I turned away and saw a beautiful young man walking towards me. He was saying something, but I could not make out what it was. I knew, however, that the young man was offering me all I desired, and it was in his power to give it. I sang the first two lines of the Resurrection song and turned away.
The castle had disappeared. A fire raged before me and I knew that my true desire was beyond it. I felt a yearning to get through and to meet the Truth on the other side. I took a step forward.
“Not yet,” I heard someone say. It was a sweet voice, an old friend’s voice, and I loved it as much as I loved myself. “Not yet, there is more to do.”
The fire faded and my nose was up against the stable wall. I felt my way around the straw-strewn floor until I found my bag and took a reasonable draught of medicine against the headache, then laid myself down to sleep.
I slept soundly; so soundly I was late getting up and found my companions ready for departure. There was time for only the briefest of breakfasts before we were ready to be on our way again - but I wasn’t to depart immediately. An exasperated-looking local came up with a young boy in tow - probably no more than six, by my estimate. The (presumed) father shuffled his feet and looked alternately embarrassed and imploring towards me.
“How can I help you?” I prompted. The father looked relieved.
“It’s the boy, Magister. He’s so full of questions about this Christian religion of yours. I can’t answer them, I don’t know enough. Please talk to him for us. He’s driving us mad!”
I considered the child. There was a gleam of a sharp mind in the eyes that regarded me steadily for a moment before a word from his father cast them down in respect. I asked my companions to spare me a few moments and then sat down, calling the boy over to me. I was a stocky man and my shaved head and flowing hair could be intimidating for a child.
“What would you like to ask me?”
He was full of questions, about the Old gods, whether they had been killed when our new one came, whether the Old ones did any harm – I was subject to quite a searching examination. He asserted that he thought he liked the Old ones better, the little spirits of the spring, and whether the offerings they had made had any value. But he did say that there were some that he didn’t like.
“Which ones are you thinking of?” The boy looked down and shuffled his feet, suddenly reluctant to continue. “Go on,” I prodded gently, “you can tell me. I won’t be angry with you.” The boy looked up, unsure, and I nodded encouragement.
“There’s the one that eats children.” There was another sharp intake of breath, through more than one mouth this time.
“What is this one called?”
“Cromm.” there were several who made the sign against evil. “Cromm Cruaich. He eats children, doesn’t he?” I took a moment before answering and suddenly remembered the talisman in my pocket. I’d meant to discuss it with Ieuan.
I explained that not all spirits were God’s servants and that some had rebelled against him, that they were proud and arrogant and didn’t want to serve anyone. And that they hated humanity and he must always be on his guard against them.
“Did God create everything?” I nodded. “Then did he create the Devil and his demons too? Why did he do that?” Some in the small audience smiled at the lad’s audacity. Others disapproved of his forwardness and what they considered something close to blasphemy. I took his shoulder and dropped down to his level again, regarding him seriously. He returned my gaze with a very steady one of his own.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Bedwyr, Magister.”
“Bedwyr, I want you to listen to me. Would you like to go somewhere no-one minds you asking questions and thinking about these things?” The boy’s eyes snapped sharply into focus and there was interest: real interest but not commitment. He was thinking about it and he glanced behind to his father. I followed his look and spoke again. “I think he could do well under the tutelage of my brothers at Melrose, or maybe even Lindisfarne, and he may grow to be an asset. Would you be willing to let him go?”
The man didn’t answer immediately. I could see two conflicting emotions were at war in him: on the one hand, the boy would grow to be a useful and productive pair of hands to help eke out whatever mean existence the family had but, on the other hand, he would be a mouth to feed and a burden for some years yet. The father in his turn looked over to a woman standing in the small crowd, who had one child in a shabby and threadbare shawl tied over her shoulders, another dangling from her hand and a third playing in the dirt at her feet: she looked worn out and on the verge of old age, although she was probably less than twenty-five years old. The boy interrupted before she could answer.
“Would they let me learn to read and write?”
“Yes: they would teach you. Would you like to learn?” The boy nodded vigorously. I looked again to the woman, the child’s mother, who shrugged her shoulders indifferently. She had enough to contend with, I thought, without this child plaguing her with questions she couldn’t answer. The father replied for the two of them.
“If you think he will make a good monk - I wouldn’t want any shame on us if he was sent back in disgrace - and if he wants it, well,” he stood straight and squared his shoulders, “I won’t stand in his way.” and he stood back from the two of us as if relinquishing his charge. “But if you would be so kind, Magister, if he will be of worth to you then I have to ask you, with respect of course…,” the man became tongue-tied and I nodded encouragement. I knew what was coming. “Well sir, your honour, he would have been of some worth to us in a couple of years, poor as we are, he could have earned his keep and maybe a little more besides, helped out as it were…”
“What do you want, friend?”
“Sir, I hesitate to ask but it has been a very hard year for us, very hard. We didn’t have a good harvest last year and all the mouths to feed…” his voice trailed off again.
“I’ll ask the Abbott at Melrose. If he decides to take the boy, and only then, to send you a bushel of seed corn in time for planting.”
