Traveller Inceptio

20

Michael was quietly relieved that the clash in the forest didn’t result in bloodshed or real injury. Ceolwulf was a vital part of the village and its prosperity, but a challenge was a challenge. He wasn’t going to accept a beating without a real fight.

After returning his weapons to his monk’s cell, Michael went on with his daily routine including the usual morning trade of beor and bread. Because Brother Aldfrid had rushed to the forest, Brother Oeric was left to lead the morning worship, an unusual occurrence that needed explanation. By the time Michael arrived, unscathed, to the daily market, he found a deeply relieved Brother Oeric handing out the beor with the ever-silent Brother Cearl. It soon became obvious that the rest of the village either knew or would soon know of the morning’s events, despite all present having agreed to secrecy. Ceolwulf was the village hero, but was also a volatile man so not a few found great pleasure in passing on the tale which, Michael knew, would be embellished with each retelling. Godric had often warned Michael that the villagers delighted in their gossip and stories, and he was rapidly becoming a source of a growing number of stories, both true and untrue.

One of the village men greeted Michael with new-found familiarity and, in the warrior’s abrupt way, got to the point. “Lord Michael, good morrow this fine day.” He smiled, one tooth missing and a couple broken, in a cheeky look Michael could not help but immediately like. “A few of the lads are to hunt on the morrow and we ask if ye’d join us.” He stood back and smiled, thumbs tucked into the belt that carried his seax. He had a genial expression, freckles, and a mass of unruly hair which, with his missing teeth, gave him the appearance of being full of childish mischief.

After his frustrations of the past days, Michael promptly accepted the invitation.

“Good, good,” the warrior nodded. “I’m Yffi.” He just stood a second, smiled, and then gave a wave as he turned to walk off. “Before daybreak then!” he called over his shoulder.

On asking Brother Oeric about Yffi, the monk frowned. “Ooh, Yffi and the hunters are a strange lot,” he muttered with a sniff of disapproval. “They live in the forest as much as the village.” He glowered furiously. “Each of us rely on God’s bounty from the forest, but these men are children of the forest.”

Michael was surprised at the old monk’s adverse response. “Is that bad?” he asked.

Brother Oeric looked at Michael, aghast. “Well, it’s not good is all I can say,” and he stalked off, shaking his head as he muttered.

The next day, just as the morning wake-up alarm roused the monks for their first prayers, Michael hurried to meet Yffi at the cleared area between the village hedge and the mighty wall of the forest. There he found Yffi armed with a sturdy long spear, as were the four men who accompanied him. They were a ragtag looking bunch and greeted Michael with friendly smiles and nods of acquaintance. Each was dressed distinctively, despite their clothes all being basically the same. Bindings secured and protected their lower legs while the sling of their belts, the way they tied their hair, and the colour and cut of their tunics differed considerably. Each would be very difficult to see in the forest.

Immediately Michael arrived, two of the biggest, shaggiest dogs he had ever seen took an avid interest, smelling and snuffling him as they jostled eagerly. Yffi laughed and exclaimed, with his characteristic grin, “Ye got something on ye breeches the dogs like.”

“Or in them,” quipped one of the others. With the rumours of his liaison with Tatae, the comment was met by good-humoured laughter. The big scruffy brutes finished snuffling, and to Michael’s relief, were satisfied he was of no threat.

The hunters took a cursory look at Michael’s hunting bow, arrows, and knife. He knew his bow was short by Saxon standards, but they were too polite to inquire of it, as none carried a bow. With just a nod and, “All right then,” from Yffi, they turned and walked into the forest.

So the hunt began. The men followed Yffi in single file, spaced to carry their long spears safely. The two dogs accompanied; giant, shaggy, floppy-eared mongrels that walked either side of Yffi, pausing now and then to sniff anything interesting. They were a male–female pair and the male paused to squirt on a stump or a tree at every opportunity. Michael suspected this hunt would not be a lengthy process as the forest teemed with game, both deer and boar.

