Traveller Inceptio
68

Desmond looked on in shock as Michael hobbled painfully to the stranger and embraced him briefly before they pounded each other’s shoulders in joy. Michael was exultant and relieved, and they bantered in a language none could understand. Their tongue seemed familiar, but was spoken quickly, so understanding was like a handful of water, draining away before it could be taken in. What was most astonishing was the stranger was another just like Michael: with his fine dress, similar pack, and similar weapons. Alone, Michael or this newcomer may have looked a little odd, but together they were outstanding. They strode the land as if they were lords of creation. Indeed, Desmond thought, they were not of this land, perhaps not even of this earth.

The blacksmith had become used to Michael and his unique ways, knowing without him they would have perished on their journey from Snotengaham. He alone had killed two Vikings, and together with Eadric, had killed a third. He had also survived a mortal spear-thrust. Admittedly, Michael had taken the Vikings by surprise, but the fact their group had been able to survive an attack from six battle-hardened marauders with only one death was indeed a miracle. Add to that the group’s minor injuries, and that Irminric was healing. Desmond had seen bigger and stronger men brought down by lesser wounds. Irminric swore Michael had ministered to him. It was as if Michael had tried to hide what he had done. Desmond was grateful they were on Michael’s side, that he wasn’t arrayed against them, but now there were two. He knew what the monks had said of Michael, as well as his wife’s suspicions. Whether they were angels or not was of little consequence to the blacksmith. He simply gave thanks to God for sending them to aid his family.

Michael brought his friend to the waiting warriors and monks. Brother Oeric was still distraught but looked at both Michael and his friend with his eyes so wide, they looked like they were about to fall out. The warrior was introduced as Hurley, a strange name, no doubt. He politely clasped arms and congratulated Eadric on his new sword, his accent broader than Michael’s, but understandable. Eadric nodded with pride as Michael told Hurley of his first kill of the Viking spearman. Hurley murmured his polite admiration, nodded in approval, and bowed politely to the monks. Despite their grief, Desmond knew they saw another miracle, another angel to protect and guide them from the destroyers. They had much to grieve for, but they had the psalter and the holy relic, and now the new scripture from the Vikings. Brother Oeric had told them every evening at prayers, when Michael crept away for his own prayers, that Michael was sent to help them with the sacred relics. The monks knew there would be a cost, but as he looked over the burned remnants of a thriving village and monastery, Desmond wondered at such a cost.

Those at the cart greeted Hurley with little enthusiasm and some caution. Their little group had travelled far and been forged in adversity. In their current mood, having a second angel was of little consequence. They had learned that others could only be trusted after they had proven themselves.

***

“Eadric, can you lead us to where your people hide?” asked Michael.

Eadric nodded tearfully, his face drawn and tense.

Michael looked across the ashes and destruction. The group was far too exposed where they were. Each was physically and emotionally exhausted, and with the bodies that littered their trail, had become listless and drained of hope. He stood tall, despite his bruises, and addressed them firmly. “Okay, my people, we must be strong. We know that many of the villagers would have fled to the hiding place in the forest and we are now going there. You have all been very brave.” He looked at the children and smiled. “But we must be strong for a little longer. I believe the Vikings are drunk from the beor made by the monks, but I also believe they’re nearby. We must be silent and ever watchful.”

Hurley joined Eadric at point and they soon followed a faint path into the forest. The cart could barely fit. Michael explained how the group had been trained in basic patrol deployment and signals. The cart left tracks that were too easily followed, especially as a steady rain began to fall and douse the fires and smoulder that were the remnants of the village. Michael wondered if the villagers would ever return.

He realised the sound of rain on the leaves could mask the stealthy approach of an enemy, while the softened ground made travelling even more difficult. The rest of the group trudged on wearily, their heads bowed in sorrow. They had walked slowly for about quarter of an hour, winding between trees in a sparser forest, and were about to cross yet another creek when Hurley and Michael met together.

“We can’t go on like this,” said Michael. “The tracks are like we are painting a white line for the Vikings to follow. We’ll have to unload what we can and proceed on foot, hide the cart and hope that we can buy some time.”

Hurley looked at the ruts. Tracks would remain for months as they filled with water. “Even a drunken Viking wouldn’t miss this arrow to the villagers. Jesus save us,” he said and his mouth tightened. This would give them a general direction to follow.

They unloaded the cart and distributed the contents into packs to be carried by the ponies and the exhausted travellers. The emptied cart was then carried across the creek where they slipped on the rocks before struggling up the far bank. Though the wheels were heavy, the cart was of wicker fastened to a timber frame, making it lightweight. The six men strained and swore as the others offered encouragement. Each had to carry what they could while an indignant Irminric rode. He was, as yet, unable to walk. Even the act of placing him on the sturdy pony caused the lad to cry out in pain.

