I did not see my son again that day. I felt bereft and unreal without him. I wanted to make sure of his safety, and yet I knew he had far more courage and strength than I did. He was also under the eye and hand of his God, and was therefore quite sure of being safe. He knew that whatever might befall him was God’s intention. God would give him all the power and conviction he needed, while at the same time testing his determination. I told myself these things, over and over, as I was given food and warm wrappings and a soft bed of sweet hay.
I did not see Enthia again, either. Another woman of much the same age and stature came to be with me, and we talked together. She also had a strange accent, and was harder to understand because she spoke quickly. I asked her to give an account of the place and its significance.
‘It has long been called the Maiden Castle,’ she told me, with a laugh. ‘Countless centuries before this it was occupied by many other folk as well as maidens, like any ordinary village. When you scratch the ground, or climb down into the ditches, there are old bones and pots and tools from long, long ago. It makes a natural home for people who love to be up high, in the fresh wind, with a view across the wide country.’
‘Then who fashioned the strange pathway up to the gate?’
She shrugged. ‘Those who wished to be safe here,’ she replied. ‘We have tried to keep it clear, for its strangeness and beauty. But we have other ways to be safe now. And without men with swords and buckets of boiling pitch, there is little to prevent entry.’
I thought of myself and Cuthman creeping slowly and confusedly in, and nodded my agreement.
‘There is a temple?’ I asked, nodding towards the eastern wall.
‘That is what is of greatest importance here now,’ she said. ‘We have made the eastern part a holy place. Behind that wall, all belongs to the Goddess. Nothing is the same over there.’
‘May I see?’
She nodded briefly. ‘One day,’ she said, and I realised that she would have to await instruction on that matter. Perhaps it depended upon the performance of my captive son.
As I had guessed, there were more signs of life and activity as the day wore on. Doors were pushed open on some of the sturdier huts and women emerged, stretching and quiet. They were mostly old and slow, and had taken no notice of Enthia’s call to come and capture Cuthman. But a little after noon they stirred and began to make more noise. It was a grey day, clouds crouching heavily above us and a dampness on everything, although it didn’t rain. The broth we had been promised several hours ago was gradually prepared, from roots and fat mutton strips, thickened with oatmeal. It seemed to me that the sun would have set before it would be ready to eat.
My new friend, who said her name was Gunda, sat with me, content to remain silent when there was nothing further to say. I was not in a mood for chatter, and could scarcely think of more questions to ask. The dankness in the air and the wide high place quelled my spirit, so all I could do was sit close to the smouldering fire and hope that Cuthman was not being tormented by his captors.
A long time passed, waiting for something to change, or for some news to come from beyond the wall. The dog which had come to meet us that morning was cuddled against me now. I have always been easy and loving with dogs, and I was reminded of my own old favourite, dead a year or more by that time. This one had long bony legs and a sharp muzzle, which it used to nudge its way under my elbow and get even closer. I laid a hand against its thin ribs, and made it my companion.
‘They will not hurt him?’ I said at last to Gunda, feeling it a weakness in me to ask.
She smiled, not quite kindly. ‘No, they’ll do him no harm,’ she said. ‘But he may find himself sore by the month’s end.’
‘He will not do it,’ I warned her. ‘They can never make him.’
‘His will cannot help him,’ she replied. ‘We have potions to take away his will. Your son is simply a tool now. It brings no shame to him. He need never think of it again, after you leave.’
‘And I have guessed rightly? You wish him to sire new children? He is scarcely more than a child himself.’
‘We do not choose who comes here. He will do as well as any.’
‘How many - ?’
‘No more than a score. We need keep him just a month - or less. Our menses mostly happen around the same few days. We have time to prepare him. The time of real activity begins a sennight hence, or thereabouts. At the full moon.’
‘He will resist,’ I repeated. ‘And nothing can keep him here a full month. We are on a pilgrimage.’
She looked amused at that. ‘Oh aye? Where might you pilgrims be going to, then?’
I wriggled at that, and began to fuss the dog. ‘Eastwards,’ I muttered, feeling foolish.
