Time Knot

by M. C. Morison

  “The witch’s brat wants to fight,” said Klas. “And there we were being friendly and passing the time of day. But then, snot-features, if you are asking for a fight, we won’t disappoint you, will we?”

  He moved down the lane towards Håkan, but kept an eye on the metal in Håkan’s hand. Another snowball smashed into his left shoulder, as the boys nearest the town closed in on him also. Håkan ignored it and, feeling almost outside of his own body, flexed his knees and measured where to place his feet when he sliced the metal runner at Klas’s neck. He would get in one good blow and he wanted to make it count.

  “You know –” a voice with a strong German accent sounded from the trees behind him – “I really … really do not like bullies.”

  A horse’s head appeared between Håkan and the boys on the town side. The steed snorted as it moved sideways towards the boys. Their horrified faces stared up at the rider, whose massive shoulders would have put a woodsman to shame. They turned and fled towards the town.

  “Now then,” said the man, “that makes it a bit more even. Do you want me to umpire? I might even dismount and then it would be two on two. That’s a man’s fight. Are you up to it?”

  This final question, the man directed at Klas.

  “Sir. I don’t know who you are. We were only having a joke. We know Håkan, you see. Just a joke. And not really the business of a stranger.”

  “I will decide what is my business and what is not,” said the man, drawing his sword and urging his horse on.

  Klas stepped backwards, slipped and just caught his balance.

  “Sir, please, sir,” he said, his voice rising a full octave.

  The man raised his sword and swept it through the branches above his head. Clumps of snow rained down on Klas and his friend. Klas screamed, lunged sideways and ended up entangled in a roadside bush, with snow all over him. His friend charged into the forest on the other side of the road, and a further horde of crows took flight, filling the air with their gritty cries.

  The man winked at Håkan and beckoned him to walk past Klas.

  “Just a joke, as you say,” said the man. “See, I’m laughing.” He sheathed his sword and did indeed grin at Håkan. “Now, begone with you for I will indeed thrash you if I come across you in similar circumstances again.”

  Klas struggled up, his dignity, like his clothing, all askew. He had lost his hat but ran off down the lane towards the town.

  “Give me a moment, young sir, and then we will make acquaintance of each other,” the man said, his Swedish coming out as though he’d sat on it first. He rode off into the forest, ducking between trees, and emerged a few minutes later leading two smaller packhorses, laden with panniers.

  “I was collecting berries,” the German said, as though that explained his sudden arrival on a small Swedish lane. “Maybe you can render me an assistance?”

  Håkan nodded, not at all sure what might come next.

  “I am looking for Signy Ottosdatter, married to Matts Ekland.”

  Håkan bit his lower lip. The big man’s florid face had widely spaced eyes, and under his leather hat, curly light brown hair peeked out above a forehead much creased by frowning. His mouth, with full lips, remained half-open as he fixed Håkan with his gaze. His breath hovered about him in the cold air.

  Something in Håkan settled. The man’s eyes, although watchful, had no guile. And he’d just saved Håkan from a beating or worse.

  “That’s my mother, sir. I’ll take you to her.”

  “That’s good,” said the man, “very good. My name is Bombast. At least that’s how your joking friends will learn of me. But to you and your esteemed mother, I am simply Paracelsus.” He threw his head back and laughed, the sound rolling through the trees.

  Paracelsus

  “I’d expected two of you, you know,” said Paracelsus to Håkan as they all sat down to dinner that evening.

  “My brother, you mean?”

  “No. No, I’ve met your brother, and your father, the estimable Matts Ekland. Indeed, it’s because of them I am here.”

  Everyone spoke at once. Signy held up her hands to her children. “Quiet, quiet.” She turned to her guest, who’d been given pride of place at the head of the table, and sat there beaming at them all. “You met Matts and Lennart? How are they? Are they well? Have they been wounded?”

