Against a Darkening Sky

by Lauren B. Davis

  A year has come and gone. Autumn flung aside her bright skirts, winter wind danced across the striated snow, and now spring flashes her pretty jewels. The otters and the black grouse have returned and the sun is bright, but the early morning air is still sharp. She woke that morning with the familiar sense there’s something afoot in the world, something that needs her attention. It’s a feeling she can’t ignore and so she looks for news, hoping to find someone near the well, or perhaps a shepherd in the pens. It’s been more than a moon since anyone sought her out.

  Kraaak! Wilona squints against the piercing light to see a raven on a branch. It rocks back and forth on its leathery talons. The bird stretches its neck and emits a low, throaty rattle. One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a wedding, four for a birth. She flaps her cloak and the bird flies off, squawking.

  She climbs to the yew tree and, as she reaches level ground, stops. Bana looks at her and then sniffs the air. Smoke comes from the chimney of Touilt’s hut. So, someone’s not frightened of living where the seithkona lived. Resentment sears her chest, but curiosity gets the better of her. Who would dare?

  “Come on, boy.” She walks to the yew and stands with her back to the rough bark. “Sit,” she tells Bana.

  She doesn’t have to wait long; a few moments later Ricbert, stooped, his thin white hair lifting in the wind, opens the door and steps out, a pail over his arm. He appears at her cave occasionally, insisting each time it’s merely by chance, but she knows he’s checking on her. Now and then he brings her the meat and cheese Lord Caelin sends her as reward not only for seeing the village through the time of sickness, but for bringing his son safely into the world. It was a difficult pregnancy, with Lady Elfhild weakened from the illness. The child grew in the womb only by the grace of fate and the decoction of guilder rose bark and blackberry leaves that Wilona gave her to stop her bleeding. So Caelin provides her with meat and cheese and sometimes cloth, although he never suggests she come back to her hut.

  And now, she sees it’s Ricbert’s dwelling.

  Four hens bustle round the corner, puffed up and clucking. He scatters grain for them. Well then. She’s not surprised, for she didn’t think Ricbert would much like sharing his house with the monk and his penchant for late-night and early-morning prayer. A grey goose waddles from the side of the house and, seeing Wilona and the hound, honks and hisses.

  Ricbert turns, sees her, and waves. “Come, come!” he calls. “You’re welcome, Wilona, come!”

  “It’s kind of you to welcome me to your home.”

  Ricbert looks at the dwelling as though appraising it. “Do you mind very much?”

  “You might have told me.”

  “Aye. I should have.” He smiles. “It’s a good house, and the better for once being Touilt’s, whose house it will always be, in my mind. And yours.”

  “Well, better you than someone else.” Wilona shrugs. “Why should it stand empty? I’ll not return and Touilt had great fondness for you.” She’s grateful he doesn’t patronize her by suggesting her return would be welcome.

  “Will you come inside and take some broth? This chill digs at my joints.”

  “You’re kind, Lord Ricbert—”

  “Ah, Brother Ricbert.” The old man smiles a little sadly.

  “Friend Ricbert, then.”

  He chuckles and pats her shoulder. “You influenced this decision, you know.” She raises her eyebrows, questioning. “Brother Egan takes himself off to his stone hut on the mountain when he needs solitude, which is far too uncomfortable for me, and you’re in your cave by the river.”

  He steps inside, and as she enters she tells Bana to sit by the door, but he ignores her and trots in, settling in his old place under the table.

  “Let him be,” says Ricbert.

  Inside is both as she remembers it, and yet completely different. The walls are whitewashed, all trace of the great tree Yggdrasil erased. Tapestries hang on the wall, and the sleeping platform and the single chair are draped with furs. An iron pot dangles from a new chain above the fire. A wooden cross is nailed to the wall. She breathes deeply, trying to catch some lingering scent of Touilt, but it’s just an old man’s hut now.

  “How can I call myself a holy man,” says Ricbert, “if I, too, don’t find a quiet place for my soul? A place where I may commune with the Lord Most High?”

  “I thought you disbelieved all such things? Has Egan opened your heart for Christ?”