She laughed aloud. ‘Of course. Christians always look to the east. Where their great Sun god rises, and their new Jehovah in the sky sits watching them.’
‘No sun god,’ I corrected, horrified at what Cuthman would think of that. ‘The loving God, the only true God. He sees into our hearts and knows our deepest thoughts.’ The words came trite and unconsidered to my lips. There was no feeling attached to them, nothing in my depths which echoed that they were indeed true.
‘He!’ she spat, triumphant and mocking. ‘What good is that to us? What man can understand the needs of our hearts? Can you tell me that?’
And again I remembered the furious monk, accusing me of arousing him, invoking his punishing God to cleanse me of my wickedness.
‘There have always been gods, as well as the Goddess.’ I began to grow angry. ‘Besides, you said yourself that the east is holy. It is where you situate your own temple.’
She inclined her head in mute acknowledgment. ‘And yet you have it wrong,’ she said. ‘There is the Goddess above all others. Beyond and before them, every one. The very land shows us.’ And she swept her arm in a wide arc, indicating the hills and pastures all around us, with the swelling rises like a woman’s belly, and the sharper humps of young breasts. I could see it all as she intended me to, despite my clouded vision and my Christian raising. There was nothing of men out there, but the stumps of cut trees and the bones of fallen warriors.
‘But - ‘ I gave it up before I’d properly started. I could never argue on such matters. Christianity was our bounden duty, from the day of our baptism. We had to follow its decrees, whether we liked it or not. Ordinary country people might retain their old ways alongside the newer faith, and enjoy a moment’s defiance of the Commandments, but these women on this hill fortress were committing untold wickedness, and I shuddered to think of it.
I tried to find safer matter for us to discuss. ‘Your music - ,’ I began. ‘We heard the singing.’
‘Moon music,’ she said. ‘We sing the moon back from its waning. And we sing the gardens into blossom, the sheep into bearing good lambs.’ She stopped, and laughed. ‘You will discover it all while you are here. And I think at the month’s end, you will not want to leave. Tell me now, about your damaged back.’
So I recounted the story of Cuthman’s birth, and the searing pain. The gradual recovery until the miracle beside my little straw house, when I was close to cured. And then how Edd’s dead weight brought it back again, and since that time I had not been right. And I told her about my cart and Cuthman’s penance.
She stopped me there. ‘Penance and pilgrimage! Great Christian ideals, both of them. Penance for being born, is it?’
I looked straight into her face. ‘That, perhaps, but he feels he brought about his father’s death. By committing a sinful act.’
‘Oh?’ She read my expression and understood. ‘Oh!’ And she laughed louder than ever, her head thrown back, mouth wide, as women seldom laughed, for fear they should seem immodest or uncontrolled. Though I was reminded for a moment of my mother against the hut wall with my uncle thrusting into her. It was an accidental witnessing that had tainted my early years more than I cared to admit.
‘Well,’ Gunda spluttered. ‘The Goddess has surely brought us a challenge this time.’
I could not resist an echoing smile of my own. Something felt free inside me for the first time since Edd and I had set off up onto the moors with a few sticks of goods and a handful of sheep. Free and bad, all at once. Disloyal and yet right.
‘And how does your back feel now?’ she pursued the questioning. ‘And where is your cart?’
‘It feels stiff, but there is little pain now. I walk a little, but slowly and bent. I must ride, if we are to reach the place that Cuthman seeks before he grows old. He will know it when we reach it.’
‘And this is not it?’
‘No, Gunda. This is quite certainly not it.’ And we both laughed until I felt ashamed of myself.
Night fell soon after I had consumed two full bowls of the broth. My belly hurt with the fullness, and I became drowsy and unable to speak properly. Gunda helped me to the ditch which was the latrine, and then made me comfortable on my bed of hay. ‘Tonight you will sleep, while we have our singing and such,’ she said. ‘But we will not waken you before noon tomorrow, so you will be fresh for the next night. We will have much to show you, then. And have no worries for your boy. He is being well fed and rested, on duck’s feathers and good linen. For many days he will be treated like a king.’
