“D for damnation!”Godric jumped to his feet, sending quill,ink and pile of birch-barks flying.“Does this feed my cows?Doesthis get my slut of a wife to her hearthside to make me my broth?Does this...”Running out of questions, he blew out his cheeksuntil he looked like one of the pufferfish that sometimes gotcaught in the cod nets, turned on his heel and stampedout.
“Never mind him, Abbot Cai.”
Caius,who had buried his head in his hands, looked down from the pulpit.Barda, the slut of a wife, was smiling serenely at him.Godric wasmuch changed these days, other than his tongue, and the two of themrubbed along peacefully.Ironically, Godric was one of Cai’sbrightest pupils.D for damnation?Cai was rather proud of him.“Idon’t mind him, Barda.”
“Let him stump around his barnyard for a little while, scaringhis hens.He’ll be back.”
“I know he will.How are you getting on?”
“Here.”She lifted her birch-bark to show him.It was a clearautumn day, and the new church roof was still incomplete.Cool greylight shone in.“I have made you ana, ab, ac, and…” She paused, tracing the lastletter to check the direction of its tail.“And adfordamnation.”
Cairestrained himself.It didn’t do to laugh, even when they werestriving to amuse him.“Those are very fine.Perfect.”
“But, you know, my husband is right.”
A murmur ran around the dozen or so villagers assembled in thechurch.Astonished faces turned to Barda, who had certainly neveraccused Godric of such a thing before.She spread her broad hands,ink-stained from her labours.“I like to do this.I like the littlemarks, and the sounds you tell us they make, and I like itespecially when you get bored and tell us a story instead.Butitdoesn’tfeedGodric’s cows—and I do prefer stories to broth.Why do you teachus, Abbot Cai?”
Brother.Brother Cai, not abbot.Butthe villagers had caught the habit from the brethren of Fara, whonow mingled freely among them, sharing their labours and lives.Caifelt like the rawest, rankest novice who ever fell in from thefields.He was weary, suddenly almost too tired to stand.Thishappened to him still, even two months after the raid.But Bardawas gazing at him, her handsome face expectant.He’d told them toask, hadn’t he?Ask, and if I know theanswer, I’ll tell you.Nothing is more dangerous than a darkenedmind.“I want you to be able to read,” hesaid, leaning his arms on the pulpit.“If a day ever comes when aman stands among you and says,do this, dothusly,and tells you to obey because theBible says it is so…” He paused, coughing.His lungs seemed tooshallow these days.He felt as if one of them had knit into hisscar.
“You want us to look at the Bible ourselves and see if it istrue.”
“Yes.Exactly, yes.”
“Will we ever see a Bible, Abbot Cai?”
“You may come to the church and look at this onefreely.”
“Forgive me.You said that wasn’t a Bible yet.That’s what yourbrothers have written down, what they can remember of the oldone.”
“You’re quite right.The old one was burned.When next summercomes, I hope we will have enough mead and barley to trade againsta new one from the Tyne monasteries.”He leaned forwards.“It is agood thing to remember, though.All the words in any Bible, nomatter how sincere and holy, are words copied down from someone’smemory of something very, very old.Copied and copied, put intoother languages and copied once again.”
“You want us to think for ourselves.”Godric had come silentlyback into the church.He gave Barda a warning look and made his wayback to his seat and makeshift writing desk.“Attend to him, woman.Don’t I know better than anyone what comes of blindobedience?”
“Aye, well.”Barda set down her quill and folded her arms.“You’ll not be expecting it from me, then.”
Snorts of laughter broke the holy silence.Cai had oftenwondered what Theo would make of the things that went on in hischurch now.Women brought colicky babies in at their breast.It wasthe only covered space of any size for miles around, and Caiallowed a small amount of trading there, exchanges and bartersbefore the men set off to market.At night, he would spread outtheGospel of Scienceon the pulpit, light candles and torches in sinfully wastefulabundance, and teach his brethren how to calculate the distance tothe moon.
“My friends,” he said, “I think our lesson has gone as far asit can today.Friswide, can you bring more birch-bark strips fromyour timber supply tomorrow?”
“I can, Abbot Cai.”
