The View From the Cart (29 page)

But with the setting of the sun, the mood changed. The cooked meats were passed round again, this time with brimming jugs of ale, and strange cakes which when I tasted one reminded me of the herbs my mother used for headaches. My isolation was deliberately compounded when three women took hold of me, and propelled me to a point well away from the Pole and Cuthman. Then, at a yodelling cry from the witch, four men with firebrands ran to the circle and set light to all the little bonfires, sending up smoke and flames. Rapidly, a line of girls formed, and one by one they ran and leaped over each fire, screaming as they did so, their clothes now and then catching in the flames, so the sense of danger was real. Lads clapped encouragement, and as each maid finished her ordeal, a boy would run to her, seize her hand and set off at a dash into the woodland beyond. This, I realised, was closer to the Beltane Eve that I remembered. But even when the youngfolk had all gone a good-sized crowd remained.

‘Now to the Jack!' cried the witch, still in control of events. Strong men untied the retaining rope, and lowered Cuthman in his cage into waiting arms. Then they set it a little way from the Pole, and, using pitchforks, tossed burning bundles from the bonfires up against it, a team of them bringing great quantities of fresh fuel for the flames, which they piled skilfully for the best conflagration.

I screamed then, more afraid than I had ever been in my life. The osiers began to catch, and smoke to rise. I imagined my boy cooking inside his cage, or stifling to death on the smoke. I dashed forward, faster than I thought possible, kicking and scratching at the people all around, but they almost casually restrained me, holding me back, a gleam of bloodlust in their eyes, teeth set with the solemnity of their ritual. This was something important to them, which they felt compelled to do, and the fact that Cuthman and I were unknown strangers made it possible for them to carry out their intentions. Indeed, even I could see that there had been an inevitability to it all along, from the moment Cuthman arrived, pushing me in my cart. That had made it easy for the people. Their witch had told them we would arrive on the appointed day, and when we did, the rest was ordained.

But this was not Cuthman's plan. He had not walked for months, almost starving, forcing himself onward, enduring ordeals and humiliations for this. Holding myself in check, hating and fearing the murderers who had rejected all the gentle teachings of Christ, I turned my thoughts to the Good Lord above, who I knew was the whole object of my son's attention in those fiery moments.

The end came with considerable drama. A high boy's voice called, ‘Quickly! There! Oh, hurry, or he'll burn.'

‘Hal!' My voice was a croak of hope and disbelief.

Like a small warrior coming to the rescue of his King, the child ran forward. Behind him followed a large group of monks, robes flapping and horror on their faces. The witch flew out to meet them, barring their progress with outstretched arms. She was a daunting sight, her eyes flashing and the frenzy of the ritual upon her.

‘We forbid this,' cried the foremost monk. ‘You know full well that killing shall not be tolerated. If this continues, you will all be arraigned for murder.'

‘
All
of us?' she scoffed, flinging her arms to indicate the crowd. ‘I think not.'

‘We know the ringleaders,' the monk persisted. ‘Now, release that man.' All heads turned to Cuthman then, where his basket was surrounded by fire, licking upwards, and no doubt growing unbearable inside. No sound came from him. Some of the monks began to trot towards it, somewhat tentatively, clearly wondering how to effect the rescue without damage to themselves.

‘It is the will of the whole settlement that this sacrifice be properly conducted,' announced the witch, her voice calm and cold. ‘There is no place for your God and his soft ways here. We are beyond your laws, and will always be.'

‘Woman, you are in serious error,' the monk maintained. ‘The law of this land forbids such heathen practice, and well you know it. Numbers cannot save you. This is murder, a crime against God and man alike.'

‘Enough debating,' I cried, then. ‘Save my son. Oh, heaven and earth, Oh, sweet Jesus, save him.'

And heaven and earth between them heard my words. While I waited in vain for Hal or the monks to brave the flames, or for the witch to be persuaded of her crime, a greater force took charge. From the clear sky, where the rising moon hovered and a few early stars shone forth, there came a drenching rain, a waterfall, a cascade, which quenched the flames in moments. The hissing protests from fire and heathen alike were almost comical to hear. The effortless rescue, performed by Cuthman's ever-watchful God, was too astonishing for utterance. People stared into each other's faces, mouths open, arms limp by their sides, their hair soaked and clothes dripping. The May flowers drooped and the proud Pole was just a tree, doomed to die and become fuel for fires itself.

