Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 16:29:52 BST
From: Michael Gouda <stachys@eurobell.co.uk>
Subject: Translations
In that little-known time in Britain known as the 'Dark Ages' (after the
Romans left and before the time of King Alfred), the Anglo-Saxon monks
preserved many of the old Pagan Celtic manuscripts. In what ways they
altered them to suit their own beliefs, is anyone's guess. Here is mine...
Translations
------------
A solitary rush light flickered as the cold evening breeze blew through the
window slits of the scriptorium and Brother Ealdred had to peer closely at
the manuscript he was copying onto new vellum. He screwed up his eyes under
their thick eyebrows to make out the crabbed and faded writing. It would
soon be time for Vespers, the evening Office of the Day, but until then he
was duty bound to carry on with his work for the greater glory of God. His
pen sputtered and he reached out for a newly sharpened quill from the box
where they were kept. The sleeve of his habit was folded back so that it
would not smudge the fresh ink of his writing and the flesh of his forearm
speckled in goose bumps from the cold. But it was part of the discipline to
ignore bodily discomforts and he restrained the urge to turn down the cloth.
His fingers groped for a new pen but the box was empty. He tapped sharply
with his knuckle on the wooden plank of the desk. In the silent Order he
belonged to, it was forbidden to speak except in the most urgent
circumstances and all requests had to be made by signs or at the most,
signals to draw attention.
He looked up to see where the novice Aelfric, who should have been
providing him with replacements, could have got to. On the bench opposite,
the young man sat, his head drooping onto his chest, his hands loose in his
lap. He was asleep. For a moment Brother Ealdred was angry, his brow
furrowed in its accustomed frown, but something about the the lad's posture
quietened his anger - for in spite of being only a few years younger than
Ealdred himself - a lad was all that he was, and the religious day was a
hard, tiring one, starting early, work and prayer all day, and an
interrupted night for the Office of Matins and the Celebration of the Holy
Eucharist. He remembered how he himself had felt when he first joined the
order as a novice of only 16 some five years before, how his body craved for
sleep, how his mind needed the freedom of the hills, the open countryside,
how the strictness and the rigidity of the Rule made him want to hit out, to
shout, to scream - and yet he had had to hide it all under a composed
exterior. His habitual frown now not so much anger against the world but a
constant inward battle against his own tempestuous feelings.
He looked at how the feeble light of the flame caught the angle of the
boy's chin, the flattened plane of his cheek, the jut of the bone above and
the hollow shadow of his eye. So young he looked under the yet untonsured
head of curls. He knew if he woke the boy, Aelfric would be mortified for he
was a conscientious novice, always watching Ealdred closely to see if he
needed anything in his work, anxious to please, perhaps even a little too
anxious. Ealdred knew that if the boy's service was directed to the monk
rather than to the service of his God, the Abbot would have to transfer him
instantly to another task. By rights Brother Ealdred should report the boy
for falling asleep but he smiled and let him doze on, cutting himself
another quill with the knife on the table. Now that Christianity had become
the religion of Britain, it was the task of the Anglo-Saxon monks to
preserve for posterity the manuscripts of the past. He squinted at the text
again, studying the badly written Celtic words for their meanings,
understanding the ancient poetic convention that insisted on at least three
alliterative words per line.
Westward from the sea the wild wind
Moaned malevolently across the moors,
Wound wailing through the wasteland
He read and as if in agreement he heard the wind outside the monastery
walls pick up and sigh under the eaves. The wasteland, he thought to
himself, and pictured the open damp moor with its dangerous bogs that might
beset the unwary traveller, the stretches of sterile grass and rank weeds,
where the only wildlife were the black hooded crows in their relentless
search for carrion and the demented, banshee calls of the stone curlews. And
always that persistent wind, cutting through the thickest of clothing,
numbing fingers and toes, chilling the spine. In spite of himself Ealdred
shivered.
As he did so, the bell for Vespers sounded and Aelfric woke, glancing
around him as if for a moment unaware of where he was, then remembering and
looking penitential. Brother Ealdred caught his eye, smiled as if to tell
him not to worry and then beckoned him towards the chapel. They would sing
the prescribed Psalms, say the prayers and then it would be supper time. At
the thought Brother Ealdred's stomach rumbled and he knew he would punish
himself, remaining on his knees after the others had left chapel, denying
himself a portion of the food.
