by Rebecca Tope
Cuthman looked round, and his eye landed on a row of elders, the other side of the ditch, forming part of the hedge around the meadow. Growing in amongst them were holly and thorn, and winding in and out were briar roses, dense with flowers. To my eyes, there was nothing there which could be of use to us, but Cuthman took out his knife and began to cut long stems of elder away from their parent trees.
‘Elder will not serve,’ I began. I recalled the failed basket that Hal and I had tried to weave for carrying fish. ‘It is too slippery.’
‘Hush!’ he commanded, fiercely. His manner angered me but I tried to help him, just the same. The smell of elder had always been of special power to me, and the slimy white flesh beneath the soft bark where Cuthman had cut it was very familiar. It was almost the worst possible material for weaving into any kind of strap. It slipped and slid away, and would not keep the shape we tried to force it into. ‘We might bind it with the briar vines,’ I suggested feebly. Rose thorns would only increase our difficulties.
‘Here be an idiot and his mama,’ came a loud voice, rich with scorn and malice. ‘Seemingly, they think elder can be worked into cart handles.’
Three of the haymakers had dropped their scythes and come to make mock of us. Their red faces and sweaty stink revolted me. The look in their eyes was of men with no spirit, animals intent on their own base appetites. I was reminded of the rams that had run with our sheep, tupping in a closed, intent way which seemed horrible to me when I witnessed it. I was not physically afraid of them, but felt they tainted us with their ugly ways.
‘Can the old baggage not walk for herself then?’ asked one.
‘Leave her behind, lad, why don’t you? She’ll do you no good.’
‘We need another pair of hands here,’ offered the third man. ‘Come and make an honest living.’
‘Nay, Flad, nay. We could never get the madman to work with us. He’d set to building houses with the hay, or maybe fashion himself a tunic from it.’
Howls of laughter followed this. Cuthman had not paused in his efforts to fashion a strap from the elder, but now he gave a sly sideways glance at our tormentors.
‘Whose hay is it you gather, friends?’ he asked. ‘Seems a good crop to me.’
It was true that the newmown grass was thick and healthy, and the uncut part grew tall and strong.
‘Never you mind the hay,’ growled the largest and nastiest of the men, something like unease gathering on his brow. Something had changed with Cuthman’s calm words. The laughter had gone from him, and he stood unsure of his next move.
His comrades had noticed nothing, however, and one of them strode forward and snatched the elder from my son’s hands. ‘Give up, young fool. Elder will not make rope, unless you can perform sorcery on it.’ I think I was the only one who saw what happened next. The whippy stem came to life, and snaked itself around his arm, winding five or six times and squeezing tight. With a scream, he held out his arm, trying to shake it off. Just as suddenly, it came loose again, and fell to the ground, before anyone could grasp what had taken place.
‘And for good measure - ,’ said Cuthman, through tight-gritted teeth, and nodded his head at the sky, as if giving a signal to a waiting angel. From the clear blue firmament, there came a miraculous hailstorm of greater force than any I had ever witnessed. It made the rain shower of the Jack of the Green festival seem like nothing more than a feeble sprinkling. Great hailstones mixed with drenching rain pounded the standing hay into a sodden mat, and soaked that which had already been cut. Warching at the edge of the meadow, we were completely untouched by the storm.
My son’s skill is growing , I thought, with a sense of powers unleashed which made us invulnerable. Fear and complacency filled me. We seemed to be safe from any malicious attack this time, but I trembled to think that my son might one day over-reach himself. And I thought again of the Hagalaz rune, standing for Hail and disruption. A powerful predictor, it seemed, extending down the days and across the miles.
The haymakers turned from their open-mouthed contemplation of the destruction of their crop, and ran desperately away from us, shouting ‘Sorcery! Sorcery!’
‘Not sorcery,’ Cuthman called after them. ‘This was the work of the great Lord God.’ But they did not hear him.
We have yet to make a new strap,’ I said, with a sigh.
