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The clash between Christianity and paganism in a dark and hostile world is at the heart of Time of the Beast. In the Dark Ages, Athwold, a young monk, leaves his monastery in disgrace, to seek spiritual redemption by becoming a hermit in the wild expanse of the dismal Fenlands. Here he experiences love, desire and also horror, leading him to join the warrior-monk Cadroc in his quest to hunt down a brutal and mysterious killer - supposedly a demon which stalks in the remotest reaches of the marshes, but whose true nature remains ominously unknown. It is a journey which takes Athwold deep into a world of pagan superstition and terror, on a blood-cursed trail of rage, revenge and madness; and to his final confrontation with darkness - both his own and the world's. Time of the Beast will appeal strongly to readers who like a dash of horror in their historical fiction and anyone interested in the Dark Ages and the Fens. 'An impressive debut in which the Fens make the perfect eerie backdrop for a dark ages whodunnit based on a true story.It's Smith's knowledge of the time that makes his story so believable, so immersive; there isn't anything here that seems out of kilter. The concept of native British shamans is beguiling (be prepared for a bit of church-bashing as the ministers of the new religion shudder at the notion of people enjoying themselves: every pleasure is a temptation from Satan), as is the notion of pockets of the country where its original inhabitants still lurk along with people who are even more weird and ancient than them (the last Neanderthals, it is hinted at). In short, you're transported back in time, and it's the kind of book you might find yourself wishing were longer.' Nick Lezard's Choice in The Guardian 'It is 666AD and Athwold leaves his East Anglian monastery to became, at the age of 25, a hermit in the great marshland of the Fens. A daunting prospect in that somewhat forbidding territory even today but even more so then when there was less delineation between land and water. Athwold not only has to battle the terrain and the conflicting forces of paganism and Christianity but also his own inner turmoil when faced with love and desire. Throw a warrior-monk, Cadroc, and a mysterious otherwordly killer into the mix and the story takes on terrifying twists as it races towards a very satisfactory conclusion. This is a fascinating little book fewer than 250 pages but you might be left wishing there were more. This an excellent debut novel .' Carole Dawson Young in Tribune About the Author Geoff Smith was born in London and educated in Surrey. He worked in travel, then wrote and performed for theatre, television before
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Dedalus Original Fiction in Paperback
Time of the Beast
Geoff Smith was born in London and educated in Surrey. He worked in travel, then wrote and performed for theatre, television and radio before starting his own business. He is also a qualified psychotherapist.
Time of the Beast is the result of his longstanding interest in Anglo-Saxon history and literature, along with a fondness for classic horror stories.
Now Grendel, with the wrath of God on his back, came out of the moors and the mist-ridden fells…
Beowulf
Then in the stillness of the night it happened suddenly that there came great hosts of the accursed spirits, and they filled all the house with their coming; and they poured in on every side, from above and from beneath, and everywhere. They were in countenance horrible, and they had great heads, and a long neck, and lean visage; they were filthy and squalid in their beards; and they had rough ears, and distorted face, and fierce eyes and foul mouths; and their teeth were like horses’ tusks; and their throats were filled with flame, and they were grating in their voice; they had crooked shanks and knees big and great behind, and distorted toes, and shrieked hoarsely with their voices; and they came with such immoderate noises and immense horror, that it seemed to him that all between heaven and earth resounded with their dreadful cries.
From The Life of St. Guthlac, Hermit of Crowland, by Felix of Crowland.
Translated by Charles Wycliffe Goodwin.
Title
Quote
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Historical Note
Copyright
Greetings, traveller. You may approach. The night is cold, but my fire is warm and it holds the darkness at bay. Come, you may see that I am an old man who means harm to no one. I will be glad of your company. Settle yourself, eat and drink if you will; find companionship and respite from your journey. My own journey? It is nearly over – in every sense. As I sit here I contemplate the darkness as it stretches before me. I see how the night lives, stirred into motion by the leaping flames until the shadows appear to creep and circle about us like spirits that prowl at the gateway to another world. It brings to my mind images from long ago – a time when I wandered deep into the Otherworld on an expedition whose memory seems to me now like a mad and terrible dream.
