Authors: Geoff Smith
‘Spirit of Fire, I call upon you to burn the fortress of this poisonous one so that he may not return to it.’
He knelt and laid the blade upon the deep wound, as the smell of scorched flesh filled the air, and remarkably the gash appeared to become closed by the heat as the bleeding was staunched. But throughout this the sick man incredibly gave no sign of awareness or pain, and did not stir. Next the shaman reached for a leather bag which lay nearby and drew from it a pot which contained a type of salve. He scooped out some of this and smeared it over the injury, where it quickly seemed to congeal into something like a poultice. Then he called for strips of clean linen and bandaged them about the arm. Finally he instructed the man to return and awaken, and the shaman’s spell seemed instantly to lift and break as the atmosphere in the hut grew light, and the people there began to stir and talk as if we had all woken together from a shared dream.
The villagers were dispersing, and as they went they gave their thanks and blessings to the shaman, whom they called Taeppa. As I turned to move away, my senses remained dazed. I felt I had foolishly allowed myself to become involved and absorbed in something that was wrong and perhaps even dangerous, and that I was still struggling to free my mind from its powerful influence. Then I felt a strong hand clamp onto my shoulder, and I looked around with a start to see once more the fierce eyes of the shaman fixed upon mine.
‘Come with me!’ he said abruptly, and pulled me with him back inside the hut, gesturing impatiently to those who had raised up the afflicted man to depart and leave us. He closed the door behind them, shutting us alone together in virtual darkness, except for the red glow of the dying firelight. Sweat covered his face, and he appeared exhausted from his exertions, but he was plainly determined to hold me there. My mind still felt shocked and half dazed, but I attempted to gain control of myself as I made to move back towards the door. I did not wish to speak with this man. But at once he stepped into my path to prevent my departure, then he demanded: ‘What is it that you know?’
‘I know nothing…’ I stammered as I tried to find the strength to resist the strange power of his gaze, which seemed at once to hold me to the spot. ‘Nothing I would say to a heathen sorcerer. I am a Christian monk.
Let me pass!
’
Now I flinched in fear as suddenly he drew up his bone-handled knife and brought it before my eyes, then he began to move it back and forth in a slow and rhythmic fashion. In spite of myself I found my stare fixed upon it with a fearful fascination which seemed to deprive me still further of my powers of conscious thought. Now his voice rose up, low yet commanding, as once more I felt the atmosphere in the hut grow heavy amidst all the smoke and gloom, and he began to speak another spell, or rather to chant it in a dreamy singsong tone, his extraordinary presence becoming overwhelming as his words seemed to draw my senses away from me, invading every part of my mind, like a whisper that was uttered far away while remaining very sharp and clear.
‘Outward we go to the realm within,
There to walk and there to see.
Inward we go to the realm without,
To the land that lies beyond.’
As he recited this he slowly brought the flat of the knife’s blade closer to my face, so near to my eyes that my vision blurred, and in my discomfort my eyelids began to close as he continued his chanting:
‘As above, so below,
As without, so within.
Thus the charm is done.’
The echo of these confusing words seemed to resonate inside the hut, and my mind now felt so light and strange that it began to seem like I was no longer entirely within the living world. And when the shaman spoke again his voice sounded as if it were confined to the farthest borderland of my senses.
‘Do not hide behind your dogmas. This is a matter of gravest importance. The land is in danger and I sense you have knowledge of this. You have seen…
something!
The spirits have declared it. The Fates have whispered it to me.’
‘I do not believe in fate,’ I objected weakly, ‘but in the providence of God.’
‘Call it what you will. By any name it is equally mysterious. Come now, and speak. Unburden your soul to me. I must know all.’ His soft tone was silky and somehow sinister, gently cajoling, while I felt as if I stood upon the brink of a warm and embracing blackness. And the words broke from me before I could prevent it.
‘I have seen the darkness,’ I said, almost strangely relieved to make this confession, ‘and looked into its face – the ravening monster which stalks this land. But my mind was fevered… disordered. I cannot clearly remember what it was I saw.’