‘No need,’ Cuthman asserted. He held up his finished rope, the elder stems magically holding together in a thick flexible band, defying the nature of the plant. As it had whipped around the man’s arm, it now wound around the cart handles, forming strong hooks which took much of the weight. ‘Come, Mother, time we moved on.’
We turned away from the ruined hayfield, but set a more easterly course, winding our way along the seashore for a while, following it across river mouths and grassy lowlands. A high line of hills marched with us, to the north, forested with great oaks and ash.
‘We have described a strange course, these past weeks,’ Cuthman commented. ‘And now I feel our journey is almost at its end. I like this land, with its wide grey sea and rich green fields.’
‘And the people?’ I reminded him. ‘It seems they are not so much to be admired.’
‘Then we must do the Lord’s work, and bring them into the true faith,’ he said.
That night, we rested in the lee of a Roman wall around the city of Chichester. Temples and dwelling huts mixed together, old and new, with a neat church dedicated to the Lord, and a market place evidently well used from the great midden standing close by. I disliked the smell and noise of creatures and people gathered in great numbers; a feeling I had sustained all my life. I dreamed of the moors and Edd, the two of us fleeing from the petty interferences of the townsfolk. I felt the restlessness again that I had known as a girl, beaten down with questioning and instruction, until I had to escape. How it was that I had been born with such a need was a mystery to me. I had been called ‘hermit’ as a young girl, from my habit of leaving the group and slipping away to somewhere isolated. When Edd and I went to live alone on the moors, they had said we would starve without the shared bounty of the village group.
Cuthman’s magical strap lay in bits next morning, the drying elder as useless as so many shreds of grass would be. With a shrug, he kicked them aside, and told me to wait for him. He strode through the east gate and went to barter for a length of leather. All he had to offer were a few pieces of parchment which the monks had given him, thinking he might wish to try to learn some writing skills from them. Cuthman had laughed at that, but taken the gift just the same.
My back had been wrenched again when I fell from the cart, and the pain was gnawing at me, souring my temper. I shifted position every little while, knowing from past occasions that it would ease in a few days. Even so, I was a poor companion, griping at Cuthman for every little annoyance. Perhaps that was the reason for his lengthy sojourn within the town walls. Whatever the cause, I was hungry and sore when he returned and ready to accuse him of neglect.
‘Forget me, will you?’ I cried, as he came into sight. ‘Leaving me here to starve. Always the same, it is, when we come to a place that takes your fancy. I am laid in a corner like an old stuffed doll until you think of me again. My back hurts me, so I was forced to stay here in the sun, when it was shade I needed. Tis a shame on you, my lad, for all you might aim to be one of God’s saints.’
His face grew dark, and his lips drew back in a sneer. ‘If we are to speak of forgetting, then tis you who forgets,’ he said. ‘Can you not recall the long months of travelling, with all the weight of you and the cart on my neck? Can you name any son, of your acquaintance or in the old histories, who has done the same?’
‘And can you name a mother who would endure so patient and quiet, the jolts and tumbles that I have?’
He drew a deep breath, and uncoiled the new leather from his pouch. His forbearance was even more maddening than his neglect of me and I could not keep silent. ‘And tell me, will you, when this endless wandering migh
t be done with. I am sick of it, sick of this whole folly. I want to be in my own home, with my people around me. Where is my Wynny now? And Hal. It was cruel to take Hal from me as you did.’
He sighed again but said no more. Instead of words, he pulled out a piece of salt bacon and thrust it at me. It was my favourite, and the sight went some way to subdue my ragings. A loaf of fresh bread followed, from some unseen source, and I fell to my dinner with relief. My own words echoed in my ears, shaming me with their injustice. Carefully, I looked up at my son, afraid of how angry he must be with me. He was busily tying the fresh strap to the cart handles, smoothing out any twists, and hefting it on his shoulders, in a test for length. The cart had become my bane, battered and greasy as it was. It could have been the cart, and not my son, which had fired my anger that morning. The mocking laughs of the Chidham haymakers rang in my ears yet, and my own clumsy crippled self offended me.
‘Come,’ said Cuthman, a little later. ‘We are almost there.’
