As he waited for sleep to come to him, Axl recalled once again how the four of them, together with the silent monk, had squeezed into the tiny cell. A candle was burning next to the bed, and he had felt Beatrice recoil as she caught sight of the figure lying in it. Then she had taken a breath and moved further into the room. There was hardly space for them all, but they had before long arranged themselves around the bed, the warrior and the boy in the corner furthest away. Axl’s back was pressed against the chilly stone wall, but Beatrice, standing just in front and leaning into him as if for reassurance, was almost up to the sickbed. There was a faint smell of vomit and urine. The silent monk, meanwhile, was fussing about the man in the bed, helping to raise him to a sitting position.
Their host was white-haired and advanced in years. His frame was large, and until recently must have been vigorous, but now the simple act of sitting up appeared to cause multiple agonies. A coarse blanket fell from around him as he raised himself, revealing a nightshirt patched with bloodstains. But what had caused Beatrice to shrink back was the man’s neck and face, starkly illuminated by the bedside candle. A swollen mound under one side of the chin, a deep purple fading to a yellow, obliged the head to be held at a slight angle. The peak of the mound was split and caked with pus and old blood. On the face itself, a gouge ran from just below the cheek bone down to the jaw, exposing a section of the man’s inner mouth and gum. It must have cost him greatly to smile, but once he was settled in his new position, the monk did just this.
“Welcome, welcome. I’m Jonus, whom I know you came a long way to see. My dear guests, don’t look at me with such pity. These wounds are no longer new, and hardly bring the pain they once did.”
“We see now, Father Jonus,” Beatrice said, “why your good abbot’s so reluctant to have strangers impose on you. We’d have waited for his permission, but this kind monk led us to you.”
“Ninian here is my most trusted friend, and even if he’s vowed to silence, we understand one another perfectly. He’s watched each of you since your arrival and brought me frequent reports. I thought it time we met, even if the abbot knows nothing of it.”
“But what can have caused you such injuries, father?” Beatrice asked. “And you a man famed for kindness and wisdom.”
“Let’s leave the topic, mistress, for my feeble strength won’t allow us to speak for long. I know two of you here, yourself and this brave boy, seek my advice. Let me see the boy first, who I understand carries a wound. Come closer into the light, dear lad.”
The monk’s voice, though soft, possessed a natural command, and Edwin started to move towards him. But immediately Wistan reached forward and gripped the boy by the arm. Perhaps it was an effect of the candle flame, or the warrior’s trembling shadow cast on the wall behind him, but it seemed to Axl that for an instant Wistan’s eyes were fixed on the injured monk with peculiar intensity, even hatred. The warrior drew the boy back to the wall, then took a step forward himself as though to shield his charge.
“What’s wrong, shepherd?” asked Father Jonus. “Do you fear poison from my wounds will travel to your brother? Then my hand needn’t touch him. Let him step closer and my eyes alone will test his injury.”
“The boy’s wound is clean,” Wistan said. “It’s just this good woman now seeks your help.”
“Master Wistan,” Beatrice said, “how can you say such a thing? You must know well how a wound clean one moment turns fevered the next. The boy must seek this wise monk’s guidance.”
Wistan seemed not to hear Beatrice, and continued to stare at the monk. Father Jonus, in turn, regarded the warrior as though he were a thing of great fascination. After a while, Father Jonus said:
“You stand with remarkable boldness for a humble shepherd.”
“It must be the habit of my trade. A shepherd must stand long hours watchful of wolves gathering in the night.”
“No doubt that’s so. I imagine too how a shepherd must judge quickly, hearing a sound in the dark, if it heralds danger or the approach of a friend. Much must rest on the ability to make such decisions quickly and well.”
“Only a foolish shepherd hears a snapping twig or spots a shape in the dark and assumes a companion come to relieve him. We’re a cautious breed, and what’s more, sir, I’ve just now seen with my own eyes the device in your barn.”
“Ah. I thought you’d come upon it sooner or later. What do you make of your discovery, shepherd?”
