The Washer at the Spring

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

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

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

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

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

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







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.