The View From the Cart (36 page)

But the great Sacred Stone was the true centre of the people's reverence. Cuthman's church was a sideshow, an amusing distraction and no more. The Stone contained the real power, the God who ordained the success of the harvest and the harmony of our lives. I fell into the habit of visiting it alone in the early morning, and tracing the markings on it. It held an appeal for me that I did not properly understand. The smooth surface, sparkling in the bright sun, made it seem alive at times. I never worshipped it as the others did, but I stood in awe and allowed its influence to flow through me.

My favourite marking on it was the small cluster of acorns on the side facing north - where the great dark forest lay. I would sit and stare at that area, marvelling at the accuracy of the carving, and the meaning behind it. Perhaps the acorn somehow stood for my growing child, in my mind, although it never fully occurred to me that this was so. I had always marvelled at the strength and size of mature oak trees, especially those that stood proud and isolated in a field or on a hilltop. The magic of such a massive tree growing from a small smooth acorn had struck me forcibly in my childhood, and came back to me now. The idea of small beginnings leading to undreamed-of consequences, the potential wrapped tight inside every tiny seed, was the drift of my thoughts, and it brought me great comfort.

On a golden day, when the leaves on the trees were yellow and red and orange, Cuthman's church became more than a sideshow. We had been waiting and preparing for the first frosts of the season, gathering in the fruits and nuts and fattening the young hogs and lambs for the great Samhain killing. The colours and activities all conspired to remind me of the year before when Edd had dropped at his threshing. It seemed to me a hundred years had passed since that time, instead of merely one. I was lost in my own thoughts, caught on a fulcrum between the past and the future, glad to be busy while destiny twisted and turned all around me.

Garth and Welf had grown tetchy with Cuthman once or twice over the conflicting needs for the oxen. The men wished to drag firewood from the forest, as well as clearing some land ready for spring ploughing. Cuthman had fallen into the habit of tethering the beasts overnight close by his hut, rather than return them to their rightful byre down in the village, and I had heard some heated words on the subject, only the day before. Early next day, Garth defiantly went up the knoll and brought the beasts home, his head high, and Cuthman watched him from his hilltop. I stood with Frith and shivered at my son's stance, recalling the way he had punished those who obstructed him during our travelling time.

Perhaps for the same reason, many of the villagers seemed to me to be watching the knoll more closely than usual. The sun was low in the sky, casting sharp shadows and warm only when a body stood full in its rays. A mist lay at the sea's edge, rolling like an animal, casting a magic that seemed to fill the morning. It was as if everyone knew something would happen that day.

As if drawn by hunger or curiosity or the earth's own forces, people began to drift towards Cuthman's knoll, myself among them. My son had been working outside when the oxen were collected, packing in more saplings, finishing the last of the four walls, paying close attention to the corner, which involved him in something of a struggle. Each of the four corners was marked by a much larger tree trunk, which had been split and smoothed and buried more deeply in the foundation trench than the timbers of the walls between. Fitting the saplings close into this final corner was evidently a challenging task and I wondered whether something was going awry with it, from the time it was taking. After watching Garth for a few moments, Cuthman returned to the task with ferocious vigour.

I climbed the hill with a small group of four or five villagers, perhaps with the idea of offering help. We did not speak and the strangeness of our action was palpable. Not one of us truly knew why we went, in the way we did. It had naught to do with the oxen, despite that being the trigger for our attention. It can only be that God drove us up there, to stand witness to the completion of the outer shell of the new church. Afterwards, it seemed simple and clear to me that this had been the reason. Or part of it, at least.

We arrived at the moment when Cuthman stood back, to inspect his work. He was a strange figure, in great leather gauntlets and high calfskin boots, wrapped around with a woollen tunic. His face was red with the hard labour, but his eyes were shining.

‘Tis done!' he exulted. ‘I must give thanks for it.' He paid no attention to me or the others, but walked all around his building, slapping it here and there, filled with pride and gladness. And then he did the thing which people still speak of, twenty and more years later.