“It angers me.”
“Angers you?” Father Jonus rasped this with some force, as though himself suddenly angered. “Why does it anger you?”
“Tell me if I’m wrong, sir. My surmise is that the custom here has been for the monks to take turns in that cage exposing their bodies to the wild birds, hoping this way to atone for crimes once committed in this country and long unpunished. Even these ugly wounds I see here before me have been gained in this way, and for all I know a sense of piety eases your suffering. Yet let me say I feel no pity to see your gashes. How can you describe as penance, sir, the drawing of a veil over the foulest deeds? Is your Christian god one to be bribed so easily with self-inflicted pain and a few prayers? Does he care so little for justice left undone?”
“Our god is a god of mercy, shepherd, whom you, a pagan, may find hard to comprehend. It’s no foolishness to seek forgiveness from such a god, however great the crime. Our god’s mercy is boundless.”
“What use is a god with boundless mercy, sir? You mock me as a pagan, yet the gods of my ancestors pronounce clearly their ways and punish severely when we break their laws. Your Christian god of mercy gives men licence to pursue their greed, their lust for land and blood, knowing a few prayers and a little penance will bring forgiveness and blessing.”
“It’s true, shepherd, that here in this monastery, there are those who still believe such things. But let me assure you, Ninian and I have long let go such delusions, and neither are we alone. We know our god’s mercy is not to be abused, yet many of my brother monks, the abbot included, will not yet accept this. They still believe that cage, and our constant prayers, will be enough. Yet these dark crows and ravens are a sign of God’s anger. They never came before. Even last winter, though the wind made the strongest of us weep, the birds were but mischievous children, their beaks bringing only small sufferings. A shake of the chains or a shout was enough to keep them at bay. But now a new breed comes to find us, larger, bolder and with fury in their eyes. They tear at us in calm anger, no matter how we struggle or cry out. We’ve lost three dear friends these past months, and many more of us carry deep wounds. These surely are signs.”
Wistan’s manner had been softening, but he had kept himself firmly in front of the boy. “Are you saying,” he asked, “I have friends here in this monastery?”
“In this room, shepherd, yes. Elsewhere, we remain divided and even now they argue in great passion about how we are to continue. The abbot will insist we carry on as always. Others of our view will say it’s time to stop. That no forgiveness awaits us at the end of this path. That we must uncover what’s been hidden and face the past. But those voices, I fear, remain few and will not carry the day. Shepherd, will you trust me now to see this boy’s wound?”
For a moment Wistan remained still. Then he moved aside, signalling to Edwin to step forward. Immediately the silent monk helped Father Jonus to a more upright position—both monks had become suddenly quite animated—then grasping the candleholder from the bedside, tugged Edwin closer, impatiently raising the boy’s shirt for Father Jonus to see. Then, for what seemed a long time, both monks went on looking at the boy’s wound—Ninian moving the light one way then the other—as though it were a pool within which a miniature world was contained. Eventually the monks exchanged what seemed to Axl looks of triumph, but the very next moment Father Jonus fell shaking back onto his pillows, with an expression closer to resignation or else sadness. As Ninian hastily put down the candle to attend to him, Edwin slipped back into the shadows to stand beside Wistan.
“Father Jonus,” Beatrice said, “now you’ve seen the boy’s wound, tell us if it’s clean and will heal on its own.”
Father Jonus’s eyes were closed, and he was still breathing heavily, but he said quite calmly: “I believe it will heal if he takes good care. Father Ninian will prepare an ointment for him before he leaves this place.”
“Father,” Beatrice went on, “your present conversation with Master Wistan isn’t entirely within my understanding. Yet it interests me greatly.”
“Is that so, mistress?” Father Jonus, still recovering his breath, opened his eyes and looked at her.
