From the abbey to the Otherworld

The Washer at the Spring

2012-02-15T03:02:00.010-08:00

The hob came to find me this morning as I was busy in my workshop. His fur was wet and pond weed clung to it in places. He had been feeding breadcrumbs to Methuselah, the huge old carp who lives in the abbey fishpond, and the two had passed a companionable time, in the way that old friends do.

'The old fish overheard two men from Yagleah talking about the Washer at the Spring,' Brother Walter said with a worried frown. I frowned too, for the men were stealing abbey fish. Not Methuselah, though, he was too clever to be caught. 'They saw the Washer a day or two ago, scrubbing shrouds in the spring water. They said that means there will be a death soon.'

I sighed and felt a weariness of spirit. In truth, there have been too many deaths these last few years, from hunger and from the Great Pestilence. If anyone had troubled to walk through the marshy ground by the Washer's spring, the water of which feeds the fishponds, then they probably would have seen the strange grey figure washing shrouds for all it was worth.

The Washer is lonely,' Brother Walter continued as he settled himself by the fire to pick the weed from his fur. 'Nobody visits it. They are too frightened to go near the spring. People go to Eadred's well in the forest instead and drop flowers and pins into the water there, as gifts for the fay who guards it.'

'I can understand why the washer might feel slighted,' I said. 'Does it mind not having offerings of its own, do you think?'

The hob nodded. 'The old fish thinks so. He sometimes sees the Washer staring into the fishpond, trailing its fingers in the water, its face withered with sadness, like the last leaf in autumn. The fish nibbles its fingers and the Washer smiles at him. Once he saw the Washer lift a blackthorn flower from the water and hold it against its chest.'

'That is indeed sad,' I agreed. 'Perhaps somebody should visit the spring one of these days.'

The hob grinned and looked pleased with himself. 'I already have. I took a hazelnut and some pins and dropped them in the water this morning.'

'Did you see the Washer?' I asked, a little worried by this.

The hob shook his head. 'No, but I know he was pleased.'

'How?'

'Because the thorn tree by the spring suddenly started to flower. Just a few branches, full of white blossom, as if the tree was smiling.'

I patted the hob's shoulder and handed him a comb for his fur. 'That was kindly done, Brother Walter. And maybe the next time you visit the spring, I will come with you.'

Pen and inks

2012-01-13T05:02:00.000-08:00

Brother Simon Peter is a fine scribe. Since Michaelmas, he has been copying pages from a Book of Days which was given to the abbey by Sir Robert of Weford.

Many years ago, as a young monk living at an abbey in France, Brother Simon Peter learnt how to prepare the pigments to make coloured inks. His skill in mixing the precious ingredients is matchless, as is his skill as a scribe. He taught me to mix the dark ink for writing. I collect walnuts and oak galls and soak them in rainwater. Later I mix them with copperas and sometime wine, and stir in powdered gum arabic. The ink is carefully stored in small jars, ready for him to fill one of the inkhorns which sit in iron hoops fitted to the side of his desk.

And there he sits, straight backed on his stool, his small knife in his left hand, his pen in his right hand, a frown of deep concentration on his brow. An iron weight keeps the parchment sheet from curling in on itself as he works by the light coming through the cloister arch beside him.

If he is aware of the hob's keen eyes watching him sometimes, then he never gives any hint of it, though he was puzzled to find a scrap of waste parchment lying on the floor near his desk this morning. On it was a scratchy little charcoal drawing of a strange creature with tufted ears and a tail, and a few carefully copied letters that did not spell any word that the monk had ever come across before.

St Thomas's Day

2011-12-21T07:49:00.000-08:00

Midwinter candles, to light the darkest day of the year.

The holly and the ivy

Now are both well grown

Of all the trees that are in the wood
The holly bears the crown

Go day, go day,

My lord Syre Christemasse, go day!

Good day, Syre Christemas, our kyng,

For every man, both olde & yinge,

Ys glad & blithe of your comynge;

Go day!

Go day, go day,

My lord Syre Christemasse, go day!

Godys sone so moche of myght

Ffram heven to erthe down is lyght

And borne ys of a mayde so bryght;

Good day!

Go day, go day,

My lord Syre Christemasse, go day!

