The Way of Wyrd

by Brian Bates

  ‘And the four becomes three.’

  The audience roared approval as another ear of corn smacked into the flames, while the Wolfman clung on grimly to the corn stalk, his whirling wolf-cloak dispersing fire-smoke until my eyes streamed.

  I tried to keep focus on the corn stalk’s desperate struggle to escape his grasp.

  ‘And the three becomes two.’

  People behind me screamed the words with the sorcerer and pushed against the rope; I had to brace my feet and lean back to avoid being pitched into the fire.

  ‘And the two becomes one.’

  The audience roared as the Wolfman was literally thrown around the Spirit Circle, his wolf-head fangs snarling and growling, saliva flying in a foaming spray from the jaws.

  ‘And the one becomes none,’ he shrieked, tearing off a final kernel and dashing it into the flames. The corn stalk wrenched itself free at last and plunged screaming into the fire.

  The crowded room exploded into uproar and at the same time the woman’s head pitched forward out of my hands. She half rose, spinning around towards me; then the Wolfman swooped down, snatched away the leaf-pack still clinging to her face and flung it into the fire. Grasping the woman’s arms, he hauled her to her feet, while the audience stood as one and I rose with them.

  The sick woman, seeming totally dazed, stood facing towards me and I caught a glimpse of her face. It was red, but the grotesque swelling had completely disappeared. People rushed past me, stepping over the rope into the Spirit Circle, chattering, shouting and laughing, I fought my way back towards the woman, struggling for a second look at her face, but I could not get near her: crowds of people were hugging, touching and kissing her. Then someone lifted her up and she appeared high above the throng, lit by the flicker of fading firelight. There was no doubt that her face was healed. I was stunned. Never before had I witnessed such dramatic healing powers.

  Rhythmic clapping and stamping thundered deafeningly around the Spirit Circle and my head reeled with power-plant fumes. I struggled towards the door, then I saw the sorcerer standing directly in front of me, the wolfs-head thrown back, his hair matted with sweat. He drank deeply from an ale pitcher and behind him I saw baskets of cakes and trenchers of meat being piled near the fire. General revelry was taking over.

  The sorcerer lowered the drinking vessel and looked directly at me, his eyes clear, bright and penetrating

  ‘Did you see it?’ he shouted hoarsely above the din. ‘Did you see the corn spirit?’

  I did not know what to say. I could not say ‘No’, for I had just witnessed the most exhilarating event of my life. I had seen wonders I had not thought possible. I took the leather pitcher from the sorcerer, closed my eyes and swallowed the cool liquid. Then I passed the vessel back to him, cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted back:

  ‘Yes. I saw!’

  Dizzy and light-headed, I stepped to the door and slipped out of the Spirit House into the chill dampness of the night. The midnight moon loomed majestically between towering clouds. Grey fire-smoke drifted and curled from the smoke-hole of the Spirit House, turning to silver in the moonlight; beneath the eaves, chinks of light flickered eerily in gaps around the door frame. Below, at the bottom of the hill, thatched roofs glistened with dew against the forest shadows and the very air seemed to shimmer with a spiritual force. I wandered slowly across the clearing, away from the noise of festivities filtering from the Spirit House, and found a seat at the edge of the forest astride the roots of an oak. The sights and sounds of the night’s sorcery clamoured through my mind and at the centre of it all, images of the sorcerer chanting, singing, dancing and snarling beneath his wolf-skin. Excitedly, but carefully, I rehearsed in my mind all the details of the pagan ritual. When I had finished, I leaned back against the oak-trunk and spoke out loud the Lord’s Prayer, looking up towards Heaven, far above the fading Saxon stars.

  * * *

  The night of the sorcerer’s Spirit Circle is etched indelibly in my memory, for his healing power was an important thread in the web of events which led me inexorably into the world of Saxon sorcery. Only days before, I had landed on the Saxon shore as a servant of Almighty God, pledged to bring the light of our Saviour into the dark lands of the pagans. In His service, during that remarkable summer in the Year of Our Lord 674, I was to encounter soul spirits and death demons, guardians and goddesses, and under the guidance of the Wolfman I was to learn the secrets of Saxon sorcery.

