The Oblate’s Journey

The heavy axe glowed a dull silver above Wade’s head, a blur of morning sun on forged steel as it swung down. An oak round split with a sharp crack, the splintered halves rebounding into still air. The sound echoed off the walls of the monastery. The lean young man levered the axe out of the block and reached for one of the splits. He balanced the half-round on the block and raised the axe, working with the economy of one accustomed to long labor.

The half-round split into two, falling to the hard-packed earth. Wade retrieved the pieces and tossed them into the pile that would feed the outdoor ovens. This was the simple order of Wade’s world; wood must be split, ovens fired, bread baked, and the thirty monks of Burton Abbey fed.

A trickle of sweat ran down his spine beneath a rough wool tunic. Leaving the axe embedded in the block, the young man walked to a stone cistern and leaned over the water’s shimmering surface.
His reflection was that of a tanned face losing the roundness of youth. Tousled brown curls rolled down over a smooth forehead but did not cover the burgundy stain that ran across Wade’s left temple. The birthmark began at his left eyebrow and ran into the curls above his ear, the size and shape of a small mouse.

The crimson mark had ordered the entire course of his short life. From his birth, the stain set him apart from the other children born to the Laird’s fief. He was given over as an oblate when he was but eight years old, his family happy to cast their marked child onto the charity of the Benedictines. The same stain kept Wade an oblate, never to become a novice or a monk. No one wanted a monk marked by the Devil.

Wade thrust his callused hands beneath the water, shattering the reflection. He laved cool water onto his face and neck, rinsing away the sweat of labor. Raising his head to shake the water from his hair, he looked over the tilled plots and pastures. A rough wall of dry-laid stone marked the boundary of Burton Abbey. A copse of trees rose behind the wall. Beyond their dusky crowns, not two English miles away, lay the Manor of the Laird. Those two miles, from Manor to Abbey, were the entire extent of Wade’s world.

Wade’s family worked the land of the Manor and were themselves the property of the Laird, unable to leave the small plot they did not own. His people raised pigs for the Laird’s table if they were still alive. The occupation gave Wade the surname of Foreman, which he carried to Burton Abbey as a child. Foreman was entered into the monastery records and forgotten by everyone. An oblate destined for a life of stoking ovens did not require a surname.

The shadow of a cloud slid over the trees and his mind snapped back to the present. There was dire news from outside the monastery walls. The Great Pestilence was stalking the English countryside, and horrible rumors of its ghastly progress spread before it. For all Wade knew, his family could already be dead and the Manor with it. But the more immediate danger was a cuff on the ear for shirking his work. Wade flicked the last drops of water from his hand and turned back to the pile of kindling.

The oblate felt the eyes of the kitchen master before he raised himself. The old monk measured the pile of split wood and Wade in the same glance. He gave a slight nod before turning away. It was all the praise Wade could expect. Better, the old man was slow with a bang to the ear, unlike some of the others. The monks were not all godly.

A few of the brothers might treat Wade to a kindness, a wrinkled apple or a jolly tale. Given enough beer and bread, they would not make an oblate’s life harder than it was. It was from them that he learned Burton Abbey’s reputation as the meanest monastery in all of England.

The gruff monks were quick with the back of a meaty hand for any perceived misdeed. Wade kept his distance and a sharp eye. Worst were the monks with dark desires. Wade never ventured into a closed room with one of those tonsured billy goats.

Wade’s only companion was the cowherd, Paul, a simpleton with a man’s body and a boy’s mind. The two shared a cell on cold winter nights. In summer, they sprawled atop a rough blanket. They slept outdoors in summer, sprawled atop a rough blanket.

The simple oaf would beg Wade for a story, and he would oblige with tales of witches and daemons he had learned as a child of the fief. Paul listened wide-eyed until he grew frightened and begged Wade to stop.

* * *

The Prior stood before the Abbot’s table, awaiting his instructions. The only sound in the room came from the tip of the Abbot’s quill as it scratched across a sheet of parchment. The Abbot’s fleshy hand moved as if it were a small creature possessing a life of its own. The hand rose to the ink pot, dipped the quill, tapped, then returned to the letter.

