by Rebecca Tope
A savoury smell came to my nose, and I spied a large griddle with meat cooking on it, a corpulent woman tossing on more pieces, and turning them about with a sharp stick. Dogs were collecting in front of her, ears pricked in anticipation and tails slowly wagging. She waved the stick at them and shouted, but they retreated scarcely at all.
Rapidly, then, people filled the field, four or five score of them, their children and ancients too. Most were clothed in something green, and the womenfolk had flowers in their hair. At some signal that I missed, a drummer began a slow beat, and pipers began to play. ‘Noontide has come!’ I heard someone shout. In sudden unison, the people all began to clap their hands in rhythm with the drum, and a procession formed, four abreast. I was gathered into it, before I knew what was afoot, and the whole crowd marched around the field, clapping and whistling.
The marching changed course, until we all stood in a tight circle around the Pole and the little bonfires, waiting. A silence fell, and I felt my heart racing from the exertions of the march and the tension of the moment. On either side of me, strange women had their arms linked through mine, holding me firm. For the first time in an hour or more, I remembered my son. My heart jumped then, swelling to obstruct my breathing. Almost I could guess what was planned for him, in the foreboding of that waiting. I had concluded that the ‘capture’ witnessed by Hal was in reality part of the plan that these people had arranged for him. The story of the raiding party for the theft of the Pole had not been the whole truth. Cuthman had walked into a trap, and had now been given a new and central role in this ritual.
Events followed in a rush. The crowd began to chant and sway. A group of players leapt over our heads into the ring around the Pole, and enacted a strange drama I failed to comprehend. They fought and shrieked, pointed up at the sun and down at the underworld. Baskets of flowers which had been set down beside the Pole were swung around, and their contents strewn over the ground. Dandelions and daisies, may blossom and bright golden buttercups lay gaudy on the new grass.
Then from the wooded eastern edge of the field, there came a new drumming, and the crowd began to clap again. Nobody turned to look, but kept their eyes firmly on the May Pole. At last a gap melted in the circle, large enough to allow a strange woven thing to come through, the largest basket ever seen, or a rat trap made from a thousand withies or osiers, with leaves and flowers wound all about it, ivy stems and bryony. It was as round as the full moon, rolling along the ground like a huge puffball. For a time, I could make nothing of it, seeing it obscurely through the moving people all around me. It was heavy, pushed along by four men, rolling crookedly. They steered it to the foot of the Pole, and stood back, arms raised.
‘The Jack!’ came a cry from the crowd. ‘The Jack in the Green!’
And I knew in that moment where my Cuthman had gone to, and what they had done with him. Urgently I scanned the faces close by me, hoping for some cheery comfort. Never you worry, Mother, I wanted someone to say. It be no more than an afternoon’s play. But there seemed little sign of good cheer. The voices were raised in a roar that rang in my ears like blood lust. They welcomed their captive Jack, true enough, but with a dark reason behind their acclaim. I stared at the wicker ball, and the tall Pole beside it. I saw that one man had a rope around his body, and that he was looking upwards, as if preparing for some special feat.
Deftly the men threaded the stout rope in and out of Cuthman’s cage, and then tossed one end over the projecting boughs at the head of the Pole. The construction was stout, both of Pole and cage. It held with no more than some creaks and sighs as my son was hoisted to a height of three grown men one above the other. The rope was hooked around a post, driven deep into the ground, and the grotesquely strange sight of a flower-decked scaffold was before my eyes.
The close weaving of the wicker prevented me from seeing Cuthman, and no sound came from him. The container was small enough to be uncomfortable, and I imagined him curled up, knees to chest, perhaps afraid that the thing would break and drop him to the ground. I had never heard of such behaviour as this before, and could only make wild guesses as to what might happen next. The Beltane night had been a wild thing in my girlhood, though less so than in my mother’s time. The church had given us Easter and Whitsuntide for the spring celebrations, and could see no place for the Maying. This Jack business was new to me, but the presence of the witch woman assured me that there was nothing Christian in it, and probably nothing too benign either. The clapping reached its climax and then ceased, as if a phase of the ceremony was already over, and something lighter might now follow.