Every now and then, Yffi would call to the dogs quietly, “Aart, to me!” or “Beomia, back!” to keep them from dashing off to follow any scent their keen noses detected. It was not long before they were deep into the forest and the dogs’ heads came up suddenly to stare intently as a large stag trotted off. Yffi crooned gently as the hunting party watched the magnificent creature, the king of the forest with its heavily antlered head held high. To Michael, the stag was glorious, yet mysterious in the dappled morning light. However, the beast was not to be the object of their hunt and Michael realised, with a jolt of excitement, the long spears meant they were to hunt boar.

The forest resounded with its usual vibrancy as the party travelled far from where Michael had journeyed only weeks previously. As they walked, the light faded and leaden, sombre rainclouds gathered. The sweet smell of impending rain indicated the prayers of the villagers were to be answered. After having travelled for the better part of the morning, the dogs, ears and tails alert, sniffed ground torn by boar. Even to Michael, the dogs were skittish and excited, held back only by Yffi’s quiet command. They never barked. Suddenly, they stood still, their big brown eyes staring attentively ahead.

The whisper of gentle rain fell like a lover’s sigh and Yffi gave the eagerly anticipated command that set the dogs off. They exploded into action, their pent-up, repressed energy released as they sprang forward and ran with great, lolloping strides. The men ran in excited pursuit, smiles wide and mouths open with the joy of the hunt. The dogs never barked, nor did the men cry out until the shrill squeal of an infuriated wild pig punctuated the hushed stillness. The hunting party burst through the bushes, spears levelled ready to pierce and slay. The rain began to fall steadily as, like an enchanter exposes a dark secret, the boar were revealed in a sudden explosion of noisy confusion. Black-bristled porkers scattered everywhere. As Michael had his bow ready, he fired off a quick shot that struck a medium-sized boar in the shoulder. The beast roared in agony and set itself to gore the nearest hunter, a slim man who stood ready with his spear. Holding the long shaft firmly, he leaned into the wounded creature’s attack and ran the squealing boar through with a savage cry.

As Michael sprinted forward, he saw the two dogs had fastened their jaws onto a large black and brown female. Her screams echoed throughout the forest and her small, striped young scattered for cover. As she struggled, the dogs applied their considerable strength and spread their long legs to keep her off balance. Blood dripped from vice-like jaws secured to her snout and tail. Yffi ran forward and, with a heave and a yell, drove his long spear into her exposed side, the metal spearhead exiting through her as she struggled, shat, and died with a cacophony of lurid, deafening screams that Michael was sure could be heard in the village. The dogs shook her savagely, their massive heads swinging wildly from side to side, then they paused to sniff her stiffening corpse before they grasped her and shook again in an orgasm of bloody lust.

A huge boar with a mouth full of curled, ivory tusks sprinted between the trees, screaming in wrath at the attack on his family group. With two other sturdy, bristled males, he led a charge toward two of the hunters. With a shout, the men levelled their spears and bellowed their challenge as the beasts fell upon them. The larger of the boars was struck deeply on the snout by one of the iron spearheads, a blow that caused him to flinch and veer away. One of the other males closely followed to flee from the fray, but the third bore down onto one of the hunters and ran blindly forward to have the spear pierce under its chin. Michael watched, fascinated to witness the boar maintain its momentum as it screamed in agony while the spearhead exited through its rump. Despite the mortal wound, it kept on struggling forward, relentless in its intent to slaughter its tormentor.

Without a thought, Michael cast aside his now useless bow and sprinted forward, blood lust up and seax in his hand. An enormous beast the height of the dogs, the boar had massive, hulking shoulders covered in thick, stiff bristles. Its mouth, framed with deadly ivory tusks, gaped as it screamed its anger and fury. As the boar struggled forward in violent lurches, bright blood smeared the spear’s shaft that protruded from its rump. Red eyes fastened on the spear-holder, the beast prepared for a final lurch to the hunter, whose face blanched in terror. He could not release his spear. To do so would ensure his agonising demise, for he knew the boar would pursue and kill him, spear through its gut or not. Michael dived onto the boar’s back, shoved his sharp seax into the side of its neck, just back from the jaw, and pushed downwards, opening up its throat with a gush of scarlet. Blood spurted and there was a deafening roar, as if from the depths of Hell itself, while the beast collapsed on its feet, savagely pulling the spear from its owner’s grasp as it rolled into its own gore.