Placing the quill into a gilt holder, the Abbot raised the parchment from the wooden table. His fat fingers tilted it to the light, and he read aloud.

“In the year of our Lord, 1349 Anno Domini, may God have mercy on we poor sinners, his humble servants.”

The Abbot returned the letter to the table and raised his eyes to the Prior.

“And it is a dreadful year that the Lord has seen fit to visit upon us, Brother Prior.”

“It is indeed, Father Abbot, and the dread grows closer.”

The Abbot did not favor the Prior with an immediate reply. He leaned back, elbows resting on the carved arms of his chair. His fingertips formed a steeple in the still air. Morning light illuminated the rough ruby of his ecclesiastical ring.

“This message must be carried to the grange at Appleby Magna. Our ten farmer monks must return to the safety of Burton Abbey. They shall bring all the foodstuffs their wagons can carry, and all the livestock they can drive before them. We fall under siege from the Great Mortality, and we must prepare. Who can be spared as a messenger?”

“None is the honest answer, Father Abbot. Such of our Benedictines as can are tending to the sick or giving extreme unction to the dying. Three have not returned, and I fear the worst.”

“And yet the message must be carried, Brother Prior, or it will be much the worse for all of us. What of the oblate, the boy with the marred face? Could he not be sent?”

“Aye, Father Abbot, though I deem it a perilous journey for one so young. It is a dozen miles or more to Appleby Magna, and the Pestilence is upon the road. I fear it may prove a futile journey.”

“The Lord’s appointed tasks are often difficult, yet we must do what we must, even a kitchen boy.”

* * *

The kitchen monk pinioned Wade his meaty paw, while the other hand clutched a rough piece of wet cloth. The fat friar scrubbed Wade’s face with righteous vigor. Wade wiggled under the sting of lye soap, but the monk scrubbed all the harder.

“Lord’s mercy, Boy, stop your squirming. Tis like trying to wash a piglet.”

Wade held still, hoping Brother Hugh would go easier. The coarse cloth moved away from Wade’s mouth, allowing him to splutter out a question.

“Brother Hugh, why has the Father sent for me? I’ve done no wrong, I swear it.”

The monk left off his scrubbing and grabbed Wade’s shoulders. His tonsured pate was ruddy and beaded with sweat. Brother Hugh looked as frightened as Wade felt.

“You mark my words well. The Abbot does not give out reasons for his orders, and certainly not to fat old monks like me. Do as I say and bring no shame on us. Speak only when spoken to, and then with the fewest words that will suit. Keep your eyes down, hands folded across your tunic, and confine your talk to Yes, Father, and No, Father.”

Wade wanted to run and hide, all the more seeing the fear in Hugh’s eyes. His mind raced over the past weeks but could uncover no misdeed great enough to attract the Abbot’s ire. The sorrow showed in his face, for the monk gave him a gentle cuff, the closest the old man ever came to outright affection.

“Set your mind at ease, Lad. Mind your manners and all will be well. Get yourself on now, the Abbot is not one to be kept waiting. Go with the Prior and calm yourself.”

It was fear that showed in Old Hugh’s eyes, not calm, but Wade nodded his head in resignation. The heavy hands of the old man turned the oblate and gave him a push. Wade walked to the waiting Prior, feeling the dread of a condemned man on the long walk to the gallows.

* * *

Wade peeked at the Abbot and lowered his eyes. The Father sat on a carved wooden chair as big as a throne. A black scapular was draped across the wide expanse of the Abbot’s black wool habit. The Prior stood to one side, a thin, grim crow. Wade was trapped between these two horrible old men. The Abbot’s voice filled the room.

“You are the oblate, ah, Wade…”

The Abbot’s eyes swung to the Prior.

“Foreman, Father Abbot.”

“Ah, yes, Wade Foreman. Your father was a pig farmer I take it?”

Wade heard the squeak of his own voice.

“Yes, Father Abbot.”

“Can you read, boy?”