That night, in the brief time between Compline and Matins, Brother
Ealdred dreamed a strange dream, not - Thank the Lord - one of those sinful
ones that occasionally arose unbidden (as did the unruly flesh) and for
which he had to punish himself, but a fantasy in which he was wandering in
that strange Wasteland he had been reading about the day before. Again the
moor was exposed and barren and the sounds were only of the wailing winds
and the lost-soul calls of the birds. In his dream he was pulled forward
towards he knew not what, but there, somewhere in that arid, desolate place
something or someone was waiting for him.
Waking, Brother Ealdred remembered the dream - it had been so clear
that it was almost a vision - and wondered whether it constituted a sin.
But, apart from temporarily taking his mind away from consideration of his
God, he thought that it was not. Perhaps even it might have been some sort
of message, though what the meaning of it was, he could not fathom.
He arrived at his desk after Lauds and was amused to find almost a
dozen quills ready for him in the pen box. Young Aelfric had obviously been
up early and spent much time on the job - they were carefully cut and would
write well. He smiled his acknowledgement at the novice and touched him
gently on his shoulder in brotherly love, briefly feeling the warmth of the
flesh through the rough hempen homespun. Then he gestured to him to join him
on the writing bench, gave him a piece of spoiled vellum and indicated that
he should try to copy some lettering. Aelfric blushed with pleasure and for
a moment Brother Ealdred wondered if he wasn't leading the young man into
some sin or other but as he watched his face, so earnest and determined, the
tip of his tongue protruding in concentration, he could not but feel a
little pleasure himself that he was the cause of such evident enjoyment.
He turned his mind to his own document. The traveller, the searcher,
the pilgrim - Ealdred was not quite sure of the translation of the old word
- was tramping through the empty landscape, his eyes fixed on a distant
goal. What it was was not at first clear from the text, though in the
distance there could just be made out a solidity in the mist, a darker patch
which could be his objective. Ealdred interpreted and painstakingly copied
the text, dipping his quill into the ink, the pen scratching its way over
the surface, tracing the narrative, preserving it for posterity.
Pryderi progressed through the darkling plain
Grieves and cuirass rusting red in the rain
Advancing towards the aim of his endeavours. . .
As he got closer, tramping through the nettles and rank weeds, Pryderi
began to make out the details of a large and imposing building. Built of
stone underneath, wood above with sturdy ramparts and square towers at each
corner, it stood four-square in the enshrouding mist. Overhanging parapets
jutted from the tops of the walls. It would have been a fair structure but
for the lichen stains which crawled over the stonework like a devouring
infection and the rot which beset the woodwork. Like the wilderness in which
it was situated it seemed to be suffering from the same malicious curse.
Perhaps the only thing that had withstood the rot was the mighty gate set in
the middle of the front wall with door jambs and lintel each made from an
oak trunk.
So Pryderi came cunningly to the White Castle
Where Bran, the King lay low, sick at last unto
Death from the dire effects of the Dolorous Blow.
Was 'dolorous' the right word, Brother Ealdred wondered. It needed a
word which held both the idea of 'sadness' and 'fate'. He was suddenly
acutely aware that Aelfric had leaned across and was avidly reading what he
had written. The young novice may have struggled with his writing but it was
obvious that he could read well enough - especially Ealdred's clear Latin
script. Consciously or not his upper body was gently resting against
Ealdred's left upper arm and he could feel the young man's breath on his
cheek.
As Brother Ealdred stopped writing, Aelfric also reached the end of the
text and drew away. Ealdred was obscurely disappointed even though he knew
the touch of human contact was discouraged by the order. It was not
considered proper to become too familiar with any of the other brethren -
the love that was enjoined must only be of the remote, fraternal sort.
Suddenly angry with his feelings, he gestured to the novice to go and fetch
him some more cured vellum. It would mean a journey to the store house and
no doubt considerable difficulty making the keeper, Brother Jerome, almost
blind and cantankerous at the best of times, understand his needs. Aelfric
seemed to go unwillingly. Perhaps he too had enjoyed the human touch. It had
been a mistake to ask the boy to sit so close to him on the bench. Brother
Ealdred determined to set himself a penance after Mass. He sighed, offered a
brief silent prayer of penitence to his jealous God and returned to his
work.
