The View From the Cart (5 page)

‘Do it quick, Da,' pleaded Wynn, who stood beside her charge's head, tears flowing down her face, her nose disgusting. The cow glanced sideways at her, and stopped chewing. Something of the atmosphere was at last affecting her.

‘Hold her, then,' said Edd. Both the children crowded closer; nothing held the huge beast but the halter strap and her own meek obedience. Edd sliced the knife, as deep and hard as he could across her soft throat, sweeping it sideways to catch her great blood vessel, which we had all watched pulsing as we smoothed and babied her over the years. She gurgled and choked, her eyes bulging wild and horrified. She stood for a long moment, trying to cry out but unable to catch the air for it. She died slowly, sinking onto her knees, bleeding in great spurts into the bowl I held to her neck, but choking to death before she lost her life blood.

Finally it was over, and she lay on her side, empty and still. Wynn sobbed, quietly, and the rest of us wiped away the wet from our faces. Even Cuthman was sniffing and shocked. But there was great work yet to do. The blood put away for the black pudding I would make; the butchering which would take Edd until nightfall and beyond.

We kept her heart back. The next morning we buried it, with some prayers and songs of thanks to the cow for the gift of her life. We never had a calf again, although Edd often spoke of doing so. Wynn said she heard her heifer outside, calling her, for months afterwards. But she ate the meat with relish, and never once even hinted that she would have had it otherwise. It was the way of things, and it disturbed me now and then that my children so utterly understood the need for death so that we might live.

Other large happenings come to mind from those early years on the Moor. Edd had two brothers in the village, and two more had moved away when they grew to manhood. Wilf, the eldest of the family, had five sons and acted his part as a man of substance with loud talk and a ready fist. I had avoided him from my girlhood and saw no reason to change on my infrequent visits to the settlement. When with him, Edd seemed to shrink and become a frightened young lad.

The other was as different as could be. Bran had an uncommon soul, full of music and dreams. When the mood was on him, he would gather all the people to a great storytelling, which continued a whole night and into the next day.

Spenna came across the river and over the rising hillside one day between Lammas and Samhain, to tell us that Bran would speak the next night, and it would be a treat for the little ones if we would go and hear him. So we penned up the sheep, threw extra meat to the dogs and set out for the village. Cuthie would have been between his third and fourth birth day at the time, and I was able to walk the distance, though slowly. The day had dawned misty, but mild, and we took baskets to gather the mushrooms and fruits as we went. The season of bounty, which carried with it only the slightest breath of worry about the coming winter. Time enough to gather what we would need, to fatten the beasts and weave warm woollen coverings. The season was one of merrymaking, giving thanks for the harvest and savouring the deep blue skies.

We reached the great hall as the people were seating themselves. Fires were blazing at both ends and children running wildly up and down, tossing hips and haws at each other. Their mothers gossiped comfortably and I looked about for familiar faces. Edd and I were outsiders from choice. When we had first come together, we had recognised that element each in the other. The high moors called us, away from human voices and battles. The village was crowded and busy at that time, with a festival every full moon, as well as songs and dances and dream-telling between times. We had turned away from the noise and hustle of it all, and had no regrets, but it was a joy just the same to be part of such a night as this.

Spenna saw me and waved. There was a space close by her. ‘There,' I said to Edd, nudging him with my elbow. ‘We can sit there.' He hesitated at the sight of my friend, sighed and then followed me. Cuthie had been drowsy as we walked, but now he revived and began to show an inclination to join the other children. Wynn was more reluctant, and I saw for the first time what we were making of her - an outcast like ourselves, but with no choice of her own in the matter.

‘You can go and play for a while,' I said to her. ‘The stories won't begin yet.' She hung closer to me at that, one shoulder attached to my hip as if by tight thongs, a thumb in her mouth, acting like a much younger child. Wordlessly, she shook her head. Cuthie was very different. After a careful inspection of the crowded smoky stone-built hall, he trotted purposefully towards a group of boys much his own age.

‘Watch him,' I warned Edd. ‘Or he'll be lost.' Edd just nodded, and cracked another cobnut between his teeth.

