The View From the Cart (16 page)

‘Discovered!' the strange figure shouted, although the word was so distorted by a strange buzzing in his speech that I could barely understand it. He said something further, which made no sense to me at all. It sounded to be all ‘zzz' and thick throaty sounds.

‘Seems he's from a foreign place,' I remarked.

Cuthman nodded. ‘Unless he be a faery,' he smiled.

‘Goblin, more like,' I muttered.

The old man came closer to me, and fixed me with a glittering stare. His eyes were large and black, his skin strangely dark with a rough dry look to it. The white beard was wiry, curling in all directions, the same as his hair, which was a mix of black and grey. ‘Woman,' he said, too loud, but clear enough. ‘What are thee about?' He was making a deliberate effort to be understood, thinking before each word and shaping his mouth carefully. The question itself was not one I could answer, all the same. I tried a friendly smile.

‘Me holy man,' he continued. ‘Live here, nozzing else.' He swallowed and blinked his great eyes. I nodded.

‘A hermit?' I suggested. The man did not respond, and I fell silent. Cuthman came forward and prepared to lift me out of the cart, which surprised me. ‘Are we stopping here, then?'

Cuthman nodded, and the old man mimicked him, his head bobbing eagerly. ‘Beds!' he said, pointing to his hut.

‘Tis true,' Cuthman confirmed. ‘There are two extra beds in there, builded up on wooden frames. Tis like he expected us. Meat, too. He wants us to stop with him.'

The man danced before us as Cuthman took me into the hut. It seemed much larger than I'd guessed, with a clean table, two stools, a wooden bench and three beds, as my boy had said, in a row against the back wall. They had sheepskin covers, which looked warm and welcoming. Decorated pots and bowls were arranged on a long shelf, with a curiously fashioned lamp and other things I had no knowledge of. The fire burned merrily, banked up high, the smoke drawing better than it ever had in my old home. Cuthman set me onto the bench, where I could support myself with my arms on the table. In that position, I felt like a whole person again, not a creature of ridicule in a barrow.

‘Discovered,' said the goblin again, staring intently at me. Despite his energy and capering, he did not smile.

‘Are you hiding, then?' I asked. The house was easy to see from the track we'd taken. If it was meant to be concealed from sight, I did not think it a great success.

‘Folks mainly pazzes by,' he said, waving an arm to indicate their passage. ‘I'zzz inwizzzble to most.'

I looked around; the house seemed real enough, but my first glimpse had been a magical one. Cuthman coughed beside me, and we both looked at him. He seemed excited and full of himself. ‘‘He has a message for us,' he said, with certainty. He fixed the hermit with an expectant gaze.

‘Belikes a tale to tell,' was the slow reply. ‘Ifn ye can follow my tongue.'

‘Gets clearer by the minute,' Cuthman assured him, and it was true. Perhaps the man's solitude had stiffened his tongue, and it was loosening now - or our ears grew accustomed to his speech the more we listened. His buzzing sounds were lessening, too.

Outside it grew dark and the strange man produced meat and bread and honey for us, brushing away our attempts to share the food we still had with us. ‘Guesssts,' he said, brooking no debate. The fire warmed us through, and the strange lamp shed a friendly yellow light. In the forest we could hear wolves some distance off, and the usual concert of owls, all trying to outdo each other. Squabbling squirrels in the tree above the house knocked debris onto the roof.

After we had eaten, our host fetched a cloak from a nail on the wall, and wrapped it around himself, more, I thought, for ceremony than for warmth. It was woollen, blue-dyed and eye-catching. He stared at me again, for many minutes, and I was filled with some new sensation of importance and power. I had only been regarded as a figure of fun, since we began our travelling, except for the aroused monk, who had perhaps seen something more in me, though heaven knows what. This hermit appeared to regard me as of greater importance than my son, which struck me as very peculiar.

‘I tell of war and love and evil magic,' he said, settling himself cross-legged on one of the beds, with his cloak tightly closed and his hands concealed. ‘A tale from the green and misty isle to the west and north, where I spent many long years. Everywhere our history is of war and love, but this isle tells of more blood and more passion than any other.' His speech became clearer with every word he spoke, as if a curtain had been drawn back to reveal his meaning. But I was in discomfort on my bench, and I held up my hand to halt the words.

