The Way of Wyrd (7 page)

‘Eventually people will have to make way for the tiny creatures that crawl about in our mattresses,’ he went on. ‘Then we shall be the lumbering outcasts, slipping ever further towards exile.’

I bit back a retort. It was surely not the prerogative of man to pronounce on the future. And all creatures were put into the world by God to serve man, even if we did not understand how they were meant to serve us.

‘The giants are the gods of old,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The world was made from giants, in the first winter. A mighty giant was created from hoarfrost. And when fire came, he melted. From the enormous bulk of his body came the worlds. From his blood flowed the sea, from his bones the mountains, from his hair the forests, from his skull the sky. And from his lashes, covering the eyes that beheld all, was fashioned Middle-Earth, land of people, sorcerers and spirits. In the centre of Middle-Earth, on hills rising high as mountains, live the gods and below seethes the Underworld, land of the dead and all their secrets.’

Wulf looked up towards the night sky, his eyes hooded, concealing his emotion from me. ‘The giants are now outcasts, living as exiles on the fringe of the earth, kept at bay by a mighty ocean surrounding Middle-Earth.’

He fell silent again. I wanted to ask him more, for he was telling me exactly what I had been sent to hear. But he seemed deeply affected by his story and sat staring at the grey wisps of smoke climbing from the fire into the night sky. I felt embarrassed for him. His obvious sincerity diluted slightly the revulsion I felt for his erroneous story of the Creation, but almost certainly he had not intended to open his heart so readily to a stranger.

‘We are taught a truth very different from the story you have told me,’ I said at last, hoping to draw him out of his sadness and back into conversation. ‘I cannot imagine ever encountering your gods.’

Wulf turned to look directly at me, his eyes twinkling brightly through the gloom.

‘You already have,’ he replied, in a voice strangely flat and toneless.

I frowned in puzzlement.

‘This very night,’ he prompted, raising an eyebrow knowingly.

The terror of the horse-head dream and the huntsmen flooded back into my body and my whole world fell in. Wulf’s knowledge of my ordeal in the forest spun me into confusion and I suddenly felt totally unprotected and vulnerable, as if he could read my thoughts and know my deepest secrets.

Wulf leaned forward, his eyes never leaving mine, his face crinkling into a smile. He spoke in a whisper.

‘I know, because my reality is the sorcerer’s reality. I can enter the world of spirits and they showed me what happened to you as clearly as if I were watching images moving in a still pool.’

Dumbfounded and frightened, I desperately wanted to fill the silence with a statement, reply, question: anything. But I could say nothing.

‘The spirits of death acknowledged you,’ he said with conviction. ‘If Woden had not swept his huntsmen over your forest camp, then I would not—indeed could not—have served as your guide. I waited on the hilltop until Woden marked you out.’

He jumped up and paced energetically around the fire. All melancholy thoughts of the giants seemed to have left him.

‘Woden is greybeard among our gods,’ he continued animatedly. ‘He is god of the magic song, incantations, words of power. For nine nights Woden hung on the Tree of Knowledge, swept by the wind of destiny. He was pierced by the spears of Knowledge but he did not bleed. He hung there without food or drink; he hung there in a fast until he was transported to the mountain of the gods. There he was shown the secrets of the runes and the incantations that unravel the secrets of Middle-Earth.

‘This is why Woden had to mark you out. Only he chooses who may be guided to the secrets.’

Wulf stopped pacing and stood facing me, feet astride, thumbs hooked into his woven leather belt, casting his face in dramatic, moving shadows.

‘Brand, when Woden marked you out I knew that I could guide you. You have been granted access to the spirits.’

I stared at his face in the moving fire shadows, looking desperately for clues, signs, reassurance—I knew not what.

‘The spirits?’ My voice sounded tiny and cracked and I coughed to camouflage it. Wulf looked at me from under half-closed lids—a devastating look, full of craft and cunning.

‘The spirits are the custodians of our knowledge. If you wish me to guide you to our gods, then I can show you secrets your masters never dreamed of. But I warn you: the secrets of the spirits cannot be encompassed by words passed between us. You must encounter the spirits directly.’

