Authors: Brian Bates
I paddled out of the water, on to the sand and looked back up and down the beach. There was no sign of people, nor anything to indicate why I had been brought to this particular place. The only sounds were the cawing of seabirds and the slap of water on shingles.
I walked up the beach towards the ridge, scrambled up the rock and heaved myself on to the ridge top. The ground was covered with dense brambles and beyond that a thick forest of oak, gnarled and old. I knew that I was to walk into the oaks, for there was something waiting for me behind the trees. I pushed through the scrub into the tree cover and, almost immediately, entered a small clearing, To my astonishment there stood, in the centre of the clearing, an enormous stake, thick and tall as a tree, but smooth-sided. The stake was covered with carved symbols running vertically up the sides and I recognized some of them as runes, the mysterious writing of the pagans. My eyes followed the carvings to the top of the stake and then froze in horror, for at the top sat a black horse-head, sightless eyes staring down, nostrils flaring and mouth gaping horribly. I was terrified. I wanted to run, but my body was paralysed, rooted to the patch of God-forsaken ground.
Summoning forth all my will, I forced a scream from my lips and immediately my body came to life. I scrambled backwards, out of the clearing, leaped from the ridge to the beach below and sprinted towards the water. Sand and shells shifted under my feet and I felt as if I was hardly moving. Each time I drove down with my right foot, a sharp pain shot through my shinbone; the jump had twisted my ankle. It took an age to reach the water but at last, with a supreme effort, I plunged desperately into the sea. Before I could even begin to swim, I was swept away from the shore by the invisible force that had borne me here in the first place. Drenched and gasping for breath, I turned to look back at the beach. Above the tree line on the rocky ridge peered the dreaded horse’s head, the eye-hollows seeming to stare directly at me. Suddenly a massive black shadow burst from the head and plunged over the water towards me. The wind tore a scream from my lips as I shot over the water parallel with the shore and then sped out into the open sea.
I kept my eyes shut all the way back until I began to bump and roll over the land, careening over meadows and forest, and had to fling out my arms to maintain my balance.
I awoke flailing about on my leafy mattress, muttering and groaning out loud. I lay still, sweat beading my forehead as I tried to get my bearings. The moon had slunk behind clouds, pitching the forest into darkness. From a distance wolf howls split the night air and echoed mournfully through the treetops. I lay still as a gravestone while the forest fell eerily, ominously silent. Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the whole forest began to tremble. I lifted my head and stared blindly into the surrounding blackness, beyond the fading embers of the fire. I could see nothing. A rumbling noise grew rapidly louder and louder, like thunder, until the forest shadows rocked and swayed and I thought the trees would come crashing to the ground. I lurched to my feet and my crucifix slipped from my chest; frantically I scrabbled in the leaf litter until I found it and then slumped against the tree trunk, my shouted prayers snatched away by the uproar. Giant black clouds still blotted out the moon and in the darkness the air around me seemed crowded with spectres, invisible tormenters hissing from tree to tree, shrieking in front and then behind me so that I did not know in which direction to turn. Then, crashing into the clearing came a pack of monstrous black dogs, pounding past me with a horrible, rasping howl, and on their heels thundered a herd of enormous horses, black as night, with the same hideous, staring eyes as the horse-head of my nightmare. Astride the leading horse rode a shadowy figure, cape flooding out behind him like the wings of a demon, bearing straight down on me. At the last moment the horse veered to my left and charged past, followed by twenty or more horses and riders, kicking up the embers of my fire into the black night air.
The din died away as abruptly as it had arisen. Leaves swirled silently to the ground through air thick with dust and I sank to my knees, clutching my crucifix in trembling hands. Never had I suffered such a terrifying ordeal, not even in my wildest imaginings. Kneeling alone in the forest, I prayed again for my salvation and for deliverance from the monstrous beings.
* * *
The night dragged on, slow and menacing as a black adder. I lay in shocked stillness for I know not how long, huddled at the base of the beech, not daring to move yet dreading the return of the spectres.
Eventually I lifted my head and peered around, hardly breathing. I could see nothing in the blackness and cursed the moon for deserting me. Darkness had held especial fears for me ever since childhood nightmares had haunted my sleep: dreams of wolves and birds of prey, hunting me like an animal. But none were as bad as the nightmare I had suffered this night.