  In the following pages I have recounted my experience as accurately as I can, for I believe that the lessons of the Wolfman are for people of all places and all times. In all humility, I dedicate this manuscript to spiritual seekers everywhere.

  A Forest of Phantoms

  THE DRAGON-PROWED wave cutter struck sail, drifted slowly through the morning mist and beached in a sheltered cove on the Saxon shore. Grey waves lapped at the stilled oars. I climbed stiffly into the chill water and stood, feet clamped by the cold, watching the boat and oarsmen slip silently out to sea, straining my eyes until the saffron sail melted into the mist. Then, scanning the beach anxiously, I waded ashore. There was no sign of the promised guide. I stood alone on the brink of the pagan wilderness.

  Gulls wheeled warning of my presence and waves foamed on to the shingle with a sinister hiss. My eyes searched the cliff-tops uneasily as they loomed through floating fingers of mist; in my Mercian homeland the midwinter past had been marked by fireballs in the sky and the peasants, seeing flying dragons spitting flame, had reverted in panic to the worship of devils and demons. Normally the stone boundaries of the Mercian monastery isolated me from such upheavals; the life of an apprentice scribe was almost totally contained within the cloisters. But now the events of midwinter seemed portentous indeed: with a party of monks I had journeyed South through the great forests to establish a mission at the court of the Saxon King, And now, in the warm, early days of summer, I stood deep in the pagan kingdom, sent from the mission to gather details of heathen customs and beliefs. I slipped a hand inside my tunic to finger the bronze crucifix, hanging heavy and reassuring around my neck.

  A curlew shrieked, invisible in the white cloaked sky, and I was suddenly seized by the chilling conviction that I was being watched by some hidden figure or presence. Hurriedly I dried numbed feet on my woollen cloak and strapped on my shoes, fumbling to tie wet thongs under my knees. I picked my way over sour-smelling strands of kelp weed, crunched across a pebble beach into a marshy inlet and followed a meandering watercourse away from the beach into a ravine. Hills reached high into the sky and the landscape felt alien and strange. Beech trees stood huge and imposing, far taller than Mercian beeches, and strange blue and silver-spotted butterflies fluttered silently like coloured snowflakes. I saw birds that I did not recognize—small, streamlined and sharp-beaked. The beginnings of panic fluttered in my stomach and I bit my lower lip to control the attacks of anxiety. Gradually I was rewarded by a gathering crowd of comforting memories. I pictured the warm, tranquil afternoon of last spring, when Brother Eappa had appeared unexpectedly in the stone archway of my writing cell. He had padded to my table, arms straight down and still, hands clasped in front of him in his characteristic posture.

  ‘Show me your work,’ he had commanded. He was my teacher and had inspected my script many times. I turned the sheet of vellum towards him and he bent over, his tonsured head only inches from the page. After a long interval he had straightened up and I expected rebuke, for he seemed to be formulating his comments over-carefully in his mind. His next words still echoed in my mind as if he spoken them yesterday:

  ‘Brand, I am soon to journey to the dark lands of the pagans. We are to establish a mission at the court of the Saxon King. You are to accompany me, for I shall need a scribe.’

  I had stared at him in utter disbelief. Many missions left the monastery each summer, but I had never expected to be included in so holy an adventure. Indeed, I had never before travelled beyond the surrounding villages, let alone to another kingd
om. The prospect filled me with apprehension.

  ‘But Brother Eappa, I am still young and have barely begun to know the glorious blessings of our Saviour. I am not yet a monk. There are many of the brethren who are more worthy scribes than I.’

  ‘There is much work best done by a young man, free from the monkly trappings of our brothers,’ he said, completely unmoved by my protest. Then he leaned down and spoke into my ear in a conspiratorial manner.

  ‘The light of the Lord shines in your work, Brand. But I should like to see the love of God reach into your heart.’ Eappa placed his hand on my head, kindly. ‘You have learned the scriptures well, you have learned to write well, you serve the Lord well with your mind. But after a mission in the wilderness of the pagans, you will love Him with all your heart.’

  Eappa had said similar things to me before. I had protested that I did love God with all my heart, but I knew Eappa to be unconvinced. He seemed concerned that I should experience the Lord in a different way and I felt honoured that he should take such an interest in me.

