The Abbey Of
Saint Clew
An afternoon’s walk southwest of the city of Ambridge, the road was more crowded than ever, but with a peaceful measured walking, almost like a procession, as the crowds came to the long low stone abbey of Saint Clew. There was always food for the hungry or for whoever came, but tonight there would be a great feast. Tonight there would be blessings. The great Abbess always bestowed her blessing, but tonight, young Hilda had returned, shem who some called Saint Hilda, the future Abbess. They had seen her black veiled procession coming up from the southwest where she had presided over her father, King Anthal’s funeral. They had beheld, if not participated in the coronation of King Cedd before going on retreat to Saint Phame’s convent..
Now she would be present to sing the evening hymn, say the blessings of her community, and all who came to Saint Clew to be ministered to, to give offerings, were in the end the community, and so they all entered past the great portico, into the large, long hall, with its open windows that let in the light of early evening, and back and forth, robed in black, came the acolytes. Along the walls of the old monastery were painted the frescoes of the gods and saints, over and over again, the sitting, peaceful statues of the Ard. The very end of the hall had his great stone image. He had come into the world once, as the one who restored peace, order and joy, but he was in all, and in all times, and they revered in their worship, for now the Ard was the Great Way and the Great Way was within.
As the rows of people began to sit, and the already quiet murmuring died down, suddenly from a side door, robed in black or in their white gowns and black veils, came the monks and nuns, bowing to each other, led by the old Abbess Gertrude. Beside her was Hilda and now, Gertrude deferred to Hilda, who sat in the center of all the religious as they turned to face the congregation, almost like small Ard’s under the peaceful image of the great Ard.
As she had done in the temple back in Kingsboro, Hilda struck the gong. Before she sang, she looked out at the girl she had heard about. They would have to speak. She, this girl, and Mother Abbess. But for now what she could do was sing.
“Ohu mataka samagi kirīmakin samba
adahas samagi kirīmakin samba
manasa vignānaya tula samagi kirīmakin samba
manasa sparśa samagi kirīmakin samba
hā ōnǣma deyak lesa prasanna hō vēdanākārī hægī
hō hō-vēdanākārī-hō-prasanna ēḷamayage
ehi atyavaśya san̆dahā manasa sambandha samaga
tattvaya, ē itā samagi kirīmakin ohu dakiyi.”
Hilda began the song, folding her hands over her lap, closing her eyes as the monks and the nuns joined in, speaking of the condition of men finding suffering and sadness, torture and pain in this world, not knowing how to escape the cycle of time and violence and anger. Long ago, to this land many times conquered, where men were always conquering, the message had come and the Sendics had put away one eyed Wode the Spear Carrier and Thaynar the Hammer, their gods of war who could help them conquer but could not show them peace. Here in the hall they sang, their voices ringing along the walls, those of the congregation who knew the words, heads bowed, sang along as well.
"Ohu samagi kirīmakin sammukha vū viṭa, āśāva sidu sudumæli.
dæḍi āśāva piḷiban̆da maḷānika samaga, ohu mudā vē.
nidahas karana viṭa, ehi dænuma bava ohu
mudā gat vē. "
Tonight, after the long journey, tonight after so long a time of living with hating one sister while fearing for the other, and enduring one brother while wondering where the other had gone, she was home, and tonight as she had not been able to do before, her prayers went out to them. May they be at peace. May they be well. No, but that was not enough. That was a generic thing. May they escape Cedd. May they be victorious. May they triumph. May we all live to see Cedd and Morgellyn humbled.
No, no, but that was not the way either. Give yourself to the Way. Even this fervent anger, this fervent prayer for safety and revenge was not prayer, putting all of ones self into these words, realizing the blank place you drifted into by accident and not by earning was the true nature, the true self and the only power. This was the prayer.
“She understands: 'Birth is exhausted,
the holy life has been lived out,
what can be done is done, of this
there is no more beyond.'"
When she had first come to Saint Clew, with some knowledge that she might one day be abbess, Hilda had attempted to fling every part of herself into the religious life. She had tried, through half closed eyes, to look out at the many people in the congregation, gathered for evening prayers, and feel their pain, their longing, their suffering. Maybe she had even tried to feel their envy and her sense of specialness, lifted above them, called to live a life of charity and beauty for those poor and ordinary people out in the crowd who could not. It was over a long stretch of time she knew none of this mattered, that every thought she had while she was singing was foolish. At first she thought it was only some of them, a few thoughts that were no good. Now she understood every thought was wasted.
That is what the Blessed One said.
The disciples were glad,
and they approved his words.
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The Western Fens
If Myrne had known that Bessie had a very pretty granddaughter named Sanelin, she might have worried more about the hour Wolf spent away from her. The girl was wheat haired and blue eyed, and she came back in the barge with Wolf and Bessie, and helped her grandmother bandage Snowmane. Later that night, after a lentil stew and sweet small beer, Sanelin came to sit by Myrne while old Bessie shared her long pipe with Wolf.
“Are you alright?” Sanelin looked down on her, touching her hair. “Anything on your mind?”
“Only getting to Saint Clew,” Myrne said. “Ah, and poor Wolf’s face when Bessie grabbed his backside!”
“Gran is an old cat, she is,” Sanelin said. “Still, you can’t blame her.”
“What are you getting at?” Myrne said, sharply.
“There it is!” Sanelin laughed.
“You’re too cruel,” Myrne said.
“Wolf is a lovely looking man is all I’m saying.”
“I know exactly what Wolf looks like, and I’m not so bad myself.”
“In fact you might make a lovely couple.”
“I didn’t say all that.”
“And he was so worried for you when you fell in the water.”
“Wolf is a gentleman,” Myrne said. “He’d feel the same way if you or Bessie fell in a marsh too.”
Sanelin smiled to herself and said, “No, dear Myrne, I do not think that is so.”
“Well, you un been trav’lin for somethin’ long,” the old woman said, “an I heard tell from friends down up in Midtomlin way you stayed near ‘em for a few nights, so I knew oo you were. Why the fens I wonder at first? Then says I to myself, it’s the quickenest way, Also the the way un would trabble if ‘ey ‘idn’t wanno be seen.”
“And you would be right enough,” Myrne said. She was wrapped in a great blanket that smelled of oats, and quite warm before the woman’s fire. Snowmane was outside, his leg bound, eating hot mash and on his way to sleep.
“We’re on our way to Ambridge and trying to get there as soon as possible,” Wolf said.
“Well, you’re almost there,” Bessie said, “Fact you’re three days from it.”
“Actually we are on our way to Saint Clew.”
“Ah, the Blessed Abbey in Durham,” Bessie said. “Good folks. They know little of the old gods, but their new ways are good. Saint Clew be even closer.”
“We can travel out alongside the water in a few mornings,” Wolf said. “I see we’re coming to the end of the fens.”
“I got one better,” Bessie said. “My un nephew, Tim drives a ferry boat to market, and‘ll take you up if you ask him.”
“We’ll compensate him well,” Myrne said.
“Bless you, girl,” the old woman closed a leathery, affectionate claw over Myrne’s hand. “You have something of the old witch women about ye. And I sense there be a true reason for yer coming. Der’ll be no price saving ye remember old Bessie of Weedlyn House and her kin.”