You wish to know my story? But you will have guessed by now that it is not a comforting tale. Yet it may serve to instruct you, or at least divert you until the morning comes. Very well. Let us look together deep into the shadows which enclose us, and hope that chaos may come to take on the semblance of order.
It was in the year six hundred and sixty-six of our Christian Age that I, Athwold, a monk, was given leave by my abbot to depart the monastery in the kingdom of East Anglia which had been my home for eleven years, to become at the age of twenty-five a hermit in the great marshland of the Fens. If you have never journeyed in the Fenlands – and I doubt that many ever find cause to do so – it is difficult for me to convey adequately in words just what a forbidding territory that dismal place is. A grim and desolate wasteland of dense high grasses and rushes, a perilous labyrinth with creeping fogs that will rise in a moment to close upon the unwary traveller, leaving him to stumble blind and lost through twisting, treacherous pathways amongst black quagmires and sucking pits that will pull him in an instant to his death. There are foul and stagnant pools, streams and rivulets which abound with leeches, stinging flies and all manner of vile parasites; and worst of all are the foul-smelling miasmas which float above the tainted waters, creating a poisonous atmosphere of unremitting gloom in a land of misty and near-perpetual twilight. The very gateway to Hell. In short, the ideal place for a religious retreat.
The Fenland is vast, almost a murky kingdom in itself, and its depths stand uncharted and ungoverned beyond every law of man; the natural refuge of outcasts, outlaws and other still worse things of ill omen. I journeyed there first upon a bright, sharp spring day to a settlement situated on the flat grasslands close to the western edge of the Fens, accompanied by my guide, a native man named Wecca, whose services had been arranged for me by the local Christian mission. No man knew these lands better than he, Wecca assured me, and he would lead me deep into the marshes to find some suitable place of refuge for me. He was a man approaching middle-life – I judged him to be about thirty – and he told me how in his youth he had gone to fight for the Christian King Anna of the East Angles in his war against old King Penda, the last pagan ruler of the kingdom of Mercia. Wecca was a handsome man with clear, pale blue eyes which beamed out from the wild tangle of his flaxen hair and beard. He looked to me like an angel peeping through a bush.
The village we approached was a typical farmstead, surrounded by pastures full of grazing cattle and sheep. It was clearly a prosperous place with many timber structures of varying sizes, their thatched roofs visible from miles away as they poured clouds of grey smoke into the open sky. The whole village was encircled by a protective trench and a palisade. I would spend the night at this outpost, then tomorrow begin my search in the Fens for the place of my seclusion.
As we drew near, Wecca blew on the brass horn that hung from his neck to signal our presence. The men of the village soon emerged in a crowd to greet us, clad in their brightly coloured woollen tunics and dark trousers, some with long cloaks held at the shoulders by ornate bronze clasps. They carried spears, but only from habit, it seemed, for our arrival was expected and their faces were welcoming and friendly. These men were of the tribe called Gyrwas, or fen-men, a famously independent people, for they knew themselves to inhabit the fringes of a land where no king might assert his rule effectively. But it encouraged me to see that a roughly made wooden shrine to the Cross stood at the gateway to their village. The men treated me with respect and reverence, regarding me as a kind of holy man. And, I learned later, a brave one.
I was taken to a guest hut, a place quite comfortable by the standards of a monk accustomed to only a bare cell. I had learned to distrust comfort, but I consoled myself with the thought that soon I would know little enough of it. The village outside was intolerably noisy with the grunting of pigs, the clucking of hens and the incessant screaming of small children. It would be almost impossible, I concluded sadly, for a man to clear his thoughts sufficiently to reflect upon God in a place of so many distractions. And the stink was abominable.
That evening I was led along a muddy pathway to the village beer hall, where a feast had been prepared in my honour. I would not have wished for such a thing, but I knew that hospitality was regarded as a tradition and a duty by these people, even when it meant that all might starve for it later.
When I entered their hall – dark, smoky and filled with the warm smell of cooking meat – the men rose from their benches out of respect, and were not seated again until I was escorted into the chair of the high guest. This made me feel uneasy. I was not a bishop or a priest, or any Church dignitary, only a humble monk passing through; and in those days I was much concerned with humility, or at least the outward appearance of it. Nevertheless it gratified me that these men honoured the Church through me. They were God-fearing people. So it seemed.
