Authors: Brian Bates
‘By free will. People go against the laws of God by free will and are therefore drawn by the accursed devil.’
Wulf did not seem able to grasp my argument. The blessed truth of God’s gift of free will was beyond him. He lay back on the bed and gazed into the roof-thatch. Eventually he rolled over to face me again.
‘There is no need for your free will. Although the Wyrd Sisters spin the web of wyrd and weave the loom of life, they do not thereby determine it, for they are agents of wyrd and are therefore just as much a part of the pattern of wyrd as we. The Wyrd Sisters simply express the will of wyrd. And so do we. We cannot control our lives, because we too are inseparable aspects of wyrd and express its will. But this is not the same as saying our life is determined. Rather, it is saying we live like an ocean voyager, trimming our sails to the winds and tides of wyrd as we skim across the waters of life. And cresting the waves of wyrd is something that happens at every instant. The pattern of life is not woven ahead of time, like cloth to be worn later as a tunic. Rather, life is woven at the very instant you live it.’
I stared at the waive of my tunic. Wulf seemed to be talking in riddles, but I was intrigued by his convictions.
‘Wulf, how does a person who shares your views live in accord with wyrd? If there is no free will, how can someone change his life for the better?’
‘Patterns change as they are woven. A pattern that is complex has more scope for change, for there are many themes on which a new pattern may be based. But even the simplest of lives changes over the course of time. The task of a sorcerer is to become fully aware and sensitive to all nuances of his life-design as it unfolds.
Aware, as the weaver, of all the forces that impinge upon the pattern—all colours, shapes, textures. With a weaver like wyrd, there are no limits to the possible designs and we can never fully appreciate all of our own design. But we can try.’
I thought about my life and the important decisions I had taken and those that had been made for me. I could understand the essence of Wulf’s view, but could not accept it.
‘You do not have to worry about it,’ Wulf chuckled, reading the uncertainty on my face. ‘The important thing is that you are bound to encounter the spirits and the Wyrd Sisters, as surely as you are bound one day to die.’
He lay back on his mattress and closed his eyes while I regarded him with a strange mixture of condescension and awe. His healing powers would be miraculous were it not that they stemmed from devils rather than the Almighty. Yet I could not dismiss his healing of the horse from my mind, and his alien and esoteric views of life; even the way he spoke and moved seemed to flow from some inner resource inaccessible to me. Although I hardly dared admit the thought into my mind, I realized there were strong parallels between Wulf and Eappa, for both possessed an ineffable sense of inner strength and direction. Then, in compensation for my temerity in comparing a servant of God with a pagan, I immediately dwelt on their differences: Wulf was more outgoing and effusive, whereas Eappa carefully controlled those parts of his inner self that he allowed the world to see. Wulf was certainly much more unpredictable; disturbingly so. But his sometimes startling changes of mood and action might have had more to do with my inability to understand the bases for his actions than with any instability in himself.
Suddenly Wulf swung his feet to the floor and leaned towards me, as if he had made a decision. The speed of his movement startled me and I spun around to face him. He peered at me probingly, waiting for me to settle.
‘All that you heard about the elves was just so much ox-dung’ he said softly. ‘What I told those people was not a lie. But words are such feeble shadows in describing the world of the spirits that they might as well have been lies. The eyes of an ordinary person are capable of seeing only the most obvious signs of wyrd, as if a clear sky contained the moon but no shining stars. There are many, many more forces which, unseen by us, impinge on our lives at every step. These forces are the spirits, which are subtle emanations of wyrd. The peasants know they are there and see the effects they have, but cannot see or deal with them directly. The eyes of a child can sometimes glimpse the world of spirits, but the adult is too wary to allow such visions to penetrate his armour. As a sorcerer I mediate between the people and the world of the spirits. It is this task for which the people value my services.’
For a moment I was overwhelmed by his sudden intensity. His eyes shone with the disturbing gleam I had seen in the paddock earlier in the day. He obviously wanted to talk but I looked away from him, unsure how to respond.
‘Do you truly believe that you can communicate with the spirits?’ I said at last.
He sat back and spread his arms wide, as if the answer were self-evident. ‘I see them I hear them I talk to them.’
