The Memory of Snow

by Kirsty Ferry

  The Memory of Snow

  by

  Kirsty Ferry

  Rosethorn Press

  The Memory of Snow

  Copyright © Kirsty Ferry 2012

  All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the copyright owner.

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  All characters depicted within this publication other than the obvious historical figures are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  October 1876

  The moon shone over the frosty landscape, gilding everything with unearthly silver. The two men picked their way across the fields, stumbling now and then over ridges in the ground and lumps of stone embedded in the crunchy grass.

  ‘How much further?’ hissed the younger man.

  ‘Not far,’ replied his companion, a stocky figure silhouetted by the candle-light which spilled out from his miner’s lamp. ‘It’s down here. I saw them working on it.’

  ‘What if they’re still about, guarding it or something?’

  The older man snorted with laughter.

  ‘Guarding the place? Howay, Tommy. Who’s going to nick any of that stuff anyway?’

  ‘But we’re nicking...’

  ‘No! We are not nicking stuff. We are liberating stuff. John Clayton’s got enough at his place along the road. Truth be told, they say he’s been giving it away anyway. You could come and stand around watching like the Lords and Ladies, and be a little begging dog if you want. But this is the man’s way of doing it, the lead miner’s way.’

  ‘Clayton is eighty four, man! Can we not let him have his little bit of glory, Ralph?’

  ‘Glory? He’s had enough of that as well. He’s done alright for a town clerk, that man. But it’s us, see, who need to find out what’s going on up here. I’ve heard there’s some sort of treasure trove. And them archaeologists blokes, they’re not working at the weekend, right? So we can take our time. The other lads are comin’ later on. I reckon about thirty of them’ll come down. We want to get there first. It’s kind of like our right anyway– if it wasn’t for our lads discovering it, the top blokes would be none the wiser.’

  ‘I don’t know, Ralph. It’s a bit weird down here. I’ve heard tales. A lad in Hexham said it was haunted.’

  ‘Rubbish. It’s a story they’ve put about to discourage honest folk like us. They want to hang onto it all for themselves. Ah. Here it is. Look. They’ve got it all penned off.’

  Tommy shuddered and looked around him.

  ‘It’s spooky, man.’

  ‘It’s nigh on midnight in the countryside, Tommy. Nae lights. That’s all it is, lad. Come on.’ Ralph ducked under the ropes and unfolded his sack. Setting his lamp down on the grass, he peered into the marshy pool before him. Lined with blocks of stone, the water glowed like mercury in the half-light of the moon. A tray lay next to the pool, covered in canvas. Ralph lifted the cover and smacked his lips. ‘You little beauties,’ he said.

  The tray was full of small, round, dirty objects; Roman coins, he was willing to bet. He grabbed a handful of relics from the tray and shoved them into his sack. His contacts had promised this – they said they would sell for quite a few pounds, if he saw the right man in Newcastle.

  ‘I don’t know, Ralph. It’s just...wrong. We shouldn’t be here. Those things were put there for a reason,’ whispered Tommy. The place had a queer feel to it, he thought. Not quite right. It felt like they were nicking the lead from the church roof or something.

  ‘These things were put there years ago, mate. Who’s going to miss them now? Easy come, easy go,’ replied Ralph, scooping another handful out of the tray. ‘Do you think they counted these? You reckon they know how many there were?’ he asked. ‘Not to worry. There’ll be plenty more in that Well. Load of old rubbish anyway; bleedin’ gods and goddesses and water nymphs.’ He laughed. ‘More like a dumping ground. Look at it all. We’ll get a canny price for these, mate, see if we don’t.’

  ‘There’s some altars or something, Ralph. Standing up in the field over there. It must be canny deep for them to have put those things in it.’ Tommy stood up and shivered, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. ‘Come on, I think we’ve got enough now,’ he said, folding over the top of his sack.

  ‘There’s tons of stuff!’ muttered Ralph, not listening. ‘I think there’s a box of jewellery over here as well. Oh yes. Come here, my lovelies…’ He rummaged through the tray, the pins and brooches cold even against his October fingertips.

