Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

He put all thoughts of the dead girl at Gidleigh from his mind. There was nothing over which he need trouble himself going on down there. It was just a simple murder, caused by a lovers’ row, no doubt. No more than that. Nothing for him to deal with.

Within a matter of hours he would be forced to reconsider that.

The next day it was after noon when Surval made his way home. He could feel his thighs and calves straining as he started his descent from the moors with his catch secure in a cloth pouch bound to his back, using his staff to make sure that he didn’t slip.

It was not normal for a hermit to walk about so far from his cell, but Surval had heard two days ago that a man had died out on the moors, a terrible, lonely death, drowning in the midst of a mire. The thought of dying out there, so far from anyone, and no one to hear your shrieks for help, both appalled and attracted Surval. If he were to fall into a mire, it would be a natural thing, an accidental death. God Himself couldn’t blame him.

Not that it would be right to seek death in that way. No, his death must be unintentional, unplanned, not suicide. Self-murder would be just one more sin to add to his existing crimes. Although he craved the long peace of the grave, that must come about in God’s own time, not his own.

Still, it was always possible to die by accident out on the moors, so when Surval heard of a death out in the wilds, he would always go to pray for the dead man. This time, the victim had walked to an ale-house and, returning, had fallen into the great mire beneath Cosdon, called Raybarrow Pool. Surval had gone to pray there yesterday, and had found another miner, Wylkyn, already present.

‘They all heard him. Screaming like a rabbit in a snare, he was, apparently. Screaming fit to tear the heart of a demon,’ Wylkyn said, unusually pale and nervy. ‘I was in town myself. If only I’d left with him, he’d still be alive.’

‘Or you’d be dead too,’ Surval grunted. ‘We all die.’

‘Yes, but to die like that!’

‘You knew him?’

‘He was my brother.’

Surval said no more, but slowly spread himself on the ground, his arms outstretched, and began to implore God’s help for the poor dead sinner’s soul. He often did so. Miners had a harsh existence, and there was always someone dying who would crave the aid of Surval’s prayers, especially now that there was no priest here. That fool, the priest at Gidleigh, wouldn’t bother himself over the soul of a miner; probably wouldn’t dare make the journey to open moorland in case he got his hose muddy, the useless bugger.

He had prayed for hours by the side of that sucking green swathe, thinking how easy it would have been for the man to stand and walk into it, feel the waters rising up his shins and thighs, the cold caress reaching his genitals and on upwards until the soft wash flowed up and over his head, drawing him downwards while the breath left his lungs and God at last allowed him to give up this endless toil. My God, it was attractive! But Surval knew he mustn’t give in, and that was that. He must carry on.

The miners had been grateful as always, and today when he’d returned to pray again by that mire, some men were there with a present for him. Now, walking back to his home beside the bridge, he must go carefully with the weight upon his back.

Admittedly a hermit was supposed to eat frugally, and many eschewed flesh altogether, but at present he had a good-sized mallard weighing him down, shot by a miner’s sling, and there was no problem with that so far as he was concerned. It was another form of alms.

He reached the clapper bridge over the Teign and began the climb up toward the great stone circle on Scorhill. An odd arrangement, he always thought. A sequence of massy moorstone lumps arranged in a broad circle. Pausing to look it over once again, for he often paused here feeling that it added something to his contemplations, he glanced back the way he had come.

It was a glorious winter’s day. The sky, for the first time in weeks, was clear of clouds, and the sun shone palely on the moors. All was still. Even the wind had abated, as though the elements were ashamed of their behaviour the previous day, although the evidence of the rains was all about. From here, Surval could see it. Rivulets, pools, tiny streams and waterfalls glinted and shone in the bright sun. Most were sharp and blue, discrete little patches of sky fallen to earth; others were pure silver, as though the tin that lay beneath had suddenly sprung to the surface.

Surval took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching it shiver, his own personal cloud. This view was always calming to him. In other parts of the moors there were fires and noise from the tinners who were digging, smelting and working the ores, here it was peaceful. Miners had worked this land years ago, but all the available metal had been dragged from the earth a long time since. Now this was only a trail for peat-cutters, farmers and suppliers who led their packhorses along these damp, tortuous paths.

He turned east and made his way back towards the bridge and his home. The way soon took him down among the trees, and the sunlight was sprinkled between the fresh leaves like a green mist. On a whim he took a northern path. It would take a little longer, but in this glorious weather, he didn’t care.

It was Surval’s favourite time of year usually, but now he was worried; had been ever since the death of the girl. Such a terrible crime – so stupid, so brutal. It was the act of a coward, a man who would punish those smaller, younger or weaker than himself just to satisfy his own lusts or his desire for power over anyone.

‘Oh God, forgive me!’ he shouted suddenly, throwing back his head in his despair and staring with agonised eyes at the sky. ‘Please, God, as You love men and share their pains, take my life. Please! Don’t make me suffer so much! I killed her, I admit it. I am the foul murderer of a young woman because I wanted her so badly, and… and…’

That was it. To murder a girl who was scarcely more than a child was unforgivable. God Himself couldn’t forgive him. And while he lived, the constant reminder of his murder would be here, the smell and sight of it would assail his senses, driving him mad. He felt more than a little mad. Was it a surprise? And all the while the foul atmosphere grew about him. It mattered not a whit how many good deeds he essayed, for that crime was always going to be there in his mind. That knowledge, the knowledge of his guilt, would not be dispelled by the sun or the wind: it would take more than them.

As he walked down the hill, near to the castle at Gidleigh, he heard a rattling, then shouts and the noise of hooves clattering over cobbles, approaching.

With a cold dread in his belly, he realised what that noise heralded, and he stopped as the row approached him. Soon he could see Esmon at the head of a force of men, all mounted, some with bows and crossbows, all armed with swords and long knives, ready for a fight.

‘Out of the path, fool!’ Esmon roared, and hurtled past.

The men followed him, none giving Surval more than a glance, as though he was an irrelevance. Soon they had all passed and the sound of their hooves faded into the distance. If it were not for the thick gouts of mud and horse shit which had been flung against him, he might have doubted that they had ever been here.

‘Come on, cretins!’ Esmon was feeling the excitement thrilling in his veins as he led the party on. He caught a glimpse of a shapely pair of buttocks bent over in a field as he passed, and wondered whose they might be, but he had no time to stop now. Whoever she was, the slut would have to wait until later. He had business to attend to first, but when he was done, aye, he’d be coming back this way and would look out for her.