Chapter Eighteen
“The tail of the
b
goes up, Godric, not
down.”
A bowing
of the grizzled head. A frantic gnawing at the end of the quill,
and another attempt. “There, priest. Better?”
“Much. But I should have reminded you, it’s also on the other
side. You’ve written me a d.”
“D for damnation!” Godric jumped to his feet, sending quill,
ink and pile of birch-barks flying. “Does this feed my cows? Does
this get my slut of a wife to her hearthside to make me my broth?
Does this...” Running out of questions, he blew out his cheeks
until he looked like one of the pufferfish that sometimes got
caught in the cod nets, turned on his heel and stamped
out.
“Never mind him, Abbot Cai.”
Caius,
who had buried his head in his hands, looked down from the pulpit.
Barda, the slut of a wife, was smiling serenely at him. Godric was
much changed these days, other than his tongue, and the two of them
rubbed along peacefully. Ironically, Godric was one of Cai’s
brightest pupils. D for damnation? Cai was rather proud of him. “I
don’t mind him, Barda.”
“Let him stump around his barnyard for a little while, scaring
his hens. He’ll be back.”
“I know he will. How are you getting on?”
“Here.” She lifted her birch-bark to show him. It was a clear
autumn day, and the new church roof was still incomplete. Cool grey
light shone in. “I have made you an a, a b, a c, and…” She paused, tracing the last
letter to check the direction of its tail. “And a
d for
damnation.”
Cai
restrained himself. It didn’t do to laugh, even when they were
striving to amuse him. “Those are very fine. Perfect.”
“But, you know, my husband is right.”
A murmur ran around the dozen or so villagers assembled in the
church. Astonished faces turned to Barda, who had certainly never
accused Godric of such a thing before. She spread her broad hands,
ink-stained from her labours. “I like to do this. I like the little
marks, and the sounds you tell us they make, and I like it
especially when you get bored and tell us a story instead. But
it doesn’t feed
Godric’s cows—and I do prefer stories to broth. Why do you teach
us, Abbot Cai?”
Brother. Brother Cai, not abbot. But
the villagers had caught the habit from the brethren of Fara, who
now mingled freely among them, sharing their labours and lives. Cai
felt like the rawest, rankest novice who ever fell in from the
fields. He was weary, suddenly almost too tired to stand. This
happened to him still, even two months after the raid. But Barda
was gazing at him, her handsome face expectant. He’d told them to
ask, hadn’t he? Ask, and if I know the
answer, I’ll tell you. Nothing is more dangerous than a darkened
mind. “I want you to be able to read,” he
said, leaning his arms on the pulpit. “If a day ever comes when a
man stands among you and says, do this, do
thusly, and tells you to obey because the
Bible says it is so…” He paused, coughing. His lungs seemed too
shallow these days. He felt as if one of them had knit into his
scar.
“You want us to look at the Bible ourselves and see if it is
true.”
“Yes. Exactly, yes.”
“Will we ever see a Bible, Abbot Cai?”
“You may come to the church and look at this one
freely.”
“Forgive me. You said that wasn’t a Bible yet. That’s what your
brothers have written down, what they can remember of the old
one.”
“You’re quite right. The old one was burned. When next summer
comes, I hope we will have enough mead and barley to trade against
a new one from the Tyne monasteries.” He leaned forwards. “It is a
good thing to remember, though. All the words in any Bible, no
matter how sincere and holy, are words copied down from someone’s
memory of something very, very old. Copied and copied, put into
other languages and copied once again.”
“You want us to think for ourselves.” Godric had come silently
back into the church. He gave Barda a warning look and made his way
back to his seat and makeshift writing desk. “Attend to him, woman.
Don’t I know better than anyone what comes of blind
obedience?”
“Aye, well.” Barda set down her quill and folded her arms.
“You’ll not be expecting it from me, then.”
Snorts of laughter broke the holy silence. Cai had often
wondered what Theo would make of the things that went on in his
church now. Women brought colicky babies in at their breast. It was
the only covered space of any size for miles around, and Cai
allowed a small amount of trading there, exchanges and barters
before the men set off to market. At night, he would spread out
the Gospel of Science on the pulpit, light candles and torches in sinfully wasteful
abundance, and teach his brethren how to calculate the distance to
the moon.
“My friends,” he said, “I think our lesson has gone as far as
it can today. Friswide, can you bring more birch-bark strips from
your timber supply tomorrow?”
“I can, Abbot Cai.”
