The Way Between the Worlds

THIRTEEN

Hrype was sitting under a low hazel hedge that meandered from the rear wall of the abbey down to where the water lapped against the shore of the little island. He had been there for a long time, so deep in thought that he had not noticed the chill night air. His mind was far away; he had been walking with the spirits.

He had been unable to remain in the little room where Edild and Lassair were fighting to save Elfritha’s life. Neither of the two healers seemed very interested in discussing, or even thinking about, who had poisoned the young nun, and the question that so fascinated Hrype — was the same person responsible for the deaths of the man in the fen and Elfritha’s friend? — did not appear to engage them in the least.

It did; of course it did, and he knew it. Had he been a healer, he was sure that he, too, would have been so preoccupied with caring for his patient that there would have been little room in his mind for anything else. But he was no healer.

He had forced himself to remain in the room at the end of the infirmary, his presence doing no good to anyone, for as long as he could stand it. He had even returned after the priest had made his brief visit. Hrype had sent a silent, fervent prayer of thanks to whichever of his guardian spirits had warned him that Father Clement was on his way. He was deeply thankful that the priest had not set eyes on him, for the business at Crowland had been far more serious than Hrype had revealed, and there was little doubt that, had Father Clement seen him, he would have recognized him. Hrype did not even want to think about what would probably have happened next. .

He had sat in his corner of the room for some time, watching as Edild tended her patient and Lassair slept. He had sent out feelers to each woman and had understood that while the woman he carried always in his heart was simply exhausted, Lassair was deeply distressed, almost to the point of despair. He wondered why. Her sister, of course, lay before her, very sick, but Hrype knew by then that Elfritha was not going to die. If that were Lassair’s sole concern, soon it would not distress her so deeply. There was, he felt, something more.

His thoughts had returned, over and over again, to the question of who had tried to kill Elfritha. From what Lassair had told him, it did indeed appear that the poison had been administered by the same hand that was responsible for the two deaths. But who was he, and why had these three people been his victims?

Restless, frustrated, impatient with himself and everyone else, eventually Hrype had got up, moved lightly across the little room and out through the open door. He had used the outer door that led to the cloister several times by now, and he knew it opened without a sound. Soon he had been out in the dark night, loping across the cloister, down the maze of passages that twined through the abbey and over the patch of rough ground inside the rear wall. He had climbed this effortlessly, then hurried over the damp grass to the hazel hedge, stopping at a point where a small stream flowed close by.

Now, deep in the shelter of the hazel bushes, he was lighting a fire. He controlled the leaping flames, keeping the fire small. It was not for heat that he had lit it; merely to give a little light and, crucially, to provide one of the four elements. Water was provided by the stream running beside the hedge; earth was beneath him, and air above.

When the fire was burning to his satisfaction, he sat down again, crossed his long legs and untied the thongs of a soft leather bag that hung from his belt. Opening it, he spread out a square of linen on the ground in front of him and then closed the bag, holding it in both hands.

For a long time, he sat motionless. His eyes were closed, and he was murmuring a long, involved incantation. He needed the help of his guardian spirits, and it took a huge effort to summon them. Some were his ancestors, fierce men and women whose roots were in the cold north lands and in whom had run a rich seam of magic and sorcery. Some of the guardians were animals; his own spirit animal was a great brown bear, whose protection and help were invaluable when he chose to bestow them.

When at last Hrype was ready, he loosened his tight hold on the leather bag and opened it, drawing out its cords so that it was wide open. Then, with a swift, neat movement, he turned the bag upside down, and his jade rune stones tumbled down on to the linen square.

He sat staring down at the stones. They were beautiful, the translucent green incised with the familiar rune marks, which had been filled in with gold. The gentle firelight caught the precious metal, sparkling off the runes and making them glitter and shine. Hrype looked from rune to rune, forming different combinations, seeing different versions of the same message. He frowned, shook his head to clear it and then looked again at the runes.

He did not understand what the runes were telling him. It was just not possible; he was as sure of that as he was that the moon would soon set and the sun come up. But the runes never lied. Their message might be obscure — in fact, it usually was — but they were incapable of an untruth.

Slowly, Hrype gathered up the stones, muttering a prayer of thanks and a blessing on each one as he put it back in the leather bag. Then he folded up the linen square and put it on top of the stones. Thoughtfully, he reattached the bag to his belt.

