The View From the Cart (23 page)

I was asleep when he returned, despite noises coming from above me. I had half-expected the surviving women to come running past me, escaping from their burning home, but it seemed that they had chosen to stay and make what restorations they could. Where, after all, could they go? Long ago cast out from the surrounding land, they would meet harsh fates if they tried to rejoin the towns and villages beyond. From one moment to the next, they changed from women of great power and insight to pathetic remnants of an old way of life that could not continue in the new world. It seemed a pity to me that there could not be space for both patterns of living, but that was not to be. Cuthman's God wanted to be the only inhabitant of Heaven. Didn't He insist, through the commandments of His son, that mankind abandon all other gods? It seemed greedy to me, and dangerous. However magnificent He might be, it was plain that He could not satisfy every human need. But such thoughts would madden my son, if he ever heard them, and I closed my eyes and mind to them, drifting into a restless sleep.

At first light, I saw my cart again. It stood crookedly on a slope, seeming dirtier and smaller than I remembered. The wheel was caked with fresh mud, and there were white splashes of bird droppings all over the handles. A greenish mould had begun to creep across the sides, which made the wood look soft and rotten. When I looked inside, there was my little bag of runestones and my shawl, frozen into a rigid shape, not by frost but rain and neglect fixing it just as I had left it. It had gone grey and thin, and would be of little use in warming me now.

We set off, silent and numb from our experiences on the hill. Pictures came and went in my mind, but I had nothing I wanted to say. We had lost our momentum, and Cuthman seemed to have forgotten his purpose. We moved eastwards at first, and then slowly veered to the north. What did it matter? We might just as easily find whatever it was he sought in that direction as any other. We had to relearn how to travel, and it was to take us several days.

We passed three nights in the vicinity of Durnovaria, discovering how important a place it had been in Roman times. Three ruined villas came at close intervals, and we actually slept in one of them, which still had a stout stone wall against which we could rest. On the floor was an intricate mosaic design, lightly covered with black soil, but easily revealed when I crawled across it, brushing it clean. It was a strange pattern, with loops and twists and a three-ply braid, all perfectly executed in tesserae. It pleased me very much, giving me a sense of rest. It had been the floor of a great room, I supposed, where men had gathered to talk and eat and share their ideas. They had lived well, with everything people could need for a life of luxury. The floor design suggested to me a sense of completeness. The patterns led nowhere, just endlessly back to the start. I traced them with my fingers, the red and yellow threads easy to follow. I fell into something close to a trance, seeing the perfect life as somehow represented by this luxurious ornamentation. No end or beginning, but merely a continuous weaving of beauty and symmetry.

There were people close by, but they did not seem interested in us. The town had a relaxed atmosphere, with prominent Christian churches, built of stout timber on many high points, and a large market square where people assembled. We could have started conversations, or begged for alms, but we were still too numb and uncertain. Cuthman gathered a few discarded turnips and cabbage leaves from a rubbish heap, and we did not go hungry. Outside the city, there was a lot of work going on. The ground was being tilled, and twice we saw teams of men building large new houses. One young boy threw a rock at us, calling ‘Strangers!' as a term of abuse. I think we both felt we deserved the hostility. We had nothing to bring these people, but we were so lost in those three days that we could not manage to leave it behind.

At last we set off on a straighter course, moving north along a track between sharp hills. It was as if Cuthman had picked up a direction from outside himself, like a dog sniffing out the scent of his master. It was not an easy walk for the cart, and I could hear the boy panting after one steep stretch. ‘Let me walk a little,' I said. ‘I can do it for a while.'

‘No!' he grunted. ‘I must push the cart in any case. Better if you be in it.'

There was scant sense in that, of course, but it was his penance to push me, and I would spoil it if I walked. A new idea nudged at me. I was a prisoner in my cart, not because of my injured back, but because Cuthman needed me helpless for his own purposes. I had a vision of the future, endless years of roaming the land like this, always hungry, mostly cold and stiff, a figure of mockery. I had known a few days without the cart, and had relearned the use of my legs. I had spoken with Gunda and others and begun to think in ways I never had before. I had seen women who lived without men, and who had plenty to eat and their own ways of doing things. In spite of what had happened to them, I repeatedly recalled the serenity of Enthia, and the passion of the singing and dancing and storytelling in those night-time meetings. And because I knew how angry Cuthman would be if he became aware of my thoughts, I remained almost totally silent throughout those wandering days.

