Authors: Brian Bates
‘I cannot tell you about the runes,’ I shouted. ‘I do not understand them. We are not allowed to work with them.’
In Mercia runes were now officially outlawed, though peasants still carved them on sticks and threw them as lotteries, foretelling the future. Brother Eappa knew how to read and write runic inscriptions, but they were forbidden to initiates in the scriptorium for they were sacrilegious.
‘All I know is that each runic character represents a sound, and beginning with each sound is a word of significance.’
Wulf nodded once in agreement, then reached over and placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘All right, forget about the runes on the horse-head stake,’ he said in a reassuring tone. ‘We shall deal with those later. But let me tell you about runes, so that you will not make another mistake when presented with a message from the spirit-world.’
He sat, cross-legged, facing me.
‘Rune images are like the shifting cloud-shapes of wyrd,’ he explained. ‘The dimensions and formation of each rune can be learned by anyone, but the way in which a set of runes is interpreted in a particular context requires the knowledge of a sorcerer. They are not to be read like a simple set of sounds, for the runes have been evolved by the spirits by correlating all the dominant cycles and forces which course through Middle-Earth.’
He waved his arm to indicate the surrounding landscape and sky. ‘Wyrd is too vast, too complex, for us to comprehend, for we are ourselves part of wyrd and cannot stand back to observe it as if it were a separate force. Just as a fisherman cannot see the full extent of the seas, so even a sorcerer cannot view the totality of wyrd. So we carve runes into wood or bone and cast them like nets on to the sea of wyrd. The messages the runes bring back are like a good catch: enough for us to feed on until the tides of life carry us back again.’
I did not like his simile, for Blessed Jesus was also a fisherman. Somehow it seemed wrong to think about pagan untruths in images reserved for the teachings of Jesus Christ our Saviour.
‘Do you then think you can change the world by manipulating these symbols?’ My tone was sneering; I was still upset by his implication that I had failed badly in being unable to read the runes on the stake. But I listened carefully for his answer; I wanted to learn about runes.
Wulf shook his head. ‘The forces of wyrd are like the winds and tides for a fisherman. If they are known, the sailor can trim his sails to adapt to them. He can be in harmony with the forces and use their power. But he cannot thereby change them.’
Wulf stood up and with his foot scraped away grass and dandelions until he had cleared a small patch of bare earth. He picked out and threw away pebbles, sticks and other small obstructions, then smoothed the soil with the flat of his hand. Snapping off a twig from a nearby hazel shrub, he squatted next to the patch of soil and, working very rapidly, drew a series of angular shapes on the surface. When he had finished he sat back, cleaned the soil from the end of the hazel twig and then handed it to me.
‘Each rune is a complete representation of wyrd. Just as one drop of water reflects a perfect image of all that is around it, so each rune reflects the totality of wyrd. The rhythm of wyrd may be observed at all levels, whether it be the movement of the stars across the sky or the cutting of shapes into a patch of earth.’
He pointed at the set of runes spread out in front of us. ‘Copy the runes I have drawn,’ he instructed.
My mind raced, Eappa’s warnings about the forbidden script sounding in my ears. But I forced misgivings to one side, for I had resolved that I was about the Lord’s work and that anything that I did was in His service.
I leaned over, examining the sixteen figures Wulf had sketched in the soil. Excitement bubbled inside me like a spring I felt as I had during my first days at the scriptorium, Eappa by my side, copying his calligraphy by the hour. I said a silent prayer and, with a quickening heart, began carefully copying the first runes of my life.
Rapidly the pleasure faded, however. My runes were poor and crude copies and did not have even the fullness of shape of Wulf’s. Scrawling in the dirt was not to be compared with fine quill and vellum work in the service of Almighty God.
Wulf erased my work, sweeping smooth the area under his runes. I copied them again—and again. I kept up the work, under his critical eye, until the sun began to fall from the sky. After each attempt, Wulf pointed out mistakes in great detail, sweetening the bitter taste of repeated failure with words of encouragement and praise. By the time he told me to stop for a rest, I could draw the shapes from memory and with reasonable accuracy.