Michael rolled off the bristly back and rose swiftly onto his feet, knife ready. His heart beat wildly and he panted heavily, more from fear than exertion. He was smeared with the heavy stink of the creature mixed with the mud, blood and gore.

Two hunters, including the one who came close to meeting his maker, looked around to make sure there was no more immediate danger and then stood silently as they shook their heads in stunned disbelief. One clutched an amulet worn around his neck and muttered a small prayer to the gods before they looked to Michael, who still crouched with his knife ready as he stared in wild-eyed shock at the skewered beast. Something about his expression caused them to laugh. The other two boars, including the giant, were lost from sight, having fled with the remnants of the herd into the dense forest. In the sudden silence, the dogs pranced like puppies, high-spirited and pleased with their efforts as they paused to take a sniff at one and then another of four slain beasts.

“I hope that’s the beast’s shit and not yours,” laughed Yffi.

Michael stood, stunned. The rain had increased to a steady fall. “Aeoelhun here nearly ended up as pig shit himself,” he said, nodding to the owner of the spear that skewered the boar.

This was met with more hilarity and good-natured shoving of Aeoelhun, a wiry man with deep smile lines around his eyes.

“Now ye have the village mothers to answer to, Lord Michael, losing all that blood from their hogva.”

“Hogva?”

“Aye, ye know, the blood and meat in the guts and cooked – hogva! Have ye not had it?” Yffi asked with delight.

“No.”

“Well, ye must, Michael, ye must! But first we best get these beasts sorted before the scavengers of the forest visit, or worse, this lad’s brothers return,” he said as he nudged the huge black and brown boar with his booted toe.

As the other men struggled with their kills, Yffi played with the dogs to thank them for their work in finding and holding the boar. From a smaller boar, he cut the large, hairy ears, which were tossed to the dogs to gnaw on until they were fed. The dogs were content, smiling big, dopey smiles as the men worked. The huge boar killed by Aeoelhun and Michael was so neatly spitted that the spear was to remain in it. It made it easier for four of the men to drag it to a more suitable position ready for carrying back to the village. Yffi nodded, satisfied, and sent two of the hunters off with one of the smaller kills suspended between them, legs tied together and then slung onto a spear to present to Godric and the village with their news. Other men would return and spend the night before the party laboured with their bounty on the morrow.

Despite the rain, one hunter coaxed a fire using a tinder and steel while the others built a temporary communal shelter from branches and leaves. The three boars were slung from sturdy trees by their rear legs to reduce the chance of scavengers. After the two hunters set off with the small boar, much of the day remained free to idle away the hours.

Yffi admired the huge boar and ran an appreciative hand over the thick, curved tusks that jutted from the beast’s open maw. “I tell you, that’s a good kill! Aeoelhun and Michael, ye did a great job, ye pair o’ mad bastards. He’s a real child of Ingui, that one, and if I was a heathen, I would have thought that his big friend was Ingui himself.” The other men nodded and, though Yffi spoke in jest, their laughter seemed forced as cautious hands gripped amulets at their throats.

“Ingui?” Michael asked.

“Aye, Ingui, ye know? Heathen god of the boar and death and protection and this?” he said as he grabbed his own groin in a similar lewd motion used by Ceolwulf. The other two hunters, Aeoelhun and a young man named Hereric, did not laugh, but watched Michael quietly.

“No.”

“Well, they say he was the one to give strength in a fight. He was also the symbol of the kings, back when,” Yffi added with a toss of his head and a raise of his brows.

“Oh. Well, I can see why with this big fellow,” replied Michael. “He’s magnificent.”

“Aye, he is at that. Sometimes old Ingui will let us take his brothers and sisters, and sometimes, if we haven’t shown respect, he’ll take one o’ us.” He paused a moment as if in thought. “Tatae’s man was taken by Ingui at our last real hunt. He didn’t die pretty, but then, who does?” Yffi nodded, unusually solemn. “He was a good man.” He spoke quietly, as if talking to himself. “She’s just finished her time of mourning, ya ken? Just finished her mourning and she takes a shine to you, and now you and Aeoelhun kill this big bastard here.”

An uncomfortable silence descended.