  Ricbert shrugs, and his neck cracks. He ladles broth from a cooking pot into a bowl and hands it to her. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly, but the truth is, living alone—I left my slave with Egan, who promptly freed him, silly man—I can’t deny a sort of peace has descended on me. The well, the yew, the sky, the silence and solitude. I do think a lot here. A strange peace.” He smiles again. “Or perhaps it’s just death calming me before she creeps through the shutter some night.”

  “Are you ill?” The broth is strong with the taste of mutton and onions, and a bit of fat floats on the surface.

  “No. Merely tired.”

  “I’ll bring you a tonic,” says Wilona, laying her hand on his arm. Under his tunic the skin hangs looser on his bones that it once did. “I awoke troubled this morning. Is there word from the king, from Lord Caelin, or …?” Her voice trails and she drops her eyes, suddenly shy.

  “Nothing of Margawn in particular.” His eyes crinkle. “Although I’m sure he’s fine, else word would have reached us. Bad news flies while good news walks.”

  “So will the men come home soon?” She can’t help herself.

  “Penda and Cadwallon are still problems, but we shall see.” He pats her arm.

  Wilona nods. “Well, then, my restlessness must be due to the coming solstice.”

  Ricbert looks at her from beneath his moth-wing brows. “Yes, that’s probably it.” He doesn’t look convinced and she can’t think of any way to persuade him.

  A few days later, still filled with restlessness, Wilona leaves Bana to guard the animals, and climbs the high slopes of the sacred mountain. She finds a rocky outcrop and watches the village below. Everything looks just as it should. The crops pattern the earth like a soft patchwork blanket. Children run and squeal, chasing dogs and each other. Sheep and cattle dot the fields. Women tend the gardens, weave in the sunlight, or bake bread in the ovens. Men repair thatch, or work the squeaking lathes, or hammer on metal. By the river the wheel on the mill turns slowly, sunlight flashing in the falling water. There’s no sign anything is amiss, and yet, there it is, like a scent of blood on the wind. She sits until the length of the shadows tells her more daylight has passed than remains. It’s time to descend, but on a whim she skirts the slope, toward the monk’s stone hut. Just as she’s come to the mountain on more than one occasion, so she’s come across the monk in his solitary pursuits from time to time.

  She’s watched him in his stone hut, hidden from his view. He strips himself in all kinds of weather, wearing only a loincloth more often than not, or a thin cloak if the weather is particularly inclement. She’s seen him strike himself with a barbed, multi-strand whip. She’s watched him stand, nearly naked, in bitter weather, his hands outstretched to the sky. Sometimes he seems to sleep sitting up, cross-legged at the mouth of his hut, and she wonders if he dreams as she does, if he rides the spirits, and what he sees. Hawks circle over his stone shelter. Are his visions as full of death as hers? He’s so still, so calm, and although she’s sure that on one occasion she saw him weeping, his demeanour is, as a rule, oddly untroubled.

  Before long she approaches the slope where he’s built his retreat. He’s there, sitting cross-legged on a rock, his face turned toward the east, his palms pressed together beneath his chin, and his head bowed. At least he’s not shirtless. She chuckles. What would be the point, since it’s not inclement? From the corner of her eye she catches movement. Two grey fox cubs tumble along the high meadow. They roll and yelp, nipping and pouncing on each other. The mother is nowhere to be seen, pe
rhaps wisely asleep in her den until night, while her cubs, who know no better, frolic in the open. They stop, raise their snouts, catching Egan’s scent, no doubt.

  Wilona expects them to scamper back to their den, but they don’t. They approach the monk, timidly at first and then more boldly, until finally they crawl over his legs and into his lap, nosing at his chest, licking his chin. Egan opens his eyes as calmly as if such things happened all the time. He smiles at the pups but doesn’t start, and doesn’t shoo them away, but merely closes his eyes. One of the cubs nips him on the chest, and then, a moment later, both curl up on his legs to nap.

  How can it be the wild creatures trust him? When she finally leaves, still not one of the three has moved. She goes home, and when night falls she takes a bowl to the flat stone by the river and gazes into the water, reciting chants for clarity and wisdom, but she sees nothing except a placid, star-bright night.

