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
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
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