by Brian Bates
A piece of wood shifted in the fire. I watched it fall slowly, eaten away in mouthfuls by the flames. My mind was racing, bursting with ideas, voices, questions, warnings. For the second time that night I contemplated going to a harbour and obtaining passage back along the coast to the Royal Hall and the friendly faces of the Mission. But now Eappa’s voice haunted me: ‘We cannot deliver the pagan from the forces of evil until we know the nature of his errors.’ If the secrets of pagan power lay in the devils, then surely I should, in Wulf’s words, ‘encounter them directly’. Yet I was sure that Eappa never expected or intended me to venture so far into the dark world of pagan sorcery, for he preached that such things were the province of devils. He had instructed me to travel, observe, listen and remember. But he had never suggested that I enter the world of devils.
I sighed and leaned back on the mossy oak trunk. My eyes were heavy, my mind exhausted, but I was too scared to go to sleep. My thoughts wandered. Absently, I imagined myself returning to the Mission to tell unheard-of secrets about the pagans, astounding the monks with my knowledge and graciously accepting Eappa’s praise for my courage. Smiling, I pulled my cloak more closely around my shoulders. Gradually my eyes tired of watching the dancing fire and my lids sank shut. Slumber sneaked up on me and stole my thoughts. I dropped into a deep and vivid dream. I was back in the monastery, lying on the hard oak bed relieved by only the thinnest of mattresses.
The echo of bolts sounded down the corridors long and bare, as the sub-prior locked the cloister doors. The heavy reek of oil, which had been burning with floating wicks in stone cressets, filled my nostrils with that surge of familiarity so often carried by forgotten smells. The other boys in the dormitory were fast asleep, curled into shadowy lumps in rows of beds stretching into the darkness on either side of me.
Then, almost immediately, I heard the bells ringing to awaken us before dawn and the sub-prior was touring the dormitory with lighted lantern to see that no one had overslept. Huddled together like lambs for warmth, we shuffled in a line out of the dormitory towards the chapel, hard cold floors slapping and clapping under our sandals. On my right I saw a stone archway leading to a workroom still dank with darkness. I knew that inside, displayed in various stages of preparation, lay strips of calfskin which would become fine and glorious book covers. Just past this room lay the steps leading to the cellarer’s vault, packed neatly with supplies, implements, food, clothes and blankets, tallow for dormitory candles and beeswax for altar candles.
The entrance to the chapel was thronged with monks cloaked in pre-dawn silence; mostly men of thane class, high wergild-holders turned from battle pledges to prayer. Beyond them, hung on chains at the door, glowed red coals in black iron dishes to warm the hands of those who were to minister at the altar. Everything seemed so familiar, even the little clouds of cold breath puffing out from people’s faces and the sleepy but friendly eyes—a warm bond of brotherhood, wrapped around us all.
Then something strange happened. Everyone stood aside, gowns stiff with cold rustling as the monks melted back into the darkness. I passed into the chapel alone. The small room was exactly as it had always been: wall-hung with tapestries depicting angels picked out in weft-threads, softly lit by candles in finely enamelled hanging bowls. In the centre was the altar, decorated with fine pieces of silver lovingly polished and lit by tall altar candles.
I moved towards the altar but stopped suddenly, gripped by horror. On tables and shelves behind sat literally dozens of strangely carved icons, many encrusted with gold and precious stones which glowed in the light of the candles. Some were small and squat, others larger than men, but all were grotesquely covered with strange inscriptions. I moved around the room, powerless to stop myself, as if on a guided tour of hell; animal motifs and heathen designs loomed from the walls and large figures with human heads and smooth, sightless eyes. I was alone in the hideous room, too frightened even to cry out, paralysed by the cold and eerie presence. Desperately I looked towards the altar again and there, crowded on to a platform along with piles of icons, rested a simple golden cross. I dropped to my knees and prayed fervently, snatches of prayers from every kind of service and lesson, anything that would restore the warm, protective mantle of God.