  Eventually the clouds lifted and on either side of the valley green hills materialized like colourful dream visions. Shouldering my bag, I left the stream bank and climbed the steep Eastern slope which was smothered with white and pink pools of sweet-smelling yarrow flower. Walking, scrambling and climbing, I finally reached the summit. It was a wonderful vantage point, lofty as an eagle’s eyrie. I surveyed the horizon in all directions. To the North, the hill on which I was standing formed a grassy spine stretching inland, broken only by coarse clumps of bramble. Below, to the South, white-capped waves swept into the rocks with a distant rumble, and to the West the stream snaked out of sight beyond the ravine. Carefully I scanned the beech forest to the East. The only sign of movement was a lone hawk, drifting in eerie silence through the sky, hunting prey far below in the forest glades. Sorting through my jumble of thoughts for a sensible strategy, I decided to sit on the hill facing the paths to the beach. If my guide approached the inlet he would have to walk along the hilltop or down the stream valley; either way I would have an early sight of him.

  Distractedly I pulled barley bread from my bag, blessed it and washed it down with sweet red wine, musty from the leather flask. I remembered with pleasure the glow of pride in my father’s eyes when I had told him of the proposed mission. My mother had said nothing, but hugged me until I thought I would burst. I recalled also the day of departure for the journey South, sharing tearful farewells with my parents, brothers and sisters; with a pang of guilt I remembered that while my heart had been sad, my stomach had bubbled with excitement and impatience to leave, although I had tried to hide my eagerness from my family. Sitting now amongst the daisies, on the hills of the heathens, I wondered whether Eappa had perhaps brought me on the mission with the express intention of sending me alone to meet the pagan guide, thus sparing his monks such dangers. Immediately I dismissed the dark thought from my mind. I needed determination, not doubts and suspicions.

  My body still ached from the cramped boat journey and the warm sun had made me drowsy. I stretched out on my back and my ears sang with the hum of bees all around me in the cornflowers. I watched high, puffy clouds pouring gently like cream across the sky. Soon I sank into an exhausted sleep.

  * * *

  I awoke feeling chilled, sat bolt upright and with a start of alarm realized that I had slept well into the grey light of dusk. I climbed unsteadily to my feet and reeled with dizziness; the sleep had not refreshed me and I felt as unsteady as an ale-guzzler. I tried to focus my eyes on the approach paths to the beach. The sunset stained the sky blood-red and tips of the hills glowed green like a circle of giant burial mounds. Below, the valley lurked in darkness. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flicker of movement in the shadows, barely a bow-shot downstream. Immediately I dropped to a crouch, my heart hammering against my chest, staring at the spot until my eyes flooded with tears; for the second time I was gripped by the conviction that I was being watched. Then, without warning, a stag bolted stiff-legged from the bushes and disappeared into the shadows. Rigid with fear, I clasped sweating palms together and chanted the Lord’s Prayer over and over again, like an incantation. I had never experienced the Lord’s presence, but I knew that He would protect me, for His prayer drove terror from my mind.

  After a time an early owl hooted in the forest below and thunderclouds rolled darkly across the sky. I decided to seek the shelter of the forest. Crossing myself, I rose quickly to my feet, scooped up my shoulder-bag and cloak and climbed down the hill, picking my steps carefully at first, then stumbling and sliding on my backside. Eventually I stepped through thinly spaced beeches which skirted the forest like silent sentries. Woodland shadows reached out to envelop me and it was too dark to follow animal paths; I had to work my way carefully through the trees, wading through thick undergrowth of golden fern and clinging brambles until, without warning, I emerged into a small clearing completely canopied by one gigantic beech tree. From the base of the beech two immense roots like dragon’s claws rambled halfway across the open space. Working quickly in the gathering gloom, I heaped dry leaf-litter into the space between the roots to form a mattress. The shadows melted into darkness. Hurriedly I kicked aside the ground cover and dug a shallow fire-pit in the soft soil, cutting my fingers on invisible twigs as sharp as arrows. Then, piling tinder-dry kindling into the pit, I rummaged in my bag for the flint-and-iron. Blindly I struck them repeatedly in the darkness: eventually the sparks settled, crackled and grew into flames and I stoked the fire cautiously, nervous of dry vegetation under the beech canopy. I remembered building fires as a boy with my father, though it was always for a purpose: to warm the house, cook food, heat water or burn rubbish. I told myself now that the purpose of my fire was to frighten away wolves and bears, but in my heart I knew that it was to discourage the forces of terror that lurk in the night.