‘Then we must restore the memory and give it clarity. Our bodily eyes may be deceived, but never the eyes of the soul – the true recorder of all experience. The reality of what you have seen lies deep within you, and we must know what it is your mind conceals like a cloud which blocks out the sun. You alone among the living have lain eyes on this evil one. It has placed its mark upon you, and you will not be freed until you find the courage to confront it. So you must seek it out. We must pursue the monster inside your mind, and from there into the world outside.’
‘I cannot… cannot…’ I heard myself gasp with sudden dread. ‘I fear the darkness beyond all things. To commune with it is forbidden.’
‘There is discord in you,’ he whispered sharply. ‘Much that is obscured and in disharmony. You must understand that you are not upon this earth to fear the judgement of God, or the condemnation of men, but to seek and discover the truth that is within you. This will bring light into your darkness.’
At once my body trembled and my scalp began to tingle as I felt an awesome sense of the profound and the unworldly. In some part of myself I felt wholly awake and alive. What powers of perception did this man possess, to see so clearly into my heart and mind? I knew in that moment a lightness of being that was like the freedom of the soul, as if my old self had become something distant and heavy, a burden to be cast off. It felt truly astounding and utterly enticing: a sense of untold possibility. But in the next instant there came a great crash, and I turned, startled and bewildered, to see there had burst through the door a figure whose face was a twisted vision of pure rage. It was several moments before my sight grew clear and I recognised it as Brother Cadroc.
‘
Enough!
’ he spat at the shaman, who bared his teeth and snarled back at Cadroc with thwarted fury. Cadroc strode to my side and grabbed at my robe, pulling me to the door as the shaman followed, and it felt to me as if an angel and a demon were fighting for my very soul. I stumbled out blinking into the light as the villagers who stood nearby looked on with astonishment. The shaman emerged from the hut, standing at the door as he glared at Cadroc and said:
‘How dare you violate this venerated place. Would you challenge me, monk?’
‘No indeed,’ Cadroc answered with studied disdain. ‘I have a greater battle to fight, and my actions will prove my powers.’ Then he turned to address the villagers. ‘This wizard might make a fine show of fighting petty devils, but be aware that I have come to contend with a great one. With Christian prayers I will cast it from the earth, back down into Hell, as a surgeon cuts an arrowhead from the living flesh. Victory will show mine to be the true God.’
The villagers seemed much impressed by this claim, perhaps expecting a contest to develop between shaman and monk – between the old magic and the new. Now the shaman turned his gaze upon me, looking deep into my eyes as he pointed a finger at me and said:
‘You must return to me, to finish what has been started.’
In my confused state I felt an overpowering and involuntary urge to obey. I think it was only the ferocious look in Cadroc’s eyes that brought me to myself, as in horror I began to understand how subtly and deeply this sorcerer had imposed his will upon me: his guileful influence seeking to tempt my unguarded mind away from all I held to be sacred and true. Defeated, the shaman grew angry, and said to me:
‘Be warned! You are not ready to face the darkness. But still the darkness will come to you. Your fate is locked to it. I have seen it is so.’
He spun around and his cloak swirled about him as he moved back into the gloom of the hut and shut the door behind him, his movement so lithe and quick that it seemed to my eyes as if he had simply vanished into the air.
‘What were you thinking of – to enter into a pagan shrine in the company of a wizard?’ Cadroc turned on me, his anger not yet abated. ‘Have you no care for your eternal soul? Such a man may seek to enslave your mind or even cut open your body to perform vile auguries as a sacrifice to his devil-gods.’
‘I could not help it,’ I said. ‘He pulled me inside and would not let me leave. You arrived just in time, Brother.’
‘Well!’ Cadroc’s mood seemed to change immediately from that of righteous fury to one of real concern. ‘This has been a frightening experience for you. It is over now. But what was it the wizard sought?’
‘He… sought to learn about our mission,’ I answered briefly. I dared not recount to him what had happened in full, for I feared it would not reflect well on me. I was appalled by my own feeble resistance to the wizard’s power, but also profoundly shocked and disturbed by the realisation that he truly possessed such power.
‘Of course,’ Cadroc said. ‘He fears my success, and the triumph of the Church.’
