Time of the Beast (12 page)

‘Ah! Civilisation!’ Aelfric beamed. ‘We are nearly there.’

I gazed transfixed at the horrible sight. The body appeared quite terrifying, even in death, with its eyes picked out by the scavengers. Like the ravaged corpses I had found beyond my hermitage, it seemed to me that this brutish-looking thing could never truly have been human. Then I saw that in the tree, directly above the corpse, there perched a large crow. My blood grew cold, for the whole scene, suddenly encountered, appeared somehow portentous and uncanny. The bird looked directly down at me, its eyes gleaming as it began to caw loudly. I grew rigid, for the sight and sound of it took me backwards in time to the days of my childhood when my grandmother, a woman of the old religion, would explain to me and my siblings that crows were the messengers of the gods. And she, a person of gentle nature, would become uncharacteristically strict whenever a crow would call, and demand we children should fall silent and listen.

This thought brought other distant memories flooding into my mind, so colourful and vivid that they felt for a fleeting moment almost tangible and real, as it seemed I was returned to my family homeland in Middle Anglia, to the days of my infancy when my kin would gather with all those who lived and worked on our estate to celebrate the ancient festivals of midsummer and yule, of the harvest time, and of the spring goddess Eostra – she of the shining dawn. I almost felt that I sat once more upon my father’s shoulders to look out across our fields and see the priests of the old faith clad in bright flowing robes, performing rituals to the sun and to the spirits of nature who would bring fertility to our soil. Sometimes the villagers would dress in strange costumes to enact mock battles, where they drove back into the outer darkness a villainous masked figure clad in black who was the symbol of cruel winter, whose appearance would always thrill and delight me. In my childish innocence these had seemed like events of wonder and joy, of feasting and singing, dancing and laughter: a magical joining together of everyone in our community. I could not deny they were happy memories. It was soon after this that the Christian monks came – first Irish and then Roman – to bring the light of Truth, and show us that in our simplicity we had all been as children who had not understood the true meaning of religion and life.

As I stared up at the crow I felt Aelfric’s eyes upon me, and then I saw him grin with mischievous amusement.

‘It seems,’ he said, ‘that Christians are so eager to abandon the old beliefs, but the old ways are not yet ready to abandon them.’

At once I felt foolish and ashamed. I glanced back over my shoulder at the hanging corpse to reassure myself firmly it was only a man and all that had seemed uncanny about it was simply in my own mind. Then I went quickly onward.

At last we approached the place called Meretun. In keeping with its name – the village by the mere – it stood close to a wide stretch of water, and was large by the standards of a Fenland settlement, although it would not have been considered so in any other land. Aelfric began to call out as we drew near, to announce our presence and avoid causing alarm, and soon a band of men gathered at the village entrance to meet us. On the outskirts we passed by a rough wooden shrine, old and weather-beaten, which housed a vividly carved idol of the pagan god Thunor, who sat growling at us as he clutched to his breast his great war hammer. As we entered the men exchanged greetings of friendly familiarity with Aelfric, who asked them:

‘What news?’

‘A party of our men went out yesterday on a fowling expedition,’ answered one in a subdued tone. ‘They do not yet come back.’

Aelfric hissed between clenched teeth, then said:

‘We have come here from the Crowland, where last night there was a new attack.’

‘Ahh!’ the other man’s face assumed a look of horror. ‘This devil travels fast. He does not go on human feet.’

‘You cannot be sure of that, Gyrth,’ Aelfric said. ‘Your men may yet return. But I bring this man, who is called Brother Cadroc, sent by our ealdorman to combat with Christian magic this great evil which threatens us.’

All eyes were turned warily upon Cadroc and me, their disparate looks suddenly concentrated into one of single intensity. And I sensed then the great fear which hung like a miasma over this village, along with the clear impression that our arrival inspired them with little hope. It was Cadroc’s sworn duty to win over such people as these.

Aelfric now turned to me and pointed towards a building which stood on the far side of the village, the largest structure in the whole settlement.