I found myself admitting a sneaking humour in the sight before me. A man resembling a giant fruit, representing perhaps the hopes for the summer to come, was strange and almost comic. People were laughing around me, raising their arms to the sky, and repeating ‘The Jack is come!’ and similar assertions. I listened for clues, but could still not guess what might come next. As the tight circle loosened, the women on either side of me moved away, leaving me alone. My back had grown sore with standing, and so I lowered myself to the ground, and sat there, only slightly more comfortably, feeling alien and ignorant in this place. It was my duty to remain close by my son, but there was nothing else I could do or think of doing.
The man-made tree was impressive in its colour and majesty. Small children were coming forward from the encircling crowd and joining hands to dance around the Pole. I noted that they were all girls, and that few boys under the age of maturity were to be seen. Hal and his new friends had not reappeared, and I supposed that this festival of rising sap and new life was not of much interest to them. Worry for Cuthman’s wellbeing forced any mild concern for Hal far into the corners of my mind.
Individuals were detaching themselves from the crowd and performing acrobatics between the bonfires. There was a growing merriment, fuelled by women passing amongst us with trays of cooked meat and new baked bread. The afternoon waned, small clouds across the bright blue sky gathered and took on a pink hue with the lowering of the sun. There was an odd mix of expectation and complacency. Everyone seemed to know what he or she should do, but I could discern no real pattern to it all.
Some signal must have been made, which I did not see, and the crowd began to cluster again. I was shuffled forward to the front of the circle, and then sat there, my legs curled beneath me. I felt feet nudging at my backside, and jostling children fell against me now and then, but I remained as I was, passively apprehensive. The witch from the woods appeared, her hair elaborately decorated with garlands of white and yellow flowers, a cape covered with young green leaves, beech and oak and sycamore, over her shoulders. She stood directly beneath Cuthman’s cage, and began to speak. Her voice carried easily in the silence of the listening crowd.
‘People, we are here to greet the new season, with a gift to the Goddess of the woodlands and the fields. We give her the stranger, the boy with the madness of penitence upon him. The young Christian who has wheeled his sick parent through forest and over mountains to reach us here, as my own Sight foretold.’ Some people glanced at me, to show that they took her meaning, but there was nothing of interest or compassion in their eyes. I had sunk in significance as the day had progressed, and felt afraid that when this was all over, I would be left like a broken toy alone in this great field.
The witch continued her oration. ‘We honour our great Mother this night, for her faithfulness to us, her servants. She has restored the sunlight to us, the life of our beasts and the essence which we shall use to multiply ourselves - ‘ Here she broke off and swept her gaze over the crowd, a wide grin on her face. She raised her fist, her arm kinked in the sign that men make to show lust, drawing a great laugh from the people. She danced a little, skipping nimbly in a figured pattern around and between the unlit firestacks, holding her skirts aloft, showing bare brown legs. The people whistled, and a young man jumped into the circle to join her, catching her from behind and cupping both hands over her breasts. She flung back her
head, to touch cheeks with him, still dancing. He thrust his loins at her, the drums suddenly joining in again, with the same rhythm. Old and stiff as I was, a throb began in my own groin and a tingle in my nipples, as their playacting intensified.
But the witch broke away, an arm extended to prevent the man from following. Then she pointed at the top of the Pole. ‘But first!’ she cried, her voice swelling with power, ‘first, we must pay our dues.’ Her arm swept to the far western edge of the field. ‘The sun goes down within the hour. Be sure that all is ready! ‘
Shouts came from all quarters, to assure her that readiness was certain. A hopelessness descended upon me. It was a long day of madness, amongst strangers who did everything differently from anything I had ever known. I was friendless, ignored, even shunned, and Cuthman’s fate was far beyond my power to control. How stiff and sick he too must be by this time, suspended there, both in full view and invisible. The torture was a cunning one, and the fear which I had been denying as needless all day gripped me then, breaking down my defences.