  ‘Ah no, you can’t take them!’ cried Tommy. They’re bound to have written that lot down.’

  ‘Ye could be right, my lad,’ said Ralph. ‘Best to maybe take things they haven’t picked out of the water yet. Come on, let’s have a dip into it.’ He leaned over the Well and stared into it. The water had an oily, muddied cast from this angle. Ralph pulled a face. ‘It’s ganna be chilly, lad, but it’s worth it.’ He plunged his hand in up to the elbow and gasped with the cold. The water was so icy it almost burned him. Ralph swore loudly, but churned up the water, groping around for something, anything before he lost all sensation in his arm. His fingers finally closed around something hard and rounded. ‘Gotcha, my beauty,’ he said, and he pulled the object out of the Well. He shone his lamp over it carefully and scraped the mud off it. Then he screamed.

  Clutched in Ralph’s hand was a smooth piece of bone; the top of a skull. Globs of mud dropped from it, plopping back into the Well, breaking away from the curved edges which seemed to be the top of the eye sockets

  Ralph dropped the thing to the ground, still screaming and the skull rolled towards Tommy, touching him on his foot.

  ‘Aaaah! Aaaah! Get it away!’ yelled Tommy, jumping up and down, his lamp swinging wildly from his hands. ‘Is it real? What’s it doing here? Was it an animal?’ Ralph joined in the shrieking, slapping his hand back and forth across his breeches, wiping the mud off and trying to get rid of the sensation of touching the skull. ‘I divvn’t kna, I divvn’t kna!’ he kept repeating.

  ‘Ralph, what’s that?’ howled Tommy. A shadow was breaking away from the area around the Well; a black mass that seemed to swell and grow, morphing into the shape of a man.

  ‘Run!’ yelled Ralph. ‘Quickly. Get away from it!’ He grabbed the sack and his lamp, and leaped over the ropes, shouting back towards Tommy to follow him. Tommy screamed and pelted after Ralph, the pair of them heedless of the uneven ground, stumbling and tripping as they ran away from the Well. The coins bounced around in the sack, but the men did not slow down until they were well away from the dig.

  Far behind them, the black mass moved towards the Well and stood over the skull. Then it faded into the moonlit landscape, becoming part of the shadows once more.

  1649

  The white-clad figure knelt by the spring. Around about her, the hills glowed emerald in the lowering light of the Autumn Equinox.

  ‘Blessed Coventina, I thank you on this, our celebration of Mabon. The hours of darkness and hours of daylight are equal, the wheel has turned. Summer is over, but our harvest has been plentiful. Take these offerings and bless my people. I pray to you and the sacred water nymphs, thanking you for our food and asking for your help to carry us through winter, towards Yule and then towards Imbolc and the promise of new life.’ The girl threw a handful of grains into the Sacred Well and watched as they swirled and separated, eventually sinking out of sight. ‘Please accept these gifts as a sign of my devotion.’

  She closed her eyes and trailed her fingers through the clear water, feeling the coolness against her skin. An owl skimmed past her, the air current beneath its beating wings barely
moving her fair hair.

  As Meggie prayed, the air settled and became still in the little hollow at the bottom of the slope. She opened her eyes and stared around her, aware of the shift in the atmosphere. Her gaze alighted on an uneven mound of earth to the east; an abandoned fort, silent now for twelve hundred years. Fallen debris and stones littered the structure, but here and there, traces of a rampart or a wall jutted out of the grass.

  Meggie looked up. The setting sun glinted off something before the earth swallowed it; a figure stood silhouetted on the mound, a cloak appearing to flap around its body. It seemed to be grasping something in its hand; a sword or a weapon of some description. A flash of light bounced off it. Meggie blinked, refocusing her grey eyes on the figure.

  The owl swooped past her again. The girl ducked her head as the bird’s wings brushed her hair. When she looked back at the mound of earth, the figure had gone.

  SUMMER 1949

  The long, hot summer had baked the ground to a husk. Dead, yellow grass covered the hillside, with dusty patches of brown speckling the countryside like a thrush’s wing.

  In the valley below Carrawburgh Fort, the earth shrank back from the corner of a grey slab. Slowly, inch by inch, it pulled away, exposing three stone altars. Touches of red and green paint clung to the letters carved into the stone.

