Their route following the group in front thereafter was relatively straightforward. It was mainly across open country and asking anyone if they’d seen someone leading a smart-looking man, a girl and a monk usually brought clear directions.
As they drew further east Nicodemus had been confident they were going to Sleaford and didn’t need to keep track of their prey. They could afford to increase the distance between them and so reduce the risk of being seen. In fact before they approached that town the group ahead had turned slightly south. So confident had Nicodemus been that he and Athan found themselves in Sleaford asking about a monk, a girl and a weaver, and getting some very strange looks.
Retracing their steps they needed to find the way once more. Passing along the bank of yet another nondescript body of water that could be a river, or a pond, or a drain or just lost itself, they found what seemed to be a person, although it wasn’t immediately obvious.
Sitting, gazing out at the water with no sign of action was a small, grey man who took no notice of their approach or their enquiry for directions.
‘Have you seen a monk, a girl and well-dressed man pass by?’ Nicodemus asked loudly, imaging that the man might not speak English, they were so far East.
‘It’s the eels,’ the man eventually replied.
‘Is it?’ Nicodemus sighed his disappointment at finding yet another idiot in front of him. He sometimes felt they must be queueing up somewhere, just waiting for him. Except they couldn’t even organise waiting out properly.
‘And have the eels seen a monk, a girl and a well-dressed man?’ he tried.
The strange figure seemed to light up at this suggestion. ‘Indeed,’ he said, in a lively manner. ‘Indeed they have. Although they were only the spirits of a monk, a girl and a well-dressed man.’ He waved off towards more of the marshes and waters.
‘That’s what I meant,’ Nicodemus explained.
‘But the eels have gone now,’ the man complained. ‘Not been a decent catch for years.’
‘Probably because they saw you coming,’ Nicodemus muttered.
If this was an old eel fisherman he appeared to have taken on a lot of the qualities of his catch. He was long and thin with no shape to him at all. His eyes seemed to be heading round the sides of his head, which was decorated with wisps of grey hair, greasy and sticky and looking alarmingly like tentacles. His skin had taken on some sort of sheen which gave the distinct impression he might glow in the dark. This did not look like a man to trust.
‘I can show you where the spirits went,’ the fisherman offered. ‘I can try to summon a shoal of eels to bear us through the waters.’
‘It’s alright,’ said Nicodemus, smiling and taking a step back. ‘We can walk.’
‘Just as well,’ the man shook his head in disappointment. ‘The eels don’t answer the summons like they used to.’
Even taking directions seemed a doubtful chance but this creature was the only help they had.
‘What’s that way?’ Nicodemus asked loudly, pointing in the direction the man of the eels had indicated.
‘That way?’ the man asked, apparently aghast that anyone would enquire of such a place.
‘Yes, that way,’ Nicodemus repeated sounding as cross as he could.
The old eel-man beckoned them close.
As they drew near they could tell that even if there were no eels anymore, this man had spent so long in their company that they had left an indelible mark.
‘Good Lord man,’ Nicodemus took a step back, covering his nose and gagging slightly. ‘You stink.’
‘Aha,’ the man laughed and nodded. ‘So the eels know me,’ he explained.
‘I think even the eels will draw the line somewhere.’ Nicodemus tried to wave the smell away. ‘And that direction?’ he repeated the question.
‘That way,’ the man announced in tones of awe and amazement, ‘lies,’ he paused for effect. ‘Spalding.’
‘Spalding,’ said Athan, with frank disappointment. ‘And is there a monastery there?’
‘You’re the monk,’ the old man pointed out. ‘Don’t you know?’
‘Would I be asking?’ Athan’s fists were clenched in the way they normally were when anyone questioned him.
The eel man shrugged, ’Probably,’ he acknowledged. ‘There’s monasteries in most places.’
‘And the monk, the girl and the man?’ Nicodemus enquired. ‘They were heading for Spalding? They were on the Spalding road?’
