Time of the Beast Page 2

  I awoke with a cry, dry-mouthed and drenched in sweat. It was still dark, and I reached out with a shaking hand to scoop a cup of water from the bucket beside my bed, drinking half of it, then splashing what remained over my face.

  The dream had been an alarming one, more so because it seemed vaguely to me in those initial moments of awakening that this was not the first time I had experienced a dream of this kind. But as I became more fully awake this feeling seemed to drift away, and I rose up, then fell to my knees and prayed there fervently until the first light of day crept beneath the door to my hut and the noises from the stirring village began to rise all about me.

  By the time I finished my prayers my mind felt less troubled, for I had begun to make sense of my dream. I saw that while its grossly sensual aspects had been deeply disturbing and nightmarish, I had been delivered from these horrors by the salutary image of my dead mother, rising up to drive all such impure urges away. Perhaps, I reflected, these things had been the symbols of a higher truth: that the Devil had sent a succubus to tempt me, and that my own mother had represented the Holy Mother, our blessed Virgin herself, who had interceded on my behalf. These thoughts brought me much comfort and reassurance as I went out into the daylight with a renewed sense of resolution. The dream felt like a happy omen and a sign that Heaven itself smiled upon my intentions, while the Devil cursed me for them.

  Chapter Two

  Soon I departed from the village with Wecca. It was my good fortune that the day was dry and mild, and the sky was clear. We went on foot, for this was the only practical way to journey through the marshes, although some parts of the Fens are accessible by boat along the rivers and wider streams. On the way I noticed in the distance the crumbling ruins of an ancient Roman fort, and I asked Wecca whether it was true, as I had once been told, that centuries ago the old Romans had attempted to drain parts of the Fens and turn them into arable land, although to truly tame any part of those intractable swamps had proved to be finally beyond the powers of even the Romans. Wecca shrugged, and frowned, then replied in his mangled dialect:

  ‘It is maybe true. There are some few ruin of old Romans hereabouts. I do not know the purpose they serve, long time ago. My people, we stay away from these places, Brother. Built from stone by dark magic and given over to Roman devils. Evil spirits live in them still.’ He stopped himself abruptly and looked at me uneasily. No doubt he recalled the rebuke I had given to the village men the previous night for their idle superstitions.

  ‘There is nothing to fear in those old buildings, Wecca,’ I told him, ‘except for lumps of stone that may fall onto your head. The Romans merely possessed the knowledge to build with stone, which our people lack.’

  We made good progress at first, and it was only a short time before the open marshlands stretched before us, and the ground grew more boggy and wet. We trudged onward, our feet sinking into soft mud as we waded through shallow pools of dark sludge and fetid weeds, our passage becoming ever harder and slower. High grass and reeds rose to envelop us, while our surroundings grew more bleak and inhospitable. Wecca went before me, finding the safe paths and hacking a way through the thicker patches of vegetation with his seax – his long knife. Our destination was an island deep in the marshes in the territory known as the Crowland. Wecca informed me that this island was habitable and said others had attempted to settle there in the distant past, but now it was entirely deserted.

  The sun was at its height, and we had travelled half the day without stopping when we came to some woodlands that gradually inclined above the sunken marshes, and as we entered them I felt the ground become firmer. These wooded knolls stretched far before us and were the only landmarks for miles around. I turned quickly to survey the terrain behind, which we had traversed that day: a vast expanse of wild, grey and silent monotony. It was as dark and despairing as anything I might have hoped for.

  At length we came to a winding stream, and we followed this until we reached a place where numerous other pools and rivulets converged, to create within their midst a collection of small wooded islands, many of them half-concealed by the dense undergrowth. One of these was our destination. It was a good place, Wecca assured me; the water was clean, and there were fish to add to my diet, should I care to catch them. But I had taken a vow that I would allow myself no such luxury, but would be sustained upon plain bread alone. Wecca led me to a place on the bank of a wide stream and told me that this was the shallowest point where we might cross over to the island. Then he threw down his cloak, pulled off his muddy boots, stripped himself of his tunic and trousers, and carrying only his knife he strode quite naked, apart from his array of necklaces and arm rings, into the stream. I stood and watched him wade across, and saw that at the deepest point the water came up to his neck. Then he emerged and clambered through the mud on the opposite bank, and turned to face me.