Without warning, we came to a settlement quite different from any other we had yet seen. A quick sparkling river ran through it, and close by was a large Abbey, with many buildings in its well-kept grounds. Monks strolled about, or dug a large garden. There was a wall around it, but wide gates stood open, with geese and sheep roaming free. The village people had sturdy houses strung along two short streets, and women collected water from the river, or sat with their children enjoying the mild day. It was the week of the equinox now, and the breath of spring was vivid in the air. We had passed clusters of blue flowers along the way, and buds were swelling on all the trees and shrubs. I sat up straighter in my barrow, and gazed around at the peaceful scene.

Two monks approached us. ‘What is this place?' Cuthman asked.

‘The Abbey of St Augustine,' came the reply. ‘A place chosen by God.' They looked intently at me and my carriage. ‘It appears that you are in need of rest,' one said directly to me.

‘And your barrow might welcome a scrubbing brush,' smiled the other. The bird droppings were mostly gone, but the cart was badly stained from that and other things.

‘Such a remote place,' Cuthman commented, looking around. He seemed unsatisfied, with some notion that there was need for more explanation. The monk's reply to his first question had not been enough for him. He worked his shoulders, loosening them after the long hard journey we had made that day. There was a pent-up mood in him, which I had seen before when we escaped from the fortress.

‘Leave me, and go for a look,' I suggested, forgetting for a moment what had happened to me the last time I had been alone with a monk. ‘You need some time alone.'

Rather to my surprise, he nodded. With a gesture to the monks, to indicate that he would entrust me to them for a short while, he began to walk away, heading north as if knowing precisely his goal. The monks watched him for a moment, and then one said, ‘He seems to know what's there.'

Sensing a mystery, I demanded, ‘What will he find?'

‘The Giant,' came the ready reply. ‘And the sacred spring.'

‘Will he be safe?'

They laughed gently at that. ‘Quite safe,' they assured me. ‘We have long ago come to terms with our heathen friend. He takes care of all the parts which we prefer to ignore.' They laughed again.

‘He will explain it to you, when he returns,' said one. I had been careful not to inspect them too closely, as I remembered I should be wary of monks and their responses, after my experience at Exeter, and had not even tried to distinguish one from the other. But these seemed very different from that alarming man and I did not feel unsafe with them.

‘Or perhaps he will take you to see for yourself, since it is not a thing easily spoken of. But for now, my dear, come with us and permit us to make you comfortable.'

The larger one took up the cart and wheeled me into a courtyard. Women were summoned, and I was taken to be washed and dressed in fresh clothes, which came as a very great relief. I hugged the rich thick woollen stuff to me, and made a loud show of my gratitude. I had not known how cold I had been until I felt warm again.

Cuthman was pale and thoughtful when we were again reunited. ‘Did you find the Giant?' I asked him.

He raised his brows. ‘What do you know of it?'

‘Nothing. Just that there is a Giant here. Did you speak to him?'

He gave a short laugh at that. ‘He would not hear me if I did. He is an old Giant, long gone deaf.'

‘Might I see him?'

Cuthman shrugged. ‘In the morning, we can pass that way. He is a curiosity, nothing more.'

‘You are wrong, my son,' came a voice at the door. A different monk stood there. From the quality of his robe and the authority in his eye, I guessed he might be the Abbot himself. Cuthman turned quickly, defiance in his manner.

‘The Giant is the spirit of this place,' the man continued. ‘Could you not feel it? We have long had exchanges with him, foolishly fighting with him and his followers. But now we can live alongside him, in peace. The people here insist that we keep him clean and clear on his hill, and so long as we do, all is well with us.'

‘I cannot think that this is God's will,' Cuthman intoned, his disapproval quite plain.