‘Aye, aye. That they were.’
Nicodemus and Athan convened a brief conference. ‘I’d be surprised if the monastery was in Spalding,’ Nicodemus speculated. ‘Too busy. Too normal. If the Monasterium was there, everyone would know about it.’
Athan had to agree. ‘I once had a novice who was born in Spalding,’ he commented in a manner that did not invite further enquiry.
They returned to the old man of the eels.
‘What’s beyond Spalding?’ Nicodemus asked.
‘Beyond Spalding?’ The man was truly shocked at such a question. ‘No one knows what’s beyond Spalding,’ he explained in awed tones. ‘Probably nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘The end of the world.’ The old man even held his arms aloft to emphasise the point.
‘The end of the world is the other side of Spalding?’ Athan snorted with contempt.
‘Don’t ye mock,’ the man retorted. ‘Go beyond Spalding and you will fall into the mouth of the eel at world’s end.’
‘The what?’ Nicodemus asked, despite his instincts telling him to leave this mad man to his eels.
‘The eel that eats its own tail,’ the old man’s eyes were as glazed as his skin.
Athan huffed, ‘How are we going to fall in if its mouth is already full of its own tail?’
The eel man pointed a withered finger at them. ‘Beware,’ he wailed. ‘Beware the great eel, Eeloreelus. Mock ye not.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Nicodemus, indicating to Athan that they should move away quite quickly now. ‘We won’t mock. And we’ll look out for the eel and send your regards.’
‘And say hello to the monks,’ the eel man added in surprisingly normal voice.
Nicodemus and Athan both stopped as if frozen.
‘What monks?’ Nicodemus asked, carefully.
‘The monks who guard the eel of course.’ The eel man obviously thought even visiting idiots should know that.
‘There are monks guarding the eel,’ said Nicodemus. ‘Of course there are. And they’re beyond Spalding as well?’
‘Don’t know where else they’d be.’
‘But they’re just before you get to the end of the world I expect,’ Athan remarked.
‘Where exactly?’ Nicodemus pressed. ‘How will we find these monks?’
The eel man had started shaking his head and laughing lightly at the ridiculous questions these people were asking. ‘You head east out of Spalding until you get to the End.’
‘The end?’
‘That’s right. The End.’
‘End of what? The road?’
‘Just the End. End of everything. You’ll know it when you get there, because there isn’t any more.’
‘And the monks are there. In a monastery?’
‘That’s right,’ the eel man nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s what they call a place monks live. We’re quite proud of it round here. It’s a special one is the Monasterium Tenebrarii.’
‘The what?’ Athan demanded, after a pause to realise that the man had actually said those words.
Neither of them moved in case the eel man got distracted and started talking about something else. Something to do with eels, no doubt.
‘Monasterium Tenebrarii,’ the eel man repeated. ‘That’s what it’s called.’
Athan was grinding his teeth in a manner that said he’d soon be starting on the gums. ‘That’s the place we’re looking for,’ he growled.
‘Oh,’ said the eel man, brightly. ‘You should have said.’
. . .
‘Are you sure this is right?’ Wat asked as the afternoon saw them walking along a path that seemed to be turning slowly to water with every step.
‘Oh yes,’ Brody replied. ‘This is the way alright. It’s the only way.’
The land hereabouts was so flat and featureless, and the water so featureless and flat that it was hard to tell the two apart. The sky was as grey as both and the horizon could be miles away or right in front of your nose. Trees obviously had no place here and had been left long behind on their path.
Many of the inhabitants of Spalding had given them signs of blessing as they left on the eastern path; clearly a route seldom trod, and only then by the brave or foolhardy. Brody though, had been recognised and several of the locals greeted him; a wave by a couple of local girls, a cheery smile from a tavern landlord or a demand for payment from several tradesmen which he promised he would sort out as soon as he got back to the monastery.