Soon the great iron cooking pot which stood on high trestles above the fire was lowered to the ground by dark-haired Celts, slaves in rough tunics and crude metal neck-bands to denote their lack of status. They carried the food to us on huge wooden platters: venison and fowl, along with sausages and blood puddings, and loaves of freshly baked bread. And there was also much strong drink: the milder ale and the more potent beer. I drank only a cup of the ale mixed with water and ate mostly bread with an occasional mouthful of chicken, for my order prohibited the consumption of red meat. To find the right balance was important, for I must demonstrate my appreciation while appearing to remain appropriately abstemious. Only the village men were present at this banquet: perhaps they considered women unsuitable company for a celibate monk. I thought this view most proper. When we had finished eating, we were subjected to the verses of a scop – a bard who plucked with indifferent skill upon a lyre, while reciting some interminable heathen tale about a hero who battled with a monster in a marsh.
As the evening went on, the men about me became increasingly drunk – to my growing concern and disapproval – until at last it seemed that I was the only sober man left in the hall. But with drunkenness they became more bold and outspoken, and some of the distance between us appeared to diminish – until then they had seemed like shy, awkward children who did not know quite how to address me. Yet now they began to overcome their timidity and questioned me openly about my intention to live as a recluse in the Fens. As light from the torches which hung from iron sconces on the flame-blackened walls bathed their bushy, bemused faces, it was clear that the notion was wholly inexplicable to them, even on the part of an inscrutable holy man.
‘Do you know?’ they whispered, crowding about me as their eyes grew wide and their faces darkened. ‘There are bad things. Out in the fen. Bad things in the darkness. In the night.’
Of course it was clear to me that the Fens must contain a multitude of natural perils. This must be obvious to anyone, and it was what made those sparsely populated wastelands the place of solitude I sought. But the manner of these men seemed at once guarded and fearful in a way that did not suggest a concern for natural things. To my further questions they did not reply directly, but merely cast ominous glances at each other and mumbled evasively as they shook their heads. None were by now sober enough to remember to make the sign of the Cross while they muttered darkly, if only as a gesture to please me.
I nodded at them gravely as I began to understand. They would not speak openly of their credulous terrors, fearing a primitive superstition that they might be heard by something outside – something grim and malevolent – and give it power over them. ‘To speak of the Devil is to bid him come’, as the saying goes.
I felt sudden anger towards these simple-minded men, and in my heart I began to despise them, although I told myself that my feelings were rather those of pity. In my younger days I had turned from the old pagan beliefs of my ancestors to embrace with zeal the new Faith of Christ. I knew with all the certainty of youth that our Church was the shining beacon of the one true God, which would lead men out of darkness and into the light. It would unite the petty scattered kingdoms of Britain under a single discipline and creed, even to make us one with our brother-lands in Europe. I never doubted that the Church would succeed in its holy mission to civilise our world, to foster learning and bring wisdom, to broker peace and lead us beyond the tribal rivalries and wars that so often lay waste to our fragmented lands. It was only a question of how long these things would take. And I had every reason to be optimistic. For I had seen in my own short lifetime the remarkable triumphs of the Church over the dark ways of paganism; and by the time I went into the Fenlands every Angle and Saxon kingdom of Britain, save for the backward South Saxons and the barbarous inhabitants of the island called Wight, had been won over to Christ. Kingdom by kingdom, region by region, we had taken these lands, replacing heathen idols with Christian ideals.
But that night among the Gyrwas I was filled with a sense of weary despair. These people called themselves Christians, but it was quite clear to me they were in truth barely reformed savages who still inhabited a world of squalid primitive superstitions and were ready at any sign of adversity to scurry back to the worship of devils and so damn their souls. Was it for this that the Church had fought so hard to convert them? The preachers from the local mission had clearly been remiss in their duties, for it seemed a miserable achievement. I saw now that these men were misguided and ignorant, and their lives were governed by irrational fears. Yet I knew I walked in the light while they stumbled in darkness, and I understood that it was by the conquest of fear that a true Christian set himself apart from other men.