  The season’s wheel turns … All through the summer, this feeling of something not being right harries her. She puts it down to Margawn’s long absence. All the women in the village must be feeling this way—anxious for news of their men. There’s no point in idle worry. She casts the runes on every moon, but the meanings are unclear. Battles, yes, but when aren’t there battles? Hardship, but isn’t it always so?

  On this day, during the Month of the Hunter’s Moon, when the leaves are a golden scatter on the forest floor and the coats of the animals grow thick, Wilona ties strips of blue cloth to the limbs of the oak trees and marks her forehead with charcoaled runes. She bows her head and prays.

  The wind kicks up and all around her the cloth strips festooning the trees dance like drunken faeries while the treetops tremble. The owl feathers in her matted hair flap before her eyes, and she holds them still as she takes stock of the air’s strange tingle. Even the river is fretful and skittish. She listens to the voices on the wind … something coming. Bana stirs from his spot near the pigsty, barks, and trots to her. Whatever’s coming, he senses it too.

  Wilona knows one must pay attention to the language of the weather—the wind, the snow devils, the mists, and the lightning that zigzags across the spring sky. Wilona reads the patterns of gold and red in the autumn leaves. She learns from the animals as well. The delicate, soft-eyed deer that come to drink are full of gentleness and peace. The otter is ever-childlike, joyful, and adventurous. The butterfly—egg to worm to cocoon to wing—is the gods’ way of saying all things change, in ways both unexpected and marvellous. The turtle carries his home with him everywhere and moves at his own pace, reminding her to be self-sufficient. The badger is quick tempered and ever willing to fight for what it wants.

  The wind goes still again and the world settles. A crow caws twice, and then a third time. Five jackdaws fly from the south. Through the sparse-leafed trees, the curve of the sacred mountain is just visible, covered by a great mass of iron-grey cloud. Wilona draws her shawl around her shoulders, wary as a fox, then hurries into the cave, Bana close on her heels. She tries to light the fire, but it takes a long time to catch, even though the flint and twigs are dry. When at last a flame comes alive she blows on it, charms it to a good blaze. Outside the sky has turned greenish. She grabs a handful of grain from the store-sack before going out again.

  The chickens are hiding under bushes, refusing to return to their coop. Wilona manages to entice some of them with the grain, but then the wind returns with vengeance, the air crackles with strange energy and turns an eerie citrine. The remaining two hens panic and there’s nothing Wilona can do but leave. A gust hurls brittle leaves into her face. A flying twig stings her cheek. The trees flail and creak. Her tunic flapping, she herds the pigs and sheep into the hut, retreats to the cave, and pulls the door across the entrance seconds before Thunor brings his hammer down on the holy mountain. The earth shakes.

  Snuggled on the sleeping platform, Wilona jumps as the thunder cracks. Bana jumps up next to her, licks her face, and trembles. Outside, the wind moans and howls and the thunder rolls. Wilona’s hands look oddly blue. The power of the gods fills her with awe, and she thinks of Elba and how she hated storms. Faithful Elba, who came to the end of her life the year before. She was old and Wilona could tell from the way she walked her joints pained her. It was time. Wilona sang to her and fed her apples and cradled her as she slit her throat. Poor old pig, it was the only thing to do. She cured the meat and hung it above the fire to smoke. She said a respectful prayer with every meal. Wilona misses her solid warmth and grumpy greetings.

  Alarmingly close, a great crack sucks the air out of her ears. Bana barks. She pulls her cloak over her head.

  The tempest lasts a long time, circling around, teasing the land. It flies to the north, and then rushes to the west, and comes round again. When Thunor has at last tired of his play, he meanders away to the north, the deep growl of his laughter slowly fading. Wilona waits until she’s sure he won’t return before poking her head outside. Bana hesitates, then runs after her, sprinkling his piss on every rock and tree around the cave. The river churns and rushes and a split tree smoulders.

  She peeks into the animals’ bower. They’re safe and only a little skittish, and Wilona says her thanks. The renegade chickens appear from under the bramble, looking muddy and bedraggled. They tear into the coop, spilling nervous droppings as they run.