They tramped on through this desert of emptiness, the reeds and grasses blowing in a wind that had nowhere to go. It was a good job Brody knew the path, because it was completely invisible to anybody else.
Hermitage followed along confidently, after all, Brody had brought them word of the Monasterium and all the details that went with it. He was starting to have his doubts now though. There was no sign of any building whatsoever, and he doubted that one could be built in this place at all.
One of his early monasteries had been on the Lincolnshire coast but that was much farther north where there was at least a coast you could put your finger on.
This bleak place seemed to be a simple dissipation of land into sea with no clear demarcation between the two. Perhaps Brody had made it all up and was simply leading them to their deaths in the water. Why he would want to do such a thing was beyond Hermitage. Maybe King William had decided they should be disposed of, and this was his method. No, he thought. Far too long winded and complicated for William. A simple knife in the ribs would be a lot less trouble. In fact the King would probably just send the knife with instructions for Hermitage to do the deed himself.
‘Erm,’ he spoke up, hesitating, to question their guide. ‘I see no buildings at all in this direction my son, only a great expanse of water and a very tenuous smattering of land.’
‘Yes,’ said Cwen in her much more direct manner. ‘Are you completely lost, or just some sort of idiot?’
‘It’s here, it’s here,’ Brody protested that they were doubting him. ‘It’s in a bit of dip, that’s all.’
‘Ah,’ said Hermitage, nodding at the explanation. ‘Just a minute,’ he added after actually thinking about the explanation. ‘A bit of a dip? How could it be in a bit of a dip out here? You can’t have a dip in the water, everyone would drown.’
‘That’s the clever bit,’ said Brody.
‘The clever bit?’ Cwen mocked. ‘The monks are so clever they don’t drown underwater?’
‘It’s the dyke,’ said Brody with obvious pride.
‘Is it?’
‘Yes, it is. The great dyke keeps the water at bay. And it hides the monastery from prying eyes.’
Cwen snorted and looked around, ‘I don’t think anyone would bother coming out here to pry at anything.’
‘An excellent spot to conceal the Monasterium,’ Hermitage noted.
‘If we believe a word of it,’ Cwen huffed.
They walked on even further, now having to brush tall reeds out of their path, although the ground did seem to become more solid under their feet. There was no telling, in this bland landscape covered as it was with tall grasses, whether they were walking along a river bank, along the side of some stream, or actually on the bed of a waterway itself.
Surprisingly the ground started to rise beneath them. It was no more than a small step, but in this place it felt like they had climbed out of a pit. They must be all of two feet above the path they had taken and had doubtless climbed out of some subtle river valley, onto these magnificent uplands.
‘Nearly there,’ Brody assured them.
The group moved on in silence. It still seemed very doubtful that there could be anything but a rude hut out here. The bewildering flatness and stark absence of any mark on the landscape seemed to demand silence.
Having escaped the robbers of the woodland, Hermitage was starting to think there might be people hiding in the reeds waiting to jump out on him. He thought there were people hiding in most places waiting to jump out on him. Sometimes he was right.
They now took to positive climbing, which Hermitage hadn’t thought possible. Such was the solid mass of reeds and rushes that comprised the entire landscape, it was impossible to discern any variation. In fact there was a pretty substantial hill which they now made their way up. It too was covered in green, waving fronds, which served to make it indiscernible in the overall impression of green and waving.
A small path led up the incline, which, in terms of inclines generally was still pretty pathetic, but it did lift them a good ten or twelve feet above the surrounding land.
As they crested the top of the rise and saw what lay before them, Hermitage drew a sharp breath. He looked at his companions and noted that even Cwen was failing to disguise her look of complete surprise.
It was just as Brody had said, there was a great dyke, and they were on top of it. It was entirely covered with the universal greenery, which only served to disguise its presence until you were there. It stretched off to left and right in a straight line for hundreds of yards. Dead level and very solid. It then turned at both ends and headed off straight away from them before joining the twin of the one they stood on, quite some distance away. The whole created a giant square bulwark, holding back the land and the water beyond.