I took a deep breath as I reflected on my position. For I had not come here with any intent to be a preacher or missionary. I sought and longed only for solitude. The truth was that I approached a great crisis in my own life, and while I was not yet certain of its true nature, I had long sensed its coming. Alone upon the fen, I made ready to do battle with my gathering demons. But it seemed to me then to be something more than just coincidence that I stood in that hall, at that moment, facing those men who were so close to the pit of eternal damnation. I felt with certainty that I was the Lord’s appointed messenger here, the agent of His Church, sent to correct these people in their ways of error. I must lay aside for the moment my monk’s humility.
‘Take heed, you men!’ I called out. ‘Do you think the Devil sends his minions to prowl in the darkness like your imaginary hobgoblins, to attack men without cause? I tell you this is not so. The Devil seeks not the flesh but the soul of a man. It is sin, and sin alone, that makes us vulnerable to the Unholy One.’ I paused, gazing at them fiercely. Then in my anger I tutted loudly and wagged a reproachful finger at them. They stood, all rooted to the spot, their drunken eyes at once bulging and fearful. This was good, for I must terrify them more than all their monsters in the mist. ‘The Devil is ever watchful and ready to tempt men into sin,’ I cried, ‘for it is by sin that Satan prospers. And one day – perhaps one day soon – if the weight of man’s sin upon the world grows to become so great that God turns His face from us, then the Devil will be freed from Hell to fall on this world and destroy it, to burn it to ashes in a great burst of fire!’ I flung my arms up wildly as I glowered at them, eliciting gasps and groans of dismay.
I was not certain how much they grasped of this; not even sure to what extent they understood the very concept of sin. It mattered only that they were impressed by my severity. They were simple people. In fact I thought them rather stupid. So I decided to make my message more direct.
‘Thus I say to you, do not fear the darkness without, but tremble and look to the darkness within, for there lies the Devil’s hunting ground. But the man who overcomes his sinful ways need have no fear of the Devil and his snares.’ I threw up my head. ‘I will go out into the wilderness and show you there is nothing there for a righteous man to fear. I will set you a good Christian example.’ And I concluded with some lines from one of the psalms, which seemed to me most apt:
Patiently I awaited the Lord;
He turned to me and heard my cry.
He raised me up from the lonely pit,
From out of the miry bog,
And set my feet upon stone,
To make my steps secure.
Then, much pleased with my actions, I bowed my head to them and walked to the doors, where I turned and said:
‘Now I must rest. Goodnight to you, my friends. And thank you for a most convivial evening.’
Then I went off to my bed.
That night I was afflicted by the visitation of a terrible dream. I found myself wandering inside a dark woodland, lit only by moonbeams which faintly penetrated, here and there, the thick canopy of leaves and branches above, dappling the forest floor with small patches of faint silvery light. Somewhere nearby a soft voice called my name, and I began to follow it, stumbling over uneven ground, through bushes and around trees. Occasionally I caught the merest glimpse of a figure ahead that ran and weaved through the night before me, taunting my senses as I sought to fix my eyes upon it. It was like watching a fish darting in a stream. I was racing hard to catch this fleeting form – for what reason I could not tell – yet however much I strove to increase my pace, I was not able to close the distance between us. But as I went on, I slowly gained the impression of a girl, and my mind was filled with the image of long swishing hair, of firm breasts and slim bare legs beneath a short gown so delicate and flimsy it might have been woven from a spider’s web. Then she laughed, a tinkling, intoxicating sound as she raced onward through the wood like a skittish wild creature.
All at once I emerged into what was like a dark glade, but as I ran my foot struck against some small prominence in the earth, and I stumbled and fell, to find myself lying face-down in the high grass. But I did not rest upon the hard ground, for I became suddenly aware, with a sense of pure alarm, that I was sprawled on top of another body, which lay on its back and looked up at me from amidst shadows which entirely concealed its face. I reached out my hands, attempting to raise myself up, but as I did so my fingers pressed down onto warm, yielding flesh, and there came from under me another peal of that soft, sensuous laughter. I tried to pull my hands away, yet they felt leaden and beyond my control; and then they started to move as if by their own will, as I lay with all the helplessness of the dreamer, unable to break free from the forbidden sensations which were unfolding beneath me. I attempted to speak, but no words would come as my breath rose and fell in feverish gulps. I could hear the deep steady breathing of the other body, as inch by inch my hands crept upward over its firm rounded contours, and came finally to rest on the fleshy mounds of its breasts.