With a struggle, my skirts hampering me and my back stabbing so I fell forward onto my hands for a moment, I got to my feet and took a few steps forward. I tried to call out, through the noise and jostling, so that my son would hear me. But my voice came thin and feeble, like a crone of twice my age. No-one bothered with me, so I staggered forward, until I was in the circle, where only a few danced and chanted. ‘Son!’ I called again, pitching my voice to carry, the breath taken deep, my throat extended. ‘Can you hear me, my son?’
The people close by me fell quiet then, from surprise. I called again, more confident, and angry that I had left it so late. And this time there was a reply, muffled, but discernible.
‘Mother,’ came Cuthman’s voice. ‘They will burn me at sunset. It is the way here. I am to be their sacrifice to the Goddess. These heathen dogs intend murder, Mother.’ The words rose as his anger became more intense. Again I remembered the women of Maiden Castle, and my son’s outrage at their temerity. He had been victorious then. I had hopes for him, even now.
‘Nay, son,’ I called, unable to put much reassurance into my tone at such volume.
‘We must trust to the Lord,’ he shouted back, sounding foolish even to my ears. ‘Stay by me, Mother. You may be needed. Please pray for me, now.’
A mocking laugh rang out at that from those who heard his words, though nobody bothered to reply to him or pass comment on what he had told me. Was it true that they would burn him? I stood there, trying to straighten my back, and stared at the faces around me. They were fair-skinned Saxon folk, in the main, broad in the shoulder and short in the neck. Couples linked arms, or held hands, excited and impatient after the lewd witch dance. Children somersaulted and chased, squealing and happy. The mingled sense of normal life and tense anticipation bewildered me. It seemed impossible that murder should be done, in cold blood, as a sacrifice to a Goddess, however powerful she might be. The field was wide open, full of commonly decent men and women, only a few of whom were drunk on ale or mead. There was no secrecy or mystery in their festival. No, I assured myself, there might be pranks and mischief, but most certainly no murder.
But with the setting of the sun, the mood changed. The cooked meats were passed round again, this time with brimming jugs of ale, and strange cakes which when I tasted one reminded me of the herbs my mother used for headaches. My isolation was deliberately compounded when three women took hold of me, and propelled me to a point well away from the Pole and Cuthman. Then, at a yodelling cry from the witch, four men with firebrands ran to the circle and set light to all the little bonfires, sending up smoke and flames. Rapidly, a line of girls formed, and one by one they ran and leaped over each fire, screaming as they did so, their clothes now and then catching in the flames, so the sense of danger was real. Lads clapped encouragement, and as each maid finished her ordeal, a boy would run to her, seize her hand and set off at a dash into the woodland beyond. This, I realised, was closer to the Beltane Eve that I remembered. But even when the youngfolk had all gone a good-sized crowd remained.
‘Now to the Jack!’ cried the witch, still in control of events. Strong men untied the retaining rope, and lowered Cuthman in his cage into waiting arms. Then they set it a little way from the Pole, and, using pitchforks, tossed burning bundles from the bonfires up against it, a team of them bringing great quantities of fresh fuel for the flames, which they piled skilfully for the best conflagration.
I screamed then, more afraid than I had ever been in my life. The osiers began to catch, and smoke to rise. I imagined my boy cooking inside his cage, or stifling to death on the smoke. I dashed forward, faster than I thought possible, kicking and scratching at the people all around, but they almost casually restrained me, holding me back, a gleam of bloodlust in their eyes, teeth set with the solemnity of their ritual. This was something important to them, which they felt compelled to do, and the fact that Cuthman and I were unknown strangers made it possible for them to carry out their intentions. Indeed, even I could see that there had been an inevitability to it all along, from the moment Cuthman arrived, pushing me in my cart. That had made it easy for the people. Their witch had told them we would arrive on the appointed day, and when we did, the rest was ordained.
But this was not Cuthman’s plan. He had not walked for months, almost starving, forcing himself onward, enduring ordeals and humiliations for this. Holding myself in check, hating and fearing the murderers who had rejected all the gentle teachings of Christ, I turned my thoughts to the Good Lord above, who I knew was the whole object of my son’s attention in those fiery moments.