He stood up and trod out the small remnants of his fire, cutting a turf from beneath the hedge and neatly tucking it into the black space where the fire had been. After a few moments’ work, nobody would have guessed what had happened there that night.

He set off back up the field towards the abbey, his agile mind trying all sorts of possibilities as he attempted to make sense of what the runes had told him. It was not until he was jumping down off the abbey wall that the solution hit him. He smiled briefly, wondering why on earth he hadn’t thought of it before.

He was now desperate to get back to the room in the infirmary. He needed to speak urgently to Lassair; or even to Edild, he reflected. Nevertheless, he maintained his caution and stood for some time in the cloister, using all his senses to make sure nobody was about. Dawn would come soon, and the nuns would be going to their church for the office. But he thought he had enough time.

He opened the door into the infirmary just a crack, sliding through and closing it again. Then he tiptoed into the little room where Elfritha lay. Edild was beside her, spongeing the girl’s face. She looked up and met his eyes.

‘She is better,’ he said. He knew it.

‘Yes,’ Edild whispered. ‘Yes, I believe she is. She has now taken half a cup of water, and there is no indication that she will bring it up again.’ She smiled, tentatively at first, then, as if she could not control her joy, her whole face lit up.

His heart leapt at the sight of her. He swiftly crossed the room and knelt beside her, taking her in his arms. Their kiss was brief, but he knew — and he hoped she did too — that soon there would be time for a full expression of their love. It had been such a long time since they had been alone. .

He broke the embrace, holding her by her shoulders, his eyes on hers. Then the urgency returned. He looked round the room and, as the realization dawned, said disbelievingly, ‘Where’s Lassair?’

It might be that she had simply crept out to find the latrines, but he knew even before Edild spoke that it was not.

‘She’s gone,’ Edild said.

He bit back a curse. He waited until he knew his voice would be calm, then said, ‘Where?’

‘She had a power dream,’ Edild replied.

It was enough; she did not need to elaborate, especially not to him, of all people. You did not ignore a power dream. The spirits sent them for a reason, and if you did not act upon them, the spirits would decide you were not worthy and never send you another.

‘Where did it summon her to?’

She told him. He nodded; he knew of the wooden circle, although he had never seen it. He wondered what the spirits wanted with Lassair. He was not at all surprised that she had received the call, for in the years that he had watched her mature, he had come to realize that she had a rare gift.

He made himself stop speculating. It was not his place to ask questions. What went on between the spirits and the mortals with whom they chose to communicate was private, and anyone else who tried to intervene — even someone far more experienced in sorcery than the recipient of the dreams — did so at their peril.

Lassair, then, was out of his reach. He would have to discover what he needed to know from Edild. He wondered how to phrase his question. After a moment, he said, ‘What did the priest want?’

She was drowsy — he could tell by the way she was leaning into him — and apparently did not at first understand what he had said. He repeated the question.

‘Oh, he came to see how Elfritha was,’ she replied, yawning as she spoke.

Hrype thought carefully. ‘Did he look as if he really cared?’ he asked.

Elfritha shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t really see his face, for, as now, we had but the one small light, and it was on the floor beside me. The priest was in the shadows.’

Hrype frowned. That was a blow. . He thought hard and soon understood that there was an alternative. He bent his head to give Edild one more kiss, then straightened up. Looking down at her, his heart overflowing, he wished that he could tell her of his suspicions. But sometimes knowledge could be dangerous, and that was without a doubt the case here. He said softly, ‘I have to go, my love.’

She nodded. She was used to his comings and goings and did not ask questions. ‘Very well.’

He hesitated. He had his own preoccupation, driving him now like a man whipping a tired horse, but he knew that she did too. ‘Will you be all right, nursing Elfritha by yourself?’

‘Yes. It is not demanding.’

That was not what he had meant. He was about to speak, but she forestalled him. ‘I will have the assistance of another pair of watchful eyes to protect her,’ she whispered. ‘Sister Christiana is coming to join me as soon as the office has been said.’

‘Sister Christiana?’

Edild smiled. ‘You would recognize her if you saw her. She is the nun who admitted you yesterday.’

The thin-faced one whose severe expression had melted into kindness when Lassair told her they’d come to see Elfritha; yes, he remembered her. ‘She has a good heart,’ he murmured.

‘Indeed she has,’ Edild agreed. ‘Moreover — ’ her voice dropped to the merest whisper, and he bent down to hear — ‘she understands the danger and will stay with me by Elfritha’s bedside until it has passed. Whenever that may be,’ she added on a sigh.