Michael didn’t want to talk about Tatae, so he ignored the comment and ran his hand over the boar and remembered its strength and determination, a true child of the forest, full of power and primal anger. He knew the men were trying to tell him something of importance, but were too polite to say anything directly for fear of causing offence.

He spoke as if thinking aloud, “Where I hail from, when we hunt and make a kill that is especially grand or memorable, often the hunters gather together in an act of respect. Sometimes it may be to give thanks for strength and bravery, and that we’re safe.”

Yffi watched Michael closely. “Aye, my father and his father did the same thing when we hunted as lads.”

“And mine,” each of the others chimed as if on cue.

“You do such a thing? Is that something to be done when the others return, or are such things not done anymore?” asked Michael innocently.

“Well,” Yffi hummed and hawed and then said, “Well, we can do something as our fathers did. ’Tis a good thing for hunters to do that which is good for hunting.” His voice trailed off and he said no more, his eyes turned away from Michael, uncertain.

“If it’s a good thing; shall you do it?” asked Michael.

Yffi nodded slowly. “I’ll show you,” he said with a sigh of relief, while the others nodded in agreement.

Aeoelhun and Hereric quickly built up the fire in the gathering gloom while Yffi took his seax and carved carefully into the stomach of the great boar. The hide was tough, even though it was on the softer stomach and, after sawing a slit, he slid his hand into the cavity and reached around until he grasped and pulled out a section of the liver. He then sliced thick pieces off the large, dark organ and placed them onto a bark platter that Aeoelhun had placed on the ground.

Next, Yffi sliced through the creature’s scrotum, removed the large, pale pink globes of testicles and brought the lot before the fireplace from where all leaves and brush had been carefully cleared to the bare, root-filled earth. Yffi then gestured for Michael to strip to the waist and remove his boots while the others did the same. Though the rain had thinned to a drizzle, it was chill and they shivered for a moment as the mist-like rain settled onto bare flesh. Hereric took the clothes and footwear to store in their makeshift shelter as Yffi made preparations for what looked like a ritual of sorts.

Using a piece of bark as a painter’s palette into which some of the boar’s liver-blood had pooled, Yffi used his middle finger to dip and paint designs onto the hunters’ bodies, tracing on the face, chest, arms and back. Each was painted in turn: first Aeoelhun, then Hereric, and then Michael. Yffi hesitated as he stood before Michael, and then hurried on, daunted in part by Michael’s tattoos, painstakingly avoiding blooding them, all the while muttering in a language Michael did not understand. Aeoelhun painted Yffi in a similar fashion and the blood ran as droplets chased a course down bodies dampened by the drizzle.

Once the task was completed, Aeoelhun scooped up the pieces of liver while Hereric collected the testicles and they stood, each at a quarter around the fire. Yffi raised the palette high and spoke clearly in the strange language, gesturing to each of the men before he sprinkled the remainder of the blood onto the fire with a hiss. His arms were held high as he called on the forest as witness.

Aeoelhun then spoke in a singsong cadence as he handed each a piece of the dark, raw liver. When the other hunters chewed their pieces, Michael took his cue and bit into his portion, the organ meat tender. Blood ran down his chin while he swallowed the soft chunks. He looked at the others, blood on their whiskered chins, arms and chests, and realised that his was one of the wildly painted faces that shone in the firelight.

Last of all, Yffi spoke, and with a bow, offered the testicles on the bark platter to Aeoelhun and Michael as the hunters who had slain the beast. Michael knew what was expected, but waited nonetheless as Aeoelhun picked up a large pink globe and took a bite, nodding to Michael to do the same. The testicle was covered by a tough skin that he had to gnaw until he could attack the contents. As Michael bit and chewed, the others cheered in obviously relief. His gorge rose and he resisted a momentary gag. All had been conducted with great solemnity. Each of the other participants turned to the forest, the fire at their backs and arms raised to the gathering darkness as they prayed.

As he chewed, Michael imagined the forest to be alive, like a benevolent, brooding presence that was all too aware of their existence. He could almost see the spirits of the old Gods watching with interest. Tufted-haired Yffi looked like a mad forest sprite from ages past.