Then it was time for the Office of Prime. And after this the Brothers
worked in the Monastery garden cultivating the herbs. while Aelfric, the hem
of his habit tucked into the piece of rope tied around his waist, showed his
brown calves and above them the strong thighs, the muscles flexing as he
bent to break the caked earth from around the tender basil roots. The sun
shining on the leaves released the plants' fragrant oils and for a moment
Brother Ealdred felt quite light-headed with the perfume and the sight of
his young assistant. They laboured in the sun for the rest of the day,
interrupted only by the Offices of Terce and Sext and Ealdred was plagued by
thoughts which would not be dispelled by pious prayers.
After Nones they found themselves back in the Scriptorium and were able
to return to the manuscript.
Pryderi reached for the horn that hung from the gatepost, raised it to
his lips and blew a long, unwavering foghorn blast. At the sound, an
unkindness of ravens took off from the battlements and flew in a wild
croaking sweep over his head. He waited. Eventually from the other side of
the door there came the sound of the wooden bar being withdrawn from its
socket and the creak of the opening gate. A man dressed in a long grey
garment, hood pulled over his head so that his features were in shadow,
stood in the opening.
"I am a Traveller from another land," said Pryderi. "I claim a night's
hospitality."
"The King of this Land is sick," said the man, "but as is the custom,
we will honour your request." He stood aside and Pryderi entered.
If the Wasteland outside had the touch of doom on it, inside the Castle
wall Death itself seemed to have dominion - or if not death then a creeping
paralysis. The very walls looked as if they had been attacked by a
putrefying fungus and above all hung a thick miasma that tasted - it was
more than a smell, so strong was it - of corruption and decay.
The heavy, iron-studded door to the Great Hall, rust stains running
down the wood, stood open and within, Pryderi could see even more evidence
of this foul blight. Strange cracks ran down the inside of the walls and
from them dribbled/issued a slimy liquid which stained the surface and
stickily reflected the light from the guttering and smoking torches set at
intervals round the walls. Hanging tapestries were covered with the viscous
weavings of spiders so that the colours were dulled into a uniform drabness.
So quiet was it - with the silence of a bereavement - that Pryderi did not
at first realise that the Hall was actually quite filled with people, darkly
garbed figures who stood around silently, heads bowed and all facing towards
a raised dais at the other end. Here he could just make out a narrow bed or
couch on which lay a figure, whose features, white and strained, seemed to
have hardly more colour than the single unbleached linen sheet with which
his body was covered.
As he went nearer Pryderi could see that the face was that of a young
man but so twisted with pain and lined with suffering that he looked much
older. His hair the colour of old gold was long and unkempt and his beard
rough and straggly. The King, for this was he, looked up as Pryderi
approached and reached out his hand for it to be kissed. Pryderi felt its
chilled surface with his lips, the dry papery skin, the fragile bones, and
could see the tracery of blue veins just under the surface, almost make out
the slow pulsing of the blood.
"My Lord," he said. "I am a Traveller under oath to help whomsoever I
meet on my journey. I would that I could do some service to you."
The King smiled, if the slight turning up of those thin lips could be
called a smile and spoke. Surprisingly his voice was strong though low.
"There is food for you and for all pilgrims," he said. "But first there is
the Procession of the Holy Objects." As he spoke there came the sound of
soft footsteps over the trodden earth floor, a susuration of garments, that
could be heard throughout the whole Hall so quiet was the room. Dark-robed
figures carried objects past the King and as they did so, he itemised them
for Pryderi's benefit. They were the only things in all that great hall that
shone with light and seemed untouched by the corruption. 'They are the four
Holy relics,' said the King and covered his eyes as if the brightness pained
him and his voice was harsh and breathless.
"The Sword of Aengus Mac Oc, impossible to avoid being struck and
wounded by its contact; The Shining Spear of Lugh, the Long Arm, providing
victory in any fight; The Cloak and Tunic of Arwen and Belenus, all Kings
wear these at their Coronations; The most precious of all the Hallows - the
Cauldron of Dagda, the All-Father."
Brother Ealdred gasped, seeing again what he had written. How could he
have described these pagan relics as Holy things! That was surely a
blasphemy and he quickly altered them on the manuscript so that the spear
became that of the Roman centurion, Longinus, who had pierced the side of
Christ with it. The Sword was the one that struck off the head of John the
Baptist The garment became the one without a seam for which they cast lots
after the Crucifixion and the Cauldron became that most precious of relics
in all Christendom - The Holy Grail. The Cup from the Last Supper.