  ‘Come,’ he called to me. ‘It is safe. But you should take off clothes. It will not be good to walk in them muddy and wet. It will make sores come.’

  I could not deny this suggestion was sensible, so hurriedly I undressed, laying my boots and robe on the bank, but then rolling up my cloak and taking it with me, holding it above my head to keep it dry as I entered the stream. As I waded in deeper I gave an involuntary gasp, as instantly the soft current of the chill water brought to my body a cold sensual thrill, a sudden and intense awareness of my entire physical self. And for the moment I became frozen, quite unable to move as the sensation seemed to overwhelm me. Then I stirred myself and went onward to the far bank. As I rose from the water I was at once aware of Wecca, standing nearby and gazing at my body with an undisguised interest. Feeling awkward I turned away, brushing off the clinging drops of water as I unrolled my cloak, then threw it on and wrapped it about me. I turned back to Wecca. He was still staring at me, now in what seemed like surprise, as if my wish to cover myself were only another example of my incomprehensible eccentricity. These people had no sense of bodily shame whatsoever – another legacy of their primitive pagan habits. It was a thing in which the Church still strove to educate them. After a few moments he said quietly:

  ‘It is good to see…’

  ‘What is?’ I said, a little astonished.

  ‘That a holy man,’ he pointed to me and smiled, then raised his hands to indicate his own nakedness, ‘is made like other men.’ He seemed somehow pleased by this.

  ‘But a monk is a man,’ I told him in exasperation, for his expression suggested that until now he had not been wholly convinced of this. I could only wonder vaguely what he might have expected.

  ‘Good to see,’ he repeated with a nod, then added firmly: ‘We are goodly men.’ I could make nothing of this. Then he said to reassure me: ‘This is a fine island. It never floods. Come, I will show you.’

  He turned to lead me, although this hardly seemed necessary, since most of the island was visible from where we stood. I followed him for a brief while, concentrating mostly on averting my eyes, as I began to find that his careless nudity was disconcerting me. At last I said to him:

  ‘Thank you, Wecca. You may go back now and wait for me across the stream. I would like to look around on my own.’

  He nodded without offence and strolled away. I began to wander about, inspecting this potential refuge which was in fact just a grassy wooded hillock surrounded by water.

  That day, as I have said, was mild and pleasant, and even the ever-present Fenland mist was but the merest wisps of vapour on the waters, while soft sunlight shone down to warm my face. But even this could not disguise what a truly forlorn and barren place this was. A life spent here could only be one of damp, cold and squalid privation. It was exactly what I sought.

  In the middle of the island, at its highest point, I discovered an ancient tumulus, a tall solid burial mound of earth, covered with heavy stones which had clearly been brought here from somewhere beyond the marshes. At its base on one side, the large rocks had at some time been torn away, and an attempt had been made t
o excavate down inside the structure in a search for treasures and grave goods buried alongside the bones of whoever lay there. I was most surprised to find this rugged tribute to the dead in such a remote place, the only sign that there had ever been any human habitation here. Clearly any settlers had long ago abandoned this island, unable to eke out a living here. But this did not concern me, for their needs had not been the same as mine. Yet it did occur to me that the tumulus might be useful. It could serve as a solid foundation, to support the shelter I must build for myself. Now I must return to my monastery to bid farewell to my brothers and come back with building materials and men to assist me. Then I would be entirely alone.