Now the form shuddered slightly, and gave a soft sigh, seeming to take exquisite pleasure from this. And I was becoming lost as I sank down into its warm embrace. Until abruptly, in a single movement, the figure sat rigidly upright, bringing its face close to mine, so that finally I could see it clearly in the moonlight. It was the face of my own mother, dead for three years, gazing sternly back at me, her mouth fixed into a crooked rictus.
I awoke with a cry, dry-mouthed and drenched in sweat. It was still dark, and I reached out with a shaking hand to scoop a cup of water from the bucket beside my bed, drinking half of it, then splashing what remained over my face.
The dream had been an alarming one, more so because it seemed vaguely to me in those initial moments of awakening that this was not the first time I had experienced a dream of this kind. But as I became more fully awake this feeling seemed to drift away, and I rose up, then fell to my knees and prayed there fervently until the first light of day crept beneath the door to my hut and the noises from the stirring village began to rise all about me.
By the time I finished my prayers my mind felt less troubled, for I had begun to make sense of my dream. I saw that while its grossly sensual aspects had been deeply disturbing and nightmarish, I had been delivered from these horrors by the salutary image of my dead mother, rising up to drive all such impure urges away. Perhaps, I reflected, these things had been the symbols of a higher truth: that the Devil had sent a succubus to tempt me, and that my own mother had represented the Holy Mother, our blessed Virgin herself, who had interceded on my behalf. These thoughts brought me much comfort and reassurance as I went out into the daylight with a renewed sense of resolution. The dream felt like a happy omen and a sign that Heaven itself smiled upon my intentions, while the Devil cursed me for them.
Soon I departed from the village with Wecca. It was my good fortune that the day was dry and mild, and the sky was clear. We went on foot, for this was the only practical way to journey through the marshes, although some parts of the Fens are accessible by boat along the rivers and wider streams. On the way I noticed in the distance the crumbling ruins of an ancient Roman fort, and I asked Wecca whether it was true, as I had once been told, that centuries ago the old Romans had attempted to drain parts of the Fens and turn them into arable land, although to truly tame any part of those intractable swamps had proved to be finally beyond the powers of even the Romans. Wecca shrugged, and frowned, then replied in his mangled dialect:
‘It is maybe true. There are some few ruin of old Romans hereabouts. I do not know the purpose they serve, long time ago. My people, we stay away from these places, Brother. Built from stone by dark magic and given over to Roman devils. Evil spirits live in them still.’ He stopped himself abruptly and looked at me uneasily. No doubt he recalled the rebuke I had given to the village men the previous night for their idle superstitions.
‘There is nothing to fear in those old buildings, Wecca,’ I told him, ‘except for lumps of stone that may fall onto your head. The Romans merely possessed the knowledge to build with stone, which our people lack.’
We made good progress at first, and it was only a short time before the open marshlands stretched before us, and the ground grew more boggy and wet. We trudged onward, our feet sinking into soft mud as we waded through shallow pools of dark sludge and fetid weeds, our passage becoming ever harder and slower. High grass and reeds rose to envelop us, while our surroundings grew more bleak and inhospitable. Wecca went before me, finding the safe paths and hacking a way through the thicker patches of vegetation with his seax – his long knife. Our destination was an island deep in the marshes in the territory known as the Crowland. Wecca informed me that this island was habitable and said others had attempted to settle there in the distant past, but now it was entirely deserted.
The sun was at its height, and we had travelled half the day without stopping when we came to some woodlands that gradually inclined above the sunken marshes, and as we entered them I felt the ground become firmer. These wooded knolls stretched far before us and were the only landmarks for miles around. I turned quickly to survey the terrain behind, which we had traversed that day: a vast expanse of wild, grey and silent monotony. It was as dark and despairing as anything I might have hoped for.