The sun was filtering through the trees, to the east of us, and striking the church where it stood proud on the hilltop, pouring in through the great space that would become a window at the eastern end and filling the church with light. Cuthman strode in through the doorway at the opposite end, with us following him like baby chicks after their dam. The sunlight struck us full in the face, a broad beam filled with dancing motes. Cuthman pulled off his gauntlets, flexing his stiff fingers a little and glancing round a moment for a place to lay them. Finding nowhere convenient in the bare empty church, he simply laid them on the sunbeam, as if it were a shelf provided for the purpose. They hung there, swaying gently with the motes, the heavy creased leather seemingly lighter than any feather or thistledown. Cuthman went to the eastern window, where his altar would one day be, and knelt to pray, his back turned to us.

Like sheep, we huddled in the doorway, staring open-mouthed at the dangling gauntlets. ‘A miracle!' one man breathed, and the others murmured their accord. Patiently we waited for what would come next. Would the gloves fall to the ground, the magic spell slowly weakening like glue that cannot hold? Would God Himself appear to us, a misty ghost on this enchanted day? We were ready for whatever might come, excited and apprehensive.

But we had already witnessed the whole of the miraculous occurrence. Cuthman finished his prayers, stood up and reclaimed his gauntlets from the helpful sunbeam, catching them as they hung there and pushing them onto his hands again. A complacency sat on his face which told me that he knew full well the effect of this piece of magic. A friendly smile was directed at us, but nothing more. It was as if a barrier of some kind kept him away from us. There would have been no possibility of touching him then, in his exalted state. The villagers were to be his sheep, and the ease with which he would capture them made him glow with satisfaction.

When my companions broke away to run down the hillside and tell the others of the miracle they had witnessed, I stayed behind. I had an unfinished matter to confront, and I knew this had to be the moment.

‘You have convinced them,' I said, in a low voice. ‘Just as I suppose you meant to. And the church is close to completion now.'

He nodded, moving away from me towards his hut.

‘Wait, Cuthie,' I pleaded. ‘I must speak with you.'

He paused, and half turned. ‘Well?' he said. His tone was neither sharp nor gentle, but at least it had patience in it.

‘Son, I am with child, and must be married to the father, in this church. I am sorry if this pains you, or causes you any trouble, but it is so, and nothing can change it now.' I pulled my clothes tight across my belly, to show the swelling there. A fatter woman would have had nothing as yet to display, but I had never carried spare flesh. ‘See!'

He would not look, but sent his gaze back to his precious church. ‘The roof is still to be done,' he said. ‘That is no simple matter. It could take many months.'

‘But it will not,' I said. ‘You would not delay just to punish me. There are greater matters at stake for you than that.'

He paused, thoughtful and calm. I searched for some sign of anger or disgust, but found none. ‘Who is the child's father?' he asked.

‘Frith. Of course it is Frith. Need you ask me that?'

He smiled then. ‘For a moment I wondered whether you might claim that it was a child of God, an immaculate conception. A young rival for me.'

‘You have become cruel, Cuthman. Is this the way a holy man speaks to his mother?'

‘I am not cruel, far from it. I will do as you ask. The church will be complete by Christ's Mass, and we will celebrate at my altar. You and Frith shall have your wedding and the child shall be baptised when it is born. Yes, I see now how this strange news fits my plan. I see that it will be the means by which I bring all these people to God and his holy church. Now go. Go back to your grizzled lover and keep yourself well for the events to come. They will be speaking of nothing else but me and my church today. Be good enough to encourage them to turn their hearts and souls this way, and forget their heathen Stone.'

I should have felt relief, even pleasure, at the promise of a Christian marriage only two or three moons hence. Instead I was humiliated once again by my son, and sickened by the creature he had become. As I nestled that night against Frith and told him everything that had taken place that day, I understood what it was that so saddened me: Cuthman felt no love. Not for me or for the people here. Not for Wynn or Edd or anyone he had known in his young life. He might be a man of God, capable of great and wonderful acts, but he had a cold unfeeling heart, and I had not allowed myself to see it until that day. That someone in possession of such power could be so cold distressed and frightened me. That it was my own son brought me close to despair.