He smiled wildly and slapped Michael on the shoulder. “We thank ye, Lord Michael, for helping us with our simple hunters’ tradition. Though we’re good followers of the Blessed Virgin and Son of course, in the forest we hearken to some of the old ways in respect of our pagan forefathers.” He looked into the forest and the gathering gloom. “Here, the old pagan Gods, Frea the Stag and Ingui the Boar, still frolic freely and we want them to know we’re brave hunters and mean no harm. We must give thanks for the bounty we’ve taken. It’s only a harmless tradition, after all,” he added, almost as an afterthought, though without real conviction. Michael still held a half-gnawed testicle in his hand and Yffi gestured with his head that it could now be discarded into the fire. As Yffi still looked nervously into the forest, Michael smiled with his companions, hard men who were ardent Christians in the village, but in the wild were pagans to make their fathers proud.

He replied, head bowed in respect, “I‘m honoured that you honour me so. Many thanks.”

Aeoelhun and Hereric looked across and smiled broadly through their bloody masks while Yffi simply grunted and nodded, deeply moved. With the magic of the moment fading, they washed quickly at a nearby creek and dressed. The light had dimmed when Aart and Beomia, who rested quietly in the light drizzle, raised their heads suddenly and sprang to their feet. Aart let forth a booming bark that echoed around the forest like thunder. Heavy drops fell from sodden leaves as they heard a greeting call. Aeoelhun called back happily and it was not long before the two hunters who had carried the boar to the village made an appearance in the light around the fire. With them were two other villagers, one of whom was Eadric, son of Thegn Godric.

Michael noticed the elder of the returning hunters quietly take Yffi aside to speak with him, his face a mask of concern. They glanced surreptitiously in his direction, and when Yffi nodded, the man clapped the hunt leader on the shoulder in relief. Michael was certain Yffi had been asked about the ceremony, not just a tradition, but a vital yet secret part of the hunter’s life and faith, pagan though it may be. The newcomers handed out blankets brought from the village and young Eadric gave one, made by his mother, to Michael. They were placed in the lean-to shelter while some of the men went about preparing their meal. Earlier, while it was still light, the hunters had picked herbs, mushrooms and wild vegetables that were heaped by the fire while Yffi carved tender haunches from the smallest of the boar. The forelegs were chopped and tossed as a reward to the dogs. Flames scorched the stiff hairs from the chunks, which were then carefully placed onto rocks positioned amidst the coals to make a platform for cooking. The flesh roasted and softly sizzled as the men relaxed. One of the newcomers had brought a skin of beor and, as the rain had stopped, the hunters dragged logs to find the most comfortable places to sit and talk.

Naturally, talk went to the day’s hunt. Eager to know the details, Eadric asked plenty of questions, and for his troubles, received some good-natured teasing. Each of the hunters told their tale, including Michael, who took a cue from Aeoelhun’s gift of the scop and made his version of the day’s events more poetic. He highlighted the bravery of each of the men, mentioning them by name, included the dogs, a detail which brought appreciative laughter.

As the roasts sizzled and the night settled in, the tales went on to include past hunting successes and Michael’s tale of the wolf, which was received with sympathetic nods and shaking of heads. Eadric listened, wide-eyed, as one hunter, then another, recounted yet more stories, their tongues lubricated as the beor skin was passed around. The dogs chewed with the crunch of bone and the hunters dried their boots and tunics, carefully stocking the fire to feed the coals but not burn their meal.

Talk then turned to the Danes, forever a shadow in the minds of the villagers. As if a creature used to frighten naughty children, Vikings were something all Saxons feared. The men told tales of how, in the recent past, villages had been burned to the ground, the women raped and then slaughtered while children were thrown into the still burning buildings. The men were either brutally murdered or taken as slaves. One of the older hunters spoke of how he had taken up arms against the Danes with Godric and how together they had witnessed the aftermath of a battle. He would only say so much and shook his head at memories still too raw, even though witnessed before Eadric was a babe.

The others could not imagine anyone killing children and shook their heads in wonder. “Worse than beasts,” they muttered as they glanced fearfully into the night and their darkest fears.