‘I should be easier on the bed,' I told him. ‘If the lad might shift me there.'

‘Ye could walk there unaided ifn ye chose,' he said, in a low voice. Fear struck through me, sharp as a knife. And a hot rage at the falsehood almost choked me.

‘No!' I spat. ‘Tis a lie.' And I beckoned Cuthman to me, wrapping my arms around his neck to be lifted.

The lad had a tight closed look as he moved me, and he said nothing, though he must have heard the man's words. I made a small moan as he set me onto the bed, and put a hand to my back, though in truth it scarcely pained me. Like a conspirator, my boy bent over me, and laid his hand on top of mine. Then he went back to one of the stools, so the hermit was positioned between the two of us, forming a triangle.

‘Tell the tale,' Cuthman invited.

There was a long silence. The old man sat with his head bowed, so I could not see his face. I concluded that he was praying, and tried to put myself into a like state. Stories have a message that is rarely clear when first you hear them. I prepared myself, as best I could, for whatever might come to my ears and heart.

‘There was once a man,' came the first words, loud and startling, ‘by the name of Malcolm Harper, though he played no harp and sang few songs. He was a plain man, of little vision or understanding. He believed that life was a simple matter, readily set beneath his control. He lived in comfort, with a wife but no child. One day, he happened to meet a seer, who told him his future could be read, if he wished to know it, and there was a remarkable aspect to it. So Harper asked to know the destiny before him, and the seer told him he would have a daughter of astounding beauty. This daughter would cause great bloodshed, most especially that of the three finest young men in the land.

‘ “It shall not be so,” countered Malcolm, firmly. “I shall take the necessary measures to prevent it. Have we not a free will?”

‘ “I see what I see,” said the soothsayer, and went away.

‘It happened, of course, that a daughter was born, and she was named Deirdre, and was beautiful from the first. Malcolm's wife died soon after, and the child's nurse had all the care of her. Harper remembered the seer's prediction, and since so much was already unfolding as was foreseen, he determined that the last part would not transpire. And so he instructed the nurse that she and the child should go to a far-away mountain, where nobody ever reached, and there to build a secret dwelling, dug into the heart of the mountain. No living being would ever come to them, except himself, and Dierdre was never to be told that there were such creatures as men in the world, only her father.

‘The nurse was a wise and loving woman. She taught the girl the name of every plant and animal, every bird and star, but she never told her that there were men in the world. Deirdre grew up as lovely as can be, quick of wit and contented, until she reached sixteen years of age.

‘Then one night a hunter, far from home and lost, happened to come close to the mountain where the nurse and the girl lived. It was cold and dark and the man was weary almost to the point of death. He fell into a deep sleep and dreamed he heard faery music and smelled faery cooking, and he called out, in his sleep, to be allowed into their shelter.

‘Dierdre heard his call, and asked her nurse what could be making that noise. As she listened, she heard the words, “For the love of the Great God of all the Elements, permit me to come inside.”

‘ “Tis just the birds crying and calling,” said the nurse.

‘ “But, Nurse, the bird calls out in the name of the loving God, and thou hast taught me that we must do whatever be asked us in that name.”

‘The nurse had no answer to that, and so Dierdre opened the little door in their secret mountain home, and looked out. There was a man, just awakening from his sleep, and she stared at him in amazement. He got up and came into the room where a fire burned merrily and food lay on the table. The nurse ran to him and whispered to him that he might eat and sleep until morning, but that he must not speak a single word.

‘ “I will keep silent,” said the hunter, “when I have first told you that I know of men in the world who would not rest if they knew what a wondrous creature you are keeping hidden here. They would come and take her, for her beauty.”

‘ “What does he say?” demanded Deirdre. “What men does he speak of?”

‘ “Silence!” commanded the nurse, despairing that she could not keep her promise to obey Malcolm's orders. Already, she feared, the damage was done.

‘ “I speak of the sons of Uisnech, brother of our King's dead father,” gabbled the hunter, before putting a hand over his lips and glancing apologetically at the nurse.