Fortunately the terrain wasn’t too trying and little Berethun, who looked like a pixie in his woollen hood, enjoyed a walk between bouts of being carried by the adults. They walked another hour as the daylight rapidly faded. Cold, sore, wet, and miserable, the weather matched their mood. Michael was with Eadric at point and Hurley at the back when Michael raised his fist. Despite their weariness, they quickly hid. The children had become teary and tired, but they remained silent as the rain pattered on the leaves. Michael glanced back at Hurley, who nodded and unsheathed his sword, ready to take action.

They were being watched. Michael pulled his hood back as he scanned the forest. Eadric suddenly let out a low whistle that could be mistaken for one of the many birds that inhabited the forest. Michael looked across in surprise. The lad was alert and looked hopeful, as if he had temporarily cast off the groups’ prevailing gloom. As they listened, they heard a low, but unmistakable return whistle that was all too close. Eadric looked to Michael, smiled, and cautiously stood.

A few paces away, Yffi and Aeoelhun also stood, spears ready. Michael noted they had painted their faces with streaks of mud similar to the battle-paint used by modern forces. The paint broke up the highly visible face. The men were unsmiling, so Michael and Eadric raised their hands. The hunters scanned the group quickly, finally smiled and clasped arms with Michael and Eadric in welcome.

“Lord Michael, we’re so pleased to see you lads. We feared you had been taken, as have so many others in our village,” muttered Yffi quietly. “Young Eadric, your mother will think she’s died and gone to heaven when she sees you.” Yffi’s normal nonchalance had been dispelled and he looked hard, and alert for danger.

Michael smiled, relieved his friend and the villagers had survived, and he saw the joy on Eadric’s face to hear his mother, at least, was alive.

“My family, are they well?” asked Eadric fearfully.

“Aye, they’re all well, lad. Your father’s the village saviour in getting his people to safety. Most had already set up comfortable quarters in the caves and those few who remained managed to get away. Old Wyman the pedlar didn’t die in vain. It was the yelling and screaming of him and his lad that warned the few of us still in the village, so we high-tailed it out. Some of the older people, including old Acha, bless her soul, chose to stay. We saw the Vikings light the village and kill the monks.” He paused and spat and Aeoelhun silently nodded.

Michael could see that Yffi and Aeoelhun, like most of the other men, would have felt impotent in not being able to battle such a force. To remain in the shelter of the forest would have been excruciating, but to run forward would have meant certain and senseless death.

Yffi continued. “A few of us watch the paths now, but we’re sure that they’ll come. You should have heard them screaming in rage at having no sport or loot when they found the village empty. They made up for it in the monastery. Only a few monks escaped and Brother Aldfrid and the others were murdered. A terrible thing.” His face twisted in his emotion.

“When did that happen?” asked Michael.

“Two days. Now we wait and hope our families can remain hidden. There are crops in the fields that need to be harvested, as they’ll feed us through winter. Luckily the forest is providing, but as the winter rains come, the weak and old are likely to perish.” He paused as Hurley approached. Yffi and Aeoelhun stared at Hurley and then looked to Michael. “One of your people, is he then?” asked Yffi.

“Aye, this is Hurley. He’s one of my brothers and will assist us. He’s a great warrior,” replied Michael.

“We saw him earlier in the forest, but he approached from the south. We tried to follow him, but he managed to elude us.” Yffi nodded in admiration.

“That was you!” Hurley laughed gently. “I knew someone or something was tracking me, but I could never tell where you were. You are very good.”

“That we are,” smiled Yffi, “but not good enough. Luckily our dogs weren’t with us, else we would have caught and killed you, Lord Hurley. That would indeed have been a shame.”

Michael and Hurley chuckled. “Indeed it would have,” nodded Michael.

Yffi led the group while Aeoelhun walked to the rear of the caravan of refugees to see if they were followed. He squatted, hidden in the bushes, as the weary travellers moved on. Yffi led them through sparse beech forest and over another creek to a steep set of hills and a dell where the creek cut deeply. There, hidden behind a copse of trees, was the first of two caves. Yffi led them past two youths who stood nervously with spears. Michael estimated they wouldn’t have been more than thirteen years of age, yet in reflection, Irminric was not much older and had distinguished himself as a capable fighter. These lads looked as if a stiff breeze would blow them away. At least the approach to the makeshift village looked difficult to traverse without being seen.

Shelters had been built to extend the protection offered by the cave, which was only high enough for an adult to stand some five paces into the limestone hills before the roof angled downward. The rear of the cave had been blocked by timber, as the villagers feared the wee folk would creep in from the depths of the earth in the hours of darkness. There they could take the children, steal souls, or simply make mischief by causing needed items to become lost. Not only was the back of the cave sealed, but the cavern had been given the appropriate prayers and blessings from the monks. A few old charms hung, just in case.

The cave was communal living with little or no privacy, but it was dry, and the two or three campfires had cauldrons of stew that bubbled away. Children ran around, bare-foot despite the chill, cheeky-faced as they climbed and explored in packs. Michael and the others were happy to hand in their supplies to a couple of older women who managed a communal larder. The ham recovered from the Vikings was particularly appreciated. Though the hunters had already killed a deer that hung in the process of being dressed, the smoked ham was a rare treat.