‘Do you control them, Wulf?’
He shook his head once, firmly. ‘I love, hate, cajole and fight the spirits, but there can be no question of my controlling them. The balance of power between the sorcerer and the spirits is precarious; it must be maintained with great care and tact. In return, the spirits enable the sorcerer to traverse the webs that lead into all worlds: of the gods, Middle-Earth and the dead.’
As I watched him talk, his entire body seemed to tremble like a butterfly newly hatched. His whole demeanour was strangely unsettling
He leaned forward again eagerly.
‘The spirits are ready for you, Brand, they are seeking you out. In the stable compound, when I went to get my staff to drive the forces of sickness from the horse, I saw a spirit standing right behind you. I had to pull it away from you with my eyes.’
I stared at him, thunderstruck.
‘He was right by your shoulder, and looking directly at you,’ Wulf went on.
I knew that I was listening to the histrionics of a heathen. Missionaries before me had confirmed the reality of such devils, but Wulf’s claim that I would encounter spirits at his bidding before his eyes, was absurd. Yet my fears were growing rapidly.
‘Was I in danger?’ I asked meekly, cringing with embarrassment as I heard my cowardly question.
‘Possibly. We do not yet know how the spirits will deal with you. If you become aware of the spirits near you, it is imperative that you hold your rune-stick out in your hand, like this.’ He held out his hand with the forefinger extended, as if along the length of the rune-stick; his other fingers curled under to grip the imaginary stick at its base.
I was aware that my fear was increasing by leaps and bounds, despite the fact that only moments before I had dismissed all concerns about the spirits from my mind.
‘But Wulf, why should the spirits wish to hurt me? I have done them no harm.’
He laughed derisively, startling me again and I bit my lip in an attempt to control my panic.
‘The spirits are afraid of you,’ he rasped. ‘You come here with a new god, belittle the spirits as devils and plot to replace me with shaven monks. The spirits will treat you warily; they will want to take you away, on their terms, in order to discover your true intentions. They will not give up their secrets unless they believe you are sincere in your quest, for if you are not then you will use your new-found knowledge against them.’
‘But Wulf, you said your spirits would show me the true depths of your beliefs. Now you tell me that they might reveal their secrets but that they are just as likely to be hostile towards me. What am I to believe?’
‘No one knows how the spirits will deal with them,’ he said gently. ‘Even our own people are sometimes rejected by them. Any attempt to enter the world of spirits is a risk. Death is always a possibility. But we shall go into the forest tomorrow and the spirits will come to you. One thing is certain: they sought you out in the paddock and they will seek you out in the forest. They are moving towards you along the threads of your web; all we can do is to try to ensure that you are as well prepared as possible. For if you fail to heed their messages, the spirits will capture your soul without your knowledge and, like a plant robbed of its root, you will wither and die.’
IN THE silver light of dawn, we slipped out of the house and walked through the centre of the settlement along the path leading North to the great forest. Roof-thatches dripped with night rainfall and rivulets of water still ran from sloping roofs and tinkled into deep-dug drainage ditches. Two lean watchdogs splashed after us, sniffing at our scent in the early morning breeze, then lost interest and dropped away. Soon we were clear of the houses and skirting open farmland, crop fields stretching away to the West, divided into strips by grassy baulks and bounded by headland bumpy from turning ploughs.
The sweet smell of wet, ploughed earth brought a sudden rush of memories. My random thoughts, still wrapped in the thrall of slumber, gradually give way to images of my father working the patchwork of fields surrounding the monastery. He farmed strips of common land also, but his summers were spent working the monastic fields with the help of my older brothers. When I reached seven winters I had joined them in the fields, proudly carrying out my hoe at dawn and trudging back tired and hungry at dusk. But I had been even prouder when, some years later, the monks had selected me for instruction in writing reading and—latterly—scripture. I loved especially the work in the scriptorium and, as I walked, the images of fields were replaced by the smell of ink and the feel of crackle-dry parchment.