‘ “Sons? Brother? King?” questioned Dierdre. “What are these words? To what do they refer?” '

Sons...I have a son. He performs miracles and wise monks admire him...

‘The nurse was flustered and annoyed. “I told you to keep silent,” she raged at the man. “The girl is not to hear such things.” '

Secrets. Mysteries. A land across the sea...

I realised that the thread of the hermit's tale had become muddled with my own thoughts, as I began to doze in the warm hut. He continued to tell of Deirdre and her emergence from her hidden home, but I missed it, scarcely bothering to resist the sleepiness that was overtaking me. I was brought back to reality with a shock when the hermit clapped his hands sharply.

‘Enough!' he cried angrily. ‘I see my tale has wearied you. Sleep then, since I am bound to offer hospitality to all who come to my door.' He flung himself across the hut, seizing a thick wolfskin and tossing it towards me. Outrage consumed him, and I felt ashamed of my rudeness. Cuthman blinked foolishly, and I wondered if he too had fallen asleep. He had, after all, far more cause to be tired than I had.

   ‘The story was a good one,' I said. ‘I shall always remember it. The girl in the secret place beneath the hill, far away from men. Tell me, friend, how does it conclude?'

The hermit flipped a gnarled hand carelessly. ‘Oh, you might guess. She meets and loves the King's son, runs away with him, the King is infuriated and has them both killed. A Druid kills them, with pagan magic. A tragic tale, full of meaning. It occurred to me that your Christian son might gain some benefit from its theme.'

Cuthman appeared to be puzzled by this. I too was unsure of what the man meant. How did pagan magic differ from the miracles that Cuthman had performed? Magic was magic.

‘Sleep, woman,' ordered our host. ‘The occasion is past. Maybe you and your boy will recall the interruption in time to come. But the gods are merciful to such as you, and there may be a second chance to hear the tale.'

Uncomfortably, I settled to sleep, my mind restless and questioning. A story half told is an irritation, a thorn which stings and nags. Incompleteness is a danger, the message in the tale unheard or misinterpreted. I dreamed, clear and vivid, of my girl Wynn and a desperate search I was making for her. She was hidden, buried in an earthy foxhole with Spenna guarding the entrance, firmly turning me away. A great druid magician swooped down on us, a blazing sword in his hand, which he waved over Wynn and turned her to a small pile of ash. Cuthman sat in the distance, his back to us, fashioning a small crucifix of hazel twigs, like a child idly playing. He ignored my calls to him. A great crow flew over, blotting out the sun and I tried to scream.

I awoke before the night was over, and lay still, waiting for the terror and misery to pass. I wept, as quietly as I could, for my first child, who had been such a good daughter to me. I wanted her now, with a longing I had never felt before. I reproached myself bitterly for my coolness towards her, my dependence on her from so young an age. Soon I had convinced myself that she was dead; that she had died of cold and hunger and lack of her mother's care. It seemed, in that dark dawn, with rain dashing itself at the trees outside, that I had let her go with scarcely a thought, casting her lightly adrift as if she meant nothing. The crow in my dream meant death. Somewhere my own child was lying in a ditch with great black birds pecking her decaying flesh. The picture came into my mind so clear that I raised my head and cried, ‘No!' in the hermit's small hut.

‘Bad dreams?' came the strange man's voice, calm and somehow satisfied. Cuthman was mumbling, fighting free of his bedclothes, by the sound of it. Everything was in darkness, muffled and unreal.

‘My girl,' I explained, brokenly. ‘I believe she must be dead.'

‘Killed by a druid?' he said, with a brief laugh. A new terror gripped me. This man had created my dream in some way. He was inside my thoughts, a voice which could fashion whatever pictures he wished. I said nothing, and he continued, ‘Such things can happen when a tale is left unfinished.'

‘Then finish it now,' I pleaded. ‘Show me a different ending.'

‘Impossible,' he replied. ‘Besides, I told you how it ends. No changing that.'

‘Then what? My heart hurts. I am sick. And tis your doing.'

He laughed longer this time. ‘Nay, woman. I did nothing. The hour before dawn brings its own visions. I merely supplied the parts. But wait a while and I can set your heart at rest, if you wish me to. I bear you no malice, believe me.'