He was reassured. He had not wanted to leave Edild alone, watching over someone who had just been poisoned and who might very well be attacked in some way again. Knowing she would have a companion — and one of such quality — was a great relief. ‘I will not cease until the danger is no more,’ he said. ‘You have my word, and I do not break it.’

She looked up at him, her face full of love. ‘I know,’ she said.

There was nothing to be gained by staying. If he left now, there was little chance that anyone would see him go. He turned, drew up his hood and, with one last glance at her, he was gone.

I had not relished the idea of making my way on foot from Chatteris all round the west, south and east of the fens until I reached the far shore. But, of course, I did not have to, and fortunately I realized it before I had got very far. I had been standing on the quayside at the point where boats ferried passengers on the short trip across to the mainland to the south, and, reprimanding myself for my dimness, I walked right along the long curve of the waterfront until I was facing north-east. Then I waited.

I had imagined I would be there for some time, but I did not know much about boatmen. Before dawn had even begun to light the eastern sky, there were already people about, preparing their crafts and loading up crates and sacks. It proved a simple task to find someone willing to take me where I wanted to go. He was calling in at March and Lynn first, he told me, but with any luck he would be able to drop me off at my destination by mid-afternoon.

I was his sole passenger. I had no coins with me, but I carried my leather satchel of oils, herbs, potions and remedies, and in exchange for my passage over the fens I offered to provide any medicament, within reason, that he might be in need of. As it turned out, he was a very healthy man, but his old mother suffered terribly from the phlegm-producing cough that is so common in our damp, watery land. As soon as the sun had risen sufficiently to give me light to work by, I set about mixing a bottle of Edild’s finest cough remedy. Once I’d handed over the medicine, I made myself comfortable, propped my back against a sack containing something soft — wool, probably — and snuggled up in my shawl. I had thought I was far too anxious to sleep, but I hadn’t realized how tired I was. The gentle movement of the boat was like a mother rocking a baby in its cradle, and soon I was fast asleep.

I had never before been to the port of Hunstanton, nor, indeed, anywhere near it. I did not intend to change that now by actually going into the town. As far as the lord of my manor knew, I was in Cambridge. I had been to Chatteris — twice — without his knowledge or his permission, and now I was embarking on another unauthorized trip. The fewer people who saw me, the better.

I set out on the track that led northwards out of the port, keeping as close as I could to the sea, over to my left. I had memorized Edild’s directions, but so far I didn’t really need them. I had merely to walk on until the land began to curve away to the east, then begin looking out for the landmarks she had described.

The afternoon slowly faded into evening. The sky was clear, and the light lasted for a long time. The weather was mild; it had been sunny all day, but now a cloud bank was building up out to sea. I was refreshed after my sleep on the boat. I stopped to eat some of my supplies — Edild had managed to scrounge a little food from one of the lay sisters on night duty in the infirmary, and I had filled my water bottle at Hunstanton quay — then walked on some more. I had probably walked eight or ten miles by the time I finally settled under the shelter of a dune to sleep away the rest of the night.

The onslaught began even while I slept.

It was so subtle, to begin with. I was dreaming: uneasy dreams, wherein I was threatened by a vague menace which, while I did not know what it was, I nevertheless knew to be threatening. Dangerous. Then, out of nowhere, the face of a drowned man was before me, empty sockets right above my eyes, gaping jaws open to expose a tongue eaten off by some sea creature. I screamed, and believed I had woken up, but somehow I could not escape from the dream vision. Was I still asleep? I did not know. The first spectre was followed by others, dozens of them, floating up to me and opening their mouths in silent howls of anguish and terror. Their garments were ripped and shredded, and they stank of the dead things that rot at the very bottom of the sea.

I lay and endured. I sensed the presence of many more of them, floating around me like a putrid, nightmare cloud. After a time, they were no longer there, or perhaps it was that they had ceased showing themselves to me. For the magic was still there; whatever malicious enchantment had shown me that vision was still at work. Its message was clear: go away. It is perilous for you here.

I wanted to gather up my satchel and run, back the way I had come. Aelf Fen was somewhere to the south, quite close, and I longed with all my heart and soul to fly to the comfort of my mother’s large, soft bosom, my tall father’s strong, protective arms.

But I had been summoned. The message in my power dream had been unmistakable.

I pulled my shawl up over my head and tried to go back to sleep.