Some men were standing in a group, arms folded, waiting. One called over his shoulder, ‘Be 'ee coming, Bran? Or be it all merely a great prank?' I couldn't see whether Bran was really there behind him. But a drummer came in, and began to beat a rhythm which silenced us all. Then a piper played, and we knew from the tune that Bran was going to tell us a tale about Geat. Edd gave a whoop of satisfaction.

‘‘Tis my favourite,' he grinned. ‘Geat and the three maidens.'

‘Could be Geat and his mother,' I argued. ‘That's the one I like best.'

Spenna leaned over, her black eyes sparkling. ‘‘Tis Geat and Mathild,' she hissed, as the hall fell silent. ‘Don't you hear the tune? The part where he sees her beneath the water.' The piper was playing the trilling liquid notes which conjured a river in my mind. I nodded at my friend. That was a fine story, and much longer than the one which told of Geat's struggle to be a harper, against his mother's wishes. I recalled the first time the village heard it, when a light-haired traveller came from the east, and stayed for five or six months, unfolding story after story, long and intricate, concerning Beowulf and Grendel and the tribe of Geats.

Edd settled himself on my other side, a bag of chaff underneath us both for padding. Wynn nestled in her father's lap, head lolled against his chest. It was plain she would hear little of the story. ‘Where's Cuthie?' I asked. ‘You're meant to be watching out for him.'

‘There he is,' Spenna pointed. I could see the little head with its curls amongst a crowd of others, all bigger than himself. They were scuffling for places at the front of the hall, close to where Bran would be for his storytelling. As I watched my son, I felt a swelling inside me, some premonition about his future, which would be wonderful. A picture came to me, of the young Christ sitting with his elders in the temple, having run away from his mother. Something of that same youthful intensity seemed to me to be in my lad. He held himself unmoving, watchful, his eyes fixed on something I couldn't see.

Bran came in wearing a long gown of green, running down to the end of the hall, the great fire casting shadows crazily across the whitewashed walls. He bowed to the drummer and piper, and whispered a few words to them. Then he lifted his head, standing tall, and threw wide his arms. ‘Good even, my friends!' he called. ‘Be sure you sit comfortably, for the tale tonight is a lengthy one.' His eye fell on Edd and me, then, and he gave us a wave. ‘I spy my young brother!' he cried. ‘Who honours us with his unaccustomed presence. Most particular greetings to thee.' The tone was sharp and Edd seemed to tighten at my side. He made no reply, but kept a steady eye on Bran. The storyteller dropped his gaze after a moment, only to have it fall on Cuthie. He stared at the child, long and hard. His likeness to Edd was enough to betray his parentage.

‘Nephew?' said Bran. ‘Grown already so bold and free? I trust you will enjoy the tale quietly and not start bleating for your dam before it's half told?'

Cuthie's face was invisible to me, but from his manner he appeared to enjoy the attention. He merely shook his head and clapped his hands together in a strangely adult gesture. Bran seemed startled and paid no more notice to the lad.

A barrel had been placed for Bran to use as a seat, and a space kept clear for his use. He sat now, very still, gathering himself for the performance to come. My insides fluttered, and the old pain in my back nudged at me. I looked at Spenna; she was chewing her lips, hands tightly clasped. The story was an exacting one, with its cycle of high hopes and disappointments.

‘Friends!' Bran cried, abruptly. ‘Hear now the story of Beowulf's young kinsman, Geat, named for the lost tribe that his forebears fought so hard for, and the troubles he had when he married, here in our own country. I shall not tell you of his boyhood, when he struggled to become a harper, helped by the Goddess and her sacred harp. I shall not tell you of his brother Hafoc and the shame he brought on the family. No! You may groan and plead, but I am decided. Tonight we must hear of the lovely wife he chose, and the foul river demon who loved her too.

‘Geat was harper to King Wulf and his queen, and greatly loved was he by all in the court. His skill at making songs was widely known, and many other kings wished to have him at their courts. He was invited to France and King Wulf was very much afraid that he would go. So he went to the Queen and consulted her on what they might do.

‘ “Fool!” she cried - though she did not really mean it. It was meant affectionately, you understand. But she said it once more. “Fool! The answer is plain. Geat is of an age to marry. We need only find him a sweet and loving young wife, and he will think no more of leaving us. If he must have a change of scene, then we can go to our summer palace after his wedding, and he can sing us all his most magical summer songs, made sweeter by his honeymoon.”

