Time of the Beast (2 page)

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.