I perked myself up at that, thinking someone in the town had spoken to him, suggesting a resting place for us. But I made no enquiry. My whining was over, and I felt sorry enough to keep my tongue quiet for a time.
He lifted me into my place, first sweeping away wisps of grass and mud and smoothing the skins I rested on. Although gentle, he twisted my back as he set me down and I cried out as a pain ran through me, down to the knee and up to the shoulder. It persisted, biting at the base of my back, hot and cruel. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Pain,’ I told him, both hands to the spot. ‘It has come back for a while.’
‘The tumble in the hayfield?’ I nodded, and remembered that Cuthman had been a good deal more interested in punishing the haymakers than in tending to me in the ditch. Though in fairness, I had scrambled up quite easily, not noticing any damage at the time.
‘Well, bear it just a short while. We are almost there.’
‘So you said. Let it come quickly, then.’
The hills to the north came closer to the sea, as we journeyed eastwards that day, pushing us onto the plain between the two. The forest had been cleared in a broad sweep at the foot of the hills, but beyond, there was dense tree cover to the very top. There were well-used roads, thronged with travellers giving us good day. We passed more settlements than we had so far seen, with sturdy huts, oxen working in the fields and one large potworks, which put me in mind of my daughter for the second time that day. Decaying Roman temples dotted the land, and shrines to gods old and new stood at every juncture. A burial mound, high and fresh, with nothing but new grass growing on it, marked the site of a struggle, close to a river mouth. Stories of invading people formed much of the history of our land, as every child knew, and I dreamed a little of how it might have been when the strangers came in their boats, to run up the beach and take stock of the land. It defeated me, wondering why there should be battles and death over such an event, when there was more than enough for all. What difference between these incomers, eager to settle and make new homes here, and myself and my son, travelling into the region, as strange and poor as could be? Would men rush out with knives and clubs and kill us?
‘It has a strangeness,’ I remarked, turning my head to left and right. ‘Can you feel it?’
‘I can,’ he affirmed. ‘Ungodliness is the reason.’ There were three men coming towards us, pitchforks over their shoulders and dogs at their heels. I held my breath, expecting another bout of mockery and revenge from Cuthman. But they merely ducked their heads at us, and continued without a word. Later, a solitary barefoot monk came into view, the setting sun full in his face. He was short, his neck thick and red. His eyes were narrowed against the sun, but there was a groove between his brows which suggested a cheerless soul.
‘Hail, mendicant,’ he said, letting his glance flit over me, although his words were directed at Cuthman. There was distaste clear on his lips, and he stepped away from us as we passed. ‘Expect little from this land, unless ye be ready to pay with labour or some bodily favour.’
‘I am grateful for your counsel,’ Cuthman murmured, sounding oddly absent. I could not see his face, but was confident that he had taken no exception to the monk’s words. He had been distracted all day, speaking little to me and walking in a regular rhythm for a greater distance without a pause than was usual.
The settlements were numerous all along the way that day. People worked the fields, turning the hay and carting it to the stacks close by the winter barns. We slept the next night in a stretch of woodland which had yet to be cleared to make way for the grazing cattle. A great oak provided us with protection, the young leaves providing a pleasing canopy overhead. All around were tiny new seedlings, sprouting from last year’s acorns, and it saddened me to think that scarcely more than two or three of them would grow to full size.
Cuthman woke me early next day, and I knew on the instant that something had changed. ‘It is today,’ he said, his voice tight with boyish excitement.
‘What?’ I was muzzy with sleep, and could not think what he meant.
‘We finish our journeyings today. I can feel it. My soul is full with it. Take your seat in the cart for the last time, Mother. Tonight you sleep in your new home. The home you and I will share for the rest of our days.’
We breakfasted on pigeon’s eggs and young sorrell leaves, which were a favourite with me. But it was thin fare compared to the meat and bread and fruit of the Chidham monastery, and my most pressing thought was that once we lived in a settled home again, we might keep fowl and sheep and grow corn and other crops, and enjoy real food once more. The prospect cheered me, and I would not allow myself to doubt my son’s sure words. When he went to relieve himself and gather further provisions for the day, I quickly drew a rune from my pouch, expecting to have my optimism confirmed.