  DEO INV M L ANTONIVS PROCVLVS PRAEF COH I BAT ANTONIANAE VSLM

  "To the Invincible God Mithras, Lucius Antonius Proculus, prefect of Antonine's Own First Batavian Cohort willingly and deservedly fulfills his vow."

  D IN M S AVL CLVENTIVS HABITVS PREF COH I BATAVORVM DOMV VLTINA COLON SEPT AVR L VSLM

  "To the Invincible and Most-Sacred God Mithras, Aulus Cluentius Habitus, prefect of the First Batavian Cohort, of the Ultinian voting tribe, a native of Colonia Septimia Aurelia Larinum, willingly and deservedly fulfills his vow."

  DEO INVICTO MITRAE M SIMPLICIVS SIMPLEX PREF VSLM

  "To the Invincible God Mithras, the prefect Marcus Simplicius Simplex, willingly and deservedly fulfills his vow."

  The sacred water from Coventina’s Well had preserved the temple for centuries; blocked with offerings, the spring had flooded the ground nearby, protecting the stone building buried deep in the marshland.

  The temple belonged to the cult of Mithras. A dark, mysterious place where no sunlight was allowed. But now, it had decided to expose its secrets.

  AD 390

  Janus shifted position, wriggling his toes inside his leather sandals. This bleak northern territory was one of the worst places in the Empire. He blew on his hands to warm them and frowned as he saw the nailbeds with their blue-ish tinge. He lifted his head and his eyes settled on the Temple to the south west of the fort. Suffering this cold was beyond comprehension; at least Mithras the Sun God could be relied upon to bring warmth to the legions at Carrawburgh.

  Janus could see the soldiers moving around the temple from his station on the fort. His friend Marcus had told him he had bought a new altar for the temple. Janus saw two men carrying a rectangular object into the building and smiled as he realised this was the latest addition to the building. It would be dedicated within the next few days. Marcus had described the altar to Janus as they bathed one evening.

  ‘I have requested them to carve rays of light by the head of Mithras. When the Father lights a torch and lays it behind the altar, a flickering glow will illuminate the rays – a true Sun God, yes?’

  Janus had nodded, sinking deeper into the hot water.

  ‘And will that make the Sun God look upon us fondly, my friend? It is far too dreary in this place. I do believe Mithras has been avoiding us.’ He plunged his head beneath the water and emerged, shaking his hair out like a dog. The water laid it sleek against his skull, glistening the blue-black of a raven’s wing.

  ‘Ah, Janus my friend. Do not be disheartened. We have much to look forward to at this outpost. We have been promised a celebration for Saturnalia; and shortly after that, our new Commander will be taking up residence.’

  Janus glowered.

  ‘I have heard a rumour that he is a Christian,’ he said, placing his hands on the edge of the bath. He raised himself out of the pool and stood on the side looking down at Marcus. Rivulets of water dripped down his body, making channels between the well-defined muscles on his chest.

  ‘A Christian?’ laughed Marcus. ‘I do believe our god Mithras, along with the goddess Coventina and the sacred water nymphs will defy him in some way then. This land is dedicated to them. A Christian is no match for our deities.’

  ‘Yes. It is a pity they say the ordeal pit in our temple is no longer in use. I feel our brothers in the cult may have been able to convert him back, given the opportunity.’

  ‘Maybe,’ smiled Marcus. ‘Yet the rumours could be unfounded. If that is not so, then I hope he does not appear before the Saturnalia celebration. That would be an ordeal I am not willing to go through with.’

  ‘Ah, so Lucius was speaking the truth when he suggested you would favour dressing as a woman for this celebration?’

  ‘It is tradition, my dear Janus. Men dress as women, masters as servants. The ordinary rules of life are turned upside down.’

  ‘But, my friend, there is no rule to say you have to enjoy it quite so much as you appear to do,’ said Janus. Laughing, he turned and made his way back towards the dressing room, Marcus’ protestations lost in the echoes of the other conversations in the bath house.

