by Brian Bates
Wulf gently pushed my head back and then eased me over on to my stomach. I could feel him passing his hands lightly over my back.
‘Your shield-skin had dried to a crust, like the shell of a tortoise,’ he said. ‘It was rigid and unyielding. It is a wonder that the fibres of wyrd could tremble into your body at all. But the Wyrd Sisters have cracked your shield-skin and the first barrier to the spirit world has been broken.’
Periodically Wulf stopped, grunted and explored a particular area of my body, prodding firmly with what felt like the heel of his palm When he pushed into my back I felt a strangely pleasant tingling sensation deep inside my body.
Wulf rolled me over again on to my back and began to run his hands across my chest and stomach. I yelped with pain when he pressed into my left side and I tried to speak, but my mouth was dry and I only mumbled.
‘A strong thread enters your body here,’ he explained. ‘It is vital fibre, trapped until now by your rigid shield-skin. Now that it can move, you will have access to great powers.’
When he had finished he sat up, clucking like a disapproving parent. ‘With your fibres so rigid, the spirits would have ripped apart your threads like the flimsy web of a money spider.’
I gazed up at him, dazed, my mind empty of thoughts. He smiled again, perhaps in encouragement.
‘Now, lie still and let me seal your fibres.’
He pushed the door wide open and stepped out; it was only then that I realized that I was lying in his shelter deep in the forest. Cautiously I raised my self up on one elbow and looked through the open doorway. Across the river, above the trees, the sky was stained lilac by the setting sun; it was possible that I had slept through an entire night and a day. I squinted towards the fire-pit; a fire blazed, sending splinters of blinding firelight into my eyes and I had to look away quickly and blink back the tears. When I turned back I could see the black silhouette of Wulf crouching by the fire-pit, holding a long wooden stake which was stripped clean of twigs and leaves. I watched him with a kind of detached interest as he thrust one end of the stake into the fire, then pulled it out sizzling and steaming and knocked the burning end on the side of a cooking pot set on the stone hob at the back of the fire-pit. Flakes of burning bark showered from the stick and hissed into the bowl.
Wulf returned the smoking stick to the flames and repeated the procedure twice; then he stood up, hooked the stake through the handle of the pot, pulled the pot from the hob and carried it into the shelter. He set the pot on the ground and I leaned forward to see over the rim; the pot was about half-full with a frothy green and white paste.
He squatted on the other side of the pot, took the stake and again stirred the mixture, sniffing and testing its consistency by lifting the stirring stick from the bowl and watching the liquid run slowly back into the pot. My nostrils filled with a powerful aroma faintly reminiscent of sweet ale.
Wulf opened his fist to reveal a small cake of soap, dried and cracked with age. ‘Cup your hands,’ he said, demonstrating what he wanted me to do by interlacing the lingers of his own hands. With his knife he shredded small slivers of the soap into my upturned lingers; then putting the remainder of the soap bar carefully to one side, he picked up the cooking pot.
‘Hold your hands open and still,’ he instructed. He tipped the pot over my hands and the thick liquid crawled slowly from the base of the pot, oozed down the side and dripped on to my fingers, still warm. He counted the drops, then tipped the pot back to an upright position and set it down.
‘Now mix it together,’ he said, again demonstrating with his hands. I ground my palms together in a circular motion, using my interlaced fingers as a pivot, and could feel the soap softening as I mixed it with the oily residue of the paste.
After a brief interval, Wulf tipped another nine drops of the liquid into my cupped lingers. I continued kneading and this time the mixture immediately became soft and sticky. Wulf reached out and gently pulled my hands apart and I saw that my palms and fingers were covered with a greenish-grey frothy lather. Grasping my left wrist, Wulf guided my hands up to my forehead and then held my hair back with one hand while with the other he wiped my fingers over my forehead. He did the same with my other hand and kept rubbing until my forehead was covered with the substance. It dried very quickly, and formed a crust; as it dried, it seemed to shrink and it felt as if a thick band around my head was being steadily tightened.
‘It feels strange,’ I said after a while. My tongue felt thick and clumsy. ‘Why did you wipe this stuff all over me?’