The end came with considerable drama. A high boy’s voice called, ‘Quickly! There! Oh, hurry, or he’ll burn.’
‘Hal!’ My voice was a croak of hope and disbelief.
Like a small warrior coming to the rescue of his King, the child ran forward. Behind him followed a large group of monks, robes flapping and horror on their faces. The witch flew out to meet them, barring their progress with outstretched arms. She was a daunting sight, her eyes flashing and the frenzy of the ritual upon her.
‘We forbid this,’ cried the foremost monk. ‘You know full well that killing shall not be tolerated. If this continues, you will all be arraigned for murder.’
‘All of us?’ she scoffed, flinging her arms to indicate the crowd. ‘I think not.’
‘We know the ringleaders,’ the monk persisted. ‘Now, release that man.’ All heads turned to Cuthman then, where his basket was surrounded by fire, licking upwards, and no doubt growing unbearable inside. No sound came from him. Some of the monks began to trot towards it, somewhat tentatively, clearly wondering how to effect the rescue without damage to themselves.
‘It is the will of the whole settlement that this sacrifice be properly conducted,’ announced the witch, her voice calm and cold. ‘There is no place for your God and his soft ways here. We are beyond your laws, and will always be.’
‘Woman, you are in serious error,’ the monk maintained. ‘The law of this land forbids such heathen practice, and well you know it. Numbers cannot save you. This is murder, a crime against God and man alike.’
‘Enough debating,’ I cried, then. ‘Save my son. Oh, heaven and earth, Oh, sweet Jesus, save him.’
And heaven and earth between them heard my words. While I waited in vain for Hal or the monks to brave the flames, or for the witch to be persuaded of her crime, a greater force took charge. From the clear sky, where the rising moon hovered and a few early stars shone forth, there came a drenching rain, a waterfall, a cascade, which quenched the flames in moments. The hissing protests from fire and heathen alike were almost comical to hear. The effortless rescue, performed by Cuthman’s ever-watchful God, was too astonishing for utterance. People stared into each other’s faces, mouths open, arms limp by their sides, their hair soaked and clothes dripping. The May flowers drooped and the proud Pole was just a tree, doomed to die and become fuel for fires itself.
The wicker cage began to roll and shake as Cuthman tore at it. Hal ran forward to help, crowing his triumph. Smudged from the smoke, but otherwise unburned, my son crawled forth, as a chick frees itself from the egg.
Gathering her cape around her, head held high, the witch spoke. ‘The Goddess has chosen to release the sacrifice,’ she claimed. ‘The rain comes from her, and nowhere else. See, the shower is ended again. Go free, stranger, and think deeply on how you spend your life. It may be that you are Christ’s creature - who can say? But I counsel you to take care how you think and speak of the Goddess.’
‘Silence, woman,’ the monk ordered. ‘We have seen a miracle here this night. A miracle from the Great Good Lord, when this woman cried to Him for help. Never doubt the truth of that. You, too, have been saved. If this lad had been killed by you, the next death would have been yours - hanged from a scaffold in the market square. The King and his bishops have laws against the likes of you. Be sure that we will watch you more closely from now on.’
‘Come, Mother. Come, Hal.’ Cuthman spoke for the first time, quiet and composed. ‘We will find a place to sleep, and in the morning we shall leave this place.’ He looked towards the monks. ‘My thanks, kind sirs, for your intentions. May you prevail in the struggle that is yet to come in this place.’
We turned away then, the ground wet beneath our feet. Even Hal was silent, as we walked, thinking no doubt of the long strange day we had just endured.
Chapter Nineteen
Cuthman fetched my cart from the witch’s clearing next morning, fearless and confident. It seemed to me that he quite hoped for some confrontation, so that he could dominate the heathen people and reinforce the power of his God. Alone together, Hal and I quietly talked.
‘Where did you go for the afternoon?’ I asked him.
‘Oh, here and there. Some boys showed me the fort, and the wharves. We played ducks and drakes on the water, and then I got into conversation with the monks.’