I dreamed of my son wearing a crown like the rays of the sun, great golden dogs at his feet and steaming piles of roasted meat on platters before him. But the woman who served him had the same terrible face as the woman in the hermit’s pool; the murderer of my son in my earlier dream. She had followed me here, and I believed, in my dream, that I would never escape her. She would always be with me, until I allowed her into my heart, and listened to her message. Even then, I would fear her, and the harm she would do me. And once again, she was poisoning Cuthman, and seeking to bring about his death.
As promised, Gunda took me through the door in the wall at dusk the next day. I stepped through, and into a different world. Although still not fully springtime, there were flowers and bright grass. Evergreens such as ivy and yew grew lush and glossy, and wooden huts nestled against the dividing wall, well tended and weathertight. In an open grassy area stood a small temple, square with an open pillared walkway set all around it. The wood was delicately carved and painted with flowers and leaves. ‘They have your son in there,’ Gunda nodded. ‘As comfortable as can be.’
‘Can I go to him?’ I asked, with little hope.
My guide shook her head. ‘He sleeps mostly. When he wakes, he is given good food and rich drinks of milk and mead. He wants for nothing, I assure you.’
‘Except his freedom,’ I fretted, anxious now that I was so close to him. It was plain to me that he would be angry that he was shut away like an animal. Angry and defiant and utterly determined not to yield to the women who imprisoned him.
‘It is just for a little while,’ Gunda soothed. ‘And most men would surely envy him.’
‘I would think otherwise,’ I responded, tartly. ‘Or you would have a line of them at your gate, all waiting their turn.’
‘Our reputation as heathens discourages them,’ she explained, seriously. ‘And their priests threaten them with damnation if they come close. Even the shepherds send their wives and daughters to fetch in the sheep or move them to fresh pastures when they stray too close to our ramparts. Which is how we manage to steal so many of them when we feel the need,’ she giggled.
Yet another Commandment broken, I noted. Sheep stealing was both a crime and a sin where I came from, rarely worth the risk of terrible punishment.
A distance from the temple, set against the southern edge of the fortress, was a large low building with a wide open door. Girls and women were assembling close by it, and beginning to go inside. I calculated that it was close to the point where Cuthman and I had first approached the walls, and from where we could hear the strange singing, two days earlier. Gunda led me along a neat stone-paved path, the stones all cut and shaped so their natural bluish-white interiors were exposed, and set in patterns along the length of the path. Everything was decorated in some way. The roof of the meeting hall had a thatch of woven grass and fine boughs, criss-crossed in an intricate design. But as a wind sprang up and gusted along the length of the hilltop, I saw how the eastern wall sagged, because there were scarcely any foundations to the building. A year of neglect and abandonment and the whole structure would blow away as if it had never been.
I leaned on Gunda’s arm, as my back grew tired, and thought wistfully of my cart. Next day, I would ensure that it was made safe in some way, so that when we left, it could serve its usual purpose.
All the heads turned towards me as I entered the hall. I recognised the girls with autumnal-hued hair, and saw Enthia immediately, standing on a low platform with two other women. She nodded to me, friendly, but as if she had more pressing matters on her mind. Most of the girls were sitting cross-legged on the floor, and chatting between themselves. On shelves and ledges there were displays of flowers and woven baskets, a great profusion which seemed to have no purpose but to please the eye. Pieces of carved yew and woven hangings were fastened to the walls. The hall was lit with rushlights and candles made from muttonfat, and smelled of earth and grease and an aromatic oil I had never encountered before. I sat in a dim corner, with a piece of matting under me. Nobody was bothering to stare at me any more.
Enthia spoke, low and distinct, and everyone instantly hushed. ‘We are in the third phase of the moon, tonight,’ she said. ‘We have our man, praise the Goddess for delivering him here. Agrude has a story for us, which I trust you will hear in patience, as it is her first one to the whole meeting.’ She indicated the woman on her right, who was young, with a sharp nose like a beak and small darting black eyes.