I was still stunned by Wulf’s knowledge of my ordeal with the spectral huntsmen, but talk of spirits served only to compound my terror. I had survived the spectres in the forest, with the help of God Almighty, but to purposely seek them out smacked of evil. Spirits were devils, agents of evil, to be dismissed from the minds of pagans and supplanted by the Seed of Truth, the Word of God. Indeed, Eappa had warned me that pagan sorcerers steal the souls of the peasants through pacts with the devils. What Eappa had not told me—what he could not know—was that my guide was a sorcerer.

Wulf scrutinized me steadily as my thoughts whirled and spun.

‘Wulf, couldn’t you just tell me about the spirits? All I wish to know are the names of your gods and the nature of your beliefs, and perhaps to observe your people at their worship.’

Wulf strolled back towards the fallen oak.

‘If you do not wish to be guided by me, then I shall take you to a trading harbour tomorrow and you can leave. Let me know your decision in the morning.’

He wrapped himself in his cloak, lay down and closed his eyes, seeming to fall asleep instantly. I watched him closely for a moment, but he did not stir. The conversation was over.

A piece of wood shifted in the fire. I watched it fall slowly, eaten away in mouthfuls by the flames. My mind was racing, bursting with ideas, voices, questions, warnings. For the second time that night I contemplated going to a harbour and obtaining passage back along the coast to the Royal Hall and the friendly faces of the Mission. But now Eappa’s voice haunted me: ‘We cannot deliver the pagan from the forces of evil until we know the nature of his errors.’ If the secrets of pagan power lay in the devils, then surely I should, in Wulf’s words, ‘encounter them directly’. Yet I was sure that Eappa never expected or intended me to venture so far into the dark world of pagan sorcery, for he preached that such things were the province of devils. He had instructed me to travel, observe, listen and remember. But he had never suggested that I enter the world of devils.

I sighed and leaned back on the mossy oak trunk. My eyes were heavy, my mind exhausted, but I was too scared to go to sleep. My thoughts wandered. Absently, I imagined myself returning to the Mission to tell unheard-of secrets about the pagans, astounding the monks with my knowledge and graciously accepting Eappa’s praise for my courage. Smiling, I pulled my cloak more closely around my shoulders. Gradually my eyes tired of watching the dancing fire and my lids sank shut. Slumber sneaked up on me and stole my thoughts. I dropped into a deep and vivid dream. I was back in the monastery, lying on the hard oak bed relieved by only the thinnest of mattresses.

The echo of bolts sounded down the corridors long and bare, as the sub-prior locked the cloister doors. The heavy reek of oil, which had been burning with floating wicks in stone cressets, filled my nostrils with that surge of familiarity so often carried by forgotten smells. The other boys in the dormitory were fast asleep, curled into shadowy lumps in rows of beds stretching into the darkness on either side of me.

Then, almost immediately, I heard the bells ringing to awaken us before dawn and the sub-prior was touring the dormitory with lighted lantern to see that no one had overslept. Huddled together like lambs for warmth, we shuffled in a line out of the dormitory towards the chapel, hard cold floors slapping and clapping under our sandals. On my right I saw a stone archway leading to a workroom still dank with darkness. I knew that inside, displayed in various stages of preparation, lay strips of calfskin which would become fine and glorious book covers. Just past this room lay the steps leading to the cellarer’s vault, packed neatly with supplies, implements, food, clothes and blankets, tallow for dormitory candles and beeswax for altar candles.

The entrance to the chapel was thronged with monks cloaked in pre-dawn silence; mostly men of thane class, high wergild-holders turned from battle pledges to prayer. Beyond them, hung on chains at the door, glowed red coals in black iron dishes to warm the hands of those who were to minister at the altar. Everything seemed so familiar, even the little clouds of cold breath puffing out from people’s faces and the sleepy but friendly eyes—a warm bond of brotherhood, wrapped around us all.

Then something strange happened. Everyone stood aside, gowns stiff with cold rustling as the monks melted back into the darkness. I passed into the chapel alone. The small room was exactly as it had always been: wall-hung with tapestries depicting angels picked out in weft-threads, softly lit by candles in finely enamelled hanging bowls. In the centre was the altar, decorated with fine pieces of silver lovingly polished and lit by tall altar candles.