I tried to stand up, but my head felt as light as a bubble, as if I were floating up to twice my normal height. I sat down heavily.
‘Why did you wipe this on me?’ I repeated indistinctly. I was alarmed by the fact that I seemed to be losing control of my tongue and my head was beginning to feel hot.
‘This will seal your shield-skin,’ he said reassuringly.
Wulf pulled the blanket from my body and gently pushed me down on to my back. Working rapidly, he poured the sticky substance all over me, then sliced more tiny segments of soap over me as if seasoning a dish of food. Finally he took several large plant leaves and rubbed the mixture over my body, mixing the soap and strange substance into a thick paste. With the leaves he smeared the mixture over my arms and legs, though I noticed that he took care not to touch the paste with his own hands. As he worked, he begin to sing softly:
I have bound over the wounds with the best of healing amulets,
That the wounds may neither burn nor burst,
Nor putrefy or grow worse,
May they go no further, nor spread,
May they not increase, nor the sores deepen,
For this man has had fibres re-set,
And the spirits will visit him
When he had finished he sat back on his heels.
‘Your fibres have been freed and your soul may now journey out of your body and into the spirit-world. But you are not yet ready to encounter the spirits in their own land: that is why I have protected you. The layer of paste is formed from powerful plants and it will prevent your soul from slipping out of your body and travelling unchecked. But the paste will not last long and cannot be renewed. Before it loses its strength we must increase your life-force. Tomorrow we shall begin to hunt for power.’
Wulf picked up the pot, carried it outside and returned it to the fire-pit. I sat up slowly, my head spinning as I looked down at my body. The substance had dried to a thin, dark crust all over my skin. I rubbed my fingers on the crust, but it was set hard and I had a sudden, absurd attack of panic; my thoughts floundered about and settled on the certainty that I would never be able to remove the crust from my skin. Glancing up to ensure that Wulf was not yet returning to the shelter, I spat several times into my palm and rubbed furiously on the right side of my stomach. The greenish crust dissolved slowly to reveal a pink patch of skin still covered with tiny red bumps. Satisfied, I looked around again to locate Wulf but he had disappeared. I resumed my examination of the patch of skin, totally absorbed—my mind empty, head still feeling light as a puff of wind. With my forefinger, I very carefully touched one of the red bumps and immediately a tremendous thrill—half pleasure, half pain—shot through my body and climbed up my back. For an instant I reeled with dizziness and then my sense of balance returned. I gazed in wonder at the patch of skin, glowing red against the surrounding darkness of the crusty paste. I was both impressed and frightened. I knew now that my fibres had been truly loosened and that in truth the bees had been the Wyrd Sisters.
The Spirits Steal My Soul
THE AROMA of cooking food drifted into the shelter on the evening breeze and I struggled outside to see Wulf squatting near the fire-pit, a small mound of washed vegetables laid out on dock leaves at his side. I shuffled to the fire-pit, sat heavily on the log and picked absently through the food: young dandelion leaves, tiny onions, spinach, two small parsnips and a few mushrooms. Wulf headed, tailed and cleaned a black and silver trou
t, then wrapped it in large leaves and set it to bake in the embers of the fire on a cradle of smooth river-stones.
I watched the flames licking around the stones, drying the curling leaf-wrapping to a crisp brown. My mind still felt blank. In the shelter, I tried to recall the details of the incident with the Wyrd Sisters but all I could remember was the terror. I leaned closer to the fire and stared like a simpleton into the smoke spiralling above the blaze. Wulf turned the leaf-wrapped fish with a long stick, then tossed on to the fire a handful of herbs to dispel drifting clouds of gnats venturing from the river under cover of approaching dusk.
‘Wulf, why did the Wyrd Sisters loosen my fibres?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have told you. Once we have increased your life-force, your soul will be able to travel along your trembling fibres of wyrd into the world of the spirits.’