“A little, Father Abbot.”

The Abbot nodded his head, his fat lips pursed.

“Do you know aught of Appleby Magna?”

“It is a farm of the Abbey, Father Abbot, and very far away.”

“Not so far for a stout lad such as yourself. You will go to Appleby Magna. You will deliver a letter to the Prior Simon; to his hand and no other.”

Wade felt fear course through his heart, his breath short and sharp. A long journey alone, far from the safety of the abbey? His voice trembled as he stuttered out the doomed reply.

“Yes, Father Abbot.”

The Abbot waved a ringed hand in dismissal.

“You will leave today, this very morning. The Prior will see to the rest.”

Then the Prior’s hands were upon Wade’s shoulders, claws that spun him about and guided him from the room. Fear and the Prior walked Wade down a stone corridor, the fear growing as each step echoed off the grim walls.

* * *

Old Hugh stopped at the stone wall that marked the Coventry road. Wade stood beside him, his eyes on the sinister roadway. The age-stained bulk of Burton Abbey rose behind them.

The preparations had been a hurried affair. Wade was clad in a black tunic cinched about the waist with a rope girdle. A cast-off scapular and cowl had been thrown over the habit. A leather satchel hung from his shoulder, containing the precious letter and a meager supply of food.

Brother Hugh stared south, down the empty ribbon of road. He puffed like a bellows and shook his head, turning back to examine Wade.

“Well, you could pass for a young monk aside from those curls, but we’ve no time for a proper tonsure. The Abbot would ban your wearing a habit, so tis our secret. Keep the cowl pulled low, like this.”

Brother Hugh yanked the heavy cowl down to Wade’s eyes and the world fell into shadow. The coarse wool rasped against Wade’s temples.

“That will have to do. Are you ready, Lad?”

Wade nodded his head from the darkened confines of the black cowl.

“There’s a good lad. Now keep you to the main road, always to the south. You will pass Castle Gresley on your left, and the old Norman mound on your right. Do you know your left and right, boy?”

Wade nodded again; his left hand raised from the sleeve of his habit.

“Aye, you’re a smart one, as I have always said. Past the old mound and pay it no mind, then the road runs straight on and you stick to it, you hear? After Acresford comes the downs. The road climbs the downs and beyond that is where two roads meet. At the junction is a small lane what leads east, and a signboard marks the way to Appleby Magna.”

Wade turned to old Hugh, tears welling in his shadowed eyes.

“Must I truly go?”

“Aye, Lad, and may the Good Lord guard your steps. If anyone asks, you are a monk tasked with God’s work. That is all they need know. If night catches you on the road, you shelter with godly folks what will take you in. Now get on with you and hurry yourself back.”

Wade turned away from the old monk, from the looming stone bulk of Burton Abbey, and from all that he had ever known. His feet moved, dragging his reluctant body forward. The road ran before him, a packed earth ribbon bordered in stack walls and low hedgerows.

He felt the immense distance pressing down upon him. Sharp stones bit through the thin soles of his sandals. Wade was sweating under the woolen cowl, yet too frightened to remove it. When he had gone but a furlong, he stopped and looked back. Old Hugh was still standing at the roadside. The monk raised a fat arm, waved, and turned away. With the last anchor to his world lost, Wade turned back to that terrible road.

* * *

The way ran down to stone arches that bridged the River Trent. Wade stood long above the swirling waters, farther from home than he had ever been.

Beyond the bridge, the road climbed through fields silent under a summer haze. The enclosed pastures were as empty as the roadway. Sheep wandered over the grass with no shepherd to guide them. There was no sharp whistle, nor bark of a herding dog. Wade feared the unnatural silence more than the empty road.

The dread weighed on the young oblate, and his steps slowed to a crawl. After what seemed like many long hours, Wade saw a hamlet on his left, and a green mound rising above the hedgerows on his right. Tumbled stone and rotted timbers formed a crown atop the mound. A flight of rooks circled above it, and Wade lowered his eyes.

