The Way of Wyrd by Brian Bates

Author:Brian Bates [Bates, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-05-24T16:00:00+00:00

PART II Journeys into the Spirit World

The Wyrd Sisters

IN THE silver light of dawn, we slipped out of the house and walked through the centre of the settlement along the path leading North to the great forest. Roof-thatches dripped with night rainfall and rivulets of water still ran from sloping roofs and tinkled into deep-dug drainage ditches. Two lean watchdogs splashed after us, sniffing at our scent in the early morning breeze, then lost interest and dropped away. Soon we were clear of the houses and skirting open farmland, crop fields stretching away to the West, divided into strips by grassy baulks and bounded by headland bumpy from turning ploughs.

The sweet smell of wet, ploughed earth brought a sudden rush of memories. My random thoughts, still wrapped in the thrall of slumber, gradually give way to images of my father working the patchwork of fields surrounding the monastery. He farmed strips of common land also, but his summers were spent working the monastic fields with the help of my older brothers. When I reached seven winters I had joined them in the fields, proudly carrying out my hoe at dawn and trudging back tired and hungry at dusk. But I had been even prouder when, some years later, the monks had selected me for instruction in writing reading and—latterly—scripture. I loved especially the work in the scriptorium and, as I walked, the images of fields were replaced by the smell of ink and the feel of crackle-dry parchment.

Eventually the shrill music of early morning birdsong faded and the low mist slipped away to reveal a pink sky. Wulf threaded a path through thinly wooded glades bordering the forest and after a time began to track the course of a stream. Our progress was slowed by pools of enormous bankside ferns and huge shrubs of creamy-flowered elder forced us to make long detours.

We walked all day, stopping to rest only twice; the first time was at noon, to drink from a clear stream, then again later to sit in a shady spot and cool our feet in a still pool.

By late afternoon we were deep into the forest. Wulf led the way on to a riverbank and pointed into the trees. At the top of a sloping grassy bank, 20 feet from the water and hidden against a backdrop of alder and beech, nestled a small man-made shelter. I was astonished, for we were miles from the pig-droving road which cut into the forest from Cydda’s farm and I had been told that no other roads or trails traversed this part of the kingdom. Wulf explained that he had constructed the camp because this was a place of power and from here I would encounter the spirits.

The shelter was well built: a sloping roof, covered with turf, leaned against a heavy branch fixed horizontally between two conveniently placed birch trees. The entrance, facing towards the river, was screened by two wattle hurdles lashed to the structure by rope and chinked in with moss, reeds and leafy twig.

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