After the food, plain fare but wholesome, the King asked that he be
taken to the Holy grove and they carried him, Pryderi following, to a grove
of alders that stood outside the castle, where they laid him on the ground
and withdrew.
After a while Pryderi approached and heard the King moan. "So cold," he
said. "So cold - and yet I cannot die. The magic of the Hallows keeps me
from that last release." The King's body was taken with a sudden fit of
shuddering that it seemed that the wasted body could scarce be held
together. Pryderi watched and yearned to help. He was suddenly aware that
the King's eyes were open, beseeching him and Pryderi drew closer, kneeling
down beside the man. The King's agitated movements had tossed aside the
sheet and Pryderi was aware that the man was naked. Why had they left him
here in the evening coldness, he wondered.
Scarcely believing what he did, he lay down beside the King and wrapped
his arms around that body drawing the cold form towards him so that they lay
together, cold lips to warm, chest to chest, loins to loins. Pryderi felt
his own flesh grow hot and aroused but the King's remained flaccid and
impotent. "My Lord," said Pryderi. "I would help thee if I could."
A voice close to his ear, the breath scarcely more distinct than the
slightest of breezes, murmured. "It is not time. Thou hast not passed the
test." So Pryderi fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Brother Ealdred was aware of warm breath on his cheek and realised that
Aelfric had again sat himself beside him on the desk, was reading what he
had written. Like Pryderi's, Brother Ealdred's flesh was aroused for the
warm body that was pressed to his side was stronger and more powerful than
that of the ailing King and did nothing to counteract his inflamed member.
His senses swirled. The flesh, they say, is weak though in Brother Ealdred's
case it was too strong! For a moment he was tempted to turn and gather
Aelfric into his arms, to press their bodies together, let their manhoods
touch - but then he grasped the enormity of his thoughts, how grievously
already he had sinned and the sound of the deep bell tolling the hour of
Vespers returned him to appalled reality.
'Go ahead to the Chapel, Brother,' he said. Aelfric gasped. Brother
Ealdred realised that he was talking out loud and knew he would have to
confess the fault. But once started he could not stop. The Rule had been
broken. There was no going back. "I have more to do. I will be late for the
Office."
After Vespers, Brother Ealdred was summoned to the Abbot's cell. The
punishment for for talking and being late to Office was comparatively light
but Ealdred had more to confess. "Father," he said. "The work I am doing. It
is not Holy. It speaks of things that lead me to impure thoughts,"
"Have you given way to them, my son?" asked the Abbot, his long,
dolichocephalic head resting on the pointed fingers under his chin, his
eyes, burning with zeal, staring at the penitent monk.
Brother Ealdred thought back. He had wanted to touch Aelfric but he had
not done so. There was at least that to be thankful for. "No, Father," he
said. "But they torment me."
"That is their purpose," said the Abbot, nodding a head so bald that a
tonsure was not necessary. "It is for you to resist them. You transcribe the
Celtic tales, do you not? Face up to them. It is good for your soul. Indeed
perhaps you should give up the work in the garden and concentrate on them
fully until the translation is complete."
"But the novice, Aelfric, will carry on with the work in the garden?"
"No," said the Abbot. "He must work with you."
Brother Ealdred was thankful that his sleep that night was untroubled
by dreams yet he dreaded the days that would follow. At his desk he felt the
hair shirt which he had voluntarily put on that morning as a punishment for
his transgressions of the previous day, even though the Abbot had not
enjoined it. Ealdred hoped that the abominable itching against his naked
flesh would take his mind off that other perturbation of the flesh which had
so troubled him the day before.
As the two of them, monk and novice were obviously intended to spend
much time together, Ealdred had thought of various devices to keep Aelfric
away from him as far as possible but there were only a certain number of
quills he could get through in a day and Brother Jerome would surely wonder
and indeed complain if he was sent a request for single sheets of vellum
four or five times daily.
Ealdred had also wondered whether he could get Aelfric a separate desk
but the writing stool he used was intended for two and it was only when
Aelfric leaned over to see what Brother Ealdred was writing that the
closeness was so noticeable - and so disturbing. He resolved to set the
young novice as much copying as he could.
Pryderi awoke from that strange sleep that had overcome him in the
grove of alders, when he had held the body of the King, to find himself on
the open moorland. Someone, something, must have carried him far during the
night for, in the pale light of dawn, the castle was now no longer visible.