  A look of horror swept across Håkan’s mother’s face. “They are not—”

  “No. They are both alive and they had all their limbs when I last counted. But –” his face became serious, his cheeks glowing red in the lamplight – “but Matts had been wounded. That’s why I met him.”

  “Wounded?” said Eira. “Father is—”

  “Your father is lucky to be alive and lucky – or blessed by the good Lord – that I was there. Without my medical skills I doubt he would have recovered. But recover he did. You see, battles are great for doctors. Gruesome but informative. I’ve learned much from the battlefields of Europe. It’s one reason I travel so much. That and annoying local so-called doctors so much, it’s wise for me to move on.”

  The big man chuckled and drank some beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “He took a thrust from a lance.”

  Signy’s hand shot to her mouth. Håkan felt cold steel move through his innards.

  “It was a clean wound and missed all vital organs. Your husband killed his assailant before the lance could be twisted—”

  “Oh!” said Eira, putting both hands up to her bonnet.

  At that point Ralf opened the door and Inge entered, carrying a large plate of steaming mashed potato with blood sausage. She set it down, looked at Paracelsus and went to stand in the gloom by the wall.

  “Thank you, Inge,” said Signy, with scarcely a tremor in her voice. “We’ll call you when we need you.”

  Inge flicked her chin up and left the room. The door closed with a notable thump.

  “Is he walking?” asked Signy.

  “Better than that,” said the German, “he’s able to ride. A trauma to the body like that requires good cleaning, excellent stitching and skilful rebalancing. I could do all those things. When I first saw your husband, Mistress Signy, he had a high fever. The risk was infection. I dealt with that. He is choleric and needed something to cool the humours.”

  Paracelsus spoke at length about what medicaments he’d used and why. He thumped the table gently with his fist to emphasise key points and confirmed the value of prayer in a doctor’s armoury.

  “Healing comes from God, through the hands of Paracelsus! Without God nothing. Without Paracelsus …” He threw back his head and laughed, before drinking a long draught of beer.

  “Please fill our guest’s beaker, Håkan.”

  As he did so, the German doctor held his wrist.

  “As I said, I expected two of you, and not your brother Lennart. You’re not hiding someone away?”

  Håkan shook his head, completely bemused at what Paracelsus meant.

  “Well. He’ll come, I’m sure. And when he does there are things I must show you.”

  Before Håkan could ask more about what he meant, the German doctor had launched into a discussion about the new medicine and the value of alchemy. He could see his mother was torn between listening to a man with astounding knowledge of healing and wanting to ask more about her husband and son.

  Paracelsus rubbed his hands and looked round at the others. He nodded slowly.

  “I’ve come to learn from you, good lady,” he said to Signy, “if you will feel able to teach an oaf like me.”

  “I don’t know what I could possibly teach you,” said Håkan’s mother, shaking her head slightly.

  “Your husband was sure you could and so am I. The berries that grow in these northern climes have remarkable properties. I can see that when I look at them. But how to prepare them? That is wisdom learned over years, if not over generations. And that you know, I believe.”

  “Yes,” said Signy, with a suggesti
on of a smile, “I believe I do. And will do so happily if you will tell me everything, and I mean everything, about Matts and Lennart.”

  “Gladly,” said Paracelsus, “once the good young master has replenished my beer once more. Beating off knuckle-heads has proved thirsty work.”

  Håkan held his breath, but the doctor didn’t explain and Signy didn’t ask. He poured more beer. Paracelsus took a long swig.

  “And I will share with you what I can of my exceptional knowledge, for fair is fair in this world of ours, is it not, Mistress Signy?”

  Most of next day, the German doctor and Signy worked in the outhouse next to the stables and the building where the sled and sleighs were housed. Gregor applied himself to the sled, adding the mended runner in the right position. Håkan took Paracelsus and his mother cheese, bread and beer at midday. They sat at a table in the room that had the pleasant musty fragrance of old herbs. Countless bunches of dried plants hung from the rafters. On the table Signy used a pestle and mortar to grind and crush certain seeds she was discussing with the big man. He made notes in German in a great notebook, with pictures scrawled in black ink in the margins. Later in the day Håkan watched from the platform outside the kitchen as Paracelsus removed packages from his panniers in the stables and replaced them with parcels wrapped by his mother. That night Signy took her meal with the doctor alone. Next morning, before the sun had risen, he’d gone.