As he trudged past the few dwellings, a long, wailing cry floated over the air. Icy fingers closed over Wade’s heart at the unearthly keening. The earth stood still, and Wade with it, until the wail rose to shriek and died away. Wade fled up the road, the pounding of his feet raising puffs of dust.

* * *

The shadows were growing long as Wade neared the village of Acresford. Beyond the village he could see a line of downs rising above the fields. The steep face of the downs glowed a chalky white in the early evening sun. Lowering his eyes, Wade saw figures moving on the road, a sight that struck fear into his heart.

With nowhere to flee, Wade waited for the doom that approached. A tall man with a stave led a ragged party of followers, perhaps twenty souls in all. Some pushed barrows, while others were bent under heavy bundles. As they drew nearer, Wade saw that the man bearing the stave was a sheriff of the shire. The sheriff stopped, and the tattered procession with him.

“I would wish you good evening, young Friar, but it is no such thing. Where are you bound, alone on the road?”

The man’s words were those of authority, and Wade fought down the stutter in his voice.

“I am carrying a message to the monks at Appleby Magna, sent by the Abbot of Burton Abbey.”

“I would not hinder the work of the Lord, but your Abbot’s message is without worth. The pestilence is come, and you may find none alive; not hereabouts, nor beyond the downs. These few here are all that be left of Acresford. The rest are taken by the pestilence or fled to the fields to die. Come, Friar, there is nothing for you to do here. Fall in with us and see to the suffering of these poor souls.”

“But I am tasked by the Abbot to carry his message to Prior Simon and no other.”

The sheriff shook his head, impatient and weary.

“I mean no rudeness to the Lord’s servant, but I have no time for banter. If you’ll not join us, I will wish you Godspeed if such still exists. Take this small piece of advice. Get yourself above the downs before the fall of night. There are other evils on this road after dark beside the pestilence.”

The sheriff did not wait for a reply, but moved off, and the villagers trudged after. As they passed, they turned their faces to Wade, and he saw their eyes; dead eyes without hope or light.
The motley band passed, the sheriff leading, and a small cloud of dust followed behind. Every part of Wade wanted to run after them, wanted to beg the sheriff to guide him to safety. A black dread washed over him as he watched their receding forms. He was alone on an unknown road with death all around, and nothing of his short life was any help to him now. If he returned to the Abbey, he would be beaten and cast out. If he fled to the fields, he would die. Wade turned back to the line of the downs rising ahead. He began to walk with slow steps.

* * *

The gloaming was upon him as he neared the downs. The high chalk banks rose from a small brook that flowed at their base. Dark trees crowned the brink high above him. A timbered bridge spanned the brook, shadowed at the near end by the branches of overhanging willows.

Dark figures stepped from the shadows as Wade approached the bridge, and he saw the heavy shapes of cudgels dangling from their hands. A voice cut through the gloaming.

“Well, now, what do we have here, Lads?”

“A monk by the look of it, and a young monk at that. P’raps he is come to minister to our needs.”

“So it may prove. You should not be alone on the road, Friar, what with night coming down. You can shelter here with us, and more’s the better.”

The men sounded kind, and Wade hoped they might offer him a bite to eat.

“Please, good sirs, if you could spare a bit of fire and food, I am sure the Lord would bless you for your kindness.”

The first man spoke, but his voice had gone gruff.

“Share our fire we will, Lad. We may lack womenfolk, but we still cook fair well.”

Coarse laughter rang out across the rutted road. Wade had heard that same evil laugh from the lustful monks. These men were not fellow travelers. They were robbers; waymen and worse.
Wade had never seen brigands in the flesh, but he had told gruesome tales of them to entertain the simple cowherd. He knew the six men facing him were all too real, and that he was very much alone. Fear coursed through him as he took a step back.

Without plan or thought, Wade stooped to the ground and came up with an egg-shaped stone. He threw his missile with the arm of a peasant boy long accustomed to marauding foxes and stoats. The stone found its mark in the forehead of the nearest man, and he went down with a groan and a thud. Wade was off like a deer before the other bandits could react, running down the bank and plunging into the creek. He heard the shouts of the bandits over the sound of his own splashing feet.

