Thunder oak, p.28
Thunder Oak, page 28
‘Me – King – Jumble. Me – great – person,’ growled the scarecrow. ‘You – ugly – little – weasel. You – give – me – meershaum. You – give – me – briar.’
‘No need to get personal, King Jumble or whatever your name is,’ sniffed Scirf. ‘The fact is, we haven’t got any pipes, and that’s that. Now if you’ll just part your scarecrow ranks, we’ll be on our way . . .’
The stick was raised above Sylver’s head. ‘No – smoking – pipe, no – pass,’ cried the scarecrow angrily.
Its words were repeated by the multitude behind it. They crowded forward, waving their sticks. Black, empty eyes regarded the weasels with menace. A sort of low moan rose from the heart of the mob. They hopped and shuffled on their stick-legs, some in kilts, some in leggings. Their puffy, straw-filled arms waved in the air. It was obvious that the scarecrows were serious in their demands for briar and meershaum pipes. And they clearly regarded the north of the Far Weald as their territory, where right of passage could be given only by one of their number.
These creatures were neither human nor statue, but a collection of oddments shuffled haphazardly and thrown together to resemble one or the other of them. They were empty-headed things, it seemed, which spent their time reflecting on their own images as dignified creatures. They had no birthplace, unless it was the corn sheaf, the wood pile and the rag-bag. They had no common image, for each was different from the other. They had no heritage, but what they demanded for themselves and their kind.
Sylver retreated. ‘They mean it,’ he said. ‘We’ll never get through that lot with our lives. I’m not sure what to do now.’
Scirf said, ‘We’ve obviously got to lay our paws on some stinking old pipes, somehow. Any ideas, Mawk?’
Mawk considered the problem for a moment, then came up with a possible answer. ‘I have heard of a sanctuary near here, where monks who follow a deity they call the Great One reside. Why don’t we find this holy place and ask if they’ve got any pipes?’
Sylver sighed. ‘Well, we don’t have much choice, do we? Have you any idea in which direction the sanctuary lies?’
‘That way, I think,’ Mawk said. ‘High up on a ledge, in those craggy mountains towards the east.’
So the weasels had to deviate from their direct path and go east, into the jagged hills. It took all night to reach them and by the dawn they were exhausted. They slept in a cave which smelled of bears and then continued climbing a steep goat track, which wound like a whiplash up to a crag, on which was perched a priory of sorts. A bell was ringing as the weasels approached the building by the sheer, dusty path.
Sylver knocked on the wooden door. The sound echoed throughout the stone building within. After a while a small panel in the door slid back, making him jump. The opening framed a fat stoat’s face. ‘Yes, brother?’
‘Er, greetings to the followers of the Great One.’ said Sylver. ‘We come to seek sustenance.’
‘You are weasels of the Faith?’
‘No, we are simply weary travellers, who are on our way northwards.’
‘The Great One turns no stoat or weasel from His door,’ said the monk. ‘You may partake of the Wayfarers’ Dole. Enter and be thankful.’
‘I’m ever so thankful,’ Scirf told the monk as they entered a bare courtyard. ‘Got any nice stew?’
‘Here we eat the grain,’ said the monk, carefully closing and locking the door to the courtyard. ‘You will receive one cube of bread and a goblet of ale. This is the stipulated Wayfarers’ Dole to which travellers are entitled. If you wish to rest, then you may stay half a day. Then you must be on your way. This is a holy place, a place of quiet and meditation.’
A bell was clanging loudly in a tower over the courtyard.
‘I see what you mean,’ Scirf said. ‘Quiet as the grave.’
They were led to a set of stone steps and down to a kitchen, where monks were busy baking bread in the massive oven built for humans. A roaring fire threw out the warmth of a blacksmith’s forge and heated the room to a stifling atmosphere.
The stoat bakers managed very well, considering it took three of them to open and close the oven door. It was a bit of a struggle but the job got done. They wore thick gloves of sacking, which had been charred black by the heat. They threw in charcoal and fed a furnace which would have melted pig iron. When they pawdled the bread, it was with platters on long poles, and it came out steaming.