I moved towards the altar but stopped suddenly, gripped by horror. On tables and shelves behind sat literally dozens of strangely carved icons, many encrusted with gold and precious stones which glowed in the light of the candles. Some were small and squat, others larger than men, but all were grotesquely covered with strange inscriptions. I moved around the room, powerless to stop myself, as if on a guided tour of hell; animal motifs and heathen designs loomed from the walls and large figures with human heads and smooth, sightless eyes. I was alone in the hideous room, too frightened even to cry out, paralysed by the cold and eerie presence. Desperately I looked towards the altar again and there, crowded on to a platform along with piles of icons, rested a simple golden cross. I dropped to my knees and prayed fervently, snatches of prayers from every kind of service and lesson, anything that would restore the warm, protective mantle of God.

Then I heard movement. I opened my eyes and, through tears of fear and emotion, I saw the figure of a man. At first I thought it was Eappa, but then I realized that his face was different. Kindness, warmth, love and caring poured from him like a warm summer wind. I blinked my eyes clear and looked again; now he appeared strangely like Wulf, but disguised by a cowl. He opened a thick Mass book, fine vellum leaves crackling as he turned the page. Then he began to read from the book in a soft, gentle voice that I knew to be Eappa’s:

‘Brand, ever are the faithful tormented by the spirits of evil and the hearts and minds of the people are persuaded by the devil that these spirits should be revered as true gods. Strength in faith and psalms sung fervently drive away the spirits, yet people still fear them. Go into the world of spirits, Brand, for you do it in the name and service of the Lord. Do not be afraid of their terrible appearance, their shrieks and moans, for the will of the Lord is with you. To protect the flock of the faithful you must enter what seems to be the den of wolves. Learn their ways and see that they too go with the blessing of the Almighty.’

I awoke suddenly with a start. It was still dark and I felt that I had been asleep only a few moments. I tried to collect my thoughts for I knew now what I must do: it was the Will of the Almighty that I go with Wulf and learn the ways of his spirits. And as soon as the resolve passed into my mind, I felt an uncanny sense of security and well-being. The terrors of the night were extinguished like snuffed candles. I thought at first that I was enjoying the relief of having made the decision, but gradually it dawned upon me that I was feeling the excitement of anticipation. It was not just a matter of duty or loyalty to Eappa, nor even the undoubted joy of serving the Lord. Rather, the secrets of the spirits seemed to beckon to me and the surrounding forest tingled with excitement and challenge. Above, the pagan sky floated blue as turquoise, silver stars twinkling like jewelled icons and the moon pouring down light like a Heaven full of altar candles. The thunder god had withdrawn and the Lord was blessing my Mission.

I AWOKE to the soft, pearly light of dawn. Wulf was sitting on the fallen oak, watching me.

‘I have been waiting for you to return,’ he said genially.

‘Return?’ I mumbled, my tongue thick with sleep.

‘From your dreams.’

I had slept heavily and I sat up slowly, easing my stiff neck. Wulf gestured towards his hat which was lying upturned on the ground, brimming with red berries. From my bag I took the remainder of the barley bread, now rock hard inside its linen wrap, and broke off a piece for him. We sucked at it between mouthfuls of the tart berries.

‘I am coming with you,’ I said, a glimmer of pride in my voice. It had not been an easy decision to make.

Wulf nodded, sucking berry juice from his fingers.

‘I know. We shall begin today by hunting, before the sun rides high.’

Slightly irritated by his pretence of already knowing my decision, I sulked in silence for a while. But I was intrigued by the prospect of hunting, I had not hunted since I was a boy, not even for rabbits, for the monastery gardens provided barter for all our food needs.

‘What will we hunt, Wulf?’ I asked, feigning indifference.

‘Plants.’

I looked at him blankly.

‘I always hunt the early summer plants,’ he said, as if his statement explained the strange proposal.

My enthusiasm drained away. Many back-breaking hours spent shuffling up and down the monastic herb gardens, weeding between neat rows of rosemary and fennel, had left me a less than avid collector of plants.

I pulled a long stalk of grass and chewed the moist end to cleanse my mouth of the bitter taste of the berries.

‘What plants do you collect, Wulf?’ I asked listlessly, thinking that the information might be useful to the Mission.