  I settled back on to my mattress, leaf-litter crackling beneath me as I stared up into the tree. Bats glided silently between the beech branches, silhouetted momentarily against the grey night sky, and insects bustled noisily in my mattress. Many times as a boy I had slept under the stars, but now I lay on the floor of a heathen forest frozen by the fears of an alien traveller, my ears pricked for sounds of danger. My imagination lingered over tales told by travellers who had taken refuge in the monastery: stories of other travellers who had been attacked and robbed and of those who had lost their way and died of cold, hunger or wolves. Even worse, I was now becoming convinced that there would be no guide to accompany me through the pagan forest. I was sure that either I had been delivered to the cove on the wrong day or that the guide had been attacked and killed on his journey to meet me. I tried to control my panic. Carefully, methodically, I rehearsed in my mind the events leading up to my arrival on the lonely beach. The shadows had been lengthening on only the Mission’s second day at the court of the pagan King when Eappa had decided to ask permission for me to travel through the kingdom, gathering information on the beliefs and superstitions of the heathens. No mission could begin work until it knew what errors were to be replaced by the light of the Lord and I was thrilled to learn that I was to be entrusted with such a vital task.

  Eappa was confident that permission would be granted, for we were at the pagan court under the authority and protection of King Wulfhere, Christian ruler of all Mercia and the most powerful warlord in the land. Eappa went to the Royal Hall to seek an audience with the King, rejoining us shortly afterwards, as we sat on the grass inside the walled compound, to announce in his brisk manner that we were to see the King at sunset.

  ‘Why doesn’t he see us immediately?’ snorted Brother Burghelm, his bald head trembling with indignation. ‘Surely he will refuse permission? He only barely tolerates our presence as it is and is under no obligation to aid our Mission.’

  ‘Are you sure this is the right time for such a request?’ Brother Padda whined. ‘This worshipper of devils has shown us no charity since we left th
e shadow of Wulfhere’s kingdom. Why should he do so now? He will probably allow Brand to travel into the forest and then have him killed, pleading with Wulfhere that it was the work of robbers.’

  Padda’s doubts chilled me to the marrow

  ‘Are you all growing cold with fear?’ Eappa hissed contemptuously, staring at us one by one. We all dropped our heads in shame.

  ‘If Brand is allowed to journey he will need no protection, for the Lord God Almighty will accompany him.’

  I swallowed hard and wished that my faith were as strong as Eappa’s.

  ‘The pagan will grant what we ask, for fear of Wulfhere’s wrath,’ he continued. ‘And if the King lets Brand travel in the heathen lands then, with the information he gathers, the Lord will deliver the Saxons into our hands.’

  We made the short walk to the Royal Hall just before sunset. The King listened in stony silence to Eappa’s request, staring at each of us in turn with eyes like ice.

  When Eappa had finished a bent old man, sitting on a stool next to the King, struggled to his feet. He cupped his hand and twittered like a bird into the King’s ear. I could not hear what he said, but I saw the King’s face crease into a broad smile and he nodded slowly, evidently pleased with what he had heard.

  ‘You wish the scribe to travel unhindered, to witness the ways and gods of my people? Permission is granted. And I shall provide a guide.’

  The beech branches groaned in the night wind, moving ponderously like giant hands high above my head; for a moment I was dragged back into the present. It was clear now that there would be no guide and that I had been abandoned, without a map or directions. Tears stung my cheeks and I took the crucifix from inside my tunic, held it on my chest and virtually willed memories of the monastery to visit me like old friends. Closing my eyes, I recalled the faces and voices of the initiates with whom I lived, and the sound of their laughter at private jokes shared out of earshot of the monks. I loved the regular routine: ringing bells in the night to pluck us from our dormitory beds, sleepy matins sung with the brethren, the six o’clock service, the seven psalms with the litanies and the chapter Eucharist. Then eagerly to breakfast; the memory of it awakened hunger pangs in my stomach. Without opening my eyes, I felt around inside my bag for barley bread and chewed on it slowly.