“Oh thank you sir, thank you. That would be most kind, you are very generous, thank you.” He would have carried on for some time in this vein if I hadn’t cut him short.
“I trust the boy will turn out to be worth it. I can see you are a hard-working man, but don’t be so foolish as to eat your seed again.” Bedwyr’s father nodded vigorously and retreated, still muttering thanks.
I was only mildly surprised to realise that the child was expected to leave with me that day. I prevailed upon my companions to delay a few more minutes while the boy’s meagre belongings were thrust into a ragged square of cloth, to which was added a small loaf of bread, some cheese and a leather water bottle. The cloth was tied into a bag and suspended from a short stick that he balanced on his shoulder. There were a few tears at the parting. Emotions that the small family had thought had withered being shown at last, until finally - and with promises to visit being exchanged on both sides - I was ready to leave with the rest.
Just over two hours later the stream we were following joined another and the two combined were well on their way to becoming the Tweed. We were heartened and wanted to push on as quickly as possible, but when we came across a pool narrowing to a short series of waterfalls, I could see from little offerings of rags on the hedges and small carved figures that it was an old holy Ylace was obviously pagan, which totally equated to devil-worship in his mind, and he wasn’t slow to let me have his opinion.
“For me and my family the place to worship is God’s house. That’s where the Lord is, in the blessed sacrament. Our priests tell us it is so, and that the World is a place where the Devil roams unhindered. You can see evidence of his worshippers all around the place.” He shuddered, although it wasn’t cold. “I won’t stop with you, and neither will my family. And you should move on and pass it by too, for the boy’s sake. You shouldn’t lead him into false practises. Better if this place was burned to ashes - as its Maste
r’s followers will burn to ashes - before any righteous man paused here for longer than a moment.”
I couldn’t persuade him to stay, even by reminding him that Christ was baptised in the River Jordan, not in a cathedral.
“You have too much pagan in your worship. This icy stream is not the River Jordan and this bleak hillside is not the Holy Land. We will not stay. If you will, you can catch us up as best you can when you’ve finished your rites. We can’t stop you. We will tolerate you travelling with us, but don’t ask us to be an audience while you commit blasphemy!” The man was getting quite heated and when I looked at him I expected to see a flushed face with anger in the eyes, but instead I saw the worms again. I feared that the weaver’s death was very close. I implored him to remain, told him that I was concerned for him in the wilderness, in this disputed area. As a monk, I could help overcome any language barrier as I spoke English as well as British and Gaelic, and help to overcome misunderstandings that could turn dangerous. But he would not be moved.
His wife could see my concern and started to ask what I was worried about, but her husband cut her short. He ordered them all to take up their burdens again and herded his little flock off down the path. They went, carrying all their worldly wealth on their backs: heavy burdens indeed, I thought. They’d travelled hundreds of miles in their attempts to get the highest possible price for their produce and had probably spent more on travel and accommodation than they would gain in the end, even in the richest marketplace. It seemed more like obsession than genuine pride in workmanship.
While I felt that I should run and catch them up again, the pull of the grotto was even stronger. To pass this holy place by would be to fail in my duty as a pilgrim monk. The feeling of Power was strong in this place.
“We’ll see you later if you wish it,” the Merchant called back over his shoulder but I feared for him. His companions would not be persuaded, and I had tried, so all I could do was pray for them.
Bedwyr asked what had happened. I explained something of our differences as best I could. It was obvious to him that the pool was a holy place so he didn’t really understand. He opened his mouth to ask more but I silenced him with a gently raised hand, and asked him to sit quietly on the bank while I prayed.
The pool was peaceful and it looked inviting, but a touch of my toe told me that it was icy. It was still very cold further up into the hills and the sun was only just strong enough to melt enough ice and snow to feed the headwaters and fill the shallows. The full floods wouldn’t be for a couple of weeks yet.
St Columba taught that a monk should take every opportunity for penance and mortification of the flesh. I wouldn’t be the first to take that teaching as an invitation to stand in a freezing cold pool for half an hour and overcome the discomfort by concentrating on higher things. Nonetheless it wasn’t without some trepidation that I stripped off and stepped into the water. At its deepest point it came up to my chest.
The cold seeped into my bones and the motion of the stream, although slowed by the lip before the small falls, was an added distraction. A less disciplined person wouldn’t have even entered the water, far less remained in it for up to an hour, but my training enabled me to utilise and then transcend the bodily discomfort. I was aware of it but didn’t allow it to distract me, any more than the strain on my arms as I held them out could distract me. I attained a trance-like state wherein I could contemplate all the great mysteries of the earth and heaven.