Wulf stood and stretched. ‘These runes are symbols of great power,’ he enthused. ‘I now want you to carve runes into willow, so that we can prepare a message for the spirits.’
I glanced down at my last line of runes, sitting starkly in the soil below those Wulf had written. They suddenly seemed alien, sinister and dangerous and I wanted to erase them.
‘Hurry up,’ Wulf called from the edge of the clearing ‘The spirits will not wait for us.’
I jumped to my feet and walked from the clearing. It was not until we were far along the trail that I remembered my injured ankle. To my surprise, it felt strong and sound. I stopped walking and stamped my foot on the ground, cautiously, experimentally. There was no pain; the ankle was healed.
I followed Wulf through the leafy glades, dappled golden by the afternoon sunlight, and eventually we emerged into an open meadow long as an arrow shoot. Wulf pointed towards a giant willow standing massive and alone at the far end of the clearing, its leaf-laden branches climbing above the roots thickly carpeted with columbine and purple garlic.
‘Wait here,’ Wulf said, putting a hand on my arm.
He trotted down the meadow, jumped up to grasp the lowest branches, clung momentarily and then hauled himself into the body of the tree. The willow seemed to swallow him whole, his progress marked only by the rustling and trembling of foliage.
I stood alone in the glade. All around me elder and sweetbriar shrubs flaunted petals in colours softened by the filtered sunlight and breathed sweet fragrance from the flowers warmed by the summer air. Chaffinches flitted nervously from bush to bush, chattering to each other in harsh warning notes.
Willow branches rustled, bent and shuddered back into place as Wulf dropped lightly to the ground. Thrust through his belt like a riding whip was a long leafy bough, presumably cut from high in the tree. He waved for me to join him under the willow. By the time I reached his side, he had already worked quickly and deftly with his knife to strip the bough of leaves; then he cut it into short staves, splitting each piece to reveal a flat side of freshly cut wood backed by a bark-covered, curved edge. He bevelled one end of the first stave, then cut a split into it.
‘This is the mouth,’ he said, shaping it carefully. ‘The runes will speak to the spirits through it.’
When he had cut a number of staves in the same fashion, he collected them into a neat pile. There were at least a dozen of them
‘Now watch closely. I want you to carve into these sticks the symbols I am cutting.’
He selected a stave and placed it on the ground, flat side facing up, then held it fast with his feet, one on either end. Holding his knife lightly in his palm, as if to throw the weapon, he cut into the wood with the point. He handled the knife with exquisite balance and accuracy and the runes were carved clearly and deeply. When he had finished he picked up the sliver, brushed and blew wood shavings from it and handed it to me. He had carved four rune-shapes very close together.
‘What does it mean, Wulf?’
‘It is a message to the spirit-world, telling them who you are and why you are here.’
‘Don’t they already know?’
Wulf smiled, but his eyes remained serious. ‘It is advisable for you to have the message on your person. You may encounter spirits who do not wish to welcome you.’
He pointed a finger towards the freshly cut staves of willow, cutting off further questions.
‘Copy these runes onto the sticks.’
I selected a sliver of willow, placed it on the ground and squatted over it with my feet on either end, as Wulf had done. Slipping my knife from its sheath, I began to copy his shapes but immediately ran into difficulty. It was virtually impossible to control the length of the lines and the cuts were of wildly uneven depth. When I had completed the first stave, Wulf picked it up to inspect my work: it was a mess.
He made no comment, but passed me another sliver and I prepared to start again.
‘Wait,’ Wulf said, grasping my wrist. ‘Study the wood first. You must get to know the flow of the grain. The pattern of wyrd represented by this tree is visible in the grain and you must work within it.’
My first attempt had been so crude that I doubted whether knowledge of the grain would make any difference, but I made a show of looking carefully at the exposed side of the stave.
‘It is important,’ Wulf insisted, as if reading my thoughts. ‘A straight cut into one piece of wood will be curved or angled in another piece, because of the different pattern of grain. And you must remember that you are cutting runes into wood, so that they have depth as well as shape. The flow of grain is important in keeping an even depth.’