  Finally I returned to cross back over the stream and pulled off my cloak as I strode into the water. But this time I allowed myself no moment of pause, no brief sensation of indulgence or pleasure. I hurried across to the opposite bank, snatching up my clothes and pulling them on while I was still wet. Then I went to find Wecca. I discovered him lying on the grass nearby. He was on his back, his arms stretched up to rest his head in his hands. He was still naked, drying his body in the faint sunlight; and as I drew near I saw he had fallen into a light sleep. In that moment I felt loath to wake him, for he appeared so tranquil and innocent, this great rough-looking man. As I stood over him, I found I was beginning to stare with a growing fascination at his body, exposed there in the golden glow of the sun. I told myself as I did so that this was to reassure me that there truly were no innate differences between us, as he had supposed there might be. But in fact there were differences, for mine was the thin body of a monk from the scriptorium, and his was a sturdy frame with powerful muscles and old scars visible on his arms and legs, the wages of years of toil and battle.

  It had been many years since I last gazed directly upon an unclothed human form, not since my childhood in fact. When I went with other monks from the monastery into the outside world, I would sometimes see people bathing and swimming in ponds and streams, but I had been strictly instructed that it was seemly to turn my eyes from this. Now that I found myself alone, looking secretly upon this uncovered body, I found I was unable to tear my gaze from it. I reflected that my stare was born of innocent admiration for this perfect example of God’s creation, this fleshly instrument so ideally fitted for the life it led. But still my eyes lingered with a devouring intimacy upon the small goose-bumps that covered the pale skin in the open air, the broad chest covered in thick hair that rose and fell in a gentle rhythm, and the thin line of down that ran along the middle of the flat torso and was lost amongst the wild growth of curls about the groin.

  Suddenly Wecca sighed faintly and stirred a little in his sleep. As he did so I felt a tingling sense of shock, for I saw at once that his organ began to stiffen and rise, becoming tumescent in a few moments. In that instant his eyes opened, and he looked up at me, smiling drowsily. I turned away in alarm and tried to quell the tremble in my voice as I said:

  ‘We are finished here. I have decided this place will be suitable.’

  He stood, and moved before me, his member still half erect, although he did not seem to notice this, or else to care. Then he nodded and said:

  ‘Yes. I tell you this island is best.’

  ‘Thank you, Wecca,’ I said. ‘Your advice was sound. Now go and get dressed. We should leave.’

  ‘Yes.’ He thought for a moment and said, ‘We must go while there is still much light.’

  Then he turned and pissed copiously into the grass, before going off to put on his clothes. When he returned it seemed his mood had changed, for I saw that his face appeared troubled. He stood in silence and looked at me with apparent nervousness.

  ‘What is it, Wecca?’ I asked him. ‘What is the matter?’

  He approached me, seeming lost for words, then he fell to his knees and grasped at my legs.

  ‘There is much I would tell you,’ he cried out in sudden distress. ‘But you will be angry at me and call me a bad man. You will call me sinner and curse me.’

  At his touch I felt a strange, slightly dizzy sensation as my heart began to pound. I did not like people touching me.

  ‘I will not be angry, Wecca,’ I said, my voice faint as my throat grew tight. ‘Whatever it is… I promise… I will not.’ I reached out to motion him to his feet. He stood for a moment, his wide blue eyes staring into mine, and once more I was struck by his wild beauty. Then without warning he flung himself at me, his arms enfolding me as he swept me to him in a powerful embrace, his cheek pressed to mine. And my strength simply melted away as I stood quivering and powerless, unable to move or think, trapped there in his arms. While I knew in my mind I must try to break free and demand some explanation, my body would not respond and I felt I had no ability to resist him.