Taut as a bowstring, I crept cautiously into the clearing, fumbling in the darkness for dry kindling. Suddenly struck cold by the thought that my fire might have attracted the monsters in the first place, I immediately abandoned my plan and returned to the refuge of the beech.
I tried to unravel my tormented and tangled thoughts. For a while I thought that, if I survived the night, I would return to the seashore in the hope of attracting the attention of a trading ship. But I did not cling to the idea for long, because I knew that it was ridiculous; even a coast-hugging Saxon vessel would be unlikely to venture into a deserted cove. I had no choice but to head inland, where I would surely encounter a settlement or at least a farm. Perhaps from there I could obtain a guide to take me to a landing harbour where I might gain passage away from this land.
After what seemed an age, moonlight filtered through the branches, picking out flowering shrubbery like silver filigree. Taking comfort in the soft light, I began to think of Eappa and the Mission. I thought about the reasons they had sent me into the forest and the importance to the Mission of any information I could gather. I thought of the trust Eappa had placed in me and I began to feel ashamed of my fears. I had only suffered a nightmare and Eappa had taught me that such things were merely the ravings of a tormented mind. And the creatures which had stampeded through the clearing, be they spectres or remnants of my nightmare, had not hurt me.
I recalled stories told to us by Eappa about the true men of God, who braved ordeals for the glory of the Lord. I thought of Guthlac, most revered of missionaries, who had been attacked by demons in the wastelands of the East Angles and had repelled the monsters with the power of prayer.
Indeed, there were many virtuous hermits, servants of the Lord who, for the name of God, longed for the wilderness and lived there. These hermits lived in lands which men would not occupy because of the accursed spirits which infested such wastelands. Sometimes, Eappa said, these men of our Lord were visited in the quiet of the night by great multitudes of such devils. They were terrible in appearance: they had huge heads, long necks and scraggy faces, with shaggy ears, crooked noses, cruel eyes and foul mouths Eappa said their teeth were like wolf fangs and their throats filled with flame.
I remembered the tale of one holy hermit who, in the night, suddenly heard the bellowing of various wild beasts and shortly afterwards saw the shapes of all manner of creatures coming towards him, and could hear the howling of wolves, croaking of ravens and grunting of pigs all around him. The servant of our Lord armed himself with the weapon of Christ’s crucifix and, clasping it in his hand, he scorned the threats of the demons, shouting at them; immediately all the accursed spirits had fled away.
The words he had used, taught to us by Eappa, rang clearly in my memory: ‘Oh you wretched, perverse spirits, your power is seen and your might is made known. Now, wretches, you take on the form of wild beasts, and birds and serpents, you who formerly exalted yourselves when you aspired to be equal to God. Now I command you in the name of the eternal Lord, who made you and flung you from the height of Heaven, to cease from this disturbance!’
I heard my voice ringing around the clearing and I realized that I had been shouting the prayer with all my might. I sat still and listened but there was no sound save for the distant hooting of an owl. I felt stronger and anger began to well up inside me. I glared into the looming forest and defiantly hurled another prayer against the phantoms, figments of my nightmare: ‘Woe to you, children of darkness. You are dust and ashes and cinders. I am here and ready and await the will of my Lord; why should you frighten me with your false threats?’ The forest shadows shrank back and the moon seemed to beam approvingly. I reached inside my tunic and slipped the crucifix around my neck. It was heavy and solid and I knew it would keep me safe from pagan demons, just as it had more worthy servants than I.
Determinedly, I buckled on my cloak, looped the bag over my shoulder and turned to walk from the clearing to pursue my Mission.
As soon as I took a step, however, I cried out in pain. With a sense of dread I recalled my damaged ankle, injured in my flight from the nightmare horse-head demon. The phantoms crept back around me like a cold, clammy mist and what I had dismissed as a dream now prowled through the night, seething with the danger of daytime demons. But I had made up my mind. The Lord had sustained me so far and would protect me again. Setting my face towards the hills, I took a deep breath and walked slowly into the mist.