‘The king approved this idea. “Which girl is he to marry?” he asked, although he already had a fair idea of the answer.

‘ “Mathild, of course. She is too dear to me to be allowed to marry and go away to live elsewhere. Thus we solve all difficulties with one simple action. Only someone of my wisdom could so neatly weave together the threads of our lives. Is that not so?” '

Bran paused in his acting of the Queen's part and looked at his audience. ‘Mathild, you see, was the Queen's foster daughter. Her own beloved child, the Princess, had died of a fever, some years before, and Mathild had been taken from some folk living close by the river. She was a quiet shy girl, with the whitest skin and the greenest eyes, who could sing and weave and arrange flowers almost as well as the dead Princess had done. With so much love to spare, the Queen had cherished her with a passion.

‘So, the King called Geat to him and carefully presented the idea. The lad had no objections to the marriage. In fact he considered it a very fine proposal. Ever since he had encountered the Lady who gave him his harp, accompanied as she was by delightful hand-maidens, he had been awakened to the attractions of girls, and made uncomfortable by thinking about them. You all know what I mean. There comes a time for a lad when marriage cures an urgent itch - and this time had come for Geat.

‘The only worry for him was that he could not recall Mathild, out of the various young women who hung about the Queen. The court rules were strict enough that he had not dared to pay undue attention to any of these ladies. He had found it safer to cast his gaze away to the side during the evenings when he was waiting to play his harp to the gathered court. When playing his music, he generally closed his eyes, feeling for the notes and the words to his songs, without any outside distractions. But he trusted the King, and knew he would not marry him to anyone with disfigurements or evil tempers.

‘And he was not disappointed. The two young people were left alone in a corner of the Queen's garden, and invited to become acquainted. Geat was well satisfied with his betrothed, as she laughed at his humour and listened closely to his brief account of his early life. She was beautiful and healthy and showed every sign of eagerness for the marriage to be accomplished. They kissed, enjoying the taste each of the other, and smiled contentedly at the future they expected to share.

‘The wedding was promised for two moons hence. Meanwhile, the King would take Geat with him on a tour of his kingdom, while Mathild prepared herself for matrimony. The time passed, as time will, just too slowly to be comfortable for the young man. He thought of his white-skinned maiden, and her happy laughter, and put her into the songs he played for the lords and ladies they visited.

‘At last he returned. The King and Queen had ordered that the wedding be a great occasion, with Geat's parents as guests of honour and a great banquet of roasted meat of all kinds be prepared. Five days before the day of the wedding, Geat saw his betrothed again.'

Bran stopped speaking. The drummer began a soft beat, ominous and insistent. Someone threw fresh logs on the fire, and a few listeners snatched some bread or ale. I glanced at Wynn and saw that she had fallen asleep on Edd's warm lap. The air was filled with nervous excitement, as we all waited for the next part of the story. Bran had told the opening passages well, but had been restrained, painting the picture for us, but allowing us to fill in the detail for ourselves. The pale young girl was yet a mystery, the harper with his Goddess-given skills certain to encounter trouble before we got much further. I had been watching Cuthie since Bran began, and he had barely moved a muscle. It seemed uncanny to me in such a young child. Several of his companions had crawled back to their mothers, for food or entertainment, leaving him with two lads considerably older than himself. One was his cousin, Ruddoc, Bran's second son, who looked down at Cuthman now and then with affection, it seemed to me.

The drumbeat grew faster and louder, and then stopped, so that we heard its echo in our own heartbeats. Bran stood, and stared away at nothing, his mouth a little open.

‘What had happened? Running to meet his beloved, he stopped still as death when he came close enough to see her face. She had deep purple shadows under her eyes; her cheeks were sunken; her skin grey. Her light brown hair was unbrushed and looked as if she had dunked it in a foul ditch. It seemed to Geat that it could not be the same girl as his healthy happy Mathild. This one seemed near to dying of some dread disease. There was a faint smell of stagnant water about her - reminding him of the slimy edges of rivers where the water stands in the pocks made by cattle.