It was the cold that woke me next. The light told me that dawn had broken, although it was a dim and miserable dawn. The cloud bank I had observed the previous evening had swept inshore, and it had thickened as it approached, so that now there was a thick, swirling mass of lowering dark grey above me. There was a wind blowing hard off the sea, bringing with it a fine salt spray which, I soon discovered, had the power to penetrate each and every one of my garments.

I ate a few mouthfuls of yesterday’s food — dry bread, a hard piece of cheese, a small but sweet apple — and drank from my flask. Then I left the shelter of my dune and headed on.

I seemed to walk for a long time. The land around me would, I guessed, have been pretty featureless under even sunny conditions, consisting as it did of salt marsh giving way to a flat grey sea, with only a few scraps of bushes and the occasional stunted, twisted tree to break it up. Now the low cloud had ushered in pillows of mist that seemed to hover around me, before giving way to the steadily increasing wind and dispersing. The mist appeared to emerge from the ground beneath my feet. I stared down at the path. It was still quite well defined, and its surface was pebbly. I noticed, however, that on either side the sandy ground was becoming more and more waterlogged.

I told myself there was no need to be afraid of losing my way and sinking into the marsh. I knew how to find a safe way that was invisible to others. I stopped, waited till my anxious heartbeat slowed down a little, then began the steady deep breathing that normally allows me to enter the light trance state necessary for all dowsing work.

I needed help, for I was facing unknown danger and quite alone. I silently called out to Fox, and, as if he knew how much I wanted him and had been waiting for my summons, almost straight away I caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye. He looked eager and full of courage. His presence was immensely reassuring.

I closed my eyes and asked the spirits please to show me the safe way. You don’t actually have to tell the spirits why you want their help, because they know far more than we do and will undoubtedly already have worked it out. Still, I always feel it’s only polite to explain, and so as I stood there, eyes still shut, I reminded them about the dream and also about the summoning voice. I didn’t ask if it really was Rollo’s, and they didn’t say.

Hesitantly, I stretched out my arms, palms down towards the ground, spreading my fingers widely. Nothing happened at first, but I was learning — very slowly, I admit — how to be patient. After a while, I had my reward. The familiar tingling began, in the very tips of my fingers and then centring in the middle of both palms. Confident now, I opened my eyes.

The clouds were still spread thickly right above me, heavy with the rain that was surely about to deluge down. The pockets and patches of mist were still swirling. Visibility should have been roughly the length of my outstretched arms, but through the obscuring fog I saw a shining, gleaming line snaking away across the salt marsh. It twisted and turned repeatedly; nobody who had not lived here all their lives and studied the land closely would have a chance of finding their way safely. I would have stepped off into the sinking sands within a very short time, for I had been heading straight for a boggy patch of wet ground that was without a doubt quicksand.

I sent up a song of gratitude to the spirits. I put down a hand to Fox — just occasionally, I feel the touch of his cool, wet nose on my fingers — and side by side we walked confidently on.

The rain replaced the light mist on the air and swiftly became a torrent. I was soaked through in moments, and I wrapped my shawl tightly around me: not to keep out the rain — which was impossible — but to try to preserve some body warmth. The wind had become a gale, howling and shrieking like the herdsman of the dead. And the drowned men were back, flying in low over my head like hawks attacking a helpless lamb.

I was not helpless, I told myself. The drowned men could frighten me — they did; they terrified me to my bones — but they could not harm me. Or so I hoped.

I pushed on.

The wood circle was off the northern shore. I realized I must be close now, although I could make out nothing but the blueish-silver of the safe path, glinting before me. Edild had said the circle was not as I had seen it in my dream vision. It was no more than a ruin, more likely as not obscured by the sands or the sea. Even if it had stood as tall and proud as I had seen it, I doubted whether I would have found it.

I pressed ahead on the safe path. The spirits had brought me here, and they must have had a good reason. I knew I would simply have to put myself in their hands and let them lead me.

We were close to the sea now, for I could hear the broiling waves crashing and tearing against the shingle. I kept a watchful eye on the sky, and all at once a minute break in the thick black clouds allowed me a glimpse of the sun. The silver path had changed direction; we were now going due north.

Straight towards the furious sea.

I was quaking with fear and so cold that my shivering was making my teeth clatter together. Without Fox, I think I might have turned back, but he would not let me. Coming from the spirit world as he does, no doubt he understood why I had been called and why it was imperative that I went on.