Sylver found the smell of the kitchen wonderful. There is nothing like the odour of newly baked bread to make one’s saliva glands run. The three weasels were sat at a table, given a huge cube of bread each and a goblet of ale. They filled their stomachs.
Scirf watched the monks scurrying here, there and everywhere, listened to the matins being intoned in the chapel, and wondered at the simple sparseness of his surroundings. It seemed to him that this was a nice quiet simple life. No concerns about where the next meal was coming from, or how to get a roof over your head for the night. No worries about the outside world. Here was a life without the stresses and strains.
‘What ’ave you got to do to be a monk, then?’ he asked a passing kitchen friar. ‘Be holy, I s’pect.’
‘You have to believe,’ replied the monk, ‘and be faithful to that belief.’
Scirf, who had never been faithful to much at all, nodded enthusiastically. ‘I s’pect I could do that easily enough. You want me to come and stay?’
The monk’s eyes opened wider. ‘You wish to be a novitiate?’
‘Nope, I want to be a monk.’
‘First you must humble yourself, become a learner, so to speak. You must bring yourself low, cast off all worldly desires, purify your spirit.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Yes. Then, eventually, you may be in a virtuous enough state to receive holy orders. You will become a serving monk, who waits on the more senior monks. Sometimes you may be allowed to go out into the garden to tend the vegetables.’
‘Listen, this sounds like a long job – how many weeks before I become a real monk?’
‘Some are able to purge themselves and take holy orders within a period of seven years.’
‘Seven years?’ cried Scirf. ‘That’s a lifetime. Hey, look, friar, I’ve been a dung-tender for three years. That’s a bit like tending vegetables, init? Can I get them knocked off the seven?’
The monk sighed. ‘I don’t think you quite understand the gravity of the position to which you hope to ascend, brother.’
Scirf nodded. ‘I think you’re right. I won’t be a monk after all. I’ll be a night watchman instead. There don’t seem to be much difference between the two.’
Once they had eaten, Sylver asked to see the prior, the most senior of the monks, and they were taken to his cell. The prior was at prayers and the three had to wait outside cooling their heels. Eventually, they were admitted. The prior was now sitting on a high stool at an enormous desk, poring over a pile of parchments. Mawk said he thought the prior looked a bit like Lord Haukin, poring over his books.
‘I s’pect they’re both very good porers.’ observed Scirf, as if he were talking about teapots.
The prior lifted his head slowly, as if the act was very difficult for him to perform. ‘What can I do for you, brothers?’
‘Everybody’s related round here,’ muttered Scirf.
Sylver said, ‘We’re sorry to trouble you with your learning and prayers and everything, but we need some briar pipes to get through that army of scarecrows to the west. Is it possible for you to find us some? You know, the kind humans used to smoke tobacco in. Filthy habit, and dangerous, too, with all that fire and smoke, but we’re sure they’ll only be used for show, no-one would set light to them . . .’
While Sylver was speaking the prior’s expression, even his demeanour, had been undergoing an extraordinary change. His features twisted into an ugly mask; his paws gripped the edge of the desk and went white at the knuckles; his breath came hissing out through his nostrils. ‘The scarecrows?’ he snarled, his face changing for a moment. ‘The scarecrows?’
Then he seemed to be aware that he was in the company of strangers. He set about composing himself again. Gradually he managed to pull himself together and get himself under control. Finally he smiled sweetly at the three weasels. ‘Pipes?’ he said. ‘Of course not. We don’t approve of smoking here, any more than we approve of mirrors.’
Sylver looked at the prior in surprise.
‘Mirrors? Who mentioned mirrors?’
‘I did,’ said the prior. ‘Scarecrows hate mirrors – they’re terrified of seeing their own image. They’re such an ugly, motley crowd of . . . but’ – he made a gesture with his forepaws – ‘we are not allowed any looking-glasses in this establishment. It was a rule made by our founder. Mirrors encourage vanity. Vanity is the worst of all sins.’
‘No pipes then?’ said Sylver, disappointed.
The prior shook his head sadly.
