by Rebecca Tope
At first light, I saw my cart again. It stood crookedly on a slope, seeming dirtier and smaller than I remembered. The wheel was caked with fresh mud, and there were white splashes of bird droppings all over the handles. A greenish mould had begun to creep across the sides, which made the wood look soft and rotten. When I looked inside, there was my little bag of runestones and my shawl, frozen into a rigid shape, not by frost but rain and neglect fixing it just as I had left it. It had gone grey and thin, and would be of little use in warming me now.
We set off, silent and numb from our experiences on the hill. Pictures came and went in my mind, but I had nothing I wanted to say. We had lost our momentum, and Cuthman seemed to have forgotten his purpose. We moved eastwards at first, and then slowly veered to the north. What did it matter? We might just as easily find whatever it was he sought in that direction as any other. We had to relearn how to travel, and it was to take us several days.
PART THREE
ACORN
Chapter Sixteen
We passed three nights in the vicinity of Durnovaria, discovering how important a place it had been in Roman times. Three ruined villas came at close intervals, and we actually slept in one of them, which still had a stout stone wall against which we could rest. On the floor was an intricate mosaic design, lightly covered with black soil, but easily revealed when I crawled across it, brushing it clean. It was a strange pattern, with loops and twists and a three-ply braid, all perfectly executed in tesserae. It pleased me very much, giving me a sense of rest. It had been the floor of a great room, I supposed, where men had gathered to talk and eat and share their ideas. They had lived well, with everything people could need for a life of luxury. The floor design suggested to me a sense of completeness. The patterns led nowhere, just endlessly back to the start. I traced them with my fingers, the red and yellow threads easy to follow. I fell into something close to a trance, seeing the perfect life as somehow represented by this luxurious ornamentation. No end or beginning, but merely a continuous weaving of beauty and symmetry.
There were people close by, but they did not seem interested in us. The town had a relaxed atmosphere, with prominent Christian churches, built of stout timber on many high points, and a large market square where people assembled. We could have started conversations, or begged for alms, but we were still too numb and uncertain. Cuthman gathered a few discarded turnips and cabbage leaves from a rubbish heap, and we did not go hungry. Outside the city, there was a lot of work going on. The ground was being tilled, and twice we saw teams of men building large new houses. One young boy threw a rock at us, calling ‘Strangers!’ as a term of abuse. I think we both felt we deserved the hostility. We had nothing to bring these people, but we were so lost in those three days that we could not manage to leave it behind.
At last we set off on a straighter course, moving north along a track between sharp hills. It was as if Cuthman had picked up a direction from outside himself, like a dog sniffing out the scent of his master. It was not an easy walk for the cart, and I could hear the boy panting after one steep stretch. ‘Let me walk a little,’ I said. ‘I can do it for a while.’
‘No!’ he grunted. ‘I must push the cart in any case. Better if you be in it.’
There was scant sense in that, of course, but it was his penance to push me, and I would spoil it if I walked. A new idea nudged at me. I was a prisoner in my cart, not because of my injured back, but because Cuthman needed me helpless for his own purposes. I had a vision of the future, endless years of roaming the land like this, always hungry, mostly cold and stiff, a figure of mockery. I had known a few days without the cart, and had relearned the use of my legs. I had spoken with Gunda and others and begun to think in ways I never had before. I had seen women who lived without men, and who had plenty to eat and their own ways of doing things. In spite of what had happened to them, I repeatedly recalled the serenity of Enthia, and the passion of the singing and dancing and storytelling in those night-time meetings. And because I knew how angry Cuthman would be if he became aware of my thoughts, I remained almost totally silent throughout those wandering days.
Without warning, we came to a settlement quite different from any other we had yet seen. A quick sparkling river ran through it, and close by was a large Abbey, with many buildings in its well-kept grounds. Monks strolled about, or dug a large garden. There was a wall around it, but wide gates stood open, with geese and sheep roaming free. The village people had sturdy houses strung along two short streets, and women collected water from the river, or sat with their children enjoying the mild day. It was the week of the equinox now, and the breath of spring was vivid in the air. We had passed clusters of blue flowers along the way, and buds were swelling on all the trees and shrubs. I sat up straighter in my barrow, and gazed around at the peaceful scene.
Two monks approached us. ‘What is this place?’ Cuthman asked.
‘The Abbey of St Augustine,’ came the reply. ‘A place chosen by God.’ They looked intently at me and my carriage. ‘It appears that you are in need of rest,’ one said directly to me.
‘And your barrow might welcome a scrubbing brush,’ smiled the other. The bird droppings were mostly gone, but the cart was badly stained from that and other things.
‘Such a remote place,’ Cuthman commented, looking around. He seemed unsatisfied, with some notion that there was need for more explanation. The monk’s reply to his first question had not been enough for him. He worked his shoulders, loosening them after the long hard journey we had made that day. There was a pent-up mood in him, which I had seen before when we escaped from the fortress.
‘Leave me, and go for a look,’ I suggested, forgetting for a moment what had happened to me the last time I had been alone with a monk. ‘You need some time alone.’