I had drawn the stone for strength-used-wrongly. The shape was of an ox’s great head, but it was inverted, to show that there was a falseness or a powerlessness in the matter. Some being with greater power than myself would appear and perhaps do me harm. Hurriedly, I dropped the shard back with its fellows. I would not allow the message to spoil my excitement. It was to be a great day, and I could face hardships if I must, secure in knowing that my son was protected by the Lord God, who had chosen him for His work.
We left our woodland behind, moving a little northwards, though ever eastwards, as always. Before the sun was halfway to the zenith, we encountered a great river, flowing fast and deep between high banks, bordered by tall grasses. With no hesitation, Cuthman turned to the north, following the riverbank in search of a bridge. On a rise, at no great distance, we could see a fort and other buildings. As if the Holy Spirit gave some great power to his heels, we sped along the pathway until we reached the village and its fort. The river was as wide as ever, looping gently to the east. The land rose to the northerly hills, and a ribbon of homesteads covered the slopes. It was beautiful country in the summer sunshine, and I gazed hopefully around me, anticipating that Cuthman would point to an empty hut or a flat piece of land and say, ‘Home! This is our new home.’
But we kept moving, uphill now, past hamlets seemingly chosen for the beauty of the place. Clearings in the dappled woodland, huts tucked beneath great beech trees, and once a small wooden church, placed a stone’s throw from the river and Christian graves laid out in front of it. Shortly after this, we found our bridge, at a point where the river narrowed. Stoutly built, it looked to be of some antiquity. Perched on an upright, on the opposite bank, was a great black crow, appearing to fix its stare directly upon us.
‘Look!’ I said, in alarm.
‘Tis naught but a crow,’ Cuthman answered, easily. ‘There is no harm in it.’
As we approached, over the timbers of the bridge, the bird cawed once, loud and angry. ‘It is the guardian of the bridge,’ I said.
‘Then it would do better to sit on the other side. We are across now, and there is nothing a mere bird might do about it.’
A solitary c
row is a fearsome thing. I have always found it to be so. The dark of its feathers spread out until the day seemed to grow grey and cold. There was no sound but the echo of that single caw, and the wheel of my barrow on the planks of the bridge. The river water smelt rank to me, of underwater slime and drowned things. In my mouth the bitter sorrel leaves returned, drying my spittle and forcing me to work my tongue and lips for moisture.
As we passed it, the bird flapped its huge wings, three times, slow and deliberate, and cawed once again. I shuddered and cringed away as it suddenly took flight, coming right for us, but then rising and circling my head before flapping off up the river.
‘It means us harm,’ I cried. ‘It will keep us from our purpose. We will not reach the place you seek today, son. I am certain of it.’
‘Hush,’ came his shaking voice. ‘Tis only a stupid bird.’ But I knew he believed me, and had lost the certainty of the morning. Ahead was a reedy marsh, with narrow cattle paths threaded through it. We could not see our way more than a few paces together, and the barrow lurched and stuck again and again. We had crossed over from a favoured land, where the sun sparkled and the people lived peacefully, into a place of evil. But we both knew that we could not go back. This way lay our destiny, and still I trusted my son to find it.
PART FOUR
CHURCH
Chapter Twenty-One
We climbed away from the marsh, slowly, until we had crested the hill, and to the north could overlook a vast panorama of forest and river and settlements, which felt like the whole world laid out before us. ‘Like our Lord Jesus Christ in the wilderness,’ Cuthman breathed, and came to stand by me, where I could see his face. There was a glow on him, excitement and a grandeur which echoed his words. The shepherd boy was comparing himself with God’s Son, and not for the first time I trembled at his conceit. And yet, had it not been justified already, over and over? When he was in trouble, his God saved him. My son had a call on the elements, with the powers of a sorcerer, and afraid as I often was, I felt glad he had chosen to use it for a single plan, and not for his own wealth or power.
