I was looking at a castle atop a hill, overlooking a wide river estuary. Someone was walking among the huts gathered outside, collecting offerings. Some were made willingly, others had to be taken by force.
I turned away and saw a beautiful young man walking towards me. He was saying something, but I could not make out what it was. I knew, however, that the young man was offering me all I desired, and it was in his power to give it. I sang the first two lines of the Resurrection song and turned away.
The castle had disappeared. A fire raged before me and I knew that my true desire was beyond it. I felt a yearning to get through and to meet the Truth on the other side. I took a step forward.
“Not yet,” I heard someone say. It was a sweet voice, an old friend’s voice, and I loved it as much as I loved myself. “Not yet, there is more to do.”
The fire faded and my nose was up against the stable wall. I felt my way around the straw-strewn floor until I found my bag and took a reasonable draught of medicine against the headache, then laid myself down to sleep.
I slept soundly; so soundly I was late getting up and found my companions ready for departure. There was time for only the briefest of breakfasts before we were ready to be on our way again - but I wasn’t to depart immediately. An exasperated-looking local came up with a young boy in tow - probably no more than six, by my estimate. The (presumed) father shuffled his feet and looked alternately embarrassed and imploring towards me.
“How can I help you?” I prompted. The father looked relieved.
“It’s the boy, Magister. He’s so full of questions about this Christian religion of yours. I can’t answer them, I don’t know enough. Please talk to him for us. He’s driving us mad!”
I considered the child. There was a gleam of a sharp mind in the eyes that regarded me steadily for a moment before a word from his father cast them down in respect. I asked my companions to spare me a few moments and then sat down, calling the boy over to me. I was a stocky man and my shaved head and flowing hair could be intimidating for a child.
“What would you like to ask me?”
He was full of questions, about the Old gods, whether they had been killed when our new one came, whether the Old ones did any harm – I was subject to quite a searching examination. He asserted that he thought he liked the Old ones better, the little spirits of the spring, and whether the offerings they had made had any value. But he did say that there were some that he didn’t like.
“Which ones are you thinking of?” The boy looked down and shuffled his feet, suddenly reluctant to continue. “Go on,” I prodded gently, “you can tell me. I won’t be angry with you.” The boy looked up, unsure, and I nodded encouragement.
“There’s the one that eats children.” There was another sharp intake of breath, through more than one mouth this time.
“What is this one called?”
“Cromm.” there were several who made the sign against evil. “Cromm Cruaich. He eats children, doesn’t he?” I took a moment before answering and suddenly remembered the talisman in my pocket. I’d meant to discuss it with Ieuan.
I explained that not all spirits were God’s servants and that some had rebelled against him, that they were proud and arrogant and didn’t want to serve anyone. And that they hated humanity and he must always be on his guard against them.
“Did God create everything?” I nodded. “Then did he create the Devil and his demons too? Why did he do that?” Some in the small audience smiled at the lad’s audacity. Others disapproved of his forwardness and what they considered something close to blasphemy. I took his shoulder and dropped down to his level again, regarding him seriously. He returned my gaze with a very steady one of his own.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Bedwyr, Magister.”
“Bedwyr, I want you to listen to me. Would you like to go somewhere no-one minds you asking questions and thinking about these things?” The boy’s eyes snapped sharply into focus and there was interest: real interest but not commitment. He was thinking about it and he glanced behind to his father. I followed his look and spoke again. “I think he could do well under the tutelage of my brothers at Melrose, or maybe even Lindisfarne, and he may grow to be an asset. Would you be willing to let him go?”
The man didn’t answer immediately. I could see two conflicting emotions were at war in him: on the one hand, the boy would grow to be a useful and productive pair of hands to help eke out whatever mean existence the family had but, on the other hand, he would be a mouth to feed and a burden for some years yet. The father in his turn looked over to a woman standing in the small crowd, who had one child in a shabby and threadbare shawl tied over her shoulders, another dangling from her hand and a third playing in the dirt at her feet: she looked worn out and on the verge of old age, although she was probably less than twenty-five years old. The boy interrupted before she could answer.
“Would they let me learn to read and write?”
“Yes: they would teach you. Would you like to learn?” The boy nodded vigorously. I looked again to the woman, the child’s mother, who shrugged her shoulders indifferently. She had enough to contend with, I thought, without this child plaguing her with questions she couldn’t answer. The father replied for the two of them.
“If you think he will make a good monk - I wouldn’t want any shame on us if he was sent back in disgrace - and if he wants it, well,” he stood straight and squared his shoulders, “I won’t stand in his way.” and he stood back from the two of us as if relinquishing his charge. “But if you would be so kind, Magister, if he will be of worth to you then I have to ask you, with respect of course...,” the man became tongue-tied and I nodded encouragement. I knew what was coming. “Well sir, your honour, he would have been of some worth to us in a couple of years, poor as we are, he could have earned his keep and maybe a little more besides, helped out as it were...”
“What do you want, friend?”
“Sir, I hesitate to ask but it has been a very hard year for us, very hard. We didn’t have a good harvest last year and all the mouths to feed...” his voice trailed off again.
“I’ll ask the Abbott at Melrose. If he decides to take the boy, and only then, to send you a bushel of seed corn in time for planting.”
“Oh thank you sir, thank you. That would be most kind, you are very generous, thank you.” He would have carried on for some time in this vein if I hadn’t cut him short.