The wicker cage began to roll and shake as Cuthman tore at it. Hal ran forward to help, crowing his triumph. Smudged from the smoke, but otherwise unburned, my son crawled forth, as a chick frees itself from the egg.

Gathering her cape around her, head held high, the witch spoke. ‘The Goddess has chosen to release the sacrifice,' she claimed. ‘The rain comes from her, and nowhere else. See, the shower is ended again. Go free, stranger, and think deeply on how you spend your life. It may be that you are Christ's creature - who can say? But I counsel you to take care how you think and speak of the Goddess.'

‘Silence, woman,' the monk ordered. ‘We have seen a miracle here this night. A miracle from the Great Good Lord, when this woman cried to Him for help. Never doubt the truth of that. You, too, have been saved. If this lad had been killed by you, the next death would have been yours - hanged from a scaffold in the market square. The King and his bishops have laws against the likes of you. Be sure that we will watch you more closely from now on.'

‘Come, Mother. Come, Hal.' Cuthman spoke for the first time, quiet and composed. ‘We will find a place to sleep, and in the morning we shall leave this place.' He looked towards the monks. ‘My thanks, kind sirs, for your intentions. May you prevail in the struggle that is yet to come in this place.'

We turned away then, the ground wet beneath our feet. Even Hal was silent, as we walked, thinking no doubt of the long strange day we had just endured.

Cuthman fetched my cart from the witch's clearing next morning, fearless and confident. It seemed to me that he quite hoped for some confrontation, so that he could dominate the heathen people and reinforce the power of his God. Alone together, Hal and I quietly talked.

‘Where did you go for the afternoon?' I asked him.

‘Oh, here and there. Some boys showed me the fort, and the wharves. We played ducks and drakes on the water, and then I got into conversation with the monks.'

‘Is their monastery close by?'

‘It has fallen on evil times. Many years ago, it was a large and thriving place, but there was a sickness and the monks died, so they left it empty. These men are from a further place. They knew of the Jack in the Green festival, and came to keep watch. But they were promised that no harm would be done, so they gathered for a good mid-day meal, and left the people alone. But when I told them how the witch had foretold our coming, they woke up, and decided they might be needed after all. It took them a long time.' He sighed, I suppose remembering the well fed monks' reluctance to make the long walk back to the field.

I shuddered when I thought of my poor lad, being burned alive. Already, only the next day, I could scarcely believe what had happened - or nearly happened. The Beltane festival was an ancient practice, and I had my own fond memories of it. It struck me as wilfully mischievous of these people to make it an occasion for murder. Sacrificing a living man for their own wellbeing in time to come was not a thing I regarded as justifiable in any way.

‘They are wicked, these people,' Hal stated, with conviction. ‘The monks said so. And Cuthman must feel it so, now. They need to hear the word of God.'

‘Aye,' I agreed, absently. My back was sore, and the morning was drizzly and cold. I understood nothing; knew no-one but these two boys; had no image of my own future. To say my spirits were low would be a shadow of the truth. Talk of wickedness and God failed utterly to stimulate me.

When Cuthman reappeared, he evidently had quite another view of the day, and the days to come. Smiling broadly, he jogged along behind the poor battered old cart, bumping it over the tussocks and making it swing. ‘What makes him so jolly?' I grumbled.

‘I dare say he's glad to be alive,' Hal murmured, a remark so wise and dry I found a smile twitching at my own lips. Hal was a very dear child, his eyes clear and blue, and his heart braver than we knew. He never allowed loneliness to trouble him, but formed friendships where he could, and made sure to understand all that transpired.

‘Did you see anybody?' Hal asked.

Cuthman shook his head. ‘Hiding, I reckon. Ashamed to show their faces.'