Without further preparation, Enthia began to sing, her voice soaring high as a skylark, and as wordless. Others began to join in, and my head was filled with the unearthly sound. It brought visions into my mind of running rivers and secret forest groves and the power of creation. Sometimes one voice would scream or moan, threading the sounds into the song, as if giving birth or in great physical ecstasy. Once, the singing ceased abruptly, as if Death had passed over them without warning. Then it began again, ten heartbeats later, louder than before.
At last, the voices drifted into silence, and the women sat with bowed heads for many minutes. I could see that a girl about the age of my Wynn was weeping noiselessly, but most seemed utterly serene. My eyelids felt heavy, despite my long sleep, and it was an effort to form thoughts or properly perceive anything.
Then the beady-eyed Agrude stood forward, working her neck like a bird, forward and back, and fixed her gaze at a point some way above my head.
‘A woman, as wide as the earth, clothed in rippling, radiant, rainbow sunbeams, floating high in the sky. Her feet rest on the silver moon, full and glowing; on her head a glittering crown made from twelve of the brightest stars. And the woman’s belly is huge with an unborn child, and her birth pangs are beginning, so she cries out. Her voice is like a howling wind in the skies, and all the creatures of the universe hear her. Even the great red dragon of the dark places hears her and comes out of his lair. He flies up to the labouring woman, and crouches below her, to catch the child as it is born and eat it up.
‘The dragon is a huge monster, with seven heads, each with a mighty crown. On every head are ten sharp horns, pointing every way. And his great thick dragon tail lashes as he waits, back and forth, side to side, and in its lashing it sweeps a third part of all the stars from their places in the skies, and dashes them down on the earth.
‘When the child is born, before the dragon can take him, the strongest of the gods causes him to be saved. The child will be a cruel ruler of all the earth’s people, forcing his will on them with a rod of iron. He will grow up alongside the greatest of the gods, seated on a golden throne, and learn to be the master of the whole world. His mother, the woman who rests her feet on the moon and wears a crown of stars, goes away all alone, to live for many hundreds of days in a wild land where she rests and regains her strength.
‘And she ignores the great and bloody battles that the men and the angels of goodness and the angels of evil and the dragon are fighting across the skies. Great damage is done to the warriors, but finally the dragon is defeated, and sent back to his dark place where he brews all the pain and hatred and fear that the world suffers. The woman’s child, which men call the Lamb, but who is more of a great and powerful lion, has added his strength to the fight, and now rejoices in his victory. But he has hard words for the people who live on earth, where the dragon can spread his misery. And he forgets the woman his mother, waiting and resting in her quiet fields and hills, using her own body to feed the plants and rivers, and teaching the world’s women to trust the truth of their own knowing.
‘Many thousands of years pass by, and the dragon lives in the darkness, gnawing at his own rage, feeding it with the blood of men who fight, and the tears of women who weep. And the dragon casts one eye on the gods in the skies, where they make plans for the earth and do everything in their power to control the passions and the pleasures of the people. And he casts the other eye on the woman, where she lies calm and luscious, the mounds of her body forming green hills, the power to make new growth bringing him bitter envy. The mother is the source of all, and the dragon knows this and fears her.
‘So the dragon begins to persecute the woman. He sends fire across her skin, burning her plants and her beloved creatures, but the great god above is on her side, and sends rains to quench the fires. So the dragon sends floods to drown the woman and all her works. But the very earth beneath her opens up and swallows the flood, so it can do no harm. When the dragon becomes too fierce, she can retreat to her quiet wilderness and wait for him to withdraw.
‘And so it happens, many and many a time. The dragon whispers into the ears of men, stirring their hate against the woman and all her children. Her son, on his throne, far away in the starry skies, tries to send them the courage to resist, but they seldom hear him. Only those who close their eyes and shut themselves in quiet places where passions are forbidden, can sometimes catch a word. But the mother has a voice loud enough for all to hear. When a woman calls out in her labour or her ecstasies, it is that women-mother’s voice. When the child goes close to the fire and her mother cries out to warn her, it is the same great goddess speaking. When the crops grow tall and feed us, when the lambs fatten, when our bread leavens and apples turn red, it is the heart of the Goddess beating, the blood of the Goddess flowing.’