Aeoelhun spoke quietly as he stared into the fire. “The beasts were ours, I tell you, brothers. All know how, not many summers hence, King Aethelred brought about the slaughter of the Danes that lived amongst us. It was a dark deed. You’ll recall when Aldhelm, the bone-worker, and I travelled to Snot to collect two cattle. We saw our people, our own men, do unspeakable things. I saw the Dane men slaughtered as they ran and heard tales of women buried in the earth and savaged at their bare breasts by dogs.” He gestured to Aart and Beomia who snoozed placidly nearby. “I know of children killed and some men hung by their stones,” he grasped his own groin in emphasis, “till they died, the poor bastards. I’ll never speak against the King, God bless him, but dark deeds were done on those days.” His hands shook as he wiped his nose with the back of a hand, his normally good-humoured face a mask of anguish in the flickering light.

There were grunts in agreement as they all stared, hypnotised by the dance of the flickering pixies that lived in the depths of the flames.

Michael spoke up to break the sudden gloomy air. “Sometimes talk makes things worse than they are. The Danes may never even come here and Godric is a good man. I know you’re able to care for your loved ones. You have the forest with you. Why not prepare and hope the preparations will never be needed?”

“Aye, there are places to hide and supplies stored for if they attack,” confirmed Yffi. “There are caves around, where our loved ones can hide,” he added quietly, but their hearts were not encouraged and the mood was cheerless.

Aart rolled over onto his back to catch the warmth of the fire on his furry tummy and farted contentedly. As his tail was by Yffi, the big dog received a yelp of complaint and a shove while the men chuckled. Aart simply looked up, confused, gave his bum a quick sniff, and then rolled over again with a flop and contented sigh.

“Well, tell us, Lord Michael, of ye home. D’ye have a woman? Are the women all fair and looking for a good Aenglish rogering?” smiled Yffi, still waving a hand to dispel the dog’s fart.

“Some of the women are fair and some are fair only when you’ve been drinking.” Michael grinned to knowing guffaws. “Our villages are larger, so there are more people therein, and where I dwell is nigh to the sea, very far from here. Though a fair land, we have naught like this forest and few can compare with the gracious hospitality of the people of Giolgrave.” There were murmurs and grunts of appreciation.

Eadric, the youngest, made his fascination plain as his imagination and the beor were getting the better of him. “What wonders have ye seen, Lord Michael?”

Michael smiled and paused as he gazed into the fire, then spoke quietly. “I have travelled to lands far and wide, and wonders I’ve seen aplenty, young Eadric. I can tell you of a place where the men and women have black skins and there are beasts like cattle, but with long necks so they can eat the leaves at the top of trees. There are horses that have black and white stripes on their bodies and savage lions and other cat-like beasts that hunt there. There, the people must be careful as the big cats hunt them. I’ve seen many wonders, lad.”

The immediate reaction was a strong exclamation of disbelief from some of the men as all leaned forward to listen in fascination. The sizzle of the roasting meat gave off a delicious aroma and they knew their meal would soon be ready. However, the rumbling of their stomachs and the treat of eating meat was temporarily forgotten in the greater treat of Michael’s tall tale.

“Ye mean to tell that the men have skin that is coloured black. Do they rub it with charcoal then?” asked Hereric.

“Nay, their skin is black, even when they are washed in the cleanest water.”

“All of their skin?”

“Aye”

“Even their manhood?” Hereric asked, gesturing to his own groin with a pointed finger that he wiggled.

“What of the women? Is their skin black too?” asked another man.

“Aye, they’re all black.”

“Nay, not all.” Hereric was plainly having difficulty imagining a woman that was coloured black.

“Aye, and their hair is also black.”

“Black skin, black hair; are their eyes black too?” asked Eadric breathlessly.

“Well, where your eyes are blue, theirs are black, but the white area of their eyes is still white and their lips are dark red.” There was a pause as the listeners digested his comments. Michael could see their eyes roll as they attempted to imagine such things. The fire crackled warmly as the roasts sizzled.

“Are the women all black?” asked Hereric.

Michael smiled. “Well, there are some parts that, like on any woman, are pink. Women are women, after all.”

Yffi and the others around the fire exploded into knowing laughter at the ribald comment and Eadric blushed at the reference to countries as yet unexplored. Hereric nodded, satisfied with the reply. Comments continued at Eadric’s expense and he laughed along shyly.