  2010

  The two teenagers stepped off the bus and looked around at the rolling green hills, which stretched across the countryside towards Hexham. The car park at Brocolitia was practically empty; there was just a small van which seemed to sell drinks situated next to the pay and display machine and a camper van which was parked in the top corner. Some family had set out a picnic table between the van and the wall, but it seemed as if they had deserted it in favour of a trek across the countryside.

  ‘Where’s this temple, then?’ asked Ryan.

  ‘Down there – through those fields,’ said Liv. ‘It’s dedicated to Mithras. I think they found it in 1949 or something.’ She shuffled her papers around and studied them. It was a warm day and she had a sticky, sweaty face. Her sunglasses slid down towards the end of her nose as she flicked through the pages of printouts. The internet was a marvellous resource, even if she had managed to bring too much information and had difficulty stuffing everything into her rucksack for the day trip. ‘It says here that they also had a Shrine to the Water Nymphs, and a Sacred Well, dedicated to the goddess Coventina. It’s the spring where Meggie’s Dene Burn starts. Legend has it, that they threw a witch’s ashes into the stream, which is how it got its name. Oh look – that must be the fort there. Carrawburgh.’

  Liv wandered over to a stile, which invited tourists to clamber over it and explore the site of Carrawburgh Fort. There wasn’t much to see, just a huge, green mound and a few rocks sticking out of the ground.

  ‘I think it’s really sad,’ said Liv. ‘Imagine all those people who lived and worked here. It got destroyed somewhere around the fourth century and then a chap called Clayton dug it up again in the 1800’s.’ She flicked through the papers again. ‘Yes. He found a military bath house in 1873, over there, I think.’ She gestured to the west. ‘And in1876 he discovered the “south-west interval tower of the fort itself.” Are you listening, Ryan? This is really interesting.’

  Ryan shuddered.

  ‘A witch. Marvellous. You lost me at “witch”. Jeez, this place gives me the creeps.’ He looked around him, a hunted expression on his face as if some wild woman with warts and a broomstick was going to fly out of nowhere and attack him.

  ‘Don’t be so pathetic,’ snapped Liv. ‘Come on. Let’s have a look around.’ She scrambled over the stile and stood on the grassy mound which had been Carrawburgh fort. ‘It’s such a shame there’s nothing left here,’ she said. ‘You can feel it buzzing with energy, can’t you?’ Luckily, she didn’t wait for a response because Ryan wasn’t going t
o give one. He didn’t understand Liv’s obsession with the Romans. As far as he was concerned, he’d abandoned them in year nine when he’d opted out of a GCSE in history. Liv, however, had done the whole thing. An ‘A*’ at GCSE and now a predicted ‘A’ at A-level. She was even talking about studying history at University. He sauntered up to where Liv was standing, looking out over the B6318 road. She raised her mobile phone up and took a picture. The ‘click’ sounded incongruous against the silence of the countryside. It seemed as if there was nobody around them for miles.

  ‘It’s supposed to be a really spiritual area around here,’ Liv said. ‘I need to see it for my project. Come on.’ She started off across the fort. ‘Look!’ She walked right up to the perimeter of the grassy mound and placed her toes squarely on the edge of it. A sheer drop reminded her she was standing on an ancient monument, built on a hillside. ‘There’s the temple.’ She indicated a grey, rectangular structure, about five blocks of stone high, in the valley below her.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Ryan wandering over to join her. ‘Not much of it left, is there? Ouch!’ He leaned down to rub his leg as a stray nettle attacked him. ‘They could clear this place up a bit, couldn’t they?’

  Liv sighed and pushed her sunglasses up onto the top of her head.

  ‘Yes, it would be great if they could re-excavate it, but I guess it’s just not practical. The Shrine to the Water Nymphs was just next to the temple. There’s nothing left of that either, though. I think the altars they found are at Chesters museum. We could go there after this?’ she said hopefully. ‘I was reading up on the inscriptions before – someone dedicated an altar to the “Nymphs and the Genius of this place.” The soldiers were from Holland and Germany you know. The First Cohort of Batavians. Some of the bravest soldiers in the empire. They are the ones who introduced Mithraism here and built that temple.’