At length we came to a winding stream, and we followed this until we reached a place where numerous other pools and rivulets converged, to create within their midst a collection of small wooded islands, many of them half-concealed by the dense undergrowth. One of these was our destination. It was a good place, Wecca assured me; the water was clean, and there were fish to add to my diet, should I care to catch them. But I had taken a vow that I would allow myself no such luxury, but would be sustained upon plain bread alone. Wecca led me to a place on the bank of a wide stream and told me that this was the shallowest point where we might cross over to the island. Then he threw down his cloak, pulled off his muddy boots, stripped himself of his tunic and trousers, and carrying only his knife he strode quite naked, apart from his array of necklaces and arm rings, into the stream. I stood and watched him wade across, and saw that at the deepest point the water came up to his neck. Then he emerged and clambered through the mud on the opposite bank, and turned to face me.
‘Come,’ he called to me. ‘It is safe. But you should take off clothes. It will not be good to walk in them muddy and wet. It will make sores come.’
I could not deny this suggestion was sensible, so hurriedly I undressed, laying my boots and robe on the bank, but then rolling up my cloak and taking it with me, holding it above my head to keep it dry as I entered the stream. As I waded in deeper I gave an involuntary gasp, as instantly the soft current of the chill water brought to my body a cold sensual thrill, a sudden and intense awareness of my entire physical self. And for the moment I became frozen, quite unable to move as the sensation seemed to overwhelm me. Then I stirred myself and went onward to the far bank. As I rose from the water I was at once aware of Wecca, standing nearby and gazing at my body with an undisguised interest. Feeling awkward I turned away, brushing off the clinging drops of water as I unrolled my cloak, then threw it on and wrapped it about me. I turned back to Wecca. He was still staring at me, now in what seemed like surprise, as if my wish to cover myself were only another example of my incomprehensible eccentricity. These people had no sense of bodily shame whatsoever – another legacy of their primitive pagan habits. It was a thing in which the Church still strove to educate them. After a few moments he said quietly:
‘It is good to see…’
‘What is?’ I said, a little astonished.
‘That a holy man,’ he pointed to me and smiled, then raised his hands to indicate his own nakedness, ‘is made like other men.’ He seemed somehow pleased by this.
‘But a monk is a man,’ I told him in exasperation, for his expression suggested that until now he had not been wholly convinced of this. I could only wonder vaguely what he might have expected.
‘Good to see,’ he repeated with a nod, then added firmly: ‘We are goodly men.’ I could make nothing of this. Then he said to reassure me: ‘This is a fine island. It never floods. Come, I will show you.’
He turned to lead me, although this hardly seemed necessary, since most of the island was visible from where we stood. I followed him for a brief while, concentrating mostly on averting my eyes, as I began to find that his careless nudity was disconcerting me. At last I said to him:
‘Thank you, Wecca. You may go back now and wait for me across the stream. I would like to look around on my own.’
He nodded without offence and strolled away. I began to wander about, inspecting this potential refuge which was in fact just a grassy wooded hillock surrounded by water.
That day, as I have said, was mild and pleasant, and even the ever-present Fenland mist was but the merest wisps of vapour on the waters, while soft sunlight shone down to warm my face. But even this could not disguise what a truly forlorn and barren place this was. A life spent here could only be one of damp, cold and squalid privation. It was exactly what I sought.
In the middle of the island, at its highest point, I discovered an ancient tumulus, a tall solid burial mound of earth, covered with heavy stones which had clearly been brought here from somewhere beyond the marshes. At its base on one side, the large rocks had at some time been torn away, and an attempt had been made to excavate down inside the structure in a search for treasures and grave goods buried alongside the bones of whoever lay there. I was most surprised to find this rugged tribute to the dead in such a remote place, the only sign that there had ever been any human habitation here. Clearly any settlers had long ago abandoned this island, unable to eke out a living here. But this did not concern me, for their needs had not been the same as mine. Yet it did occur to me that the tumulus might be useful. It could serve as a solid foundation, to support the shelter I must build for myself. Now I must return to my monastery to bid farewell to my brothers and come back with building materials and men to assist me. Then I would be entirely alone.