It was not a story as I understood stories. And yet it left me with vivid pictures. The woman clothed in rainbow sunbeams, later lying down and making herself into the hills and valleys from which we gained all our food, it all burrowed itself into my mind, and touched me with its rich colours and good sense.
And Cuthman’s God, with his Holy Son by his side, far away beyond the clouds - where did his power come from? As always, my head became jumbled and sore with such wonderings.
When the oration ended, the women began quietly talking together, and I thought the evening was over. If this was Sodom or Gomorrah, there was little I could see of wickedness in it. But there was more to come. Without following how they did it, I was suddenly part of a wide circle, my hands held by women on either side of me. The circle began to move, swaying, two steps to the left, two to the right, and a humming which rose in volume until it ended in a great shriek which chilled my blood. The dance became faster, ducking and jumping, until I was almost dragged off my feet and frightened of what would happen to me. Deftly, my two partners let me fall back, not too gently, and rejoined hands without me. I cowered away, avoiding the flying feet, disliking the ferocity of the rhythm, the lack of any control. No-one noticed me or cared about me. I was in an alien place, an insignificant appendage to my necessary son, who would in a few days be the subject of this kind of behaviour, with only his distant God to help him.
I crawled away at some point in the night, finding an open hut to shelter me and fell into a broken sleep, woken at intervals by loud noises from the women. Was this a nightly practice, I asked myself. Was it possible to keep repeating this frenzy? Or was it particular on this night because they had Cuthman, or because the moon was in its third quarter?
I was afraid of the morning and what might come next. Women such as these were truly terrifying in their abandon and self-confidence. Small wonder, I thought muzzily, that the people outside kept well away. And yet they were also fascinating and glorious, and I felt charged with the contagious glow of their exuberance.
Everything had cooled the next day. An east wind came cutting across the hilltop, whipping the skirts of the women tightly around their legs, and ruffling the coats of the dogs. I was impatient to return to the western side of the wall, and find a leeward corner for myself. Gunda brought me my food that evening, but did not stop to talk. My back hurt me again, and I felt old and forgotten. A further two days passed with no notable events. I did not try to move far, and nobody invited me over into the holy area again. I had become one of the cast-out crones, spending their days tending smoky fires and coughing in dilapidated huts.
Inactive, I grew more concerned for Cuthman. It seemed strange to me then that I had not clung to him on that first day and fought against his imprisonment. But I remembered the great circle of women, so sure of what they were doing, and knew I could never have made a difference. Besides, when it happened, I had not properly believed in their intention. A sense of unreality had kept me still.
I beat my brains to discover a way that I might rescue him, but there were too many obstacles. The gate between the two sides of the castle was barred and high. There was always someone close to it, keeping a sharp watch on who passed through - even in the early morning when almost everyone slept. If I could manage to find a way, and get to my son in the temple, there would be more guards - priestesses of the Goddess, or whatever they were called. He might be bound or drugged. Even, I acknowledged, he might not wish to come with me. I knew better than to underestimate the power of these women.
In the end, all I could think to do was to try to pray to God to protect him, as Cuthman had asked me to. It seemed a simple task, and I awkwardly kneeled down, bowed my head, and whispered the words, ‘Please, dear Lord, keep Cuthman safe,’ three or four times. Then, afraid that one of the heathen women would see me, I stopped. I could not detect anything of Cuthman’s God here on this high windy place. The signs were all of the ancient Goddess from the story I had heard. Even her voice came on the wind, and the smells of spring stirring under the ground were womanly and fertile.
But I had done my best, and forced my feeble faith to its limits. The boy could work miracles, he was God’s Chosen One. If he was intended to resist the women, then he would. But if there was agreement between the Lord God and the Great Goddess that he should sire a new clutch of heathen daughters, then so be it. I found it difficult to find any harm in such a destiny. The days would pass, and the month would finally end, and then, I supposed, we would be allowed to leave.