  The sun has nearly set now, and soon the land will be dark. Exhausted from the energy of the storm, Wilona eats a meal of oats, hard-boiled egg, cheese, and greens, and settles into her blankets to sleep. The owl hoots, and she drifts off listening to him … She dreams … carrion crows. Shapes … dark and swift and slinking. The dead, bloated, gnawed by wolves, eyes pecked by ravens … The faces are destroyed, but she knows them all … The royal compound, a smoking, collapsed shell, the carvings charred ruin. The tapestries, the benches, Lord Caelin’s great ornate chair, nothing but greasy black skeletons beneath the caved-in rafters.

  The owl cries. A deep moaning. It perches high in the yew tree, its large black eyes set in the white and brown feathered disc of its face full of a warning and sorrow. It lifts off and sails, higher and higher, circling, and below, all around and everywhere, is nothing but the dead …

  The next morning dawns warm and bright and full of birdsong. Wilona rises and takes up her staff.

  “Bana, come.” She walks through the red and gold woods to her old hut, looking for Ricbert. She finds him with Egan, sitting together on stools by the open door, their heads bowed. She can tell from the way they hold themselves that their conversation is serious.

  Ricbert spies her first and taps Egan on the knee. The two exchange glances and then beckon her forward.

  “Are you well, Sister?” says Ricbert.

  “I’m glad you’re together. I must warn you.”

  Egan stands. “Be seated, Sister. And take rest from your walk.” He pats Bana on the head.

  “I’ve no need for coddling. There’s no time.”

  Ricbert pats the stool. “Come, little sister. Nothing’s so urgent that you can’t sit to tell it. Do an old man the favour of not having to crane his neck.”

  She sits down and takes a breath to begin, but Egan raises his hand. “I’m sure your news is important, Wilona, but before you begin, there’s other news we must tell.”

  “We haven’t told the people yet,” says Ricbert. “Do you think …”

  Wilona looks from one man to the other. Their faces are grave, grim, even. She’s been so wrapped in her own worries she didn’t register their fear, and somehow, deep in her marrow, she knows it’s all related.

  Egan holds her gaze. “I think we must.” Ricbert shrugs and Egan takes a breath, and then says, “We’ve received word. There was a battle last moon in a place called Haethfelth. Cadwallon and Penda joined forces, as we feared.”

  “And the outcome was not in our favour.” It all seems so clear now.

  Ricbert makes a sort of strangled noise in his throat.

  She’s surprised to see his chin tremb
le. “My lord?”

  Egan puts a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “The war has gone badly. King Edwin is dead. Osfrith, his son, too, and his other son, Eadfrith, captured by Penda.”

  Her hand flies to her mouth. To have a vision is one thing, to hear the news in this world is another. “What about our men? What about Lord Caelin?” She can’t bear to say Margawn’s name …

  “Lord Caelin fell with the king.”

  She grabs Ricbert’s hand. “Margawn! Tell me.” Bana barks at his master’s name.

  “We can’t know for certain about the rest, but the fact no one’s yet returned … it doesn’t bode well,” Ricbert says in a choked voice. “Our men would fight to the death next to their lord.”

  Margawn would, he would. Her mind reaches for him … stretches out … but there’s nothing, and surely she would know. She must know—her heart rips with the need to know—but there’s no time … “I fear I’ve come to tell you the next part of the tale.”

  As she recounts her vision, Ricbert’s face becomes more drawn, Egan’s by turns flushed and ashen. When she’s finished, Ricbert hunches his shoulders and gazes far out across the fields. Egan drops to the ground and sits in the mud as though his legs have been cut out from under him.

  Ricbert’s eyes are glazed with anguish. “Is it possible you dreamed of the war fields, of the battle of Haethfelth and not Ad Gefrin?”

  She remembers the smouldering ruin of Caelin’s hall. “No. Impossible.”

  He drops his head.

  “We must warn the people.” Egan rises and looks at Wilona with something like wonder. “Is there no end to the purposes God has for you, Sister? We didn’t know what to do, but now, sure, it’s clear. We must warn the people and prepare to leave. We must take the villagers to Bebbanburgh for safety. We must get there before Cadwallon nears Ad Gefrin.”