Rather to my surprise, he nodded. With a gesture to the monks, to indicate that he would entrust me to them for a short while, he began to walk away, heading north as if knowing precisely his goal. The monks watched him for a moment, and then one said, ‘He seems to know what’s there.’
Sensing a mystery, I demanded, ‘What will he find?’
‘The Giant,’ came the ready reply. ‘And the sacred spring.’
‘Will he be safe?’
They laughed gently at that. ‘Quite safe,’ they assured me. ‘We have long ago come to terms with our heathen friend. He takes care of all the parts which we prefer to ignore.’ They laughed again.
‘He will explain it to you, when he returns,’ said one. I had been careful not to inspect them too closely, as I remembered I should be wary of monks and their responses, after my experience at Exeter, and had not even tried to distinguish one from the other. But these seemed very different from that alarming man and I did not feel unsafe with them.
‘Or perhaps he will take you to see for yourself, since it is not a thing easily spoken of. But for now, my dear, come with us and permit us to make you comfortable.’
The larger one took up the cart and wheeled me into a courtyard. Women were summoned, and I was taken to be washed and dressed in fresh clothes, which came as a very great relief. I hugged the rich thick woollen stuff to me, and made a loud show of my gratitude. I had not known how cold I had been until I felt warm again.
Cuthman was pale and thoughtful when we were again reunited. ‘Did you find the Giant?’ I asked him.
He raised his brows. ‘What do you know of it?’
‘Nothing. Just that there is a Giant here. Did you speak to him?’
He gave a short laugh at that. ‘He would not hear me if I did. He is an old Giant, long gone deaf.’
‘Might I see him?’
Cuthman shrugged. ‘In the morning, we can pass that way. He is a curiosity, nothing more.’
‘You are wrong, my son,’ came a voice at the door. A different monk stood there. From the quality of his robe and the authority in his eye, I guessed he might be the Abbot himself. Cuthman turned quickly, defiance in his manner.
‘The G
iant is the spirit of this place,’ the man continued. ‘Could you not feel it? We have long had exchanges with him, foolishly fighting with him and his followers. But now we can live alongside him, in peace. The people here insist that we keep him clean and clear on his hill, and so long as we do, all is well with us.’
‘I cannot think that this is God’s will,’ Cuthman intoned, his disapproval quite plain.
‘We think otherwise,’ countered the Abbot. ‘The Giant takes nothing from the loving God whom we worship here.’
Cuthman shook his head, and then turned to me. ‘We leave at first light,’ he said. ‘This place is not for us.’
I said nothing, but was impatient to see this Giant, who sounded to me to be a demonstration of the thoughts I had entertained over recent weeks. How different religions should manage to exist together, without conflict; how the truly understanding aspects of the Christian God could allow other ways of worshipping, without punishment and struggle. In my wonderful new garments, I slept deeply, warm and full and grateful.
I did not wish to leave the Abbey next day, and had difficulty expressing my gratitude to the kind men and women living there. Once again at odds with Cuthman, I was reluctant to spend another long day with no-one but him for company. But I had no free choice, and my cart had been brushed and rubbed clean, and a new layer of linen rags put down for me, so that it was very much more comfortable than in recent times.
The Giant at first seemed to be nothing more than some primitive scratchings on a hillside. We paused on a grassy mound, at the foot of his hill, and gazed across at him. The day – and my defective eyesight - was misty, but as I stared, the air cleared a little, and I began to understand what I was seeing. There were other hills we had passed with figures drawn on them, most of them only faintly seen now - horses and faces, from ancient times - but this one was complete and as clear as if it was new-made. The full figure of the god, with an old wise face, and a great cudgel in his hand, seemed to walk the landscape with free swinging steps. He had his male member erect and proud, but he had big round nipples, too, as if to show he could be everything to the little beings which scuttled at the foot of his hill. Again and again my gaze returned to his face, which was open like no face I had ever seen. A face for absorbing all our petty worries and passions; a face to tell us there was nothing shocking, nothing to regret or feel ashamed for. A childlike face, eyes wide, mouth closed, and hairless like a new baby. But he had his club at the ready, to sweep away anyone foolish enough to challenge him. I felt I had been noticed by him, and given his approval. I felt awe and love and reassurance.
‘Come then,’ said Cuthman. ‘You have seen the Cerne Giant. Much good may he do you.’
‘Much good indeed,’ I replied, but quietly, so he did not need to hear me. And quieter yet, I whispered, ‘There stands a true God.’
Chapter Seventeen
We journeyed on, the cart every day more rickety and uncomfortable; demanding that we proceed carefully, travelling only short distances each day. We spent weeks in the great forest that covers much of the southern part of Wessex, watching spring turn so enchantedly to early summer. The new leaves of beech and oak begin so soft and new, like the folded fingers of a tiny child, until there comes a sunny morning when everything is green, pretending it has always been so. We praised heaven, each in our own way, for allowing us to recover from the long hungry winter. The great thing that happened at that time - really, the only thing I can now remember - was finding Hal.
One noon, in the shade of the forest, we were bumping along a rough track, pocked with hoofprints and baked hard after many dry days, when we heard far-off sounds of men’s voices.