Then I heard movement. I opened my eyes and, through tears of fear and emotion, I saw the figure of a man. At first I thought it was Eappa, but then I realized that his face was different. Kindness, warmth, love and caring poured from him like a warm summer wind. I blinked my eyes clear and looked again; now he appeared strangely like Wulf, but disguised by a cowl. He opened a thick Mass book, fine vellum leaves crackling as he turned the page. Then he began to read from the book in a soft, gentle voice that I knew to be Eappa’s:
‘Brand, ever are the faithful tormented by the spirits of evil and the hearts and minds of the people are persuaded by the devil that these spirits should be revered as true gods. Strength in faith and psalms sung fervently drive away the spirits, yet people still fear them. Go into the world of spirits, Brand, for you do it in the name and service of the Lord. Do not be afraid of their terrible appearance, their shrieks and moans, for the will of the Lord is with you. To protect the flock of the faithful you must enter what seems to be the den of wolves. Learn their ways and see that they too go with the blessing of the Almighty.’
I awoke suddenly with a start. It was still dark and I felt that I had been asleep only a few moments. I tried to collect my thoughts for I knew now what I must do: it was the Will of the Almighty that I go with Wulf and learn the ways of his spirits. And as soon as the resolve passed into my mind, I felt an uncanny sense of security and well-being. The terrors of the night were extinguished like snuffed candles. I thought at first that I was enjoying the relief of having made the decision, but gradually it dawned upon me that I was feeling the excitement of anticipation. It was not just a matter of duty or loyalty to Eappa, nor even the undoubted joy of serving the Lord. Rather, the secrets of the spirits seemed to beckon to me and the surrounding forest tingled with excitement and challenge. Above, the pagan sky floated blue as turquoise, silver stars twinkling like jewelled icons and the moon pouring down light like a Heaven full of altar candles. The thunder god had withdrawn and the Lord was blessing my Mission.
Unleashing Life-Force
I AWOKE to the soft, pearly light of dawn. Wulf was sitting on the fallen oak, watching me.
‘I have been waiting for you to return,’ he said genially.
‘Return?’ I mumbled, my tongue thick with sleep.
‘From your dreams.’
I had slept heavily and I sat up slowly, easing my stiff neck. Wulf gestured towards his hat which was lying upturned on the ground, brimming with red berries. From my bag I took the remainder of the barley bread, now rock hard inside its linen wrap, and broke off a piece for him. We sucked at it between mouthfuls of the tart berries.
‘I am coming with you,’ I said, a glimmer of pride in my voice. It had not been an easy decision to make.
Wulf nodded, sucking berry juice from his fingers.
‘I know. We shall begin today by hunting, before the sun rides high.’
Slightly irritated by his pretence of already knowing my decision, I sulked in silence for a while. But I was intrigued by the prospect of hunting, I had not hunted since I was a boy, not even for rabbits, for the monastery gardens provided barter for all our food needs.
‘What will we hunt, Wulf?’ I asked, feigning indifference.
‘Plants.’
I looked at him blankly.
‘I always hunt the early summer plants,’ he said, as if his statement explained the strange proposal.
My enthusiasm drained away. Many back-breaking hours spent shuffling up and down the monastic herb gardens, weeding between neat rows of rosemary and fennel, had left me a less than avid collector of plants.
I pulled a long stalk of grass and chewed the moist end to cleanse my mouth of the bitter taste of the berries.
‘What plants do you collect
, Wulf?’ I asked listlessly, thinking that the information might be useful to the Mission.
Wulf leaned forward and ran a freckled hand thoughtfully through his beard.
‘Well, there are many. Sometimes I collect the root-beds of wild iris, hunting especially for those in full purple flower, with veins of deep colour running through the petals. Also, I dig the jagged-leaf wild radish and the carline thistle—taking the whole plant, roots, petal-shaped bracts, white flowers and stems. Also white cowbane and dropwort are useful, especially when collected from mossy stream banks. I have taken yellow celandine for particular purposes, but only plants with four-petaled flowers on long stalks. The grey stems give an orange-coloured honey which is very powerful medicine. The blue, pink and purple hooded hounds tooth have especially potent leaves, which when crushed smell of mice. But the root, when prepared for sorcery, is very powerful indeed.’