Only the barren landscape stretched to the horizon in all directions and
stunted trees were the only things that broke the monotony of the plain.
Beside him there ran a brook, the cold water stained with the dark brown of
peat and from this Pryderi was able to slake his thirst, saying thanks as he
did so to the Water Maidens for their gift.
A lightness in the leaden grey of the cloud cover was the only thing
that showed him which way was East and he strapped on his sword, picked up
his spear and set off in this direction. The water from the brook had
cleansed his mouth and, feeling into his scrip, he discovered that someone
had furnished him with bread enough to break his fast.
After perhaps a couple of miles of tramping through the dry heather
with the wind moaning around his ears, Pryderi saw what looked like a jumble
of stones piled in a corner where a slight rising of the ground provided a
little shelter from the prevailing wind. Curious to see what it was and ever
conscious of his sworn oath, he approached the stones which on closer
inspections seemed to be a building of the rudest sort, scarcely more than
four makeshift walls and a roof of turves. Inside, on his knees and with his
hands held palm outwards in the attitude of prayer was a man, thin,
unwashed, his clothing - such as it was - stained and ragged and his hair in
a tangled mass.
Realising that the man must be a hermit, Pryderi approached with due
deference and, when he was within speaking distance, gave a cough to
announce his presence and said:
"Holy One, My name is Pryderi. I am a traveller on a quest to cure the
King of the Holy Cauldron of Dagda. May I know to which god you make your
prayer, and whether you can help me in my task."
The man opened his eyes and stared through his cataracts at Pryderi. It
seemed almost as if he were looking into his soul for surely he could not
see much of his body. "I pray to Aengus Mac Oc, the Loving God, the God of
Youth." As he spoke he made a complicated gesture with the hands and his
whole body seemed in a moment transformed into that of a beautiful youth
whose hyacinth locks cascaded over his wide forehead and whose eyes pierced
Pryderi with a look which almost stopped his heart - so deep was its
intensity. He wore a cloak of some rich red material fastened on the left
shoulder by a jewelled brooch and around his forehead was a gold band. His
features were determined and his hair dark as a raven's wing. A short tunic
did little to cover his body, strong and muscled, and his calves were bound
with leather strappings.
Before he could stop himself Brother Ealdred made the sign of the Cross
and whispered, "Witchcraft." Aelfric looked up startled from his work and
leaned over to read what had caused the extreme reaction from his tutor.
Again their arms touched and Ealdred felt the warmth of the young body under
the rough habit. Trying to ignore him, he wrote on, the quill under his own
hand preserving the pagan blasphemies.
Pryderi knelt on the bare ground and lowered his head so that it was
on a level with the vision's thigh. He smelled the scent of the feverfew
herb, harsh and arousing. The flesh so near to his forehead was warm. If he
lifted his head his lips would be opposite the Being's fork.
The God spoke, his voice low and throbbing, almost as if it echoed
through his ribcage rather than entered through his ears..
"Pryderi, to save the King you must sacrifice the most precious thing
you possess."
The scent of bitter herbs grew stronger in his nostrils. Pryderi
looked up. In front of him the tunic seemed to swell from the Godhood that
grew under it. Abashed at his own temerity Pryderi prepared to worship with
a kiss but as he was about to do so, he blinked and when he opened his eyes,
once more in front of him stood the ragged anchorite, the old man whose
muscles seemed like knotted string under the sagging flesh. Pryderi
staggered to his feet.
"Did the Aengus Mac Oc speak to you?" asked the hermit, his frail old
voice a contrast to that of the God's.
"He said I was to sacrifice the most precious thing I have," said
Pryderi.
"And that is?" asked the hermit.
Pryderi's mind was still bemused by what he had seen, what he had
nearly done. He strove to concentrate. What was most precious to him?
Friends and family he had none. Only a few worldly possessions and those he
carried with him. He considered them and made a decision.
"My sword," he said and drew it from the scabbard. It had saved his
life on more than a few occasions and its appearence bore witness to this.
The blade was notched where it had met shield or opposing sword and the
surface was dulled with exposure to the elements. It bore no precious jewels
on the hilt but it had seen good service. It was precious to him in that it
seemed like a trusted and true old friend.
"Then cast it into the water beyond," said the hermit and pointed to
where the grey waters of a lake lapped at its banks. Pryderi glanced with
amazement for he had not noticed the water before - perhaps it had not been
there before.