“Oy! He’s done for Harry!”

“Back across the bridge! Cut him off!”

Heavy footfalls pounded the timbers as Wade clawed through the rushes on the far side of the brook. One sandal fell from his foot, and he kicked the other after it. Once on the firmer ground of the far bank, he ran barefoot, as only a pursued animal can run.

The clamor of the brigands rang in his ears as Wade began clambering up the downs. His heart pounded in his chest, and his breath was ragged in his throat, but still he climbed. Where it was too steep to scale, Wade skittered sideways like an insect, anything to get further from those evil men.

Just as his legs could push no more, nor his hands grip another stunted bush, Wade gained the top of the downs. He rolled his body under a clump of bushes and lay like a dead thing. Below him, the sound of pursuit died away.

The last light of day had faded to gloom when Wade regained his senses, and the sun was sinking below the edge of the world. His habit was caked with chalk dust, giving him the look of a spectre. The black cowl had been torn away during the frantic climb. He stood as a ghost in a forest of silver birch and yew. A well-trod path wound between the tree trunks. Not knowing what else to do, he followed it, choosing the direction that led away from the road.

Wade followed the path until, almost without warning, he stumbled into a clearing. A few early stars gleamed in the darkling sky. The warm smell of herbs hung in the air, and Wade saw tended plots on either side of the path. A low stone hut rose in the shadows on the far side of the clearing. A wooden door creaked open, spilling a flickering light. Before Wade could draw back into the forest, a woman’s voice cut the stillness, clear and strong.

“Ho there, I see you well enough. Who are you and what would you be wanting?”

Wade felt as if he were snared by the woman’s words.

“I am lost M’Lady, lost and set upon by robbers. I mean no harm.”

“I was not fearing your harm, for you could cause me none. And give over with the M’Lady. I am no man’s lady, and certainly not yours. Now come closer so I can have a better look at ye.”

Wade obeyed, feeling that he had no choice in the matter. He walked toward the light and the woman, stopping five steps away. She stood tall and straight in the doorway, a quarterstaff held upright in one hand.

“You’re but a lad dressed as a ghost, or the ghost of a Benedictine, a poor disguise either way. But unless the black monks have given up the tonsure, I believe you are neither. How shall we solve this mystery?”

“If you please, Lady, I am a messenger, sent to Appleby Magna. I am only an oblate. It was the monks what dressed me so, for my protection.”

“Aye, and did your false habit protect you from the waymen down yonder?”

“No, Lady.”

“Nor will you call me Lady. Come now, you’ve a choice to make. The brigands below, or Ella the Witch above.”

Wade was stunned by her free admission to witchery. He was almost as shocked to realize that he was not afraid. It must have showed on his face, for the tall woman broke into a laugh that rolled out over the dark clearing.

“I’ll be no trouble Lady… Miss Ella. I can sleep here near the garden and be gone on the morrow.”

“That you’ll not. There’s things that prowl Downshead of the night. Wait a moment.”

Ella disappeared into the hut, returning with a short tunic of undyed homespun draped over her free arm. She tossed it to the boy.

“The cistern is over there. You skin out of that monk-wear and wash yourself. There is laurel soap by the cistern. See that you use it. I’ll not have filthy hands in me house, monk or no.”

* * *

Wade stood in the timber doorway, mesmerized by the candlelight. Ten candles, more, flickered and glowed, casting extravagant pools of golden light. Ella’s voice pulled him from the shimmering spell.

“Will ye be propping up the doorway the whole night, or would ye prefer a bit of tucker?”

Ella motioned Wade to a stool beside a heavy table, and the thick smell of stewed meat wove a new spell. She pushed a wooden bowl in front of the famished oblate. The luxury of the dish almost overwhelmed him.

“Rabbit stew, just the thing for an over-thin boy. What is your name, besides oblate?”

“I am called Wade by a few, but Boy by the most.”

“Then Wade it shall be.”