St Thomas's eve

2011-12-20T14:12:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is the feast day of St Thomas. It is also the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice. Brother Walter tells me it will be a day of strange magic, when fay folk and ghosts walk the forest paths and keep close to the hearths of the living.

The mummers sang outside the abbey gates today. The brethren gathered by the gateway to listen. Brother Walter was in the hen house when they started to sing and there were a few puzzled glances amongst the brethren when they caught the faint echo of the mummers' song. 'If I didn't know better,' Brother Simon-Peter said in bemusement, 'I would say the hens have joined with the mummers in welcoming Christmas to the abbey.' Fortunately for the hob, the bell for None rang out before anyone went to look inside the hen house. We left the mummers and Brother Walter to finish their song in peace.

The midwinter mummers

2011-12-19T03:34:00.000-08:00

I set off for Yagleah early this morning, accompanied by Brother Walter the hob. He was in fine spirits and entertained me royally by singing most of the way. The hob has spent many a midwinter and Christmas in the shadows beyond the fire in village huts and warriors' halls, listening to stories and songs. Over the years of his very long life he has learned many of them by heart and he now takes delight in sharing them with me. Some were in a language I did not recognise, but Brother Walter carefully explained the meaning behind each one to me. He is as learned as he is wise, and the best of companions.

To Brother Walter's delight, we came upon a group of mummers in Yagleah. They wore masks to disguise themselves, shaped like animal heads. There was a hare and a cockerel, a bull and a hawk. Their leader wore a fine set of antlers and led the singing in a deep voice that boomed across the snowy green. They danced and played the pipes and lute, and the villagers gathered to watch them and join in the merriment. The hob clapped and stamped his feet and capered in time to the tunes. He stayed safely out of sight behind a cart near the blacksmith's shed and I stood beneath an oak tree nearby to listen and nod along to the old familiar tunes. For a while, the biting cold and harshness of winter were forgotten and we shared a gladness of spitit that warmed us as surely as the brightest of fires.

The mummers' songs reminded me of Christmases past, when I was a boy growing up in my father's house on the High Street in Leicester. I remember standing in the churchyard of St Martin's, watching the miracle plays being performed on the back of wagons and carts. Ancient mysteries unfolded before my eyes, amongst the brightly coloured costumes and richly painted back cloths of distant lands. I saw dragons and angels, saints and kings and even God himself - though I knew him to be just an actor in robes of gold and a mask fashioned to look like the radiant sun. I can still recall the bitter chill of those far-off frosty days, and warming my hands at a brazier in a corner of the churchyard before we set off for home. I can still taste the honey-dipped apples bought from sweetmeat sellers in the street and hear my father laugh as we watched an old man with two dancing dogs. They hopped and turned on their hind legs as the old man played a bone whistle. My father threw him a coin and I gave him my barely touched apple. He nodded and winked and shared it with his dogs.

One year, a group of travelling mummers came to the town. The sang and played by the High Cross during the Wednesday market before Christmas. I listened then as I listened this morning, thrilled by a sense of wonder as I caught a glimpse of something ancient and profound beneath the words and music.

The first snow of winter

2011-12-04T13:58:00.000-08:00

We woke this morning to a world made white with snow. It had fallen during the night, silent and soft, a winter ghost haunting the forest and fields. We stood and shivered in the cloister and gazed out at the garth. Snow garlanded the branches of the old walnut tree and buried the herb beds. Brother John could not resist walking from one side of the cloister to the other, just to see the prints of his boots in the snow. Later, as I went about my daily chores, I noticed another set of prints, small and hob-shaped, passing twice around the walnut tree and scampering off towards the north alley. A glance at the sky told me there would be more snow before long. I hope it falls before anyone notices the strange small footprints and wonder what creature made them.

Summer's end

2011-10-30T13:45:00.000-07:00

I set off this morning to walk to Bethlehem, the abbey's farm near Yagleah. It was a day of rich colours, as if some unseen hand had painted the leaves of the trees in the forest. The weather has been calm of late, but when the October wind blows, it will strip the trees of their rich garb. The wheel of the year will turn and once again, winter browns and greys will settle over the fields and woods, and if I am truthful, also in my heart.

Nine Men's Morris

2011-10-04T05:30:00.000-07:00

These first few days of October are holding hard to the last warmth of late summer. We wake each morning to mist on the flood meadows beside the river. The grass is wet with dew when I walk through the vegetable garden to my workshop, and spiders' webs, as fine as spun silk, shine in the low sun. Tiny beads of dew catch the light and sparkle like a king's treasure which has been scattered across the ground in the early dawn. It soaks the hem of my habit but my boots, well rubbed with tallow, stay dry.

Sometimes, we find a few moments in the day to sit in the cloister and play the game of Nine Men's Morris. Many years ago, someone scratched a game board into a stone seat in the north alley. We use small river smoothed pebbles, collected near Sheep Brook ford, as gaming pieces. Some are black, some are milk white, and they are kept in a wooden box which old Brother Adam carved long ago.

The first day of September

2011-09-01T04:22:00.000-07:00

There was a chill in the air this morning and a mist on the flood meadows. The year is on the turn and summer is slipping away. The hedgerows are full of the promise of abundant fruit and berries, and the first flush of scarlet and yellow is threading through the forest. The hob tells me he smells autumn in the air and feels the days shortening. But for now, while the sun is warm and the sky clear, we will work in the abbey gardens and sit for a while on the bench by the workshop door, to warm our bones.

Brother John

2011-08-20T08:50:00.000-07:00

Brother John came to live at Crowfield Abbey at Midsummer. He brought with him youth and a pleasing nature, and the love of stories. In recent weeks, my joints have been troubling me and I have not been able to go out into the forest and fields as is my usual routine. Brother John has taken it upon himself to gather plants for me to use in my workshop, in my caudles and salves. He brings each basket full of roots, bark and leaves to me, along with stories he has gathered along the way from the people he meets.

I listen to his tales as I work, and Brother Walter the hob listens too, for Brother John is a fine storyteller. I suspect that Brother John knows the hob is there with us in the workshop. He has said nothing, so I cannot be sure, but from time to time his glance goes to the corner by the wood basket where the hob sits when we are not alone. One day soon, I will bring the hob out of hiding and let Brother John meet him. I think these two will get along well. Brother Walter has stories which the monk will never have heard before, tales of the fay and the Wildwood, strange and thrilling stories, filled with magic and darkness. I would like to think that after I have gone to my grave and the hob returns to the forest, as he surely will one day, the stories will live on in the hearts and minds of men through Brother John.

The listener at the door

2011-02-10T03:25:00.000-08:00

The last few days have been windy and rainy. Doors and window shutters rattle as if unseen people are pushing at them, anxious to get into the abbey. Or perhaps they are trying to get out.

This windy weather has left the hob unsettled. Indeed, all of those who live here at Crowfield feel the same sense of restlessness. The fire in the warming room burns fitfully, more smoke than flame, and is miserly with its warmth. But it is the rattling of the doors in particular which makes Brother Walter nervous. He scurries past them as if frightened of what might be on the other side. I must confess, I have caught a little of his uneasy mood and find myself reluctant to open certain doors in the abbey.

This morning I found him hiding in a corner of my workshop, his fur bristling and his eyes wild. There was, he told me, someone outside the door last night. Someone who came and went, rattling the latch, scratching on the wood, and listening.

            'How do know that they were listening at the door?' I asked.
            The hob patted his head. 'I could feel it in here.'
            'Who was it, do you think?' I will admit, I was not sure I wanted to know the answer to this. The hob's eyes were as round as coins, more gold than green in the light from the fire. He shook his head and whispered, 'I don't know, but I think they were trying to find something that is lost and gone, though I don't know what that might be.'

Brother Walter and I busied ourselves in the workshop for the rest of the morning, but neither of us felt inclined to talk. I had the feeling that the hob was still listening for that hand at the door.

Perhaps, when the door rattles again, as it surely will, we should open it and see who is there.

Hob-things and stone pictures

2011-01-23T06:29:00.000-08:00

The snail brother has gone to stay at the grange farm at Bethlehem for a while. The brother men who live there have sneezing-coughs and he will tend to them until they are better. He has left me, Brother Walter, in charge of his workshop. This is a very important task. I have swept the floor, scrubbed bowls and pots and tidied shelves. The snail brother told me to sweep away the cobwebs from the rafters, but the spiders said they did not want me to do that, so I have left them alone. I did, however, tell the rats that they must find somewhere else to live. They are not happy. The big one with yellow teeth and scars across her nose says it is too cold to leave such a warm and comfortable hut. She does not want to move into the brother men's stone rooms; they are chilly and damp and there is little food to be had since the brother men brought a cat to live in the kitchen. The cat, an ugly brindle creature with evil yellow eyes, has already eaten too many of her relatives. Maybe in the spring, the rat tells me, they will find a farmhouse to live in. I suggested the grange farm, and the rats are considering this.

I went into the forest yesterday, foraging for roots. I met the Old Red Man, a hob-friend who lives by himself in an old beech tree near the pig-keeper's hut. He has been collecting treasures, he told me, and took me to his burrow to show them to me. What treasures indeed! Golden and silver coins, and things with pins for people to wear on their clothing. He showed me a small clay lamp. I remember seeing such things being used long ago by the people who lived in the painted stone house in the fields near Weforde.

The house is no longer there, but the villagers' ploughs sometimes bring up small square stones of red and white and black. They do not know what the stones were for, but we do. We saw the wondrous floors in the painted house many, many years ago, with pictures of fish and strange wild beasts made from the stones.

The Old Red Man has carefully laid the stones he has collected on the floor in his burrow, so he has his own picture. It shows a tree with a black trunk and red leaves and it is quite splendid. I may make a floor picture in the snail brother's hut as a surprise for when he comes home.

The holly and the ivy, a midwinter tale

2011-01-12T13:07:00.000-08:00

Early this morning, I set out to visit Wat Croube, the basket maker. He lives in a clearing in the forest. Old Wat has been making baskets, hurdles and fish traps for more years than anyone can remember. His wife, Merilda, keeps bees and sells the honey at Weforde market, but she also helps Wat, her small and nimble fingers weaving patterns into the finer baskets.

Brother Walter the hob kept me company on my errand. He rode along on the back of Crowfield Abbey's new donkey, Joseph. The hob and Joseph are firm friends already and Brother Walter takes pleasure in weaving garlands of straw to hang around Joseph's long ears, much to the bemusement of the brethren at the abbey, who do not know that a hob lives amongst them.

On our way through the forest, the hob told me a curious thing. Today is the 21st of December, the feast of St Thomas, but it is also midwinter's day, the shortest day and the longest night of the year. Every year on this day, deep in the forest, an age old battle takes place. The holly king, the ruler of the forest from midsummer to midwinter, fights the oak king and is defeated, and the oak king becomes the ruler of the forest from now until midsummer's day.

On this day, the sun stands still. The darkness has grown strong. The forest holds its breath. In the winter stillness between the trees the sound of fighting can be heard, the ring of wooden staffs as the two kings battle each other. But the fight ends as it must, with the light victorious over the dark. The holly king slips away into the Deepwoods to wait for midsummer, when the struggle begins all over again. And there, in the summer woods, the oak king will be defeated and the slow wheel of the year will turn once more towards the winter.

'Have you ever seen the two kings fight?' I asked.
The hob nodded. 'Once, many years ago.'
'And what did they look like, these kings?'
The hob considered this for a while. His green-gold eyes stared into the woodland without seeing anything, as the faraway memories filled his mind. I saw a little fear and a great deal of awe in their depths.
'The holly king was green and red, and made of leaves and shadows, an old, old creature whose strength was almost gone. The oak king was brown and black, made of living wood, branches and twigs with buds ready to burst.'
I glanced between the trees, half expecting to glimpse a leafy figure. I listened for the sound of clashing weapons, but the forest hid its secrets well.

The fay thorn

2010-11-27T11:11:00.000-08:00

On the way to Yagleah,you will pass a hawthorn tree on which mistletoe grows. The local people take care never to harm this tree, for it is believed that it is sacred to the fay. It is said that on Midsummer eve, the fay dance around the tree in the moonlight. A darker tale tells of a black dog that haunts the trackway close by the thorn. It is known hereabouts as the Shuck. Some people say it guards lonely travellers on their way through the forest, but others say that to see the Shuck is bad luck; those who look into this fearsome beast's burning red eyes will die within the year.

Wish hounds under a harvest moon

2010-09-20T13:57:00.000-07:00

It is almost Michaelmas, one of the two quarter days of the year when night and day are of equal length. The dying summer is fading now into the mists and frosts of early autumn. The harvest is nearly all gathered in. The harvest moon will light the way of the last carts and weary workers as they make their way home from the fields.

The hob tells me this time of year has always been important, and has always been celebrated. The church celebrates the feast of the Archangel Michael, the saint to whom Crowfield Abbey is dedicated. But long before the abbey was built, and long before Michaelmas, the people who lived in clearings in the forest lit bonfires and feasted. They prayed to their gods and goddesses and made pilgrimages to their sacred places, to stone circles and hallowed trees, holy wells and rivers. Echoes of these old ways still linger and from time to time I glimpse something I cannot explain. People in nearby villages and farms tell stories of the Whistling Hollow, a strange and haunted place close by the abbey gates. The hob remembers a time when offerings were made to the spirit who inhabits the pool at the heart of the Hollow. I sometimes wonder if the malevolence that can be felt there is because the spirit resents being abandoned and forgotten.

There can be few people within a day's walk of Crowfield who have not heard of the Wish Hounds. They are the wild black dogs who hunt in the forest with the Unseelie king. They have fiery eyes and brimstone breath, and their baying cries chill the blood. Autumn is the time of the Wish Hounds and people travelling along the forest tracks are careful to be safely home by dusk.

The face at the window: a ghost story

2010-09-01T13:47:00.000-07:00

Crowfield Abbey is haunted. We who live here do not talk about it, we simply accept it and get on with our daily work. Perhaps it is the curious nature of the haunting that allows us to forget it for eleven months of the year, for the ghost only appears in September.

The Crowfield ghost is only seen through windows, and there are a great many of them in the abbey. It is never seen in the same window twice in a row and there is no way of knowing when or where it will be glimpsed next.

This morning, Brother Mark was working in the vegetable garden when he had the strongest feeling that he was being watched. He looked around, puzzled, and then noticed a face at the small window of an empty store room overlooking the gardens and orchard. The room is kept locked, and as it is empty, nobody has any need to go inside. It was, he thought, the face of a young boy, pale and frightened. The boy's mouth moved as if he was calling out, but Brother Mark heard no sound. He hurried to find me, for I have keys to all the rooms and cupboards and chests in the abbey, and together we went to the store room and unlocked the door. It was empty and cold, as we had known it would be.

Whoever he was, that troubled soul, he had gone but we know he will be back. Today is only the first day of September, and there are so many windows here at Crowfield...

St Bartholomew's Eve

2010-08-23T10:32:00.000-07:00

For the first time since the Great Plague ravaged this land a full six years ago, the Bartlemas Fair will return to Weforde. The green will once again be bustling with people. There will be singing and dancing, and stalls selling Bartlemas gingerbread and mead, honey and nuts and plums and Wardun pears.

At least, I hope all those things will be there, and much more besides. The truth is, I do not know what to expect when Brother Piers and I take our baskets of gingerbread and jars of honey from the abbey hives to Weforde tomorrow morning. With so many houses standing empty, their crofts and tofts overgrown, and so many farms abandoned, will there be anybody left to come to the fair? And even if there is, far too many familiar faces will be missing, faces of old friends who died in the terrible summer and autumn of 1348. All are sadly missed and fondly remembered.

Brother Walter and I spent the afternoon making Bartlemas gingerbread in the kitchen. He has a sweet tooth and likes honey above all other things, but honey and hob's fur are not a happy combination and I had to stand him in my largest bowl and pour warm water over him to wash him clean. He sat in a patch of sunlight in a corner of the yard and let the warm breeze dry his fur.

While we worked, stirring breadcrumbs and pepper and powdered ginger into the pot of warm honey, the hob asked me about St Bartholomew.
      'Does the holy man like gingerbread?'
      'I'm not sure he ever tasted any,' I told him.
      'Perhaps he'll be there tomorrow,' Brother Walter said hopefully. 'He can try some then. I think he'll like it.'
      'St Bartholomew died a long time ago,' I said. ' He's in heaven, with God and all the saints and angels.Tomorrow is his holy day, when we remember him.'
      The hob stared at me, and lowered his honey-sticky fingers from his mouth. 'The holy man is dead? That's very sad.' He thought about it for a moment and then said, 'Perhaps he won't mind if I eat his share of gingerbread?'
       'I don't think he'll mind that at all.'
       Brother Walter busied himself patting the warm gingerbread into small round cakes. I began to mark each one with a wooden stamp, carved into the shape of a knife. Brother Walter watched me curiously.
       'Does the holy man like knives?'
       'Bartholomew was put to death in a cruel way,' I explained. 'He was skinned alive because he believed in God. And now, the knife is his symbol.'
        The hob was quiet for a long time. His face was puzzled and sad at the same time. He left the kitchen without a word and I was worried that I had upset him. I decided that the gingerbread fairings would look better plain and I set the stamp aside. I had just finished shaping the last one when Brother Walter returned carrying one of the baskets from my workshop. He climbed onto a stool and set the basket down. It was filled with flower heads. Carefully, he pushed a flower into the middle of each soft gingerbread cake.
       'I think the holy man might like flowers more than knives,' he said quietly.
       'I think you are right.'
       So tomorrow, those who come to the Bartlemas Fair will be able to buy gingerbread cakes covered with flowers, and I think they will agree that flowers are a far better way to remember a good man's sacrifice than knife blades.

Holey stones and hazelnuts

2010-08-17T02:45:00.000-07:00

Brother Walter has a weakness for hazelnuts. Ripe, unripe, roasted in the embers, it is all the same to him. He tells me that two forked branches of hazel can be used to find water flowing underground. A long time ago, before the abbey was built and even before Weforde was a village, a man called Eadred farmed land in a clearing of the forest. He cut two hazel branches and walked his land until he discovered a stream beneath the ground. He dug a well and to this day, the well has never run dry, come drought or winter freeze. The water is clear and pure and it is locally believed that it cures afflictions of the eyes. Brother Walter tells a different tale. He says that as soon as Eadred dug his well, a water fay came to live in it. It is the fay who heals those looking for a cure. But woe betide anyone foolish enough to forget a small offering of thanks - a hazelnut or a bent bronze pin are always acceptable, the hob assures me. No iron pins, though; fays do not like iron and such an offering will only draw the fay's wrath.

The hob brought me a gift today, a holey stone. He tells me it is possible to see the Otherworld through the hole in a stone, but it must be one that has formed naturally. Perhaps this glimpse of a place beyond the everyday world is granted only to those with the Sight, for I saw nothing.

We walked in the forest today. Berries and nuts hang heavy on branches and it felt as if we were following in the footsteps of the Green Man of the Woods, but always a few paces behind. I didn't see this woodland spirit, though Brother Walter caught a glimpse of a leafy face in a hawthorn thicket. Perhaps, the next time we go into Foxwist, I will take one of the hob's holey stones with me and who knows? Perhaps I will see the Green Man for myself.

The Green Man of the Woods

2010-08-14T02:22:00.000-07:00

This morning, Brother Walter the hob showed me the carved stone head of the Green Man of the Woods which he found on the roof of the cloister. I had never seen it before, though I have lived here in the abbey for twenty six years. In truth, I had difficulty turning my head to see it now, as I have an affliction of the spine which ensures that I see more of my boots than I do of the sky. Nevertheless, I did see the head, and a curious sight it was too. A man with leaves and branches growing from his mouth, a spirit of the woods far older than the hands that carved it or the minds that have contemplated it since then. Brother Walter tells me the Green Man is a guardian of all the creatures living in Foxwist Wood. He was delighted to find it carved here amongst our angels and saints and said it made him feel safe to think of the Green Man watching over him within these walls. He has promised to tell me more about this forest spirit later, when we have a few minutes to sit by the fire in my workshop.

The track to Yagleah, close by the Sheep Brook

2010-08-09T04:07:00.000-07:00

A warm morning, with fruit and nuts ripening in the forest. Brother Walter ate two out of every three hazelnut I collected. He fell into the Sheep Brook after reaching too far out to pick a particularly large nut, but his fur dried quickly in the breeze. He did, however, have to remain outside my workshop until the worst of the smell of river mud had worn off.

A Crowfield Abbey angel

2010-08-08T14:20:00.000-07:00

Crowfield Abbey has angels of wood and stone, and this is one.

The abbey has its secrets, too...

2010-08-08T14:10:00.001-07:00