“Last night in a village below,” Beatrice said, “I spoke with a woman wise with medicines. She had much to tell about my sickness, but when I asked her about this mist, the same that makes us forget the last hour as readily as a morning many years past, she confessed she had no idea what or whose work it was. Yet she said if there was one wise enough to know, it would be you, Father Jonus, up here in this monastery. So my husband and I made our way here, even though it’s a harder road to our son’s village where we’re impatiently awaited. It was my hope you’d tell us something of this mist and how Axl and I might be free of it. It may be I’m a foolish woman, but it seemed to me just now, for all the talk of shepherds, you and Master Wistan were speaking of this same mist, and much bothered by what’s been lost of our past. So let me ask this of you, and Master Wistan too. Do the both of you know what causes this mist to fall over us?”
Father Jonus and Wistan exchanged looks. Then Wistan said quietly:
“It’s the dragon Querig, Mistress Beatrice, that roams these peaks. She’s the cause of the mist you speak of. Yet these monks here protect her, and have done so for years. I’d wager even now, if they’re wise to my identity, they’ll have sent for men to destroy me.”
“Father Jonus, can this be true?” Beatrice asked. “The mist is the work of this she-dragon?”
The monk, who for an instant had seemed far away, turned to Beatrice. “The shepherd tells the truth, mistress. It’s Querig’s breath which fills this land and robs us of memories.”
“Axl, do you hear that? The she-dragon’s the cause of the mist! If Master Wistan, or anyone else, even that old knight met on the road, can slay the creature, our memories will be restored to us! Axl, why so quiet?”
Indeed, Axl had been lost in thought, and although he had heard his wife’s words, and noticed her excitement, it was all he could do simply to reach out a hand to her. Before he could find any words, Father Jonus said to Wistan:
“Shepherd, if you know your danger, why do you dally here? Why not take this boy and be on your way?”
“The boy needs rest, as I do.”
“But you don’t rest, shepherd. You cut firewood and wander like a hungry wolf.”
“When we arrived your log pile was low. And the nights are cold in these mountains.”
“There’s something else puzzles me, shepherd. Why does Lord Brennus hunt you as he does? For many days now, his soldiers have searched the country for you. Even last year, when another man came from the east to hunt Querig, Brennus believed it might be you and sent men out to search for you. They came up here asking for you. Shepherd, who are you to Brennus?”
“We knew one another as young lads, even before the age of this boy here.”
“You’ve come to this country on an errand, shepherd. Why jeopardise it to settle old scores? I say to you, take this boy and be on your way, even before the monks come out of their meeting.”
“If Lord Brennus does me the courtesy to come here after me this night, I’m obliged then to stand and face him.”
“Master Wistan,” Beatrice said, “I don’t know what’s between you and Lord Brennus. But if it’s your mission to slay the great dragon Querig, I beg you, don’t be distracted from it. There’ll be time to settle scores later.”
“The mistress is right, shepherd. I fear I know too the purpose of all this woodcutting. Listen to what we say, sir. This boy gives you a unique chance the like of which may not come your way again. Take him and be on your way.”
Wistan looked thoughtfully at Father Jonus, then bowed his head politely. “I’m happy to have met you, father. And I apologise if earlier I addressed you discourteously. But now let me and this boy take our leave of you. I know Mistress Beatrice still wishes for advice, and she’s a brave and good woman. I beg you preserve some strength to attend to her. Now I’ll thank you for your counsel, and bid you farewell.”
Lying in the darkness, still hopeful sleep would overtake him, Axl tried to remember why he had been so oddly silent for much of his time in Father Jonus’s cell. There had been some reason, and even when Beatrice, triumphant to discover the origin of the mist, had turned to him and exclaimed, he had been able only to reach out his hand to her, still not speaking. He had been in the throes of some powerful and strange emotion, one that had all but put him in a dream, though every word being spoken around him still reached his ears with perfect clarity. He had felt as one standing in a boat on a wintry river, looking out into dense fog, knowing it would at any moment part to reveal vivid glimpses of the land ahead. And he had been caught in a kind of terror, yet at the same time had felt a curiosity—or something stronger and darker—and he had told himself firmly, “Whatever it may be, let me see it, let me see it.”