‘We think otherwise,' countered the Abbot. ‘The Giant takes nothing from the loving God whom we worship here.'

Cuthman shook his head, and then turned to me. ‘We leave at first light,' he said. ‘This place is not for us.'

I said nothing, but was impatient to see this Giant, who sounded to me to be a demonstration of the thoughts I had entertained over recent weeks. How different religions should manage to exist together, without conflict; how the truly understanding aspects of the Christian God could allow other ways of worshipping, without punishment and struggle. In my wonderful new garments, I slept deeply, warm and full and grateful.

I did not wish to leave the Abbey next day, and had difficulty expressing my gratitude to the kind men and women living there. Once again at odds with Cuthman, I was reluctant to spend another long day with no-one but him for company. But I had no free choice, and my cart had been brushed and rubbed clean, and a new layer of linen rags put down for me, so that it was very much more comfortable than in recent times.

The Giant at first seemed to be nothing more than some primitive scratchings on a hillside. We paused on a grassy mound, at the foot of his hill, and gazed across at him. The day – and my defective eyesight - was misty, but as I stared, the air cleared a little, and I began to understand what I was seeing. There were other hills we had passed with figures drawn on them, most of them only faintly seen now - horses and faces, from ancient times - but this one was complete and as clear as if it was new-made. The full figure of the god, with an old wise face, and a great cudgel in his hand, seemed to walk the landscape with free swinging steps. He had his male member erect and proud, but he had big round nipples, too, as if to show he could be everything to the little beings which scuttled at the foot of his hill. Again and again my gaze returned to his face, which was open like no face I had ever seen. A face for absorbing all our petty worries and passions; a face to tell us there was nothing shocking, nothing to regret or feel ashamed for. A childlike face, eyes wide, mouth closed, and hairless like a new baby. But he had his club at the ready, to sweep away anyone foolish enough to challenge him. I felt I had been noticed by him, and given his approval. I felt awe and love and reassurance.

‘Come then,' said Cuthman. ‘You have seen the Cerne Giant. Much good may he do you.'

‘Much good indeed,' I replied, but quietly, so he did not need to hear me. And quieter yet, I whispered, ‘There stands a true God.'

We journeyed on, the cart every day more rickety and uncomfortable; demanding that we proceed carefully, travelling only short distances each day. We spent weeks in the great forest that covers much of the southern part of Wessex, watching spring turn so enchantedly to early summer. The new leaves of beech and oak begin so soft and new, like the folded fingers of a tiny child, until there comes a sunny morning when everything is green, pretending it has always been so. We praised heaven, each in our own way, for allowing us to recover from the long hungry winter. The great thing that happened at that time - really, the only thing I can now remember - was finding Hal.

One noon, in the shade of the forest, we were bumping along a rough track, pocked with hoofprints and baked hard after many dry days, when we heard far-off sounds of men's voices.

Having little reason to fear them, we continued on our way, listening to the sounds coming closer. Finally they were in sight, a group of six or eight men, in a state of great excitement. They were laughing and pushing at each other, using profane language and stinking of ale. They held bloodied spears and clubs, and carried a dead hind slung on a pole. With them were two boys, one about Cuthman's age, and one much younger. I was very taken with the small one, a thin child with great ears and wide nervous eyes. He was smiling fixedly, and whipping at plants with a stick as they passed, but I could easily see that it was a brave show from a tired frightened little lad. Even when he saw us, the smile did not change. But his eyes flickered to one of the men, and then to me and I thought he might be glad of a woman's presence if only for a few moments.

The men were slow to notice us, but when they did, the guffaws grew louder. Cuthman steered the cart aside, to permit them to pass, and stood patiently out of their way, but even so they jostled us. One of them, with a great black beard and his chest bare, made the coarsest of remarks about me, which stabbed through me like an arrow. His fellows roared with laughter, the deliberate rudeness heightened by their care not to look directly at us. I stared hard at them, each face in turn, turning round to do so as they strode past us. Only the little boy looked back, his eyes meeting mine. Cuthman stood rigid, struggling with his need to remonstrate with them and his knowledge that they would likely kill him if he made any move.