“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.
“I trust the boy will turn out to be worth it. I can see you are a hard-working man, but don’t be so foolish as to eat your seed again.” Bedwyr’s father nodded vigorously and retreated, still muttering thanks.
I was only mildly surprised to realise that the child was expected to leave with me that day. I prevailed upon my companions to delay a few more minutes while the boy’s meagre belongings were thrust into a ragged square of cloth, to which was added a small loaf of bread, some cheese and a leather water bottle. The cloth was tied into a bag and suspended from a short stick that he balanced on his shoulder. There were a few tears at the parting. Emotions that the small family had thought had withered being shown at last, until finally - and with promises to visit being exchanged on both sides - I was ready to leave with the rest.
Just over two hours later the stream we were following joined another and the two combined were well on their way to becoming the Tweed. We were heartened and wanted to push on as quickly as possible, but when we came across a pool narrowing to a short series of waterfalls, I could see from little offerings of rags on the hedges and small carved figures that it was an old holy Ylace was obviously pagan, which totally equated to devil-worship in his mind, and he wasn’t slow to let me have his opinion.
“For me and my family the place to worship is God’s house. That’s where the Lord is, in the blessed sacrament. Our priests tell us it is so, and that the World is a place where the Devil roams unhindered. You can see evidence of his worshippers all around the place.” He shuddered, although it wasn’t cold. “I won’t stop with you, and neither will my family. And you should move on and pass it by too, for the boy’s sake. You shouldn’t lead him into false practises. Better if this place was burned to ashes - as its Master’s followers will burn to ashes - before any righteous man paused here for longer than a moment.”
I couldn’t persuade him to stay, even by reminding him that Christ was baptised in the River Jordan, not in a cathedral.
“You have too much pagan in your worship. This icy stream is not the River Jordan and this bleak hillside is not the Holy Land. We will not stay. If you will, you can catch us up as best you can when you’ve finished your rites. We can’t stop you. We will tolerate you travelling with us, but don’t ask us to be an audience while you commit blasphemy!” The man was getting quite heated and when I looked at him I expected to see a flushed face with anger in the eyes, but instead I saw the worms again. I feared that the weaver’s death was very close. I implored him to remain, told him that I was concerned for him in the wilderness, in this disputed area. As a monk, I could help overcome any language barrier as I spoke English as well as British and Gaelic, and help to overcome misunderstandings that could turn dangerous. But he would not be moved.
His wife could see my concern and started to ask what I was worried about, but her husband cut her short. He ordered them all to take up their burdens again and herded his little flock off down the path. They went, carrying all their worldly wealth on their backs: heavy burdens indeed, I thought. They’d travelled hundreds of miles in their attempts to get the highest possible price for their produce and had probably spent more on travel and accommodation than they would gain in the end, even in the richest market-place. It seemed more like obsession than genuine pride in workmanship.
While I felt that I should run and catch them up again, the pull of the grotto was even stronger. To pass this holy place by would be to fail in my duty as a pilgrim monk. The feeling of Power was strong in this place.
“We’ll see you later if you wish it,” the Merchant called back over his shoulder but I feared for him. His companions would not be persuaded, and I had tried, so all I could do was pray for them.
Bedwyr asked what had happened. I explained something of our differences as best I could. It was obvious to him that the pool was a holy place so he didn’t really understand. He opened his mouth to ask more but I silenced him with a gently raised hand, and asked him to sit quietly on the bank while I prayed.
The pool was peaceful and it looked inviting, but a touch of my toe told me that it was icy. It was still very cold further up into the hills and the sun was only just strong enough to melt enough ice and snow to feed the headwaters and fill the shallows. The full floods wouldn’t be for a couple of weeks yet.
St Columba taught that a monk should take every opportunity for penance and mortification of the flesh. I wouldn’t be the first to take that teaching as an invitation to stand in a freezing cold pool for half an hour and overcome the discomfort by concentrating on higher things. Nonetheless it wasn’t without some trepidation that I stripped off and stepped into the water. At its deepest point it came up to my chest.
The cold seeped into my bones and the motion of the stream, although slowed by the lip before the small falls, was an added distraction. A less disciplined person wouldn’t have even entered the water, far less remained in it for up to an hour, but my training enabled me to utilise and then transcend the bodily discomfort. I was aware of it but didn’t allow it to distract me, any more than the strain on my arms as I held them out could distract me. I attained a trance-like state wherein I could contemplate all the great mysteries of the earth and heaven.