  “He wanted me to give you this message,” said Signy to Håkan. “He’d seen our Judge Circle in a dream. It contains both hope and danger for you. He said the angels of the portals watch over it and over you.”

  Signy fell silent, her forehead creased in a frown.

  “Did he say anything else, Mother?”

  “He said much else. Much, much. We should be ready to leave at any time. He’s a man much given to visions and the subtle worlds are close to his sight. He has the eye just as my mother did and just…” she stopped.

  “What do you mean, leave?”

  “Just that. He didn’t explain. He’s a man much aided by either our good Lord or the devil. He’s not good in the way Brother Niels is good, that’s for sure. He’s too taken with the passion to know. And even he would not pretend he was humble.” She smiled. “But he’s more than generous with his knowledge and is off to town today to give healing for free to any of the poor who wish for it.”

  “He will go to the monastery then?”

  “No. No. He said he would rather be poked with Satan’s pitchforks, even after I told him about Brother Niels. He said I was the one he had come to see.” His mother cleared her throat. “He knows what your father and Lennart are about. He supports the same cause. He cares not a jot for Swedish independence from the Danish yoke, but believes the new teachings of Luther are the Word of God for our time. He carries a bible written in German. Imagine! He showed me, but I couldn’t read a word, their letters are so thick and chunky.”

  “Like his Swedish,” said Håkan. He and his mother laughed just as Eira ran in shouting.

  “Tell me, tell me,” she demanded.

  Shoshan

  The walls glowed with a light of their own. The smooth passageway was made of large separate stones, each of a slightly different size and angle. The high ceiling, coloured blue, glowed like a benevolent sky and the multitude of five-pointed stars added their golden aura. The walls displayed writing etched a deep black against the glow that emanated from the stone. Håkan walked in the centre of the corridor with a feeling of extraordinary calm. For the walls radiated more than light. They bathed him in love, and somewhere deep inside himself – he could not have said where – he recognised this place.

  The room at the end of the passage had paintings all around of men and women with extraordinary headgear, and some with animal heads. Near the centre of the room stood a girl of about his age dressed in a long pleated robe of delicate white material. At her neck she wore a pendant, a lustrous stone with a crease down the middle that reminded Håkan of a beetle’s back. This too glowed slightly. Her dark hair was bound at the temple with a plaited cord of soft red strands, which in turn held a feather in place.

  The girl, taller than Håkan, beckoned him to approach. He took in a breath to speak but she held two fingers to her lips and then pointed them at him. She moved a forefinger to each ear and stared at him with a smile in her eyes.

  Silence gathered all around, like a deep ocean of possibility. Håkan could hear nothing, nothing at all, but in that nothing lived all sound, and every sound had beauty. He felt a pressure in his chest, as though something wished to gain admittance. His heart started to thump. Still the girl smiled, a smile of kindness. She reached out with her hand, palm upwards. Håkan extended his own arm and, guided by the deep silence, held his hand palm downwards and touched her fingertips.

  The sensation was akin to jumping into the great lake to the north of their town, the lake that extended like a small inland sea towards the north of Sweden. The silence engulfing him swirled and bubbled with texture and meaning, if he could only hear it. And then he did.

  ‘My name is Shoshan.’

  Håkan sucked in a deep breath,

  “Oh, I can—”

  Shoshan frowned and put both hands to her ears as though he had shouted at the top of his voice. She shook her head, smiled and extended her hand once more. When their hands touched, and Håkan could sense the deep connection, he sensed the words, ‘We talk within, dear friend, only within.’ Håkan nodded and tried to say inwardly, ‘My name is Håkan.’