‘Hush,' Frith whispered to me, as I revealed some of this to him. ‘He is a man now, beyond your influence and care. We will not allow him to harm us, you see.'

I was scarcely comforted. The thought struck me that Cuthman might be about to do others harm, through Frith and me and our baby, and I shivered at it.

Winter came on like the cold dragon it can often be. The wind turned to the east and cut bitterly into our frail homes and clothes. We worked doggedly at felting and weaving capes and covers for protection, wrapping the children so tight and thick that they could scarcely walk. The older villagers fell to coughing and shaking, huddling by the fires, which smoked sulkily and seldom burned with a good flame. I was warmed from within by the child that now leaped and turned and was so alive that I could seldom ignore it. I stayed away from Cuthman, ignoring him when he came to share the meals in the hall, but keeping close watch on the progress of his roof.

As the winter solstice approached, Cuthman changed his habits, and came down to the village for part of every day. He began by speaking to small groups of two or three villagers, reminding them of the birth of the Christ child, the plain sign from the Lord God that he loved and valued every living person, and wished them to be saved, so they could claim their rightful place in Heaven, at His side. He chose his words carefully, using visions of warmth and comfort, which I heard the people using afterwards, as they talked over what he had said. They had been ignorant of the basic Christian doctrine and Cuthman made much of this. He spoke glowingly of God's patience with those living in darkness through no fault of their own. The Word had spread across Britain, but there were still forgotten areas, where the missionaries had not reached. But – and I could imagine his tone deepening and his expression growing severe – once the Word of the Lord had been delivered and heard, there could be no excuse for turning away from the Truth. Anyone doing that ran the grave risk of being damned. It seemed that he had not given any detail as to what this might mean, but had wisely left it to the people's own imaginings.

The church roof still had its bare bones showing by Christmas time, and I felt a sharp disappointment when I saw that it could not be finished in time. Clumsily, my belly heavy and full by then, I climbed the hill to confront my son.

‘You have not fulfilled your promise,' I burst out, standing in the doorway of his hut and gazing at him where he lay on his straw. ‘You show no sign of even making an attempt to do so.'

‘I cannot gather the reeds for the thatch at this season,' he said calmly. ‘The church has no need of a roof for now. I could be ready to perform your marriage on the Feast of the Holy Innocents. Will that please you? I see my brother grows apace.'

And he fixed his gaze on my belly for the first time. I was caught by a single word. ‘Brother?' I hadn't known until that moment how powerfully I was hoping for a daughter, to keep by me in my old age.

The idleness in his attitude, the self-satisfaction and sense of knowing better than anyone else in the world was maddening to me. I did not want to give birth to another such as he. As Cuthman grew into manhood and gained in power, I liked him less and less.

He nodded. ‘I believe so,' he said carelessly. ‘Now leave me Mother, and prepare for your nuptials, such as they may be.' He gave a short barking laugh, filled with scorn, and once more I left him full of bitter humiliation.

The next day he came down to the village again, and walked to and fro on the hard ground, calling to the people to come out of their huts and follow him to the church, at one hour past sunset. ‘Bring your torches, and your best bread and wine,' he ordered. ‘Today is one of the most holy, and it is time to bring our church alive with songs and prayers.'

The Solstice celebrations had already taken place around the Sacred Stone, with the fires to burn the old year, and the tallow candles to greet the new one. The people were settling in to endure the winter, consoled only by the slow lengthening of the days and the salted meat packed away. The prospect of another festival in the strange half-finished church on the hill, held little but curiosity and entertainment for them, spiced with Cuthman's talk of heaven and hell and the great loving God that watched over their souls.

I was close by when a group of woman consulted Fippa on whether they should go as Cuthman directed. The witch-woman did not hesitate. ‘Go,' she advised. ‘There is nothing to fear, and much to learn. This God who knows so little of life that he sends his son down to earth at the coldest time of the year, and builds fires to punish the ignorant may have much to entertain us. I shall be there myself, my friends. This is something not to be missed.'