My meditation complete, I stepped out of the water and rubbed myself briskly to dry off. The sun gave a little help, even from its thin weakness. I was pulling my robe back on when I heard a light splash and saw in the stream what looked like a child’s doll, half submerged. It could not be a doll, though, because it was trailing blood. A rock caught it close by where I stood, and the blood flowed and flowed out until the whole pool was full of it, and still it came. I splashed out into the shallows, heedless of getting my robe wet, and reached out for the body which I could see now was a baby. I could just reach the pudgy little arm and I went to grasp it and my hand came away with nothing, as I’d known it would. The pool was clear and empty of anything except water and fish. I was standing at the edge, bending over with my arm outstretched. I collected myself and finished getting dressed, gathered my things together and set off down the trail at as quickly as I could, Bedwyr’s hand in mine. I didn’t expect to catch the Merchant and his family before they stopped for the day but the better the progress we made, the more likely it would be that we would spend the night in the same place and resume our strained companionship in the morning.
“What did you See?” Bedwyr asked. I hadn’t spoken more than a couple of words to him since coming out of the pool. I was surprised that the boy knew immediately what was going on. “Oh, I’ve seen someone with the Sight before. She was from Erin, too, or maybe their new kingdom in the north. She spoke funny anyway, like you. When she had a Vision, she would walk strangely and then just stop, just like you did back there. She was nearly ridden down by a soldier’s horse once. She didn’t see it at all.” and he giggled.
“I saw something very unpleasant,” I replied.
“Does that mean the man is right? That the pool is evil?” the boy’s face was open and merely than interested.
“No. But I haven’t worked out what it is yet.”
“Why not? I thought you were clever, one of the cleverest people in the world. All the Magisters are, aren’t they?” I smiled a little, but not without a touch of exasperation.
“Sometimes God likes to see us work things out for ourselves,” I said, forestalling the next question. “Like I would like to see you taught to read for yourself by the brothers rather than being read to. It would make me happy, as it makes God happy to see us learn things without having to be told all the time.”
“The merchant thinks we should be told everything by the Pope in Rome, I heard him say so.”
“I don’t agree, and neither do the Magisters at Melrose. Now can I ask you to be quiet for a while, or I’ll never be able to discover what God wants me to see.” This chastened the child and we proceeded in silence, walking as quickly as the shorter legs could allow.
I considered the Vision of the dead baby in the pool. The blood indicated a serious injury, possibly even sacrifice, but what I could not decide was whether this was a Sight of older rites associated with the pool or some kind of premonition, or something else. The old Power could linger long after its devotees had disappeared but there had been no feeling of Evil in the place when I came upon it so I could rule out a hangover from the old days.
I followed the trail with scant attention as I bent my mind to the problem, despite the fact that it was probably pointless. Visions that were not immediately explicable, like the one last night of the fawn, usually had to be left until their meaning was made clear by events.
Nonetheless I continued to search for a meaning. It was one way of passing the time but I had the feeling that there was a significance that I could understand now, if only I could make a connection, a connection that I began to feel was in my head, if only I could locate it. Whenever I began to feel some kind of coincident line of thought, I found himself up against a dead end.
No, that wasn’t really true, I thought, after a while. It wasn’t a dead end, it was a closed door, which was different. I considered the door: I could see it in my mind’s eye. It was large and solid, heavily bolted and barred but from my own side. I could unlock it if I had the key.
I felt a shiver as I searched in my mind for the key. I had it already, I knew I had, but the shiver was of fear: behind the door lay madness, and I recoiled from it. I’d been there, inside the labyrinth beyond the door. I didn’t want to go there again.
I went on, head bowed, trying to sort out the problem without opening the dreadful door. There must be a solution this side of madness and I would find it, I would go round and through the thickest tangles, as the badger had shown me the way away from the Glade.
/> I wandered into a clearing, still wrapped up in my problem. Bedwyr tugged my arm urgently and we were confronted with something that was not a Vision, though I wished profoundly that it was. It was a scene of horror but there was a kind of sense to it.
There seemed to be bodies everywhere, filling the clearing from one side to another, but there could be no more than seven, including the children. I looked around for them first and found them. All three were dead, even the baby, from single sword wounds to the back. They wouldn’t have suffered much - beyond the terror of knowing they were going to die of course, which would have been suffering enough for anyone. Their mother was nearby, reaching out for her babes. Her throat had been cut. Her brothers must have put up a fight, as they’d all sustained more than one wound. They had bled from their arms and sides but a massive blow that had opened his head had finished off one. The other’s final wound was not determinable: he had so many.
Of the family’s goods there was no sign, which wasn’t surprising, but the Weaver himself was not with the rest and I went looking for him. He wasn’t far and he was still alive, although very badly wounded and not long for the world. He could speak and was able to call me over. He was in a lot of pain and his tunic was soaked with blood. I knelt beside him and took his hand.
“What happened? Robbers?” The Weaver nodded.
“I think so. They overwhelmed us. A dozen at least. We tried to resist them but there were too many.” He looked around. “They wanted our stock. We tried to resist them.” I nodded. It was unlikely that the family would’ve been spared even if they had given up the stock, but this proud man had not even considered that course. Not even for the sake of his family. Greed and Pride were heavy burdens. “They killed us all. Even the children. There were too many.” He tried to sit up but the pain was too great. “They’ve killed us all.” He grabbed my hand. “Shrieve me, priest. Hear my confession. Give me absolution. Bless me Father, for I have sinned…” He tried to sit up again but I held him back and spoke gently.
The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3) Page 14