‘And you’re sure you haven’t got just one mirror in the place?’ asked Scirf. ‘I mean, I’d rather give the scarecrows what they want, but failing that we could use mirrors to make ’em let us go through, if that was the only way.’
‘No, not a single one,’ murmured the prior. ‘My order of monks does not allow the use of any reflecting instrument. We have no mirrors, no polished bronze plates, no water tubs – we are not allowed to see our own image.’
‘Because of vanity?’
‘Just so,’ said the prior, putting his claws together. ‘Vainglory, brother. The monk who sees his own face and form is lost. The Terrible One will take his soul and mangle it beyond all hope of recognition. You will have to leave, I’m sorry – the mere mention of looking-glasses is a sin. We are modest monks, we do not indulge in such horrific pastimes as studying our own contemptible features.’
Sylver said, ‘You feel the stoat and weasel form is contemptible?’
‘Utterly. Only the spirit is worthy of any recognition, and the spirit cannot be seen in a mirror.’
Sylver stared into the prior’s goodly features. They were composed and serene. He could see that they were going to get nowhere with this saintly monk, who saw the use of mirrors as a great evil, to be spurned. When a stoat’s soul was set on doing good, there was no turning it with argument. Sylver decided it would be best to leave. ‘You have no advice for us, then,’ he said, ‘regarding the scarecrows – how to get through them, good prior? What shall we do with the scarecrows?’
At the mention of the scarecrows once more, the prior’s face again twisted into a demoniacal mask. It was as if the word ‘scarecrow’ were a trigger which transformed a saint into a devil. Whatever the scarecrows had done to the good prior, it must have been appalling.
‘The scarecrows!’ he shrieked, with a terrible fanatical gleam in his eyes. ‘May they rot where they stand. May they be blown to pieces and the bits scattered by a great wind. May they become homes for woodworms, weevils and moth larvae.’
He writhed in his seat while he spoke the words, as if he had a struggle going on inside him. ‘Oh, how I would like to make those scarecrows suffer,’ he growled plaintively. ‘How I would like to know they grovelled before three lowly serfs, three scruffy woodland weasels, three useless down-and-outs of no apparent worth whatsoever—’
‘Here, just a minute . . .’ began Mawk indignantly, but Sylver realized something extraordinary was going on and silenced Mawk with a nudge.
‘You want to know why I hate them?’ the prior said, lifting his pointed face. ‘You want to know why I would like them to feel the long foreleg of the priory’s law? Because they are runaways! Yes, they were made by humans to protect gardens and fields, and they refused to do the same for us. They pulled up their sticks and just walked away, leaving the gardens and fields at the mercy of the birds. They no longer work for the cause for which they were created – they simply whine for something they call “dignity”.’
‘Well,’ said Scirf, ‘I may not speak for my two mates here, but I’ve got some sympathy with that. Poor old scarecrows was slaves when the humans was here. Now you want ’em to be slaves again? Don’t agree with you there, chum.’
‘They leave our seeds unprotected,’ continued the prior, staring at the wall as if he had not heard. ‘We monks rely on our crops to make us ri— to feed the poor. Our corn is stolen by the birds before it is ripe. The birds steal all our raspberries, our strawberries.’ He paused to fume, then continued again. ‘I do not blame the birds. I blame the scarecrows. Those bundles of useless straw and sticks.’
‘Well, we have nothing against scarecrows, as such,’ said Sylver.
‘You want to pass through their ranks unharmed, don’t you?’ hissed the prior. ‘Those empty turnip heads won’t listen to reason, you know. They’re as thick as this desk!’ He rapped the top of the mahogany desk with his claw. ‘You need briar pipes or mirrors to get past the scarecrows, and you haven’t got either.’
‘No,’ said Sylver, sighing. ‘Well, we’re sorry to have troubled you – we’ll be on our way.’
‘Wait,’ said the prior, his lips tightening over his pointed little fangs. ‘Just wait a minute. Let me think.’
Finally he seemed to come to a decision. His brow cleared. A determined look came over his face. ‘Why not?’ he said eventually. ‘But I want your solemn promise that anything I reveal to you here and now will not go beyond this room. I – I may be able to help you.’