“Good. We’ll go on from d
for damnation then. In summer I’ll buy you some
parchment, and you’ll be writing like monastic
scholars.”
After I’ve taught you Latin. Head
spinning with exhaustion, Cai made his way down from the pulpit. He
followed his students out of the church and sat on a rock outside
its sheltered southern wall to wave them off. He recognised the
futility of what he was trying to do. The illogic of it too—why not
teach them to read and write in a language they already knew? But
even if he succeeded with that, there’d be nothing for them to
read. Latin, seeded here by a conquering army, brought to ripeness
by the church, was now the language of learning—of
domination—across the known world. It was a shame, because the
Saxon language danced. It rolled out bright carpets of story by the
village firesides at night, some in a slow-thumping poetic metre
you could clap to. Cai should try to write some of it down. He
should try to teach the children too, persist in getting their
parents to spare them from farm work for just an hour a day. He had
time. He had time for anything now.
The
villagers were gone, and none of his brethren in sight. Curling up
on the rock, Cai allowed the nagging cough that always lurked in
his lungs to have its racking way with him. It sounded worse than
it was, he hoped, and there was no blood. He just wasn’t a husky
great Viking who could spring back from such damage as if it had
been a scratch.
That was
a bad line of thought. When he could breathe again, he lifted his
head and saw Danan down by the shoreline, plucking her herbs
unmolested. The sight of her pleased him. It was for her sake, for
the sake of every creature different, unknown, unable or unwilling
to conform to the law of the church or any authority, that Cai
would teach his villagers. He would teach his brethren, who could
read their Bible but needed to look beyond it to the stars. There
once had been a Christianity here—Addy’s kind, the communion with
eagles and seals—which had briefly blended with Danan’s ways, with
the ancient beliefs of these islands. Cai had no hope of restoring
it. But Addy had told him to shed light, and so he
would.
Yes, he had time, though he filled his empty hours diligently.
He was strong enough now to help with the rebuilding, such as it
was. No more halls, nothing at all that could be seen from the sea.
The beehive huts crouched low—a primitive shelter, but sufficient.
Cai had one of his own now, and the salvaged corner of the old
rooms served as a kitchen and refectory. In his cell he was quite
alone, and once his working day was done, he would turn over the
pages of the Gospel of Science
for himself, lost in the wonder of it, learning
all he could. The book had a hiding place ready, a gap beneath
Theo’s tomb in the crypt. Cai wasn’t sure who he feared more—Viking
raiders, or the men of his own faith who might someday come to
claim the wilderness. He would do as Theo had done. He would absorb
enough to make a copy, so that if the day came, they would have to
burn him too.
Another
bad thought. Something in him stirred with yearning at the idea of
the flames. Time—despite everything, he had too much time. The
hours stretched. No matter how he worked, there were still great,
barren patches in his days, sterile deserts when all he could do
was escape to the beaches and walk. The sands were desolate now,
winter blowing down in heaped grey clouds. Cai would walk for
miles, looking eastward to the land of the Danes.
It was
no good. He was hollowed out, sick, losing weight by the day no
matter what he ate. He pushed Fen from his mind and saw his shape
in every shadow. It had only been two months.
Harness
jingled in the distance, and he sat up. His limbs were stiff, the
cloudy sun much lower in the sky than when he’d settled here. Had
he slept? His eyes were gritty and sore. Rubbing them, he tried to
make out the source of the sound. He could hear men’s voices now,
and horses whinnying. Some kind of caravan was making its way
across the mud flats. Two carts—no, three—and a couple of shaggy
horses on a leading rein. Benighted traders, perhaps, hoping for a
night’s shelter at Fara. Or maybe a rare group of travelling
players, come to tumble and juggle beanbags and frighten Eyulf into
shrieking fits by pulling out coins from his ears. Aelfric had sent
the last lot packing. Cai would welcome them, give them a supper.
He barely had enough to feed his men as it was, but Theo—and
Christ—had commended all kindness to strangers.
A show
would do everyone, monks and villagers alike, a world of good. Cai
got up and brushed off his robes. The leader of the group was
driving a sturdy black pony at a sharp pace over the sands. He was
well-matched to his beast, burly and dark haired. It took Cai a
minute more to recognise his father.
Broccus
slowed up in a flurry of mud-splash outside the monastery gate. Cai
no longer kept it closed, his friends all being welcome and his
enemies unstoppable now by means of any barricade. Nevertheless the