As we walked together to the village hall, I was further unnerved by the thought of the dark half-memory which had seemed to emerge in me during the ritual of healing. It had been of a thing utterly horrific in nature. I consoled myself with the notion that perhaps it was but a wild conjuration of my worst fears and imaginings or else only the distorted recollection of my hallucinations. But a dreadful doubt persisted, as I grew haunted by the shaman’s words that the truth of myself, and of what I had seen, lay like a secret curse deep within me. Then remembered Brother Cadroc’s firm contention that there were indeed demons who walked in the world with earthly feet.
We arrived at the hall, and as we entered its wide doors an old woman servant, who clearly expected us, bustled up and showed us to some shallow alcoves at the back, their floors covered in fresh straw, with folded blankets in the corners, where she said we might sleep that night. Then she led us back into the main hall, where the tables and benches stood, and said she would bring us food and drink. I asked only for bread, yet followed Cadroc’s lead in taking some ale, relaxing my vow of abstention for reasons of good sense, as I supposed in this primitive outpost it might be safer to drink than the water.
We took our seats alongside Aelfric, who was already dining from a steaming bowl of pottage. As I began to eat, I noticed a stout and sturdy old man with a crop of luxuriant silver hair, a bushy beard and a very red face, who sat on the bench nearly opposite us. I nodded to him, but he did not respond, and seemed to regard us with an ill-tempered expression. He was drinking from a large jug of beer, and as he drank, I found him occasionally glancing across at us with a look that did not appear friendly.
My mind still felt distant and strange, but Brother Cadroc’s mood seemed to become more relaxed as he said to me:
‘And what did you make of that unholy spectacle in the wizard’s den which you crept away to witness?’
‘It was powerful… and moving,’ I said, then added quickly, ‘but of course distasteful to a Christian.’
‘It was nothing!’ he frowned. ‘Nothing compared to what you will see as you go deeper into this world of heathen monstrosities. Here we are close to the borders of the tribe called the Spaldinga. It is said that compared to those savages, these Gyrwas are positively civilised. Yes, indeed. The deeper you journey into these Fenlands, the more irredeemably unchristian it all becomes and the farther from God you will find yourself.’
At that moment a young woman entered the hall, blonde-haired and strikingly pretty. She went across to converse with one of the men who sat nearby, and Cadroc’s eyes followed her closely while a smile spread over his face.
‘Ah, some of your Angle women are certainly very fine,’ he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘How I should like to be closeted alone with
her.
’ I stared at him in shock as he gave me a look that appeared almost lascivious. ‘So that I might persuade her to accept the true Faith!’ he explained as he saw my confusion. He looked about him suddenly and raised his voice. ‘As a missionary one should always work hard to convert the women – especially young and pretty ones – for they are the surest way into the hearts of the men.’
‘Yes! I know too well how you Christians work.’ The red-faced old man spoke now in a slurred voice, having overheard these last words of Cadroc’s.
‘Good day, Edric,’ Aelfric said to him, then gave me a wry grin as he raised his eyes to the heavens, and I guessed at once who this man was – the village drunkard.
The old man, Edric, took a huge gulp of beer, then poured himself some more as he went on:
‘I am a Kentishman by birth, and Kent was the first of our kingdoms to fall to Christian corruption. And that was done by a trick with a woman.’
Aelfric sighed loudly, but Edric would not be silenced:
‘Our old king, Ethelbert, may the gods curse his rotten soul, sold us out. Greedy old bastard. Kent was the richest of all the British lands, because we were the gateway and the main trading route into Europe. But trade wasn’t enough for the Christian men of Europe. They wanted power and control over all our lives. So they bought our king with their gold, and inch by inch turned us into their vassal-state: everything run by Franks or Italians, officials and churchmen. And old Ethelbert, he just kept quiet and took the money. It was all arranged by the pope in Rome to stitch us up. Because you see, they wanted their Roman Empire back. But they couldn’t get it by the sword, so instead they used stealth. They arranged for Ethelbert to marry a Frankish princess called Bertha. Of course she was a Christian, and she began to whine that she would only agree to wed a pagan king if she brought with her a bishop to be her “spiritual adviser”. But this man’s real mission was to become influential with the king and to learn his weaknesses – lots of them in Ethelbert’s case – so that his Church masters could then exploit them. I heard that for some reason the Italians called these priests “Trojan horses”. And the queen’s bishop was only one move in a long-term bid to seize power. Look where it has led us. You scheming Christians have taken all our lands from us.’