

  “I don’t want to die,” the man repeats.

  Egan turns to the other shepherds, three young boys who huddle round the door. “How long has he been like this?”

  One of the boys, the one with the wandering left eye, says, “It come on him quick. We was sitting up the night, watching the sheep in the western pens. And then he just says he don’t feel quite right and kind of slipped over. Started puking right after. Thought it was some such as he ate, but I don’t think so anymore, do you?”

  “I don’t know what it is.”

  One of the other boys, a chubby lad with thin brown hair, sits down in the doorway. “I’m not feeling right myself,” he says.

  Ulger rolls over on his pallet and retches, a thin, pale, watery stream, slightly flecked with blood.

  “Brother Egan.” Fugol stands at the door, his face red and his breathing laboured.

  “What is it, boy?”

  “Lady Elfhild. She been taken ill. You’re to come right away, and …”

  Egan crosses himself. “What? Out with it!”

  “Looked for you at the church, didn’t I. Brother Ricbert’s there. He don’t look so good.”

  “May the Lord God protect us!” Egan is loath to leave the sick, frightened man, but he can’t ignore Lady Elfhild. “Are there more?”