On the far side of the distant dyke the level scenery resumed and the sea could be discerned quite clearly. It was a flat and glassy looking sea which clearly had little depth, but it indicated greater waters beyond.
Within the huge square of dyke, in a space which must comprise several acres, the land resumed its previous level, in fact to Hermitage’s eye it was clear that the ground inside the dyke had been dug out. The drop down the other side of the hill was much deeper and steeper than that which they had climbed. There were even steps cut into the hill in front of them to aid descent.
In the middle of the area enclosed by the dyke was a monastery. The Monasterium Tenebrarii. It had to be. What other monastery would be put in a place like this?
It was incredible, and Hermitage actually found himself rubbing his eyes.
‘Told you so,’ said Brody, smugly.
‘Goodness me,’ Hermitage breathed.
Wat too, was taking in the scene before them. ‘Holy bones,’ he said. ‘How did that get there?’
It was a very good question, if unnecessarily expletive. The construction of the dykes themselves was a simply magnificent achievement. Hermitage couldn’t for a moment imagine how much earth had to be moved to build these great ramparts. Nor where so much earth had even come from in this watery bog of a place.
And then there was the monastery. It was not a great, huge construction as some places were, but it was substantial enough. From their height, Hermitage could see that there was an outer wall with a main gate which faced them. Square walls then followed the line of the dyke, their tops probably just below the peak of the dyke; doubtless a clever piece of design to ensure the place would not be discovered. There were towers in each corner of the monastery but they were fairly modest affairs, perhaps deliberately squatting down to avoid being spotted from afar.
Within the walls the normal distribution of a monastery was in place. That building must be the refectory, there was probably the dortoir, that was the cloister and over there the chapel.
He wondered for a moment if he would be able to spot the sundial from here. He could see that one would be needed in this place. Not being able to see beyond the dyke would mean that the world beyond was a complete unknown. Without the activities of a town or village, it would be impossible to tell what day it was, never mind the time. Mind you, the bland grey sky indicated that the sun might not visit these parts very often.
He couldn’t see the sundial, and chided himself for imagining that the body of Father Ignatius might still be in place. Even monks in this strange environment would probably remove a dead body after a few days.
There was though a small cemetery visible by the chapel. The brothers who stepped over the dyke to populate this place might never step back again.
Even more remarkable than the construction of the dyke and the simple presence of the monastery, was the fact that it was built of stone. Stone! Very few places were built of stone at all. Wood was the common method of construction. To go to the trouble of building here in stone made it a truly incredible construction. If the source of the earth for the dyke was a puzzle, the location of any stone at all was a complete mystery. It must have been shipped in from miles away. And Hermitage even doubted ships could get close, the water of the sea looking far too fragile to bear great vessels.
Mind you, the absence of trees meant that even wood was a rarity.
Brody was holding out his arms and basked in the magnificence of the sight before their eyes. ‘God’s dyke,’ he announced.
‘God?’ Wat queried.
‘Yes,’ Brody confirmed. ‘God cast the dyke from the ground of heaven to protect the monastery.
‘God,’ Wat nodded, appraising the buildings below. ‘Not perhaps the Romans at all?’
‘The what?’ Brody asked.
‘Never mind.’ Wat spoke to Hermitage while they waited for Brody to finish basking. ‘Looks like a Roman fort to me,’ the weaver nodded towards the monastery.
Hermitage looked again, and could perhaps see some similarities to the old Roman constructions that still littered the land; until they were dismantled to build something new.
‘Why would they go to the trouble of building this though?’ Wat asked, clearly in some awe of the place.
Hermitage, prompted by the idea of the Romans could see that it might be right. ‘Good fertile land,’ he explained. ‘From some of the old histories I have read it seems the Romans may have drained a lot of this land, built ditches and dykes and the like. A good salt marsh as well. This could be a remnant of their presence. They would have guarded their prize, and perhaps even created access to the sea.’