I came to enjoy the watery sheep’s whey that Gunda brought me every noon. I befriended an old woman, a little less repulsive than the first two I had met, and we talked peaceably of ordinary things. I recounted my story a second time, and shed some tears for my Edd as I told of his dying. He seemed very far away from me then, lying in the cold red clay of our abandoned home. I thought about Wynn, my daughter, who I had allowed to depart without a proper farewell. In my own ears, the story sounded thin and without the normal foundations that a person’s life should have. But the old listener merely nodded and once or twice pressed my hand with hers, showing no sign that she found anything to judge wrong in it.
Another day passed, and the moon rose full in the evening sky. Now was Cuthman’s real hour of trial, and I did what I could to send him my prayers and hopes that all would pass rightly for him.
Gunda came to me next morning, her face a curious mixture of apprehension and amusement. ‘You were right,’ she began, without any preamble. ‘Enthia is not pleased.’
‘The full moon did not work its magic, then?’
‘Evidently not. Three girls went in to him, one after another. They were well tutored by the elders, who have borne children themselves. There ought to have been no obstructions. Your lad has eaten well and has a fine body. We spiced his food with the necessary herbs for arousal. At his age, three well-fleshed girls should have been just right for a night’s work. Yet it seems that not one of them aroused him.’
I was flooded with a sense of outrage at what they had tried to do. Until that moment I had given little thought to the finer feelings that my son might have towards the act itself. I had thought only of the greater struggle between the two conflicting ways, as evidenced in the male and female deities. Now I had images in my head of these noisy godless girls handling him, feeding him like a hog for the kill, mixing potions to give him virility and stamina for their purposes and I was sickened.
‘Give it up,’ I snapped. ‘It is a foul thing to be doing. This is not the way to increase your numbers. If you cannot tolerate men amongst you, then you must pay the price.’
Gunda stepped back from me, her face stony. ‘The price is too high,’ she replied. ‘That was merely the first night. We will not tire. He cannot continue long in his resistance.’
Another day and night unrolled, and the sky lightened with a promise of spring. The spring solstice was close, and down in the plain below I could make out the bright white dots of new lambs. On the hazel the catkins fluffed out and the yellow colour deepened. I could feel Cuthman’s rising impatience to be away, from beyond the wooden wall. Something was going to happen. As the sun sank over a far off hill, and stars came out, I felt a tightness of anticipation. This night would be different, and I would not let myself sleep. Clouds gathered low over the hills and moved towards us until there was total darkness. Although it was not usual at this season, I suspected a storm might be brewing. The women assembled, as usual, without any idea of including me in their rituals. I could see the roof of the hall across the dividing fence, but no other buildings were high enough. I tried to remember the shape of the temple where Cuthman was captive, but could only recall the pillars, carved and painted, which formed a walkway all around it.
I dozed, but woke again when the chanting of the women took up a new rhythm over in their meeting hall. It began slowly, but soon became faster and faster, breathy shouts marking the beat, and I finally realised what they were doing. Through my disgust a thread of excitement flowed, my own pulse answering the sensuality of the sound. But I did not think that it would affect my son in the way they hoped.
The climax came without warning. As the women’s voices climbed and my body began to throb, there was a rumble and a crash overhead, which came without warning. A fork of dazzling lightning flashed down and seemed to seek out the roof of the meeting house. It crackled strangely, and I saw a jagged line of silvery white flitter over the thatch. Behind it were tiny flames, barely visible. Surely, I thought wildly, rain would come in a moment, and douse the fire.
But no rain fell. A long silence echoed and swelled, as everyone on that hilltop tried to understand what was happening. Then it came again, the thunder, and the spear of white lightning, thrown directly down to this place. If I had doubted at first, I was now certain that Cuthman was responsible for this. He had a call on the elements, and had chosen the moment to burn the women he had surely come to hate. I could hear crackling now, and smell smoke. The hall was alight, and in the breeze which had come from nowhere, wisps of burning straw were floating down to set fire to other buildings. In an unnaturally short time, flames were roaring, louder than the screams of the confused women, who did not yet believe what their senses told them.