Using sticks, the hunters finally pulled the roasted meat from the fire and carefully placed the steaming chunks onto two large bark platters. The meat had taken hours to cook under the careful supervision of Aeoelhun and Yffi, who had carefully turned and wet the chunks until they were tender and delicious. As they cooled, the collected foodstuffs roasted on the stones. The hunters then simply sliced off chunks of boar with their seax and ate gingerly, steam rising into the night as juices ran over fingers and faces. They also picked at the gently cooked herbs and mushrooms and passed the beor skin around until empty. One by one, the men stuffed themselves and infectious yawns began. Soon each was wrapped into a blanket and snuggled in their shelter to sleep. With the forest Gods placated and the dogs on watch, they slumbered as men do in the forest, deeply, but waking often to give heed to the forest and make sure all was well before dropping back to sleep.

The next day involved the triumphant passage of the boars to Giolgrave, an exhausting and lengthy process in which the sweating men carried their burdens on weary shoulders. Two of the beasts had trotters tied together and then were looped onto sturdy spears, but it took four men to carry the huge boar. As they drew closer to the village, a few youths, including Saba, who were to keep watch for the hunters’ return, offered assistance while others ran to announce their arrival. More of the villagers joined to offer help or cheer the triumphal procession home. For the villagers, this was a momentous occasion as meat was a luxury only enjoyed at the slaughter of a valuable sheep, or when the hunters were successful. In the case of a large hunt like this, the whole village benefited, receiving portions of meat as directed by Godric and as negotiated by the hunters who had slain the beasts.

Michael also had a say in the sharing of the meat. He had requested that one of the smaller boar be given to the monastery, partly as a thanks to God for the bounty, and partly because the monastery deserved a share. This suggestion received nodded agreement between Godric and the hunters who were keen on appeasing all gods, including the Christian one.

When Michael later returned to the monastery, the monks’ boar was already cleaned and spitted for the slow process of roasting over the cooking fire. All day, even during prayer, monks would take turns to slowly rotate the roasting boar and baste the sizzling meat with herb gravy especially prepared for the occasion. The aroma caused the monks to salivate and give heed to oft-denied appetites of the flesh.

The villagers used all parts of the boar. Offal was prepared for meals and even the intestines used or given to the village women for their hogva, a traditional preparation where offal, meat scraps, leeks and herbs were stuffed into cleaned intestines and then boiled to make a type of haggis or sausage. Once cooked, Yffi explained how the valuable hogva would be hung over campfires to smoke gently for weeks or months. The making of hogva was a joyous event where the older women placed the ingredients, including blood, into a cauldron and then happily gossiped or sang away the day while they stuffed the scrupulously cleaned intestines with their own specially prepared recipe. This was a rare treat indeed and the whole village participated in a celebration of abundance.

Nothing was wasted. The hair from the boars was carefully shaved from their hides with a sharp seax and the stiff, heavy bristles kept for brushes. Even the bones were distributed and boiled to add a meaty broth to enrich the normal daily diet, or carved for utensils and useful tools. As Giolgrave was a closely-knit community on the forest’s edge, each village member benefited from bounty and each had their productive place. The huge grinning boar’s head was carried around the village borders with great ceremony before it was later boiled and roasted as a delicacy. Michael was later impressed at how much meat was on the head. The lower jaw with the savage curved tusks was carefully removed by Yffi and cleaned before being presented to Godric as a decoration for the village long-hall. The jaw was the largest on display and accompanied sets of fine antlers and other hunting trophies, including the wolf’s muzzle Michael had gifted to the thegn.

Michael’s role in the successful hunt had not gone unnoticed by the villagers or the monks. He knew that as he became more familiar with the people of Giolgrave, his mystery deepened. Tales and supposition abounded, for Michael gave no hint as to his home or his real purpose. The monks believed even more firmly that he was Michael the Archangel, yet Michael suspected that his pagan marks that so concerned Brother Aldfrid, had excited Yffi, who considered Michael a reminder of the old ways. Brother Aldfrid had admitted that Godric was convinced his princely bearing betrayed a royal connection, but his obvious skill at arms meant he was a warrior of no mean skill, despite his lack of terrible scars and his obvious beauty that had many of the village women quietly swoon.

The longer Michael stayed, the more of an enigma he became.