Wat looked thoughtful. ‘Clever people,’ he said.
‘They were remarkable,’ Hermitage confirmed. ‘Mostly heathen of course,’ he dismissed the whole civilization.
‘Come on then,’ Brody was beckoning them down the hillside and they followed on the steps, which were themselves cut of stone but little used.
Once on the floor of the massive, enclosed space, Hermitage looked back the way they had come. He felt a shiver of discomfort at being here, down below the level of the waters around them. ‘What if the dyke fails?’ he asked, always ready to spot impending disaster well before it had started impending.
‘The dyke won’t fail,’ Brody said with confidence. ‘God’s dyke is hardly likely to fail, is it?’
Whilst this was obviously a very sound argument, it did nothing for Hermitage’s confidence.
‘I imagine,’ said Wat, speculating idly, ‘that if the dyke fails, the waters will flow in, everyone will drown and the place will disappear from the face of the earth.’
‘Ah,’ said Hermitage. ‘Just as I thought.’ He swallowed hard, and hoped that this business of priests on sundials would be dealt with quickly.
Once at the gates of the monastery, Hermitage could tell that they had not been opened for many a year. Moss and lichen patched the surface and the ground in front had not been disturbed for so long, it was starting to become part of the marsh again.
Wat ground a bit of the floor away under his boot, a frown on his face.
‘Problem?’ Hermitage asked, imagining it would be quite a big one.
‘Just wondering why the water doesn’t come up through the floor,’ said Wat.
‘Ah,’ said Hermitage, who hadn’t been wondering anything of the sort, but was now.
‘Good God, look,’ said Wat.
Frowning at the blasphemy, Hermitage examined the ground under Wat’s feet.
‘Stone,’ the weaver said. He looked out across the great expanses of the land within the dyke. ‘The whole place is cobbled.’
There was nothing any of them could say which would encapsulate the awe they felt at the sheer scale of achievement this place in the middle of a marsh represented. What giants of men had created this from nothing? What mind had even conceived of such an unearthly scheme, let alone turned it to reality?
Hermitage wondered that it was perhaps modern men who were the insignificant dot on the last page of the Historia Brittonnum, and not those of history.
Brody called out to bring them from their reverie of wonderment. ‘We have to crawl through the hatch in the door,’ their guide explained. ‘The doors won’t open ‘cos the hinges are broken. And the Abbot reckons the devil will get in if we knock ‘em down.’
Wonderment dispatched, they gathered at the door and sighed as they dropped to their knees and crawled one by one into the Monasterium Tenebrarii.
. . .
On the top of the rise behind them, more eyes were taking in the sight that the dyke revealed.
The eyes of Nicodemus glittered as they examined the vision. This really was the Monasterium. It existed. It was not a myth. No wonder it hadn’t been found in all these years, hidden out here behind its walls. What an incredible place. The treasure had suddenly become an awful lot more real. And a lot more valuable.
Athan scanned the place seeing an isolated monastery hidden from the world and its temptations. An institution which would allow its inmates to concentrate solely on their worthlessness, insignificance and ultimate destruction. He wondered if it needed a prior.
‘You can go now,’ Nicodemus said to the eel man, who was looking down at the monastery with disappointment that it was horribly dry down there. Not good country for eels at all.
The man held out his hand for the promised reward.
Nicodemus looked at him, and then scanned the land around them. He was clearly wondering if anyone would notice if the world suddenly had one less eel man to worry about. There seemed little to gain though. People in these parts seemed to know of the monastery anyway, and they’d asked directions of enough people that keeping their journey secret was a forlorn hope. No. Now was the moment to simply explain to the eel man that Nicodemus had no money anyway, and had never been going to pay.
When he turned back the eel man had gone. Vanished back into the reeds somewhere no doubt. Nicodemus shrugged, one less problem.
Now. Why were the idiots down by the monastery on their hands and knees?