Had he actually spoken these words out loud? Perhaps he had done so, and just at the instant Beatrice had turned to him in excitement, exclaiming, “Axl, do you hear that? The she-dragon’s the cause of the mist!”
He could not remember clearly what had happened once Wistan and the boy had departed Father Jonus’s chamber. The silent monk, Ninian, must have left with them, probably to provide the ointment for the boy’s wound, or simply to lead them back unobserved. In any case, he and Beatrice had been left alone with Father Jonus, and the latter, despite his wounds and his exhaustion, had examined his wife thoroughly. The monk had not asked her to remove any clothing—Axl had been relieved—and though here too his recollection was hazy, an image came to him of Jonus pressing an ear to Beatrice’s side, eyes closed in concentration as though some faint message might be heard coming from within. Axl remembered too the monk, with blinking eyes, putting to Beatrice a series of questions. Did she feel sick after drinking water? Did she ever feel pain at the back of her neck? There were other questions Axl could now no longer remember, but Beatrice had replied in the negative to one after the next, and the more she did so, the more pleased Axl had become. Only once, when Jonus asked if she had noticed blood in her urine, and she replied that yes, she sometimes had, did Axl feel unease. But the monk had nodded, as though this was normal and to be expected, and gone straight on to the next question. How then had this examination ended? He remembered Father Jonus smiling and saying, “So you can go to your son with nothing to fear,” and Axl himself saying, “You see, princess, I always knew it was nothing.” Then the monk had eased himself carefully back down in his bed and lain there, recovering his breath. In Ninian’s absence, Axl had hurried to fill the monk’s drinking cup from the jug, and as he had placed it to the sick man’s mouth, had seen tiny droplets of blood slide from the lower lip and spread in the water. Then Father Jonus had looked up at Beatrice and said:
“Mistress, you seem happy to know the truth about this thing you call the mist.”
“Happy indeed, father, for now there’s a way forward for us.”
“Take care, for it’s a secret guarded jealously by some, though it’s maybe for the best it remains so no longer.”
“It’s not for me to care if it’s a secret or not, father, but I’m glad Axl and I know it and can now act on it.”
“Yet are you so certain, good mistress, you wish to be free of this mist? Is it not better some things remain hidden from our minds?”
“It may be so for some, father, but not for us. Axl and I wish to have again the happy moments we shared together. To be robbed of them is as if a thief came in the night and took what’s most precious from us.”
“Yet the mist covers all memories, the bad as well as the good. Isn’t that so, mistress?”
“We’ll have the bad ones come back too, even if they make us weep or shake with anger. For isn’t it the life we’ve shared?”
“You’ve no fear, then, of bad memories, mistress?”
“What’s to fear, father? What Axl and I feel today in our hearts for each other tells us the path taken here can hold no danger for us, no matter that the mist hides it now. It’s like a tale with a happy end, when even a child knows not to fear the twists and turns before. Axl and I would remember our life together, whatever its shape, for it’s been a thing dear to us.”
A bird must have flown across the ceiling above him. The sound had startled him, and then Axl realised that for a moment or two he had actually been asleep. He realised too there were no more woodcutting noises, and the grounds were silent. Had the warrior returned to their chamber? Axl had heard nothing, and there were no signs, beyond the dark shape of the table, of anyone else asleep on Edwin’s side of the room. What had Father Jonus said after examining Beatrice and concluding with his questions? Yes, she had said, she had noticed blood in her urine, but he had smiled and asked something else. You see, princess, Axl had said, I always told you it was nothing. And Father Jonus had smiled, despite his wounds and his exhaustion, and said, you can go to your son with nothing to fear. But these had never been the questions Beatrice had feared. Beatrice, he knew, feared the boatman’s questions, harder to answer than Father Jonus’s, and that was why she had been so pleased to learn the cause of the mist. Axl, do you hear that? She had been triumphant. Axl, do you hear that? she had said, her face radiant.