Wulf paused, cocking an eyebrow at me. I was trying to commit to memory as many plants as possible.
‘Then there is hassock,’ he continued, smiling, ‘and yew berry, lupine, elecampane—preferably cut when it is at man-height—dwarf-elder, the heads of marshmallow, fen-mint, dill, lily, cockspur grass, horehound, bitter wormwood, starry stitchwort, woodruff, honey-scented crosswort...’
Wulf started to laugh at me and I realized that my face was twisted into a grimace of concentration. He had been talking so quickly that I was having difficulty in following his dialect, let alone recognizing and memorizing the plants.
‘The names of these plants mean nothing,’ Wulf chuckled. ‘They each have to be specially prepared, with plants known only to sorcerers. Even to begin to learn about the plants of power, you must collect and prepare them with me, not memorize their names.’
I laughed with relief. I could remember only about five or six of the plants he had listed and these were plants already known to the Mission. Indeed, for the monastic library I had transcribed sections from volumes of the classical Greek herbals. But I was interested in Wulf’s reference to plants of power.
‘Plants of power are important allies for a sorcerer,’ he said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘With their aid I can influence the life-force of a person.’
‘Life-force?’ The term meant nothing to me.
‘Life-force permeates everything, It is the source of all vitality. In a person it is generated in the head, flows like a stream of light into the marrow of the spine and from there into the limbs and crevices of the body. Power-plants help to control the channels through which the energy flows.’
I was intrigued by the idea, but could not conceive of its material essence. I tried to picture it as a liquid substance.
‘Is life-force like blood?’ I asked.
Wulf shook his head. ‘Life-force is visible only to a sorcerer. However, you do not need a sorcerer to be aware of your own life-force, for there are occasions when even an ordinary person generates vast quantities of it. For example, life-force increases when you are ill. Serious illness is a sign that spirits are attacking your soul. But usually spirits cannot capture a soul which is protected by life-force and at the first signs of danger life-force blazes into your head like a furnace. The inner heat is so great that your head will feel hot, even to the touch of others. If the spirits continue their attack, life-force flows down the spine like molten metal in a smith’s crucible and the entire body becomes hot. Even if the spirits successfully capture the victim’s soul, life-force continues to rage in an attempt to keep the body intact until the soul can be returned. But if a sorcerer does not intervene to recapture the soul, the sick person will burn himself out like a forest fire, and die.’
Wulf’s graphic account reminded me of a serious illness I had survived as a small boy. I had been so hot I could hardly breathe, and my head had felt as if it were on fire. Terrifying voices and demons had visited me. Prayers had been said for me, to no avail, but one night my father had brought an old man from the village who examined me by looking into my ears. He had poured an evil-smelling substance on to my head and body and then sung strange words to me. The following day I cooled down and gradually recovered completely. I remember my father telling everyone in the family never to breathe a word about the old man’s visit to the house, because we lived on monastic property and the priests would be angry.
It surprised me that I had completely forgotten the incident until now, but I said nothing about it to Wulf. I sat and watched him cleaning berry juice from his hat with dew-wet bunches of grass.
‘Did you see the slaves at Aethelwealh’s fortress?’ Wulf enquired suddenly.
I nodded, puzzled by the question.
‘Did you see the metal bands around their necks? These bands signify that the slave’s life-force does not flow freely into his body, for his vitality is controlled by his owner. And the beard and hair of slaves is cropped, for hair is one of the outward signs of life-force in a person.’
Wulf put on his black hat, pushed it to the back of his head and looked at me with half-closed eyes. In the soft light one of his eyes appeared strangely misty and his gaze made me feel distinctly uncomfortable.
‘You are young and healthy, Brand. You are generating abundant life-force, but it does not flow freely. You are blocking it.’
I laughed with embarrassment and self-consciously passed a hand over my close-cropped hair.
‘No, Wulf. Short hair is the custom for the brethren of my faith. My life is dedicated to Almighty God, but I am a slave to no man of this world.’