Finally I returned to cross back over the stream and pulled off my cloak as I strode into the water. But this time I allowed myself no moment of pause, no brief sensation of indulgence or pleasure. I hurried across to the opposite bank, snatching up my clothes and pulling them on while I was still wet. Then I went to find Wecca. I discovered him lying on the grass nearby. He was on his back, his arms stretched up to rest his head in his hands. He was still naked, drying his body in the faint sunlight; and as I drew near I saw he had fallen into a light sleep. In that moment I felt loath to wake him, for he appeared so tranquil and innocent, this great rough-looking man. As I stood over him, I found I was beginning to stare with a growing fascination at his body, exposed there in the golden glow of the sun. I told myself as I did so that this was to reassure me that there truly were no innate differences between us, as he had supposed there might be. But in fact there were differences, for mine was the thin body of a monk from the scriptorium, and his was a sturdy frame with powerful muscles and old scars visible on his arms and legs, the wages of years of toil and battle.
It had been many years since I last gazed directly upon an unclothed human form, not since my childhood in fact. When I went with other monks from the monastery into the outside world, I would sometimes see people bathing and swimming in ponds and streams, but I had been strictly instructed that it was seemly to turn my eyes from this. Now that I found myself alone, looking secretly upon this uncovered body, I found I was unable to tear my gaze from it. I reflected that my stare was born of innocent admiration for this perfect example of God’s creation, this fleshly instrument so ideally fitted for the life it led. But still my eyes lingered with a devouring intimacy upon the small goose-bumps that covered the pale skin in the open air, the broad chest covered in thick hair that rose and fell in a gentle rhythm, and the thin line of down that ran along the middle of the flat torso and was lost amongst the wild growth of curls about the groin.
Suddenly Wecca sighed faintly and stirred a little in his sleep. As he did so I felt a tingling sense of shock, for I saw at once that his organ began to stiffen and rise, becoming tumescent in a few moments. In that instant his eyes opened, and he looked up at me, smiling drowsily. I turned away in alarm and tried to quell the tremble in my voice as I said:
‘We are finished here. I have decided this place will be suitable.’
He stood, and moved before me, his member still half erect, although he did not seem to notice this, or else to care. Then he nodded and said:
‘Yes. I tell you this island is best.’
‘Thank you, Wecca,’ I said. ‘Your advice was sound. Now go and get dressed. We should leave.’
‘Yes.’ He thought for a moment and said, ‘We must go while there is still much light.’
Then he turned and pissed copiously into the grass, before going off to put on his clothes. When he returned it seemed his mood had changed, for I saw that his face appeared troubled. He stood in silence and looked at me with apparent nervousness.
‘What is it, Wecca?’ I asked him. ‘What is the matter?’
He approached me, seeming lost for words, then he fell to his knees and grasped at my legs.
‘There is much I would tell you,’ he cried out in sudden distress. ‘But you will be angry at me and call me a bad man. You will call me sinner and curse me.’
At his touch I felt a strange, slightly dizzy sensation as my heart began to pound. I did not like people touching me.
‘I will not be angry, Wecca,’ I said, my voice faint as my throat grew tight. ‘Whatever it is… I promise… I will not.’ I reached out to motion him to his feet. He stood for a moment, his wide blue eyes staring into mine, and once more I was struck by his wild beauty. Then without warning he flung himself at me, his arms enfolding me as he swept me to him in a powerful embrace, his cheek pressed to mine. And my strength simply melted away as I stood quivering and powerless, unable to move or think, trapped there in his arms. While I knew in my mind I must try to break free and demand some explanation, my body would not respond and I felt I had no ability to resist him.
‘Brother,’ he gasped into my ear, and it seemed he struggled to speak. ‘You know most men be good and natural men. But other men be not natural men and do not do natural things. But these not natural men are true men. This you must believe.’ I heard his words only vaguely, for my body was overcome and I seemed to be sinking into a kind of daze. Then he thrust me backward, grasping my shoulders and holding me at arm’s length, restoring to me a little of my senses, before he pulled me close to him again, our eyes meeting as I felt the stirring of his breath and the warmth of his body against me. ‘Do you understand what I say?’ he urged me, and I looked back at him, still overwhelmed as I attempted to shake my head. He drew closer still, his breath hot on my ear, and spoke in a whisper which made it seem as if he feared some intruder might overhear us in this incredibly remote place. But I did not listen to his words. For it was now I recalled the previous night and the fearful reluctance of the village men to speak openly of their superstitious beliefs. At once I began to understand. Wecca was attempting to warn me against something, and when he said that ‘Not natural men are true men’ he spoke of his own conviction that the tales of unnatural beings which prowled in the Fens were true.