Yffi’s two dogs came bounding forward and jumped about, though they did not bark, eagerly sniffing the newcomers, confirming the friendly smells, for any smell not remembered would be cornered and possibly attacked. They paused at Hurley, who stood quietly. Once satisfied, they bounded off, a perfect early-warning system.

“There’s also another cave,” explained Yffi. “It’s just twenty paces along and has a pool of fresh water further into it. Fires aren’t lit there for fear of offending anything that might live in the depths,” he added thoughtfully, “though the water is clean and clear. The men sleep there—because of the bats.”

“Bats?” asked Michael.

“Aye, there are thousands of them, Lord Michael,” explained the hunter. “Some think they’re messengers from the dark underworld,” he explained, and he frowned. “They fly out on dusk. They don’t bother men though, so it’s the men’s cave.”

Eager hands helped unload the ponies and welcome the newcomers. “So you’ve been here how long?” asked Michael.

“Oh, most of the villagers have been here for longer than three days,” Yffi explained as the villagers gathered to see who had arrived. “Every now and then a straggler will stagger into camp. Each is a blessing beyond price.” The hunter gave a grim smile. “’Tis grand that you and young Eadric are well.”

Faces were alight with the hope that the new arrivals might include a loved one. Despite the need for quiet, there was a murmur of “Eadric!” from the villagers and soon his younger sister Achae cried out and rushed to hug him. The cry was taken up at one of their communal family being found safe and they smiled and patted his back or hugged him tearfully where they could. Within moments, his mother, Hilda, emerged from the cooking cave with Eabae.

How can one describe the union of a mother with her son whom she thought lost? Michael watched as she rushed forward with a cry of “Eadric! My son! Oh my son!” and embraced him and wept at his neck, kissing him and pausing to inspect him before pressing his face to hers, all reserve gone. She wept with joy to see him and in sorrow for their loss of friends and loved ones. Eabae also hugged him and wept, so the three kissed and hugged while tears ran down Eadric’s cheeks.

Michael recognised a change, for the roles were reversed from when Eadric had left them as a boy. Now he stood as a warrior, the strong one who comforted. Only weeks earlier (was it only weeks?), Eadric was a lad, but now the lad was gone. Michael could not recall when the change took place, but there stood a man; young, with peach fluff on his face, to be sure, but he stood confident and strong, despite his weariness. He had developed a slight swagger which Michael recognised must have been copied from him, while his hand never strayed far from his sword.

There were new lines on Hilda’s handsome face. How she must have worried and striven to keep it hidden so she could be a strength to others. Eabae, always pretty, also looked less self-centred. Eadric’s brothers gathered and they hugged him while little Cyneburg was lifted to his arms. Other villagers gathered and hugged his mother or patted the family members in support. After all, they had seen Eadric grow from a wee bairn, had seen him run and play with their own children. Now the lad was a man.

The change was obvious to all but Eadric.

There were more happy cries as Godric rushed forward with a bellow of joy. His careworn face lit up in unrestrained relief and the other family members and villagers stood back as he hugged his son. Rare tears fell as he held Eadric at arm’s length and smiled broadly as his eyes sparkled. Godric’s eyes then rested on the new sword, on the bandaged arm, and his moist eyes hardened in concern.

Eadric nodded. “I’m sorry, Father, I had to blood this sword.” His eyes swam with tears.

Godric stood proudly and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. His face was radiant as he laughed out loud. “Well, these are tales we will want to hear,” he smiled and gave Eadric another hug, as if to make sure he had really returned.

In Eadric’s welcome, the others were temporarily forgotten. Michael was soon submitted to a similar treatment while Desmond and his family were greeted as the long-lost relations they were. Alric and Aedgyd were also brought into the warmth of the village family. The monks tearfully greeted the other monks, only five of whom remained. Later their weeping was heard, for they wept loud and long for their lost brothers.

Hurley was greeted with some reserve. It was obvious that the villagers treated him as one of the angels. Michael smiled at their dilemma. How should one treat a new angel? Despite their fears, he was soon swept up into the communal embrace. Michael watched in amusement as Hurley’s normal reserve cracked and he was genuinely overcome. He noticed Michael watching and he raised his eyebrows and smiled as an toothless old crone with a whiskered, prune-like face gave him a hug and a generous sloppy kiss on his cheek.

Michael looked for the one face that he most wanted to see and soon spied her, standing back, her amulet held tightly in her hand as she stared at him as if afraid. He paused in a greeting with another villager and smiled at her in relief. Suddenly she was in his arms, kissing him and needing him. For a moment, time and the world vanished. All Michael could sense was Tatae, her warmth, her firm body and the smell of her: something between scented wood smoke and herbs with which she washed her hair, plaited in a gorgeous golden rope down her back.

They didn’t even hear the villagers cheer.

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