I HOBBLED out of the forest and back up the hillside. At the summit I collapsed, nursing my ankle until the pain eased. To the West, across the moonlit landscape, the ravine lay in darkness; on the Eastern horizon, thunderclouds rolled through the grey sky like raiding ships sneaking silently up on the moon.
Eventually I got to my feet and trudged northward along the hilltop, accompanied only by the soft hiss of the wind. Suddenly I stopped, staring intently into the distance: a long bow-shot ahead, against a boulder bordering the track, slumped the figure of a man who was apparently sleeping. Immediately I suspected an ambush and dropped to a crouch, anxiously scanning the shrubbery on either side of the track for a hidden accomplice. But the vegetation consisted of grass and low scrub; apart from the rock there was nowhere a robber could hide. Just then, without warning, a cloud sailed across the moon and the figure disappeared into shadow. I peered intently at the boulder thinking, hoping, that the man was a figment of my imagination—but when the moon re-emerged, he was still sitting motionless against the rock.
I considered skirting the area by creeping down the hill, along the perimeter of the woods and rejoining the path well beyond the sleeping figure. But weariness gave me courage and I now felt certain that I had to contend with one man only. I unstrapped my knife and drew it from the belt-sheath; it felt heavy and cumbersome. Transferring it to my right hand, I crept cautiously to within ten paces of the motionless figure, hoping to slip by without waking him.
Then my heart stopped for the man looked up slowly, as if he had been aware of my presence all along, his face hidden in moon-shadow cast by a floppy, wide-brimmed hat.
He rose smoothly to his feet and glided towards me, walking with a cat-like lightness and balance. I tightened my grip on the knife, but he stopped a few paces away from me, tipped back his hat and looked at me quizzically.
‘May I ask who you are, walking by moonlight over the graves of giants?’
His voice, heavy with Saxon dialect, hung in the night air.
‘I am Wat Brand, freeman of Mercia,’ I answered, as boldly as I could manage. ‘I am journeying in these lands under the protection of your King.’
With a dramatic flourish the stranger swept off his hat and bowed deeply; for a moment I thought he was mocking me, but then he straightened up and smiled broadly.
‘I am called Wulf. I am your guide. May I be of service?’
I stared at him in astonishment.
‘Are you the guide appointed by the King?’ I asked, incredulous.
‘The King requested my services,’ he replied and proffered his hand in greeting; hurriedly I sheathed my knife and gripped his hand in response. He looked directly into my eyes with a gaze remarkably penetrating, yet open and friendly. Indeed, his whole appearance was very striking. In the moonlight his beard and shoulder-length hair glowed gold above the clothes of a traveller: long, faded blue cloak, light-coloured tunic and leggings and strong boots laced to the calves. His face, dominated by large, wide-set eyes and strong nose, was given a strangely melancholy expression by long, sloping eyebrows.
‘Why are you travelling by night?’ he asked pointedly. ‘Why not rest until daybreak?’
‘Why were you not on the beach to meet me?’ I retorted defensively. I did not wish to describe my forest nightmare, for I felt such a story would sound absurd.
‘My apologies,’ he said immediately, apparently contrite. ‘I had business elsewhere and was delayed.’
He was watching me very closely and I had the uneasy feeling that he was looking for tell-tale signs of my ordeal.
‘There is no point in journeying further tonight, now that we have met. Let us rest together under the trees,’ he said, smiling disarmingly.
Reluctantly I nodded my acquiescence, anxious to conceal my fear of the forest.
Wulf collected his bag and strode fleet-footed down the hill, his cloak flapping around him like a raven’s wings. I scrambled after him, wincing with pain from the ankle and feeling the grip of fear tighten around my throat as we padded into the dark confines of the forest. Barely a hundred paces into the shadows, Wulf stopped in a small clearing crushed from the undergrowth by a fallen oak, lying huge and moss-covered like a toppled, long-dead giant.
‘Rest yourself,’ he said, sweeping off his hat again and gesturing towards the tree as if he were greeting me as a guest in his house.
Watching him warily, I stepped over the branches and sat with my back against a clear area of trunk while my guide bustled around, collecting kindling and piling it in the middle of the clearing I noticed that the ground was black from previous fires; obviously Wulf was already familiar with this area of the forest.