"To the Aengus Mac Oc," he said and swung the sword round his head
three times, letting it go so that it sailed in a great arc towards the
surface. "I offer my precious possession for the King of the Cauldron of
Dagda." The sword pierced the water with scarcely a splash and Pryderi
turned to face the hermit - but he was gone, his stone hovel with him and
when he again turned, the lake had also disappeared, and there was no trace
of his sword. Only the flat surface of the moor, with the wind making
patterns in the heather, met his eyes, stretching as far as he could see
into the despairing horizon.
As if to mark the end of a section, the Abbey bell tolled and Brother
Ealdred stretched his cramped legs and eased his aching backside, rising to
go to Chapel for the Office of Sext which marked the midday hour.
After a frugal lunch of bread and water and some bitter herbs for
taste, the afternoon work commenced. Again Brother Ealdred determined that
Aelfric should be kept at a distance, occupied with tasks which would keep
him as far away as he could, out of the Scriptorium if possible. Yet when
they met again and Aelfric, by signs, asked if he might again practice his
writing, Brother Ealdred conceded, allowing him space beside him on the
narrow bench so that he was even aware of the fresh young smell of him, the
aroma of youth and health and vitality. He concentrated on his task, dipping
the quill into the ink horn, making sure that it was not over-filled,
inscribing each letter faithfully and truly, turning the task into an
offering to expunge the guilt he felt, to try, by ignoring it, to lessen the
temptation.
For the rest of the day Pryderi covered the moor, only gradually
becoming accustomed to the strangely lop-sided feeling without the weight of
his sword hanging at his left hip. His stomach grumbled with hunger for he
had finished the bread in his scrip and his legs ached with the constant
drag of the heather on his feet. Towards evening it clouded over again,
black clouds threatening from the west. A sudden crack of thunder startled
him and a jagged spear of lightning left a stink of ozone in his nostrils.
Soon the rain started, driving needles of water in a deluge which rapidly
soaked him so that he shivered as the chill reached his skin. He looked in
vain for cover for out there on the open moor there was none - not even a
stunted ash or alder to shelter under. Miserably, using his spear as a
walking stick, he hobbled on.
The rain was at its most torrential, thunder claps so frequent as to
appear almost continuous, lightning bolts of charged pink and blue rending
the sky and singeing the ground when out of the turmoil appeared a figure,
human in form, a whirling black cloak twisting and snapping around him. He
seemed untouched by the rain though and his fierce face, dark and wild,
seemed to be enjoying the delirium of the elements for a smile twisted the
thin lips.
Pryderi staggered towards him, finding it almost impossible to keep on
his feet, so weak was he with hunger and tiredness. At his feet he fell and
lay there and the whirling cloak held off the rain for a moment and allowed
him to regain his breath.
"My Lord," he gasped. "Whoever you are, I crave your help."
"I am Lugh Lamfota, Lleu of the Long Arm, Pryderi." And Pryderi
marvelled that he should know his name.
"My Lord, I am a traveller on a quest to cure the King of the Holy
Cauldron of Dagda."
"I know your task," said Lugh, and lightning crackled from his finger
tips.
"I have sacrificed my sword to Aengus Mc Oc," said Pryderi.
"It was not enough," said Lugh, and waved his hand so that the storm
ceased in an instant, the clouds cleared and a moon appeared covering the
moor with its silvery light.
"Magic," said Brother Ealdred, not quite under his breath, and Aelfric
gave a shiver of fear and, if anything, moved closer to the monk so that
their thighs touched and there was no room for Ealdred to escape to. The
novice's face was flushed and his breath gasped through parted lips.
"Magic," said Pryderi.
"Magic," said Lugh.
"What must I do?" asked Pryderi.
"Understand the magic of the Universe," said the God.
Brother Ealdred thought he understood. It was not the magic of spells
and incantations that he referred to but an appreciation of the enchantment
of Life itself, the wonder of the world that made a life complete. He
himself thought back to the time when he had so longed to breathe in the
freedom of the hills and valleys, marvel at the Spring miracle, the rebirth
of nature. Was all that lost to him now, here in the gloomy confines of the
Abbey where only the persecution of the flesh seemed to be acceptable to the
Lord? He felt the hair shirt scratching at his chest. Was there nothing
else?