Eventually the shrill music of early morning birdsong faded and the low mist slipped away to reveal a pink sky. Wulf threaded a path through thinly wooded glades bordering the forest and after a time began to track the course of a stream. Our progress was slowed by pools of enormous bankside ferns and huge shrubs of creamy-flowered elder forced us to make long detours.
We walked all day, stopping to rest only twice; the first time was at noon, to drink from a clear stream, then again later to sit in a shady spot and cool our feet in a still pool.
By late afternoon we were deep into the forest. Wulf led the way on to a riverbank and pointed into the trees. At the top of a sloping grassy bank, 20 feet from the water and hidden against a backdrop of alder and beech, nestled a small man-made shelter. I was astonished, for we were miles from the pig-droving road which cut into the forest from Cydda’s farm and I had been told that no other roads or trails traversed this part of the kingdom. Wulf explained that he had constructed the camp because this was a place of power and from here I would encounter the spirits.
The shelter was well built: a sloping roof, covered with turf, leaned against a heavy branch fixed horizontally between two conveniently placed birch trees. The entrance, facing towards the river, was screened by two wattle hurdles lashed to the structure by rope and chinked in with moss, reeds and leafy twig. One of the hurdles was attached to an upright stake with rope hinges and served as a door.
I helped Wulf to set up the camp, clearing debris from the fire-pit and flinging armfuls of fallen leaves and twig into the undergrowth. Then Wulf constructed a fishing pole from a long bough cut from a low-hanging willow and twine from one of his sacks, while I dug for bait in the soft earth above the river bank.
Before long I was fishing from a large, flat rock just above the waterline, while Wulf waded upriver in search of watercress and vegetables. Lazily, I threw the bait into the river and leaned back to wait for a bite. I felt relieved that the day had so far passed without incident, but I knew that I could not count on peace and quiet for long Wulf was a man of consummate confidence and assurance and he was adamant that I would encounter the spirits. I also knew that, having come this far with Wulf, I was committed to working with him on his terms. Whatever happened from this point on was surely in the hands of the Lord. I closed my eyes, slipped my hand inside the tunic, clasped my crucifix and murmured the Lord’s Prayer.
Eventually I lifted my heavy eyelids to see lengthening afternoon shadows sneaking out across the river and clouds of darting gnats emerging from the shelter of the trees. Brown-winged alder-flies struggled just above the water, buffeted by the gentle breeze as though it were a raging storm I watched the current gurgling past my feet, swirling broad and deep around a wide bend and disappearing under a dense overhang of black-barked alder. Across the water the opposite bank crowded with beech and willow, roots clawing the water-line like giant, curling toes, partly covered with clumps of spiky, purple balls of water mint and forget-me-nots. It was a beautiful and tranquil setting. Drowsily, my eyes sank slowly shut.
Suddenly I snapped fully alert, my body tensed, though I had no idea what alarmed me. The riverbank lay deserted and eerily silent; all birdsong had ceased. Then I heard, just barely, a low rumbling sound which seemed to float on the breeze from across the river. I stared wide-eyed into the undergrowth, but could see nothing unusual. Vaguely, I became aware of the fishingpole slipping from my grasp into the water.
Glimpsing movement upriver, I dug my bare toes into the rock ready for running but then I saw that it was Wulf paddling slowly under the willow and alder overhang his hands piled high with bunches of watercress. I swallowed hard, trying to regain some sense of composure.
Wulf splashed on to the bank and stood for a moment, examining me closely. Then he began to laugh.
‘Where is the fishingpole?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows in mock curiosity.
With a sinking heart I remembered that I had dropped it. ‘In the water,’ I said sheepishly.
‘You should not have been surprised,’ he said softly, suddenly serious. ‘The spirits have been following us all day. Did you not hear them earlier?’
I gaped at him. I knew that there was no way he could have heard the buzzing sound from his position downriver.
‘Hurry up!’ Wulf said. ‘We have to collect firewood before dusk falls.’
In a daze, I paddled into the river to retrieve the pole and, collecting the one trout I had caught, hurried up the bank to join Wulf at the fire-pit. Under the shade of the trees, he had dug a food store; now we dropped the watercress and the fish into the hole in the ground, carefully covered them over and scattered leaves to camouflage the area.