I said nothing, but had difficulty imagining that imperious woman ever feeling shame. Anger, more likely, at the thwarting of her festival. And perhaps a headache from the ale she drank, and the long day of dancing and proclaiming. ‘Your prayers were my salvation, Mother,' Cuthman told me, as he lifted me gently into the cart. ‘I should have burned, if you had not cried to the Saviour as you did.'

‘Not so,' I protested. The thought of such power horrified me. ‘You are the holy one, my son. Surely you prayed, too?'

‘Prayers of childish fear,' he admitted, his cheeks flushing. ‘I had no thought but for my own rescue.'

‘Yet you never screamed, or cried out at all. I imagined you in prayer, certain that all would be well.'

‘It was you, Mother. You called for me to be saved, and I was.'

I remembered my rune, then.
Radical disruption
.
Hail.
I had disrupted the progress of the ceremony, and perhaps the lives of the people here, if Cuthman's words were true. Yet I did not fully believe him. God had saved him for a purpose. His destiny was the ground we stood on, the breath we took. All three of us trusted completely that Cuthman was marked out by God. My pleas for his life would only have echoed God's own intention. No, I told myself, I had done nothing. The rune was false. A silly toy.

‘We must give thanks, now,' Cuthman went on, his tone growing more serious. The drizzle had flattened his strong brown hair and made his shoulders damp. I had seen the reddened skin, chafed by the straps he wore, rubbed into ridges by this time. His body was changing in this penitential journey we were making. Perhaps he would never lose the marks or the strains. He stood back from setting me in the cart and looked at Hal. ‘I think we must leave something of ourselves here, so that this place can learn Godliness.'

Fear struck through me, and I caught Hal's eye. He understood already what was to come, but said nothing.

Cuthman was not slow to clarify his meaning. ‘Hal should remain here, with the monks.'

‘Oh, no,' I gasped. ‘He is like my own child now.'

‘He will go to Chidham, and he will be a great man,' Cuthman insisted. ‘We cannot interrupt his destiny.'

‘Chidham?'

‘The new monastery, two or three days' walk east of here,' Hal whispered. ‘They told me of it.'

‘And would you go there to live?' The prospect of parting from the sweet child brought me an agony of sorrow. He had accepted my mothering so gladly, creeping into my arms and permitting me to wash and chide him. He looked at me with those full blue eyes, the light shining in them, and nodded. A rage against men and their foolishness gripped me. Their God was my enemy then, who made such cruel demands, who reigned over all we did, so all we knew was helplessness and misery. I had prayed for Cuthman's life, only to be punished by losing my little helpmate. I clamped my teeth together, to hold in the tears and the raging words.

‘They will revere you,' Cuthman assured the child. ‘In good time, you will be their Lord Abbot, with power beyond your imagining now. Thanks to you, they have witnessed a miracle. Keep my name before them and follow your heart. You have a splendid future, young Hal.' To me, he turned with a very straight look. ‘It will not be immediate, Mother. We have the child with us a few days yet.'

We set off then, facing the rising sun, following the coast as best we could. There were swamps and inlets, great lakes covered with flocks of white seabirds. We became accustomed to the sight of the sea, glinting its blues and greys. Three times we crossed wooden bridges over rivers flowing down to the great sea. I was afraid, clinging tightly to my cart, fearing the boards would crack and pitch me helplessly into the rushing water. Cuthman and Hal laughed at me, although the timbers were old and mossy, and my fear seemed well enough founded to me.

It took us a sennight to find the monastery, asking of travellers now and then, skirting marshes and then on the last day finding ourselves too far to the east, on the threshhold of a great Roman palace inhabited by a large group of sad-eyed people who told us a tale of fierce fighting to the north which had forced them from their native lands. A shepherd turned us back the way we'd come, pointing southwards over flat windy plains to where a smoky cluster of woodland stood. ‘That's your way,' he said, blinking a little at the sight of me in my barrow.

Hal and I were sweet together in that last week, snuggling at night as before, and telling each other riddles as we travelled. I would not permit myself to think of our separation. Perhaps the monastery would be deserted, or they would refuse to take him. Perhaps we would never find it, or Cuthman would dislike the men there. I made what pleasure I could from the moment, and assured myself that I would see my little friend again, come what may.