I placed the willow stave on the ground and began working again. This time I held the knife blade at a slight angle, so that I could see more clearly the cuts I was making and I tried to allow for the direction of the grain. My cuts were more sure and direct at first, but then my second rune-shape went hopelessly wrong and I started to carve over it to correct the mistake. Again Wulf stopped me by grasping my wrist.
‘The wood grain will exaggerate your errors if you try to correct what you have done. It is better to continue. Do not worry about mistakes. More important is that your rune-carvings express naturally what you are trying to say, rather than conforming to some standard of appearance.’
‘But Wulf, I do not know what I am trying to say. I can carve the shapes, but I still do not know exactly what these inscriptions mean. I am trying to copy your runes, for they are the only ones I have worked with—surely the important thing is for my runes to resemble yours as closely as possible?’
Wulf shook his head emphatically.
‘Each sorcerer has his own connections with the forces of wyrd. In the execution of the shapes subtleties, allusions and personal secrets are revealed. Once you have mastered the copying skill, you will develop your own style and in time your knife will dance in your hand. But no matter how elegant your runes become, they will never be a truer expression of your nature than they are now.’
I continued working under Wulf’s supervision, beginning a new willow sliver as soon as I had finished the previous one. The work seemed crude and ugly in comparison with quill and vellum scripting at the monastery. I thought of the illuminated sheets that were prepared in the scriptorium, in each of which we could recognize the work of individuals expressed in the pull of the quill, roundness of figures and detail of decoration. But they were each artist’s unique celebration of the Lord, in contrast with which these inelegant carvings in wood seemed to require nothing more than mechanical skill.
Eventually I had carved on all of the sticks except one and on the whole, each effort produced a more accurate replica of Wulf’s runes than had the preceding stave. By the standards of my first rune-stave, I was pleased with the improvement. I stretched and stood up slowly. Wulf picked up the last stave I had carved, examined it and grunted non-committally, but I could tell by his eyes that he was impressed and pleased by my efforts. He looked up at me and caught me watching him.
‘You have done well,’ he admitted, smiling.
I blushed quickly, suddenly aware that I had been seeking a compliment. Now that I had received it, I felt ashamed that I had wanted it. I thought immediately of Eappa and how I used to show him my lettering in as casual a manner as possible, but full of hope for a word of praise. And every time Eappa encouraged me, I knew that he had seen through my carefully concealed pride.
I bent again to complete my task, but Wulf stopped me. ‘Here. Use this for the last stave.’
I stared at the handle of his knife, then back at his face.
‘It is better suited than yours for the cutting of runes and this last stave is important.’
I took the knife. Despite its large size, it balanced beautifully in my hand and the feel of the haft made my palm tingle. Carefully, I cut one final series of runes and Wulf picked up the stave and examined it closely. Then he took back his knife and carefully shaved very thin strips of wood several inches down from the top, but leaving them attached to the stave. He did this all the way around the willow stick and then, gripping between the side of his blade and his thumb, he pulled the knife repeatedly along each shaving until it curled over. When he had finished, the stave looked as if it had a mass of curly hair at the end.
Finally Wulf cut a slit a short distance from the curly end and a round circle half-way down.
‘These are the mouth and the heart,’ he explained, handing the bizarre piece of wood to me. ‘Always carry this stave on your body. It will protect you from the spirits. They will not harm you intentionally, Brand, but you must retain this rune-stick until you feel absolutely ready to face the spirits on their own terms.’
I nodded my understanding, but in my heart I did not believe it. I did not see how a carved stick, lacking the blessing of the Lord, could carry with it the protection afforded by my crucifix. When Wulf turned away to tie his knife back into its sheath, I fingered the outline of my crucifix, solid and strong next to my skin. Carelessly, I slipped the small, lightweight rune-stick inside my tunic where it would remain safely trapped by my belt.
Wulf collected up the small heap of rune-staves on which I had practised carving. One by one, he snapped the staves in half, then dug a shallow hole in the ground and buried them
‘Wulf, I heard all you have told me about wyrd and omens and runes. But I still do not understand how all this leads you to think you can predict the death of a warrior from the flight of the ravens.’