"Nothing else?" asked Pryderi.
"Sacrifice the most precious thing you possess."
What else did he have to give, wondered Pryderi. He had given his sword
but that apparently was not enough. Apart from the clothes he stood up in,
he had only his spear, the trusty straight ash shaft and the deadly sharp
tip. It was all that he had. It would have to do. He thrust the end into the
ground so that the weapon pointed to the sky and stood back.
"To Lugh Lamfota, I offer my precious possession for the King of the
Cauldron of Dagda."
Lugh raised his arms and a bolt of lightning sizzled from the ebony sky
with its flaring stars, struck the spear and for a moment it glowed white
hot. Then the spear was riven from end to end and disintegrated into powdery
ash which was swept away by the wind. The after-image of the white hot spear
remained for a while imprinted on Pryderi's retina. When it faded he found
he was alone on the open moor with only the darkness and the stars for cold
company.
Brother Ealdred reached the end of the piece of parchment he was
writing on. He felt his flesh move under his habit. Aelfric's thigh was
becoming too much of a distraction. He gestured for the novice to get some
more vellum from Brother Jerome and Aelfric slipped off the seat leaving a
cold absence behind. Brother Ealdred stared into the middle distance
uncomfortably aware that he should have been thinking sacred thoughts but
instead he found himself wondering what it would be like to wander over the
hills in the spring sunshine to the woods where white star-shaped ramsons
and pink ladies-smock flowered, and bluebells hung their heads - preferably
with Aelfric by his side.
The bell for Nones rang and Brother Ealdred sighed. He would have to
confess his thoughts but when he returned to the scriptorium, he had not
done so.
Stray tendrils of mist wove complicated patterns over the waste land.
Pryderi awoke in the morning, his bones stiff from the cold and damp. His
scrip, though, again contained some bread and meat and though the sun did
not appear from behind the lowering clouds, he felt warmed after eating. But
the moment he started to walk, he felt something was missing and realised
the want of his spear and sword.
As he tramped on he realised that, for perhaps the first time since a
child, he was completely unprotected. In this magical place, though, did he
need the protection of physical weapons? Someone - something - obviously did
not intend him to die of starvation. As he pondered, he thought he heard a
rustling amongst the dry heather stalks around him, but, turning, he could
see nothing. Yet all the same there was that feeling that he was observed,
followed. Prickles of apprehension ran down his back and then, for the first
time since he had left the Castle, the sun appeared through the cloud and a
golden path seemed suddenly in front of him - and two figures, arms around
each other - stood in his way.
It was as if a voice in his head told him for Pryderi knew them
immediately.
Arawn, the Dark one, King of the Underworld. Long dark hair which
shimmered with a purple gloss. Sombre brooding expression but handsome and
lithe as a black mountain lion. His skin was swarthy as if stained with
walnut juice and his eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose and eyes so
black it seemed as if the night itself had taken refuge in his pupils.
And with him stood Belenus the Fair, the Sun God whose gold hair
outshone even his own sun in its brilliance. A luminous skin which glowed
with such intensity that it hurt Pryderi's eyes to look at him. Eyes the
colour of rain-washed speedwells.
Brother Ealdred looked at the bright hair of Aelfric sitting beside
him. He felt a sudden yearning to touch it, to feel its softness, to run his
fingers through the curls. He noticed for the first time that Aelfric had
blue eyes. His own dark eyes under their beetling brows consumed him with an
ardent gaze. He wrenched them back to his work.
And as Pryderi watched, the dark was joined with the fair in a tangle
of limbs and embraces as if night merged with day, and the passion of their
caresses was of a summer storm where first the dark clouds swallow the sun
and then in their turn are consumed by it. And Pryderi found it impossible
to distinguish what exactly was happening for sometimes the dark eclipsed
the bright and at others the light dazzled his eyes so that the darkness
disappeared. Watching, Pryderi found himself aroused so that he clasped
himself. And the movements of the two Divine Beings started with a sinuous
dance as skin glided over silken skin yet soon quickened into a frenzy
before all erupted into an ejaculation which was both pain and joy,
excitement and agony.
Afterwards, out of the quietness came two voices as if one. "Give of
yourself, Pryderi. Sacrifice everything."
Then Pryderi found himself naked on the heath and the pool of his own
orgasm lay cooling on his belly.
So, naked and defenceless, he came again to the White Castle where the
King waited.