Wulf jabbed his charred stick into the sizzling leaf-pack and the aroma of cooking fish filled my nostrils. It made me feel slightly sick. He pulled the fish from the fire, peeled off the heat-dried leaves with his knife and sliced up the white meat. Then he ladled vegetables on to a platter, speared chunks of fish with his stick and handed it to me. Normally my mouth ran wet at the sight of fresh-cooked fish, but now I was not hungry. My stomach felt uncomfortably full.
Wulf looked at me and smiled broadly. ‘No food? That is a very encouraging sign. It often happens that a person preparing to meet spirits loses interest in food.’
He took a mouthful of fish and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Mmmm, Brand, this is delicious,’ he chuckled, smacking his lips noisily. Then he got up and dipped a cup into the pot he had placed at the back of the hob and passed it to me.
‘Lemon balm tea,’ he said encouragingly.
I sipped cautiously at the steaming pale green liquid and found it refreshing but small cramps of fear ran through my stomach.
‘Wulf, I don’t want to encounter any more spirits. The Wyrd Sisters were terrifying I cannot go through that again; I want to return to the settlement.’
I was almost as surprised as Wulf to hear my statement. I had not deliberated about leaving the forest, but as soon as I had blurted out my fears I knew them to be true. I was ashamed to admit defeat so early, but I felt sure that another encounter with the Wyrd Sisters would surely kill me.
Wulf stopped eating slowly put down his food and turned towards me. He scrutinized me in silence for a moment.
‘Preparing to meet the spirits always induces fear, even terror,’ he said softly. ‘There is great uncertainty and danger, especially since you are alien to the spirit-world of this kingdom. But the spirits have beautiful aspects too. And if they reveal to you the ways of wyrd, you will have that truth with you always, even as you return to the follies of Middle-Earth. You seek the nature of our gods to serve another, but I tell you that the mysteries of wyrd will bring joys and triumphs beyond comprehension. Your efforts will be worthwhile.’
I looked at him through misty eyes and I felt tears trickling down my cheeks. Suddenly, surprisingly, Wulf reached out and wiped the tears away with the back of his hand.
‘Brand, you are a man of the spirits, though you do not know it yet. You are wolf-bold to embark on this quest and I know that it is not easy. Trust me. You will not be sorry.’
I felt very small and vulnerable and rather shocked that my emotions had spilled over so easily. Normally I was in control of such forces, for Eappa had told me they were an indulgence.
Wulf again pushed the plate of food towards me and this time I took it, though I did not start eating. Instead, I tried to clear my mind of fears by concentrating on the sun as it dipped below the tree-line. Huge, jagged, black clouds spread like enormous ink stains across a crimson sky. On the opposite bank the trees melted into the descending darkness like hunched, prowling giants.
Suddenly Wulf snapped his head round and scanned the trees behind us. Warning pangs of fear crawled up my back and automatically I put a hand to my chest to feel the comforting bulk of the crucifix. Wulf turned back to face the fire and calmly continued eating I looked at him questioningly, but he said nothing and did not even glance at me.
Nervously I picked at my food. The fish seemed to have no flavour and I chewed mechanically, jaws stiff with tension. Suddenly I shivered violently and dropped my food. My chest felt completely empty and, wheezing I sucked in a long rasping gasp of air. Wulf jumped up and slapped me on the back as if I were choking on food. Gradually I regained control of my breathing. When he was sure I was all right, he sat down and continued eating I sat erect, watching and measuring each breath, trying to rid myself of a strange sensation in my stomach.
Suddenly Wulf stopped eating again. ‘Do you hear that?’ he murmured, his head cocked on one side, eyebrows raised quizzically as if he were discussing the location of a spring cuckoo.
I had heard nothing but I nodded stiffly, guessing that he must have heard the buzzing sound again. The gloom of nightfall took a step closer to the fire. Desperately I cast around for a topic of conversation, anything to get Wulf talking again.
‘Wulf, what happens to life-force when someone dies? Does it disappear?’ My voice sounded small and distant.
Wulf nodded gently. ‘If released properly, it will exist in snake form until it is time for it to be used again. But sometimes, because of evil magic, the life-force is trapped in the head at death and for ever flies around frantically trying to escape. That is why we see spectres at night as disembodied heads or, sometimes, as flying flames.’