‘I must go with Brother Cadroc to present him to the headman and village elders,’ he said. ‘You must go to the village hall, where we will eat and sleep tonight. We will join you later.’

I left them, but instead of going straight to the hall I began to wander about the village. I sought to reacquaint myself with the noises and smells of a human settlement, which had recently grown unfamiliar to me. I walked beyond the village centre to where women worked at the looms in the weavinghouse and men laboured with mallets and chisels to cut wood to turn and shape on their lathes. Then I came to a cluster of small dwellings where the air was thick with smoke and the rich odours of cooking. Wives peered out at me through open doors as they crouched over their steaming cauldrons in the shadows, and muddy children froze in the midst of their noisy games to gape at me as I went past. Finally I came upon a small crowd of people who stood gathered outside an isolated hut. Others were now deserting their occupations to hurry over and join them, and becoming curious I went and stood among them to see what was happening there. Standing inside I saw a man of most remarkable appearance. Tall and spare, his features sharp and somehow striking, he wore a long grey cloak over a robe of dark blue into which there were embroidered tufts of fur from different animals and patterns made from many small pieces of jewel-like crystal which glittered and sparkled as he moved. He held a staff that was almost as tall as he was. It was made out of gnarled elm and carved into a thick knob at the top and decorated along the sides with strips of polished brass that were marked their entire length with elaborate runic symbols. Yet he seemed to handle this cumbersome object with great ease and dexterity. On the floor near to his feet lay a wide-brimmed hat adorned with raven feathers, and I knew this to signify that he was an adept of Woden, the pagan god of sorcery and of the Brotherhood of Shamans. This man was a heathen wizard. Such people were reckoned among those of the old faith to be skilful healers, and at present it was clear he was in the midst of a healing ritual.

Before him an injured man lay upon a rug spread across the floor. His forearm was stretched out to expose a deep, ugly gash which was bleeding badly. A strip of cloth had been tied tightly about his upper arm to restrict the flow of blood, and the man lay still and seemed to be overcome with shock. A fire burned in the hearth, and thick smoke filled the interior of the bare hut. As the shaman leaned over the man his arms were outstretched and his cloak swished about him in the growing swirls of smoke, which weaved their drifting patterns into the darkness while he appeared in their midst to become a figure of awesome and almost superhuman power. He was uttering incantations in a tone that was intense and utterly commanding.

‘I entreat the great ones, keepers of the heavens,

Earth I ask, and sky, and the gods’ high hall,

And the fair holy goddess, to grant this gift of healing.’

As he chanted the air itself was thick with the sense of something deep and powerful; and the wounded man seemed to be sinking into a state that was like sleep, except that his eyes remained open; yet they appeared blank and unseeing, and it occurred to me now that the shaman must have cast some kind of enchantment over him. As I glanced at those crowded about me it appeared they too were caught in the shaman’s spell, gazing motionless and nearly trance-like at the proceedings until it began to feel as if their minds were almost joined together in a state of collective awareness. At once it came to me that it was not proper for a Christian monk to attend and be a witness to these things within a pagan place of worship, and I tried to turn and depart. But more of the villagers had now come to stand behind me and I found myself caught up in the press of the crowd. And in truth I felt a sudden sense of curiosity at what I was observing. Now the shaman spoke to the spellbound man.

‘Beorna, son of Leofric, a spirit of sickness would enter into you, and all here must join together to cast it out.’ He brought his hand to rest very close to the sick man’s face, his fingers moving in slow and undulating motions, and the man’s eyes fell shut as the shaman began to intone another charm.

‘Spirits of Air will carry you,

Upon the falcon’s wing,

Under the eagle’s claw,

To the sky god’s realm,

Where pain is no more,

And the body forgotten.

Let your soul bathe there in light,

Until this work is done.’

Now his breathing began to rise and fall in perfect time with that of the injured man, creating the strong sense of a visible link between them as together they appeared to sink deeper into a state of entrancement.