  ‘Brother,’ he gasped into my ear, and it seemed he struggled to speak. ‘You know most men be good and natural men. But other men be not natural men and do not do natural things. But these not natural men are true men. This you must believe.’ I heard his words only vaguely, for my body was overcome and I seemed to be sinking into a kind of daze. Then he thrust me backward, grasping my shoulders and holding me at arm’s length, restoring to me a little of my senses, before he pulled me close to him again, our eyes meeting as I felt the stirring of his breath and the warmth of his body against me. ‘Do you understand what I say?’ he urged me, and I looked back at him, still overwhelmed as I attempted to shake my head. He drew closer still, his breath hot on my ear, and spoke in a whisper which made it seem as if he feared some intruder might overhear us in this incredibly remote place. But I did not listen to his words. For it was now I recalled the previous night and the fearful reluctance of the village men to speak openly of their superstitious beliefs. At once I began to understand. Wecca was attempting to warn me against something, and when he said that ‘Not natural men are true men’ he spoke of his own conviction that the tales of unnatural beings which prowled in the Fens were true.

  I stood, my mind simply blank and stunned, barely comprehending what had just happened. I could not believe my own passive response to Wecca’s alarming actions, my seeming inability to offer any resistance.

  Wecca was still talking, whispering all manner of wild nonsense, encouraged by my failure to react angrily. I was still too immersed in my own state of shock and dismay to listen to him closely, but what he seemed to be telling me was that the remnants and survivors of old and terrible races still inhabited, in isolated pockets, the deepest and darkest reaches of the Fens. He meant that over the centuries the waves of invaders who had flooded into our isles had supplanted, time and again, the earlier inhabitants, who had fled to seek shelter in the most wild and remote regions of the land, to live there in dwindling numbers, practising their primitive magic, growing inbred and deformed until they were no longer like men at all – if indeed they had ever been. I had heard of these superstitions before. The Church called these mythical creatures the hominem silvestrem or wild men of the forest. Some credulous folk imagined they were not in fact the fleshly scions of monsters at all, but rather the vengeful ghosts of the monsters themselves. Where the wild men were concerned, many were uncertain where degraded flesh ended and dark spirit began.

  I found these delusions interesting, for I believed I understood how they had come about. When, two centuries ago, our own peoples had come to Britain from our Germanic homelands, we had driven back many of the native population – the Celtic Britons – until now they occupied mostly the western parts of the island: the lands of the outsiders, whom we call the wealas. But it seemed most likely that some Britons, fleeing subjection or slavery, had retreated into the concealment of these great Fens, and that their descendants might still exist here in small groups and must surely appear to be strange and alien if ever sighted by people like Wecca, who had supposed even monks might be made differently to other men.

  Yet I found I could not be angry with Wecca for his foolish beliefs, for it was clear his warning was one of honest concern, and tha
t he had risked my wrath to give it. I simply assured him that a good Christian had nothing to fear from the hearth side tales of old women. But I thanked him for the basic good sense of his advice, which was never to wander too deeply into the fen, and never at night.

  But as we trekked back that afternoon through the marshes, my mind was much disturbed. For it was very clear to me that I, a monk and a servant of God who had willingly taken my strict vows of renunciation of the flesh, should not have found myself entranced in the sunlight by the bare skin of a common woodsman, nor overcome by his sudden embrace. And as I gazed at the sturdy form of Wecca, striding in front of me, I found myself at once stricken by a sense of pure anger towards him; and in my heart I cursed him for an ignorant fool and a shameless savage.

  Chapter Three

  Next I travelled by river up to the north coast of East Anglia, where I discussed with the boatmen there the practical arrangements for transporting men and materials into the Fens. It was not an easy matter, but one that could be managed. I was able to inform the head boatman that one of our revered saints, the blessed St. Dado, had died a glorious martyr’s death at a place nearby, many years ago, as a missionary preaching the Faith to the pagans. He told me he knew the story, and what he had heard was that the blessed Dado had gone to preach at the hall of the local lord, where everyone regarded him as a harmless lunatic, until one night, when the warriors in the beer hall were more than usually intoxicated, someone had discovered the drunken Dado attempting to fornicate with a goat. So they all took him out to use him for target practice, and he had died bleating like the object of his desire. That was often the way with such men, he smirked, ‘Cross in one hand and cock in the other.’ Much angered, I cautioned him for his soul’s sake never again to repeat this malicious calumny. Then I concluded my business and set out to return to my monastery.