I stood, my mind simply blank and stunned, barely comprehending what had just happened. I could not believe my own passive response to Wecca’s alarming actions, my seeming inability to offer any resistance.
Wecca was still talking, whispering all manner of wild nonsense, encouraged by my failure to react angrily. I was still too immersed in my own state of shock and dismay to listen to him closely, but what he seemed to be telling me was that the remnants and survivors of old and terrible races still inhabited, in isolated pockets, the deepest and darkest reaches of the Fens. He meant that over the centuries the waves of invaders who had flooded into our isles had supplanted, time and again, the earlier inhabitants, who had fled to seek shelter in the most wild and remote regions of the land, to live there in dwindling numbers, practising their primitive magic, growing inbred and deformed until they were no longer like men at all – if indeed they had ever been. I had heard of these superstitions before. The Church called these mythical creatures the hominem silvestrem or wild men of the forest. Some credulous folk imagined they were not in fact the fleshly scions of monsters at all, but rather the vengeful ghosts of the monsters themselves. Where the wild men were concerned, many were uncertain where degraded flesh ended and dark spirit began.
I found these delusions interesting, for I believed I understood how they had come about. When, two centuries ago, our own peoples had come to Britain from our Germanic homelands, we had driven back many of the native population – the Celtic Britons – until now they occupied mostly the western parts of the island: the lands of the outsiders, whom we call the wealas. But it seemed most likely that some Britons, fleeing subjection or slavery, had retreated into the concealment of these great Fens, and that their descendants might still exist here in small groups and must surely appear to be strange and alien if ever sighted by people like Wecca, who had supposed even monks might be made differently to other men.
Yet I found I could not be angry with Wecca for his foolish beliefs, for it was clear his warning was one of honest concern, and that he had risked my wrath to give it. I simply assured him that a good Christian had nothing to fear from the hearth side tales of old women. But I thanked him for the basic good sense of his advice, which was never to wander too deeply into the fen, and never at night.
But as we trekked back that afternoon through the marshes, my mind was much disturbed. For it was very clear to me that I, a monk and a servant of God who had willingly taken my strict vows of renunciation of the flesh, should not have found myself entranced in the sunlight by the bare skin of a common woodsman, nor overcome by his sudden embrace. And as I gazed at the sturdy form of Wecca, striding in front of me, I found myself at once stricken by a sense of pure anger towards him; and in my heart I cursed him for an ignorant fool and a shameless savage.
Next I travelled by river up to the north coast of East Anglia, where I discussed with the boatmen there the practical arrangements for transporting men and materials into the Fens. It was not an easy matter, but one that could be managed. I was able to inform the head boatman that one of our revered saints, the blessed St. Dado, had died a glorious martyr’s death at a place nearby, many years ago, as a missionary preaching the Faith to the pagans. He told me he knew the story, and what he had heard was that the blessed Dado had gone to preach at the hall of the local lord, where everyone regarded him as a harmless lunatic, until one night, when the warriors in the beer hall were more than usually intoxicated, someone had discovered the drunken Dado attempting to fornicate with a goat. So they all took him out to use him for target practice, and he had died bleating like the object of his desire. That was often the way with such men, he smirked, ‘Cross in one hand and cock in the other.’ Much angered, I cautioned him for his soul’s sake never again to repeat this malicious calumny. Then I concluded my business and set out to return to my monastery.
Some time after my arrival there, I was summoned to an audience with the abbot, a man named Adelard, in his private study. It was an impressive chamber – unlike the plain dwellings of the other monks – with a shuttered window which faced the setting sun, and walls adorned with shelves full of hide-bound books – an enormous treasure – along with fine wood carvings depicting Biblical scenes. Abbot Adelard was a Frank, who spoke Anglish perfectly, although still with a strong accent, and he greeted me with his customary dignity of manner. He was a man of advanced years, perhaps fifty, but his mild exterior concealed a true fierceness in his devotion to the doctrines of the Church.
‘So, Brother Athwold,’ he said, as he motioned to me to stand before him. ‘You are determined to persist with this matter of yours?’
‘I am, Father Abbot,’ I replied.
‘And the reason for your decision, the troubles and dissatisfactions in your mind, I must presume they remain unresolved?’
‘Yes, Father Abbot.’