Wulf shook his head slowly, still looking at me probingly. ‘I shall arrange for you to meet Water Goddess. She will unleash your life-force.’
‘What do you mean, Wulf? What is the Water Goddess?’ I was as alarmed by his sly demeanour as I was by his reference to the goddess.
‘Water Goddess is beautiful,’ he said, a crafty gleam in his eyes. ‘She is soft and warm; she will wrap you in her silvery embrace and your spirit will rise.’
He made what I took to be an obscene gesture and I turned away from him in disgust, feeling my face flush with anger. I was acutely embarrassed by such talk. Sometimes I had whispered about such matters with the novices in the dormitory, but to discuss it openly with a stranger was shameful. I made much of undoing and restrapping my shoes, hoping that Wulf would drop the subject.
I could sense that he was watching me but I sat in frosty silence, staring at my shoes. Suddenly he squatted next to me and thrust his face into mine.
‘In this kingdom, a lover is called a neck-bedfellow, because after being with a woman you can virtually feel the bonds of enslavement around your neck.’ He wagged a forefinger sternly. ‘A woman will draw the life-energy from you and sap your strength. You are absolutely right to be so careful.’
I looked at him in surprise. His face, inches from mine, was creased with concern and sincerity. I had erroneously believed that he was going to mock my lack of sexual experience, but now he sounded exactly like Eappa, warning of the temptations of the flesh. It was all the more remarkable in that I had been told that pagan practitioners of sorcery used their status to indulge in disgraceful sexual licence.
‘Does this mean that, like the brethren of my faith, you do not lie with women? That you were joking about the Water Goddess?’
Suddenly Wulf’s demeanour changed and he looked down at the ground, shuffling about nervously. With horror I realized that I had embarrassed him and had risen half-way to my feet to apologize when I saw a sly smile spread across his face. I was caught between sitting and standing when he exploded into laughter.
I sat down and glared at him, feeling utterly ridiculous. He had led me to commit myself on a matter of considerable personal sensitivity and I thought him crass and inconsiderate in the extreme.
Still chuckling, Wulf crouched by my side and put an arm around my shoulders.
‘Do not worry!’ he chuckled. ‘If you are going to encounter Water Goddess, I shall give you advance warning so that you may seek forgiveness from your god.�
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I turned towards him to retort angrily: he was struggling to control his mirth but as I looked into his eyes, I felt a wave of warmth from him, even affection. I laughed nervously.
‘We are taught to stay away from the pleasures of the flesh,’ I said ruefully.
He nodded gently, still with an arm around me. ‘Life-force pulses from Mother Earth when she is kissed by the Spring Sun and so it is between man and woman. Sexual love is essential for a free flow of life-force. Just as frost and fire create the worlds, so man and woman create life.’
Wulf clapped me on the back and stood up. ‘But we shall worry about Water Goddess another time. Enough about your neck—it is time to hunt.’
We gathered together our things and Wulf led the way into the forest. Our path snaked northwards through miles of dense forest, Wulf tracking animal paths barely visible in the thick undergrowth and moving with the superb agility of a deer. Above the tree cover the sky was a haze of high cloud and in air warm and moist as steam, my clothes clung to me in sticky streaks. I was soon hampered not only by my lack of forest walking experience but also by the nagging pain in my ankle; resting had not healed it and each step brought with it the awful memory of the horse-head dream.
Eventually we followed a stream bank into a shallow ravine, until the path narrowed to a mere strip of chalky footholds barely covered by tufts of dry grass. The western face of the ravine towered above us to our left and Wulf stopped to point out a switchback route up the steep face of the hill. He climbed swiftly and I scrambled after him, clawing for footholds which frequently broke away under my weight. At last I pulled myself on to the grassy plateau at the top and stretched out on the ground beside Wulf, gulping air into my burning lungs. When I sat up, I realized how high we had climbed. On the northern horizon, rising above the tree line, I could see the tips of distant hills reaching towards a huge sky and as I watched, the high clouds pulled apart to admit glimmers of weak, pale, yellow sunlight.