Ella sat at the end of the table, illuminated in a pool of candlelight. Wade stole glances at her over spoonfuls of the steaming stew. Her head was bare of cap or scarf, and her dark hair was shot with grey. She was not a maiden, but neither was she a crone. Ella’s face was unlined, and Wade thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her sharp grey eyes caught Wade, and he blushed and ducked his head.

“Out with it, whatever it is.”

Wade screwed himself up and blurted out the question.

“Miss Ella, if you are a witch, why have you not been burnt?”

Ella laughed, her head thrown back, her eyes crinkled in merriment. When her laughter was spent, she caught Wade’s astonished eyes and held them with a smile.

“I am not burnt because I am needed. I cure what the churchmen cannot, and there is much over which the black monks have no power. When empty prayers, or a saint’s finger bone fail to heal, the people come to Downshead to see Ella the Witch.”

Wade’s brow was furrowed as he searched for the next question.

“Then you are not a witch, not in truth.”

Ella smiled and nodded, as if weighing the possibility.

“I am no more a witch than the black monks are pious, but they call me witch and themselves holy, and everyone is happy with the arrangement.”

“But how did you come here?”

“That is a long story. Get yourself over onto the pallet there, while I set the kitchen to rights.”

Wade did as he was told, leaving behind his empty bowl and settling himself on a low bed covered in sheepskin. Ella moved through the candlelight, lithe and thin as a willow wand, and as she moved, she spoke her words.

“I was a young maiden born to serve in the manor, pretty and empty-headed. I listened to the words of the Laird’s son, and I fell under his spell. He got me with child, and just as quickly the Laird turned me out. I ended up here at Downshead; a shamed, stupid girl. There was a real witch here then, bless her memory. Elspeth cared for me when the bairn was still-born, and she cared for me after, when I wanted to die. The years passed, and so did Elspeth. She is out there still, on the edge of the downs, and a fine view she has.”

Wade was shocked into speech.

“Then she is laid in unconsecrated ground?”

“That she is not. Where she is laid is more consecrated than any plot of earth behind a stone church. Things are made holy in many ways, and not solely at the church’s whim.”

Ella seated herself before the young oblate, and her words spun out into the still air between them. She spoke of her long years at Downshead, of the frightened villagers arriving at her doorstep. They brought her sacks of milled grain, or a basket of eggs; barter to trade for an end to their suffering.

Her words filled the candlelit room. If there was bewitchment in her words, it was that of true words truly spoken. Wade fell under the enchantment, and sleep crept about him, until he gave himself over to it and remembered no more.

* * *

Wade woke to an early summer sun trickling through the open doorway. Of Ella he saw no trace. He sat upright, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and tried to sort out what seemed the strangest of dreams. The hut, the pallet, the soft tunic against his skin, it was all real. Then Ella appeared in the doorway, and Wade laid aside the last of his doubts.

“It’s awake you are then. Out to the cistern with you and wash.”

She stood aside to let him pass, a smile on her face.

The trees surrounding the clearing cast long shadows over the garden plots, but there was nothing sinister in them. Wade walked into the trees to relieve himself, then returned to the cistern and performed his ablutions.

When he returned to the hut, Ella motioned him to the table and a bowl of groats. He sat before the bowl and ate, and the thought of departure weighed heavy on him. Ella spoke, as if reading his thoughts.

“It is but three miles to Appleby Magna. I will set you on the path through the woods. Beyond that lies an open heath, and an ancient oak that marks the road.”

“And what will I find there, Miss Ella?”

“Not what your Abbot expects, I deem, but beyond that I cannot say. I have beaten out your monk-wear. There may yet be some wisdom in the disguise. Wear it over the tunic and hope that it has some power for good.”

“But the cowl is gone, and I cannot hide my face. People will see I am marked by the Devil.”

“The Devil don’t mark on the outside, Wade. He leaves his sign deep inside. It’s the church that makes a show of outwardness. Eat your groats now, like a good Lad.”

* * *

Wade stood beside Ella at the edge of the clearing. A path snaked away between the shadowed boles of the trees. The parting weighed heavier than the black wool of the habit he wore. He felt her hand on his shoulder, firm and comforting.