It was reassuring to hear his voice, but I was still suffering from the peculiar empty sensation in my chest and I felt almost hollow. I placed my hands palms down on the ground in front of me and breathed deeply, trying to regain some sense of stability. My lingers felt numb.
‘Brand, we must bury these with care and reverence.’
Wulf held out his hand and in the flickering firelight gleamed the skeleton of the fish we had eaten.
‘Now?’ I said, alarmed at the faintness of my voice. I coughed and spoke louder. ‘It’s too dark, surely? I can hardly see five paces from the fire.’
‘In the river,’ he insisted, standing up as if to accompany me. ‘This fish lost its shield-skin when it stopped breathing It lost its life-force because we have eaten and absorbed it. All it has remaining is its soul, retreated to the bones. We must return the skeleton, intact, to the water so that the soul may begin its journey to the Underworld, the Land of the Dead.’
I felt tired and weak and offered no further protest. Taking the bones in my cupped hands, I stepped carefully down to the river, feeling the way with my feet as my eyes peered blindly into the darkness. Wulf padded softly behind me.
I knelt at the water’s edge and the river seemed to go silent. I could sense the pull of water running past the bank, but it offered almost no sound.
‘You must thank the fish for feeding us,’ Wulf instructed.
‘Thank you for feeding us. My heart goes with you on your journey,’ I said, loudly enough for Wulf to hear but believing none of it. I slipped the skeleton into the water and in an instant it was gone.
Suddenly I felt dizzy and limp. I had an overwhelming urge to drop into the water and be borne away with the skeleton, flowing and sailing down the river, peaceful and serene, taking no further part in life—no more struggles, doubts, fears. I wanted to drift for ever. Then a small warning voice cried out from deep within me and I fought my way back tony senses like climbing up from a deep dive—difficult and slow at first, then fast and easy, finally bursting out into the light. Slowly I stood up, legs trembling with the effort and backed away from the water. I turned and looked up the gentle rise towards the shelter. The fire burned brightly, like a seething mass of accursed souls, spitting and sparking through the night. I started to walk towards it, Wulf still ghosting along at my side, but saying nothing. As we neared the fire, I had a sudden, strong desire to urinate, as if I had drunk an entire bucket of ale. I made a detour towards our cesspit, dug in the
ground behind bushes some thirty paces from the shelter. I saw Wulf return to the camp-fire.
As I weaved through the trees, light-headed and dizzy, I tripped over a solid object and sprawled headlong into the grass. My misfortune struck me as hilarious. Chuckling merrily, I struggled to my feet and began to examine the ground for the cause of my fall, expecting to find a jutting tree root or rabbit hole. I could find nothing however.
Wulf hurried through the trees and squatted at my side, putting an arm around me protectively.
‘Where did you trip?’ he whispered urgently.
Amused by his intense interest, I laughed and pointed to the spot where my foot had caught. He scrabbled around in the darkness, flattening the grass with his palms, but the search was fruitless. There were no objects which could have tripped me.
‘It’s all right, Wulf,’ I said, very loudly. ‘I will walk more carefully.’
I started to step towards the bushes in exaggerated slow motion, feeling forward with my toes to see whether I was about to trip, sniggering at my own antics.
‘Shut up, you fool!’ Wulf hissed.
I clamped my hand over my mouth, my shoulders still bobbing up and down with suppressed laughter.
‘The spirits are here,’ Wulf whispered hoarsely. ‘They have been trying to suck out your soul. And when you went to release the fish bones, they made off with it.’
He seized me and hustled me back towards the fire. I stumbled along by his side, shocked into alertness by his statements and struggling to comprehend what he was saying.
‘They took your soul from you,’ he insisted, helping me to sit down on the log. ‘For a few moments you were without a soul, an empty shell, but you tripped over the spirits as they tried to make off with it. There must be a guardian spirit watching over you, for that was a fortunate accident. If it had not happened, you might have died.’
I felt ice-cold now, all humour frozen out of me, the menace of spirits filling me with foreboding