Scirf said without hesitation, ‘We promise, yer priorship.’
The prior studied his three guests a moment longer, then he pressed a hidden switch under his desk and, to the astonishment of the other three, a stone door swung open in the wall behind him. Even from where they stood the outlaws could behold the glittering treasure secretly hoarded by the prior. It was a cache of mirrors – dozens of them. Some were large and oval, with ornate gilt frames. Others were simple, with wooden edging. Some were hand mirrors, others clearly intended for hanging in great halls. Their silvery surfaces were all highly polished, with not a speck of dust among them. They were clearly loved and cherished objects, items which were in constant use by someone.
The prior turned and reached into the secret store to stroke its contents. ‘My lovely mirrors,’ he murmured. ‘My lovely, lovely mirrors. Who is the fairest of them all?’ he added, holding up a hand mirror and peering into it. ‘No need to ask.’ He wetted his paw and smoothed down the fur on his brow.
The prior then appeared to remember he was not alone and turned to the three astonished weasels. ‘We are all miserable sinners,’ he whined. ‘What can I say to you? The spirit is weak. I am so beautiful I cannot resist adoring myself.’
‘You were sayin’ about the scarecrows,’ reminded Scirf.
The prior’s features were again transformed into a hideous visage. ‘Take one or two and do as you will with the scarecrows. Make them suffer.’
He then began sorting through the looking-glasses. ‘Here, take this one – no, it’s one of my favourites – this one, then – no, I can’t bear to part with it – this one? Oh, look, I’ll turn my back and you choose some, but not the one with the ormolu cherubs around the frame, and not the pretty one with the gold fleur-de-lis on the blue background – oh, oh, just take some and go. Get out of here. And if you ever mention my looking-glasses to another soul, I’ll be very unhappy.’
The three weasels went to the cache, took two mirrors each, and hurried out of the presence of this mad monk.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The three weasels left the sanctuary and travelled again to the land of the scarecrows.
When the day was bright and the light was good, the three weasels set out to pass through the mob of angry scarecrows. The mirrors had been fixed to the ends of sticks. These they held up and turned, this way and that, so the scarecrows could not approach them without seeing their own faces.
When their reflections were caught, revealing to them their own strange forms, the scarecrows fell back. They cried out plaintively with the agony of souls in great torment. They moaned and clutched at their clothes, plucked the straw from their throats, disfigured themselves. ‘Too thin!’ they cried, on viewing their limbs and torsos. ‘Too thin, too thin!’
It is well known that scarecrows cannot see their own bodies, for having necks made of poles they cannot bend them. They cannot look down at themselves. They can swivel their heads from right to left, even spin them, but they cannot see below the chins they did not own. Having no joints, they cannot lift their arms above their shoulders.
They were in the image of man, yet a grotesque caricature of that image, and they hated themselves not just for being copies, but for being inferior copies, for having no flesh on their stickbones, for having no soft, rounded parts.
‘Effigy!’ they cried in despair. ‘Effigy!’
The scarecrows obviously knew what the others looked like, but secretly in each straw heart was a hope that they themselves were different, that they did not have bodies and heads like those they saw around them. Each one dreamed that it really had handsome features, a fine complexion, rosy cheeks and bright eyes. Each one was desperate to have sturdy legs with muscles, strong thick arms, a plump waist.
‘Is that me?’ they would wail, when they glimpsed their faces in the mirrors. ‘Oh – is that me?’
The weasels felt sorry for the scarecrows and would have taken the time to talk to them. They would have liked to explain to the straw men that looks were not important in this world, only what was in the heart. But of course the scarecrows were so lost in their own desire for beautiful countenances, so frantic to be considered attractive, that they would not pay attention to any weasel trying to advise them.
‘You are what you are,’ called Sylver. ‘You have no need to be ashamed of yourselves. Scarecrows are not supposed to look exactly like humans; they’re supposed to look like scarecrows. Stop trying to be something else and be proud of what you were meant to be. In my opinion you have far more worth than the false prior who gave us these mirrors, and he is the vainest creature in the world.’