Having little reason to fear them, we continued on our way, listening to the sounds coming closer. Finally they were in sight, a group of six or eight men, in a state of great excitement. They were laughing and pushing at each other, using profane language and stinking of ale. They held bloodied spears and clubs, and carried a dead hind slung on a pole. With them were two boys, one about Cuthman’s age, and one much younger. I was very taken with the small one, a thin child with great ears and wide nervous eyes. He was smiling fixedly, and whipping at plants with a stick as they passed, but I could easily see that it was a brave show from a tired frightened little lad. Even when he saw us, the smile did not change. But his eyes flickered to one of the men, and then to me and I thought he might be glad of a woman’s presence if only for a few moments.
The men were slow to notice us, but when they did, the guffaws grew louder. Cuthman steered the cart aside, to permit them to pass, and stood patiently out of their way, but even so they jostled us. One of them, with a great black beard and his chest bare, made the coarsest of remarks about me, which stabbed through me like an arrow. His fellows roared with laughter, the deliberate rudeness heightened by their care not to look directly at us. I stared hard at them, each face in turn, turning round to do so as they strode past us. Only the little boy looked back, his eyes meeting mine. Cuthman stood rigid, struggling with his need to remonstrate with them and his knowledge that they would likely kill him if he made any move.
I smiled at the child, despite myself. His light hair and thin body struck me as they would any mother. He had allowed his brave grin to subside, but still did not give me any kind of response. We knew each other as weak trapped creatures, which was enough. Awkwardly, turned backwards in the cart, I held my arms open to him in a sign he could not mistake. None of the men with him saw me, so busy were they swaggering through the forest, on whatever hunting or trapping expedition it might be.
Cuthman muttered in my ear, ‘Must have a licence to kill the king’s game.’ I nodded. This was no secret poaching trip. Ignorant as we were of the ways of this land, even we knew there was no mercy for anyone breaking the laws against theft of forest creatures.
Before I turned back to face what lay ahead, I looked again at the boy. With a small frown, he turned away from me and trotted a little to keep up with his elders. One of the men reached back a hand and grabbed him, pulling him to his side like a dog. I thought I would never see him again, although the little white face with the big ugly ears stayed in my mind throughout that day.
That night was the same as the dozen or so we had already spent in the forest. We could have been wandering round in circles, so similar were our resting places and so repetitive our routine for lying down to sleep. We built small fires to keep the creatures at bay, and Cuthman would kill a fat bird for our single meal of the day if we had no meat in our little store. The trees were dense enough to offer shelter without much need to build. Other people had sometimes been before us, and then we could use a covering already fashioned by an earlier traveller.
I slept, but was faintly aware of something creeping up against me. I dreamed I had Wynn a baby again, and was happy to shift myself to allow the little body to curl into my arms. When I woke, I found the pale child of the day before nestled close, thin but warm, a thumb firmly wedged into his mouth. It was like finding a crock of gold in my bed. Perhaps all mothers crave a return of that little body, after their children grow too old for such intimacies. At any rate, I held him tight against me, rubbing my chin into his greasy hair, and tingled with the pleasure of it.
He woke abruptly and pulled away from me, staring into my face, more surprised by far than I had been, to find himself there. Before either of us could speak, Cuthman was at my side, gazing down at us with a curl of disgust on his mouth. ‘What is that?’ he snapped.
‘The little lad with those louts,’ I explained. ‘You saw him.’
My son shook his head. ‘I did not,’ he denied. It seemed to me that he had to be lying, but that was not likely. Who can know what another sees? He jabbed at the boy with his toe, as if testing him for life. ‘How did he come to be here?’
‘Followed us,’ I asserted, with a quick look at the child. Any other account of his presence might raise objections from Cuthman too powerful to deny. It was, in any case, the most l
ikely answer to the question.
‘Did you?’ The fierce look was one I had rarely seen on Cuthman’s face. The little boy and I shrank closer together, united in our nervousness. I remembered a spitting cat hidden behind our woodpile with her kittens, defying all efforts to remove them. It seemed to me that I might be moved to fight for this little one, even against my own son, grown as he was, and no longer in need of my mothering.
‘He will cause no trouble,’ I said firmly. ‘Leave him be. No need to terrify him with your black looks.’ A long moment passed while something hung in the balance. ‘I will take care of him. He can carry your pack, and lighten the load on your shoulders. He might have hunting skills - ‘
‘Enough!’ With a flinging sweep of his arm, as if throwing something far away from himself, Cuthman spun round and walked to the fire. He stood staring into the dying ashes for a long time. Finally he raised his head and ordered, ‘You - can you bring water from the brook?’ He threw a skin to land close to us, and the child made a small movement towards it. I clutched at him, not wanting us to separate. But he struggled away, leaving the empty place where he had been to grow cold.
Cuthman waited until we were alone and then hissed at me, ‘What ever might you be thinking of, Mam? We have nothing for such as him. You know that. It’s all wrong.’
‘I did nothing,’ I protested. ‘I just woke and there he was. But - well, it would be a Christian kindness to keep him. He was with those swine. That wasn’t right.’