“This is your path if you choose it. Death is stalking the land. The Pestilence may have passed, but I know not if this is true, nor what you will find. Set your feet firm and do not look back. It is what lies before you that should hold your eyes.”

Wade nodded, fighting back tears. He bowed, thanked her, and turned to the path. Those first steps were the hardest he had yet taken.

* * *

The trail wove through the trees and Wade with it, following it to the edge of the forest. He emerged into an empty heath bright in the morning sun. On the far side of the open ground stood an enormous oak, and he followed the well-worn path that led to it.

The massive crown of the gnarled oak overshadowed the road. A man’s height above the ground, one bough had broken away, leaving a jagged stob that jutted out like a pointing finger. Bits of ribbon and coloured cloth hung from the wounded limb, as if in offering. Wade stepped onto the road and left the oak behind. The road led through a countryside devoid of any sign of human life.

Two miles on, a second road crossed the first. On the far side of this junction was a small lane marked with a worn signboard. Wade feared the brooding silence more than what might lay ahead, and his footsteps were swift.

* * *

Not far up the grassy lane, Wade could see the stone buildings of the grange. Nothing moved in the still morning air. He passed the gateway of the farm and walked to an open forecourt. The wooden doors of the main building gaped open. Wade called through the doorway, but there was no answer. The only sound was that of splashing water. Wade drew in a long breath and entered a darkened hall.

A stone passage bisected the building, ending at an open archway. Wade saw a cistern set in a broad courtyard, and at the cistern a naked man splashing and cursing. Wade called out and the naked monk swung about. Water streamed down his hairy belly and dribbled from his shriveled member. He shouted at Wade, his eyes wide and wild.

“What do you want, fool? Flee, it is madness I tell you!”

“I have a message from Burton Abbey, a message for the Prior.”

Wade held out his satchel as evidence of his mission.

“Then you can deliver it to him. There he lies, along with the others.”

The raving monk flung out a hand and drops of water flew in the direction he pointed. Wade’s eyes followed, and he saw a line of bodies. Their faces twisted in the rictus of death; dead hands folded across black habits. The naked monk ranted on.

“I cannot get it off, do you understand? The oil, the oil, I anointed their heads, their hands, until I was bathed in oil, and I cannot get it off. Oh Lord, please take this from me, this horrible oil, wash it away!”

The monk took a step towards Wade, his hands held forward as beseeching claws. Wade turned and fled. As his footsteps echoed in the stone passage, Wade snatched the Abbot’s letter from the satchel and flung it to the ground. Through the doors and into the lane he ran. He was still running when he reached the junction.

Once past the junction, Wade forced himself to walk. His heart was pounding in his chest. He was alone on an empty road in a dying land, and the image of dead monks and naked lunatics filled his mind.

The lone oak tree came into view and Wade kept his eyes on it, willing his legs to walk. He drew closer and closer, until he stood under its shadow. He felt safe and hidden beneath that green canopy, yet the road led on. Without willing them to do so, his feet began to move.

A furlong beyond the oak, the road crested the edge of the downs. Wade looked down over the valley; saw the distant ribbon of the River Trent. He could be there before nightfall, safe within the walls of Burton Abbey. All Wade had to do was take another step, and then another.

Turning away from the valley, from the river, from all that he knew, Wade retraced his steps. As he drew near, a breeze passed over the oak, and the leaves waved as if in welcome.
Under its protecting canopy, Wade let the satchel slip from his shoulder. He pulled the woolen habit from his body. Raising the heavy monk-wear above his head, Wade slid it over the jagged wooden finger. The castoff garments draped halfway to the ground, hanging amidst the bright tatters of ribbon and cloth.

Wade turned a slow circle, searching hedgerow, field, and road. There was not a soul to be seen. The satchel hung empty at his side. He stepped from the roadway onto the trail that led to Downshead, and away from everything else. Following his morning’s path across the heath, Wade vanished into the dark line of trees. Under the shadow of the oak, a zephyr swirled, ruffling the somber cloak of mourning.