I held another short service before we set off, which the merchant and his family did not attend. I was sorry but didn’t push the point.
As we would be together for only a few hours more I once again went to assist the Wailing Woman’s family with their grumbling grand-dam, and was rewarded with an embarrassed smile of thanks from her ‘thoughtless’ son-in-law. I’d concluded that the man must be a veritable Job: he never complained, nor seemed to take issue with even her most unreasonable demands or scolding. I knew others who would have pitched her into the sea when they were on the boat, and faced the consequences with relief.
She was unused to exercise and was constantly pulling up, huffing and puffing, and calling on the others to wait for her. The only ones who did so were her own family. She then had to move even faster - which she did, with great alacrity - in order to catch up with her fellow travellers. It occurred to me (and I suggested it to her) that, if she could keep up a steady pace, she wouldn’t have to rush to catch up so much.
“I don’t know about a steady pace, Magister, I think it’s those ahead that ought to be thinking about a steady pace. No sooner do I catch up with them than they’re pulling away from me again. I shouldn’t be here, of course, but for my feckless son-in-law, dragging me around the place. A woman of my age. Why doesn’t he have more respect for his elders? ‘Honour your father and your mother’, the Good Book says, doesn’t it Magister? So I’m told anyway, I can’t read of course - work of the Devil if you ask me, this reading. What do ordinary folk need reading for when they have their priests and their Magisters to tell them the Word of God? I don’t anyway, I’m happy to do what you say, Magister, and your brothers. And they tell me to offer my sufferings up to the Lord and to share in His sacrifice, and I’m happy to do so, you can be sure, and I rejoice in my afflictions if they bring me nearer to my God, but you know that I don’t think it’s right for others to be deciding what sufferings you should be putting up with, that’s up to God, and people my age shouldn’t be dragged around like this.” At that moment, having caught up with the rest, she had to pause for breath. With only a few slight twinges of guilt, I managed to make myself busy with the others until we came to the parting of the ways.
Each party counselled the other to take care and watch out for bandits and any other renegades there may be about, and with final good wishes we of the Melrose party struck off on the narrower path, over the hills to the headwaters of the Tweed, and east to the Abbey at the head of the river’s lowlands.
We didn’t have much time before darkness would start to close in, maybe four hours at most, but without the drag-anchor of the Wailing Woman we made good time. The top of the pass that was our immediate target was marked by a gigantic stone. It was more than twelve feet tall and its distinctive shape marked it out as a beacon in all but the very deepest winter snows. It would be a foolhardy man who would venture out into this treeless wilderness when the snow was more than a little way up the marker, but there would be some who would brave the wildest weather on their King’s business - or their own.
The stone marked the highest point of our journey. From there on, the way would be mostly downhill, following the path of a tributary until we reached the main river of the Tweed. We all remarked on the fact when we saw the little stream, flowing the opposite way from the Clyde river behind us. It gave an impetus to our steady walk and we found themselves at the village of Biggar and its Inn a good half hour before sunset. I was made particularly welcome as the pious people of the settlement hadn’t seen a priest or even a novice for weeks. They’d had a hermit nearby but he’d disappeared: whether gone off on a pilgrimage or wandered off into the winter snows to die, no-one could tell. All they knew was that he was there up to Christmastide, and had then disappeared.
I was enrolled to lead a service even before I had supper and was engaged for a further two or three hours giving medicine to the curably sick and comfort to those beyond this world’s help before I could retreat to the stable and compose myself again. My healing powers - mean and inadequate thought they were, especially when compared with Ieuan’s Gift - seemed miraculous to the small, isolated community and some who were wavering were reconfirmed in their new Christian faith. I smiled with a little bitterness at the realisation that the mumbo-jumbo of the local witchdoctors had utterly failed these people. There were no signs of any shamen now: they would keep themselves out of sight until I’d gone. I would make a point of returning here, or ask a monk from Melrose to come out and hold back the influence of the stone-worshippers.
The early spring sky was empty of clouds and when darkness fell, the stars were scattered across it like dust. It would be a cold and frosty night. I could have stood and marvelled at the sight for hours but my evening Office called. I tore my gaze away and returned to the stable. There I fixed my eyes on the blank wall in front of me and cleared my mind of all mundane thoughts.
I was able to complete most of my Office before the fuzziness of another Vision. I heard an echo of the wild chant I’d experienced two nights previously. I was ready, and gave myself up to whatever message I was sent.
I was in the clearing as before. The grass was alive with an obscene vitality that clawed at my guts and throat. I could feel my gorge rise at the sensual caressing of the blades at my feet. There was a rough-hewn stone before me and I knew, without looking, that the top had been carved into a bowl. Something was in it and I did not want to see what it was. I was not ready. There was an abomination in it that I could not yet face. I knew it had the power to drive me mad again if I saw it without the necessary strength, and I was not strong enough, not yet. I turned and looked for a way out. There were trees around, and a figure on the boundary, beckoning me. It was familiar. I walked towards it, away from the altar, and saw a statue that I had not noticed previously. It was bent like an old man but its face was shrouded in a hood and I could not see who it was.
The figure at the woods beckoned again, with more urgency. I recognised it but could not quite determine who it was. It seemed older. I went towards it, away from the altar.
There was a white yearling fawn in the woods, with a circlet around its neck. There was the sound of hounds - they had got its scent. The fawn leaped out of the trees and ran into the clearing. I tried to stop it. Being torn to pieces was better than the least fate that awaited such an innocent creature at the altar. I tried to stop it but it ran straight through me, because I wasn’t there.