My steps were slower now. It felt as if I had to drag each foot out of sticky, tacky mud that only released me after a struggle. The muscles in my legs ached constantly with a fierce pain that felt like hot needles.

I was on the point of giving up. I was exhausted, and I was so close to the sea now that the spray from the biggest waves was catching me. I was wet to the thighs. Lonely, in pain and more afraid than I had ever been, I sobbed aloud.

There was an echo. The sob came right back to me.

Then it came again, a hoarse, deep cry that I could never have made. .

I was racing down the shining path, my fears forgotten, my pain gone. The cry came again, and I shouted back, ‘I’m here! I’m coming!’

I flew on, my feet barely touching the ground, and Fox was a russet streak beside me. The fog still obscured everything but the safe path, but it did not matter, as it became clear the path was leading me in the right direction.

I came to a place where the path gave out. Just like that, with no warning at all. I jerked to a halt, staring down at the salt-crusted, sandy mud at my feet. No shining light shone out ahead; this was the end of the safe way, and to go on would mean death.

I did not know what to do.

I sensed movement, just over to my left. Spinning round, I saw the faint glimmer of a sort of loop that had formed, as if the safe path had curled round in a circle to mark its terminal.

There was someone there; I could make out a vague dark shape huddled on the wet ground.

I knew who it was. My heart recognized him even while my head was still thinking about it.

I ran down the short length of path that separated us. I flung myself down and took him in my arms. He was lying on his side on a thin patch of firm ground, as icy as death, soaked through and shaking with cold. For some time he simply clung to me. I was soaked too, but I had just been moving fast and my body was hot from the effort. He must have felt it, even through my wet clothes, and, desperate for warmth, he tried to absorb some of mine. I gave it gladly, putting my hands on his face, his neck, finding his own hands and squeezing life back into them.

After a while he raised his head from where he had burrowed it against my breasts. I looked down into his face, and my heart gave a lurch of pity. He looked terrible. He was thin, white-faced, he had several days’ growth of beard and someone — perhaps he himself — had cut his hair, very badly. His clothes were torn and filthy with sandy mud, clots of which stuck all over his arms and shoulders.

He stared at me in silence for a moment. Then he said, ‘I knew you would come.’

‘I should have been with you before!’ I cried. ‘I heard you calling, but I didn’t know where you were until it was too late, and when you stopped I thought you were dead!’

He gave a smile, very brief, no more than a stretching of his blue lips. ‘You’re here now,’ he murmured.

Then, as I watched, his face fell. He was grieving; I knew it. There is no emotion that wrenches and stabs at you like grief, both your own and that of someone you love.

‘What is it?’ I asked softly.

He raised his dark, deeply troubled eyes to mine. ‘My horse is gone,’ he said, his voice breaking on the words. ‘She went into the quicksand, and I couldn’t get her out.’

Oh, no! I wanted to cry out aloud, send my protest shrieking up into the sky. I knew about death in the sands. I knew how the pressure builds up and makes the eyes and tongue stand out stark in the head. I knew how the mouth stretches open for the last desperate breath, how it fills not with life-giving air but with deadly, cloying, heavy, wet, muddy sand.

And this beloved man of mine had been forced to watch, powerless, as his horse had gone under.

He gave one sob, a harsh bark of sound that seemed to epitomize his loss, his longing and his pain. I closed my arms around him and pressed him against me. After a while I laid my cheek down on the top of his head. And there we stayed.

I don’t know how long we would have remained like that. Although I was deeply affected by his grief for his horse, at the same time I was filled with joy because I had found him, he was alive, and now we were together.

Perhaps it was this potent mix of emotions that made me careless. Perhaps the force curled up ready to strike against me was too powerful and made sure I did not perceive its presence until it was too late. Either way, I did not sense the approaching danger.

There was a sudden sound, right above us, so startlingly loud that my ears rang. It could have been thunder, but if it was, it cracked at the command of something other than the forces of nature. The lowering sky went totally black, and I could see nothing, not even the comforting glow of the safe path. Whatever was out there, it had power even over that. Rain lashed down, vicious as a whip, forming itself into icy droplets. I saw small cuts open up on Rollo’s and my exposed flesh. The wind wound up to a screaming crescendo, in which I thought I could detect a terrible voice.

I tried to raise my head to look up, but I could not move.

What was assailing us out on that lonely shore was the most powerful force I had ever felt.

And it did not like us at all. .