Suddenly the shaman cast away his staff and fell to his knees, reaching out to clamp his hand about the man’s wrist, and he seemed then to become locked in a great inward struggle as his breathing came in shuddering gasps and sweat broke from his brow. He muttered more incantations deep in his throat, his voice at first a growl I could barely understand, and his eyes grew unfocused as his tone rose louder and clearer.

‘I summon you, venomous one,

I call you out from blood, flesh and bone.

Shrivel like kindling on the hearth,

Shrink like water in the pail,

Fade like dung upon the earth.

I cast you beyond,

Out into the darkness,

Out into the death-lands,

To the place of your exile.’

I was becoming alarmed by the sheer intensity of these things when suddenly the eyes of the afflicted man opened and appeared to change. From within their blankness there emerged an expression of wild alertness as they darted from side to side, while his body began to shiver violently. Yet his state did not seem like a natural one but rather a condition of fevered delirium as his breath rose and fell in harsh gulps, and then he rasped out in a tone that sounded full of dread. His words were incomprehensible, but his voice seemed incredibly to pass into and then emerge clearly out of the mouth of the shaman himself.

‘I see it! The darkness is before me… its image rises like a shadow… dimly reflected… in the eyes of another!’ As the shaman cried out these words his own features twisted sharply. I felt fear spread palpably into the crowd about me. But also I felt it within myself, growing like a contagion, as at once it seemed that these words came from somewhere beyond both the sick man and the shaman – that something terrible and unnatural had begun to happen, and the situation was fast spiralling out of control. Sensing this, the shaman fought to regain command and increased his efforts, seizing the groaning man’s head with both hands. ‘Be at peace!’ he demanded. ‘What would invade your body is tormenting your mind. Cast it from within you and be at peace. I order you, unclean spirit, to be gone!’

The struggle went on, fearful in its escalating intensity, while I could feel those around me swaying and jerking with every motion the shaman made. Then I felt myself moving with them, all of us drawn in by what we were witnessing until it felt as if all our bodies moved as one. The sick man had fallen back into his trance, and finally the shaman raised his head, his eyes rolling, his body soaked with sweat as he pulled his hand free and thrust it out, gesturing up into the gloom overhead.

‘See!’ he called. ‘The corruption is cast out. It has fled!’

All of us looked upward in a single movement, and those around me gasped out, as if they saw something in the shadows about the rafters. At first I saw nothing, but as I looked harder it seemed I began to discern there a vague shape which was like a cloud of pure black vapour that found form against the lesser darkness, beginning to swirl and spread like blood spilt into water. I stood overcome by what I supposed I saw, and my heart grew cold. Then my eyes closed as if I sought involuntarily to shut out the sight of it. But this gave me no escape as I seemed to feel the nebulous image enter into my head, as if it came to invade my inner senses. And still, in my mind’s eye, those threads of darkness twisted before me until I saw at last that they grew paler, then became as clouds of steam that drifted into the night air. From beyond them there came a sound of faint growling breaths that rose and fell, as at once my inward sight found clarity and I watched it approach – the shadow-shrouded thing from out on the fen. And in a single chilling instant I understood that the memory of it was rising within me.

Still I could not see its face, but as it drew closer I began to make out its form, huge and distorted as it loomed over me, brutish and utterly horrible, with long hair that straggled from what looked like the outline of a grossly misshapen head. I knew then with certainty that it could be nothing human. It was all that my darkest imaginings might suppose to be monstrous. And within moments I knew the full horror of it would be revealed to me – a sight I could not bear to face.

I gave a small gasp as my eyes burst open, and the image was dispelled. But even as this happened the glazed eyes of the shaman found instant sharpness and focus as his head jerked upward and his gaze met mine with a piercing intensity. I felt a great tremor of shock pass through me with the sensing of some deep and instantaneous connection between us. Vaguely I watched him return to the motionless form before him, but now I looked upon his actions only distantly, for my mind was left shaken and numb.

I looked back at the stricken man’s wound, as the shaman went over to the hearth, snatching something from out of the fire, and I saw then it was a bone-handled knife, the metal blade burning hot as he held it up before us, waving it in slow circular motions while he called out: