Hob-things and stone pictures

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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.