Aelfric's hand was underneath his habit and Brother Ealdred had to look
away and ignore what might have been going on. He was lost else.
The doorman must have been watching for Pryderi did not need to blow on
the horn to announce his arrival. The stout door creaked open at his
approach and Pryderi entered, naked and unashamed. Into the Great Hall he
strode but this time it was empty except for the figure of the King lying on
his trestle bed at the far end. Behind him was a stone altar and on it were
laid the Holy things - the Sword of Aengus, the Spear of Lugh, the Garments
of Arawn and Belenus and the Cauldron of Dagda. At Pryderi's approach the
King raised himself, though it seemed to be a desperate effort for he
groaned at the movement.
"Where is your sword?" asked the King.
"I sacrificed it for you, My Lord."
"And where is your spear?"
"It was given up for you, Majesty."
"And your clothes?" He seemed to be growing weaker, the words gasped
out from lips which struggled to frame the words.
"They are gone."
"So what have you?" The King collapsed back onto the bed.
"Only me, My Lord," said Pryderi, and the tears ran down his face. "I
have nothing else." He knelt at his side, kissing the ravaged figure with
his lips, covering the cold flesh with his warm body, enfolding it in his
arms.
And as he lay there trying to share some of his own life with that of
the King, suddenly beneath him he felt a movement and the member which had
for so long lain flaccid and impotent, twitched. Swiftly Pryderi put his
lips to it, enclosed it in his mouth, washed it with his tongue. And there
seemed to be a tinge of healthy colour returning to the King's flesh.
"Aah," groaned Brother Ealdred and felt a hand upon his thigh.
"More," said the King, "I need more." He opened his legs as if to
indicate the way.
Brother Ealdred's legs parted as if they had a life of their own
feeling an answering pressure from the thigh next to him, and a hand fell
into the space between and clutched at his erect flesh.
Pryderi's cock was hard and erect and the way was clear. And suddenly
there was a scent of honey and meadowsweet, of vanilla and cloves, of herbs
and spices, both sweet-smelling and aromatic.
Brother Ealdred smelled the fresh clean smell of the youth beside him.
And he felt the warmth of his body next to him and Aelfric's hands roamed
over him, arousing him even further so that his flesh stood up yet still
Ealdred strove to carry out his task.
Pryderi knew he must enter and his cock slid into that dark place and
was swallowed by it so that he felt the warmth and the tightness and the
length of his cock pierced into the King and the dance began, both groaning
with the intensity and the passion. Until Pryderi felt the build-up in his
loins and knew that he would thrust his seed into the King's body.
And as he did so the King gave a great cry and his flesh grew warm and
whole so that the limbs that had been thin and feeble took on their old
form. The hollows of his cheeks filled and his eyes sparkled with life. His
hair again shone with the brilliance of burnished gold and his lips were
full of youth and vitality.
Brother Ealdred threw down the quill, the ink spattering on the page,
wrenched off his brown habit, tore away the constricting shirt and felt
against his fevered body the soft skin of Aelfric. And each felt the joy and
passion, the build-up of physical intensity until it was impossible to
contain and they released to each other and into each other their ecstasy.
After it was over, Aelfric looked at Ealdred with wild, terrified eyes,
both realising the wickedness of what they had done.
Brother Ealdred comforted him as much as he was able, his words a minor
contravention of the Rule, hardly comparable to the greater sin. "Never
confess this to anyone," he said. "We must . . . we will never do it again.
It was the book - this devil's book that has made us commit such a depravity
- It shall never happen again - I will never allow it to happen again - I
will alter the translation and destroy the original - "
"He will be a Christian King and Pryderi a saintly warrior . . .
Percival shall be his name and he will cure the King of the Holy Grail
through his grace and his purity - not with such immoral acts . . . " He
indicated the manuscript with a gesture which took in everything - even the
results of their own recent actions.
"Down the ages those who read shall learn only of a Holy Quest."
In his mind the words were already forming. It would be a work of
contrition, of penitence, an attempt to assuage the Guilt.
No one would ever know.
The bell for Vespers sounded.
Brother Ealdred sighed though whether it expressed sadness or longing,
perhaps even he did not know. . . .
--
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Can I invite you to look at my website? April page now up...
http://members.aol.com/MGouda3464/march where there are this month's British
Wild Flowers and some 16th Century medicinal advice from Nicholas Culpeper.