  The young priestess smiled.

  ‘Yes. Yes. A “high born son”. That is certain.’

  Håkan wasn’t sure what she meant but she had moved deeper into the chamber where a large stone chair stood facing one of the walls.

  ‘Sit. Sit here.’ She stood to one side of the chair.

  Håkan eased his way onto the cool stone surface of the seat. Only then did he see that he too had on a long skirt of some fine cotton, with a simple shirt of similar material. Confusion swept through him and he tried to get up. Shoshan touched his arm, and then rested her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You are here in your Ka. Your Ka wisely takes the clothing appropriate to this sacred and timeless hall. No need for fear. You are gifted to travel this way and you have travelled so many times. It’s just you have forgotten. This journey you will remember.’

  Håkan looked up at the girl and thought for a dreadful moment he, or his Ka – whatever that was – might burst into tears.

  ‘It’s good for us to be together. We are never really separate, any of us. But we all forget. Katesch tells me that we are each like a jewel on a necklace spread through time, divided and united at one and the same moment. Our work is one but the place of the work each of us must do is wherever we find ourselves.’

  ‘Who is Kat Esh?’ asked Håkan, inwardly forming his thoughts as clearly as he could.

  ‘Katesh?’ said the tall girl. ‘She is the leader of our priestesses. She is our teacher. But High Born Son, we have work to do. Soon you will have to return and there is something I must show you.’

  She indicated he should close his eyes. Håkan did so and found, bizarrely, he could still see the wall in front of him. He now realised it had the picture of a man with the head of a dog or wolf. In one hand he held a staff and in the other a cross with a loop at the top. Then in less time than it takes for a thought to cross the mind, Håkan was walking behind a large dog, or perhaps a small wolf, through snow-laden trees.

  The path had fresh snow which reflected the moonlight and was crossed with soft shadows in deep blue from the birch trees that bounded it. Håkan could feel the fresh coolness of the snow under his bare feet. The wolf led him on until the point where the path descended towards an opening in the forest. Here it sat and turned its moonlit eyes towards him. Håkan felt an intelligence behind those eyes that went far beyond any of his father’s dogs. He knew the wolf wished him to proceed carefully down towards the clearing. He took a few pa
ces on his own and turned back to see if the wolf would follow. It had gone. The snow under the trees and on the pathway had no tracks. None at all. Neither his feet nor the wolf’s had left any mark. But looking back in this way he recognised where he was.

  ‘Just watch. Just see. Don’t do anything more.’ Shoshan’s voice sounded clearly inside him as though she stood at his elbow. He walked carefully down the slope towards where the trees thinned out and he could observe the whole of the Judge Circle. He discovered others were by the circle as well.

  Three men sat on horseback; one Håkan could easily recognise as he knew the horse. Kaleb Pettersson wore his high plumed hat and had gathered a dark-red cloak about his shoulders. The other two riders faced away from Håkan towards the circle. The smaller of these held a chicken upside down, by its bound feet. Footprints extended all over the inner part of the circle. Someone had used thick cord to tether a goat at the far side of the stones. It started bleating and struggled to get free. The horses startled and the boy with the chicken pulled hard on his reins to bring his steed under control.

  Klas, thought Håkan, and his father Valde the apothecary. What on earth are they doing on our land at dead of night?

  Torches, held by the two older men, burned with a flickering light that proved hardly necessary given the moon and the clear sky. Pettersson held his torch up high and looked towards where Håkan stood in the shadow of several trees. Håkan pressed himself against the chilly bark of a tall birch tree. The three men stared in his direction.

  “It’s nothing. Just an owl,” said Pettersson. “Let’s get on with it. We know tonight is perfect for the sealing. You have your knife, boy?” This last question was directed at Klas.

  He grunted. The blade flashed in the moonlight. Klas Löfgren eased his horse into the circle. The chicken struggled. When he had the horse near the centre he raised the knife and the chicken.

  “Make the blow clean and then—”