“Good.We’ll go on fromdfor damnation then.In summer I’ll buy you someparchment, and you’ll be writing like monasticscholars.”
After I’ve taught you Latin.Headspinning with exhaustion, Cai made his way down from the pulpit.Hefollowed his students out of the church and sat on a rock outsideits sheltered southern wall to wave them off.He recognised thefutility of what he was trying to do.The illogic of it too—why notteach them to read and write in a language they already knew?Buteven if he succeeded with that, there’d be nothing for them toread.Latin, seeded here by a conquering army, brought to ripenessby the church, was now the language of learning—ofdomination—across the known world.It was a shame, because theSaxon language danced.It rolled out bright carpets of story by thevillage firesides at night, some in a slow-thumping poetic metreyou could clap to.Cai should try to write some of it down.Heshould try to teach the children too, persist in getting theirparents to spare them from farm work for just an hour a day.He hadtime.He had time for anything now.
Thevillagers were gone, and none of his brethren in sight.Curling upon the rock, Cai allowed the nagging cough that always lurked inhis lungs to have its racking way with him.It sounded worse thanit was, he hoped, and there was no blood.He just wasn’t a huskygreat Viking who could spring back from such damage as if it hadbeen a scratch.
That wasa bad line of thought.When he could breathe again, he lifted hishead and saw Danan down by the shoreline, plucking her herbsunmolested.The sight of her pleased him.It was for her sake, forthe sake of every creature different, unknown, unable or unwillingto conform to the law of the church or any authority, that Caiwould teach his villagers.He would teach his brethren, who couldread their Bible but needed to look beyond it to the stars.Thereonce had been a Christianity here—Addy’s kind, the communion witheagles and seals—which had briefly blended with Danan’s ways, withthe ancient beliefs of these islands.Cai had no hope of restoringit.But Addy had told him to shed light, and so hewould.
Yes, he had time, though he filled his empty hours diligently.He was strong enough now to help with the rebuilding, such as itwas.No more halls, nothing at all that could be seen from the sea.The beehive huts crouched low—a primitive shelter, but sufficient.Cai had one of his own now, and the salvaged corner of the oldrooms served as a kitchen and refectory.In his cell he was quitealone, and once his working day was done, he would turn over thepages of theGospel of Sciencefor himself, lost in the wonder of it, learningall he could.The book had a hiding place ready, a gap beneathTheo’s tomb in the crypt.Cai wasn’t sure who he feared more—Vikingraiders, or the men of his own faith who might someday come toclaim the wilderness.He would do as Theo had done.He would absorbenough to make a copy, so that if the day came, they would have toburn him too.
Anotherbad thought.Something in him stirred with yearning at the idea ofthe flames.Time—despite everything, he had too much time.Thehours stretched.No matter how he worked, there were still great,barren patches in his days, sterile deserts when all he could dowas escape to the beaches and walk.The sands were desolate now,winter blowing down in heaped grey clouds.Cai would walk formiles, looking eastward to the land of the Danes.
It wasno good.He was hollowed out, sick, losing weight by the day nomatter what he ate.He pushed Fen from his mind and saw his shapein every shadow.It had only been two months.
Harnessjingled in the distance, and he sat up.His limbs were stiff, thecloudy sun much lower in the sky than when he’d settled here.Hadhe slept?His eyes were gritty and sore.Rubbing them, he tried tomake out the source of the sound.He could hear men’s voices now,and horses whinnying.Some kind of caravan was making its wayacross the mud flats.Two carts—no, three—and a couple of shaggyhorses on a leading rein.Benighted traders, perhaps, hoping for anight’s shelter at Fara.Or maybe a rare group of travellingplayers, come to tumble and juggle beanbags and frighten Eyulf intoshrieking fits by pulling out coins from his ears.Aelfric had sentthe last lot packing.Cai would welcome them, give them a supper.He barely had enough to feed his men as it was, but Theo—andChrist—had commended all kindness to strangers.
A showwould do everyone, monks and villagers alike, a world of good.Caigot up and brushed off his robes.The leader of the group wasdriving a sturdy black pony at a sharp pace over the sands.He waswell-matched to his beast, burly and dark haired.It took Cai aminute more to recognise his father.