I had to do something to help. Staggering with the responsibility and my stiff back, I hurried to the gate in the wall and pushed at it. It opened easily, and there was no-one the other side. I crossed the grassy square to the temple, to be met by Cuthman, who took hold of me roughly. ‘Quickly!’ he cried, and began to take me back towards the wall. But the fire was moving too fast now, and the wall itself was burning. He hesitated, then changed course, and headed eastwards, to a part of the fortress I had not yet seen. Everything was lit by the flickering scarlet flames, which made grotesque shadows and shapes. A few women were running about, but seemed to have lost their wits and have no purpose. The ground sloped down, and we came to an entrance gate like the one we had first encountered at the other end of the hill, but much more broken. There were similar earthworks beyond it, intended to obstruct marauders, but they were little impediment to us. Despite the darkness, we found our way down to the level ground without mishap, and paused for breath.
‘They will not follow us now,’ said Cuthman, and we both looked back. The sky was bright with the flames, just above the fortress, but beyond that it was hazy with the smoke of the fire. The full moon was obliterated entirely.
‘Will they all die?’ I asked, filled with awe at the sight.
He shrugged. ‘They are finished, whether or not they die tonight. Their wickedness has found them out.’
I thought of Gunda and the girls with orange hair and the stately Enthia, and shuddered. I might have finished my days with them, if my son had had different ideas as to his duty. At the same time, I remembered that I was his mother - I had brought him into the world, only for him to do such a terrible thing as this. My son had brought fire down on a community because they offended him. Such power was cause enough to keep my own counsel and resolve that silence and submission must be my safest course. Already I felt stirrings of unease at what Cuthman might regard as my disloyalty in the past days. For the first time, I was afraid of him.
‘The cart,’ I remembered. ‘It must still be at the other gate.’ The distance around the fort from east to west seemed to me immense, and my legs went weak beneath me at the thought of losing my vehicle.
Cuthman shook his head, as if to clear the irritations away. I could feel his desire to simply run free, across the plain before us, to escape from every obstruction and obligation. ‘I will fetch it,’ he said, flat and resigned. ‘Wait here for me.’
He found me a hollow similar to the one we had slept in on our first ill-fated night at this peculiar spot. A further clap of thunder sounded overhead, but still there was no sign of rain. I had little to cover me, but I made the best of it, and settled down to wait. Waiting was my destiny, it seemed.
I was asleep when he returned, despite noises coming from above me. I had half-expected the surviving women to come running past me, escaping from their burning home, but it seemed that they had chosen to stay and make what restorations they could. Where, after all, could they go? Long ago cast out from the surrounding land, they would meet harsh fates if they tried to rejoin the towns and villages beyond. From one moment to the next, they changed from women of great power and insight to pathetic remnants of an old way of life that could not continue in the new world. It seemed a pity to me that there could not be space for both patterns of living, but that was not to be. Cuthman’s God wanted to be the only inhabitant of Heaven. Didn’t He insist, through the commandments of His son, that mankind abandon all other gods? It seemed greedy to me, and dangerous. However magnificent He might be, it was plain that He could not satisfy every human need. But such thoughts would madden my son, if he ever heard them, and I closed my eyes and mind to them, drifting into a restless sleep.
At first light, I saw my cart again. It stood crookedly on a slope, seeming dirtier and smaller than I remembered. The wheel was caked with fresh mud, and there were white splashes of bird droppings all over the handles. A greenish mould had begun to creep across the sides, which made the wood look soft and rotten. When I looked inside, there was my little bag of runestones and my shawl, frozen into a rigid shape, not by frost but rain and neglect fixing it just as I had left it. It had gone grey and thin, and would be of little use in warming me now.
We set off, silent and numb from our experiences on the hill. Pictures came and went in my mind, but I had nothing I wanted to say. We had lost our momentum, and Cuthman seemed to have forgotten his purpose. We moved eastwards at first, and then slowly veered to the north. What did it matter? We might just as easily find whatever it was he sought in that direction as any other. We had to relearn how to travel, and it was to take us several days.