Clay Gods

We were the sprites of Nettle Wood
And we left no footprints,
No broken twigs,
No paths through flowers,
The sorrel and anemone,
No footprints
In the cobweb grass:
We were Pan’s children,
Children of the dew.

The spring was ochre-stained
And sacred to us.
The thin trickle
Of orange water
Stained our thoughts,
Earth’s blood seeping
From a wound in time.

Our eager fingers
Parted the jewelled celandine
And sank into
The soft grey flesh
To the inner sanctum
Of birth and creation

Rendering the venerable earth
To idols and craven gods;
For we moulded the clay
Into figures, hollow-eyed,
Squat and grotesque
And placed them about the spring
As guardians of the Otherworld.

North Norfolk Meadow.

Bronte's Poppies.

Wall on Burbage Edge.

Creep or cripple hole.

Wall on Burbage Edge

A chaos of stone.

The Green Chapel (Lud's Church) A short story based on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and other mythical events by Peter J. Allsop.

            
“A begging friar, returning from his round, alarmed the monks of Gawsworth with the news that the Danes were coming and, knowing something of their character, they determined on resistance. They summoned all their tenants , retainers and servants and armed them with such weapons as were at hand, scythes, pitchforks, and flails and with the cross bearer at their head, marched to repel any invasion of their territory by the Danes.”

“The monks found the Danes at the ford in the act of crossing the river. A furious battle took place. The monks and their allies fought with desperation and, having the advantage of numbers, drove the invaders back into the river; and the monks were masters of both field and flood. A bridge afterwards erected at the place was, and is called Hug Bridge, to keep in remembrance this celebrated battle of their territories by the Danes.”

(From Miller’s “Olde Leake)”, taken from a sketch written 150 years ago). *

* From ‘Dane Valley Story’ by Clifford Rathbone. First published in 1953.

Outside in nature’s domain, snow flakes drifted down to earth, floating silently in the chill air, cloaking the landscape with the purity of white. Inside the great banqueting hall of Camelot, where King Arthur and Guinevere sat with their knights, celebrating the coming of the New Year, the log fire suddenly roared brightly, spitting red sparks into the hearth, as the doors of the hall were flung open to the elements. Into the hall with the rushing wind, rode a huge man on a green horse. His skin was green, his long hair and beard, that hung down to his elbows were also green. In one hand he held a holly bush and in the other a mighty axe of green, flashing steel. His green clothes were embroidered with birds and butterflies and bright green jewels. He was the Green Knight; and his glance was lightening bright.



“I fear this place,” groaned Hulac, looking nervously about him.

Nobody challenged him; nobody mocked him for being afraid; they all felt the earth wrap around them like clinging shadows. They had entered the ravine down some ancient worn steps, and the gritstone walls had risen high above, engulfing them in a green cathedral, where the tongues of ferns licked the moisture from the damp, still air, and the birch trees formed a natural spire of shimmering leaves high above.

As well as ferns, a lone holly bush clung to one of the walls, and high above, where the late evening sun managed to penetrate the gloom, some straggling briers hung over the ravine’s gritstone lip.

Nearly all of the Danes had sustained an injury during the battle. They had been caught off-guard whilst crossing the ford. The monks had fought like madmen, wielding clubs, pitchforks and scythes, even a large wooden cross. They had been hopelessly out-numbered. The peasants were fighting for their land, for their very existence. You could sense their fear. You could see the hate in their eyes. It was often the case. The Danes relied on surprise. They must have been spotted by that damned friar in the woods; curse his black heart thought Hulac.

Hulac scraped some moss from the sheer wall and pressed it to the stinging wound in his side to staunch the flow of blood: his first taste of Christianity.

Like being trapped in a womb he thought. Reborn from earth.

The damp smell of earth and moss made him feel claustrophobic. His world had closed about him. Now it was sacrificially strangling him.

The others lay moaning or trying to sleep.

They were trapped on the edge of the wild, caught in the flux of in-between, like a ghost between bark and tree; the open moorlands on one side, and the wildwood on the other. When night finally came, the darkness seemed to issue from the ravine like a hoard of bats, spilling over into the forest outside like sinister omens. Far below, in the deep valley, the ochre-stained river rushed beneath the trees, flowing silently into the gathering gloom, passing the small settlement, whose smoke was swallowed by the darkness.

Throughout the night Hulac wrestled with evil dreams.

The fire-worm gnawed at his bones.

The orange eyes of fell wolves peered at him from above the ravine, like terrible stars in the dome of night.

As the wood owl haunted the blackness, the moon hung in the spidery branches of birch, tearing itself away from a stream of ragged cloud. This was not Hulac’s moon; the pale light washed over him like an ancient echo which had been travelling through space, endlessly calling, cold and forgotten, returning to the place of its origin like a salmon seeking its birth place: its place of death and rebirth.



I’m out of time, thought Hulac. I’m out of time.



Riding up to King Arthur, the Green Knight issued his challenge. It was that any knight may strike his head from his shoulders, but if he survived the ordeal, the said knight must submit himself to the very same trial in one year’s time to the day. The proud knights of Camelot sat in shocked silence, until Arthur himself was forced to accept the challenge. Then Arthur’s nephew, Gawain, leapt to his feet, and begged to take up the challenge on Arthur’s behalf. The Green Knight laughed.

Accepting Gawain as his challenger, he knelt for the death blow, bearing his neck to Gawain’s axe. With one mighty stroke, Gawain decapitated the Green Knight. The severed head rolled across the floor and blood gushed out. The knights cheered and slapped Gawain on the back. But then the body of the Green Knight rose to his feet and picked up his head by the hair, and mounted his horse. “Remember your vow Gawain,” spoke the head, twisting its face in a terrible distortion. “Get thee to the Green Chapel on New Year’s morning, one year from now, that I may deal thee a knock in return. Come; or be known as a craven coward.”



The sparks flew from his horse’s hooves as the Green Knight sped from the hall.



Although Jack had never visited the valley before, the landscape appeared strangely familiar, taunting his unconscious mind with shapes and images. The scent of the earth; the moss on the trees; the weird gargoyle-like faces that peered at him from the gnarled bark of oak trees, seemed part of his past.

The birch and the rowan whispered in the shade.

This was a pagan place. A place of dreamtime. A place charged with echoes. If reincarnation were truly possible, thought Jack, perhaps I once lived here among the oak trees; a wild creature; a deer or a powerful wild boar or a cunning fox.

Jack walked on.

The River Dane chatted over the stones.

The green power of the cosmos coursed through the wildwood. Echoes newly born found voice in stone; the permanence throbbed like a heartbeat, mocking flesh and bone.

Jack suddenly felt afraid.

He was on the run. But only from himself.

The great roots of trees pushed up from the soil like the ribs of some earthen giant.

With every step he felt nearer to the edge; strange unexplained sensations touched his mind with ice: worlds were colliding in silent confusion.

I’m on the edge of darkness, thought Jack. I’m on the edge of darkness.



When the thin light of morning finally crept from among the trees like mist into the ravine, Hulac rose to his feet. He was stiff and hungry, and fear gripped his heart.

Nudd lay dead, clutching his sword. His staring eyes were godless, haunted by ghosts, both green and terrible. Hulac thought of the moon, pale and lifeless, drifting rudderless through the swelling sea of sombre cloud.

The wood owl called twice from within the forest. Hulac shivered. He must wake the others. They must all leave this place.

Above his head the ferns dripped with dew and from some hidden place a raven croaked its hollow call. They must find an unprotected settlement and plunder food, then follow the river and locate the others: if any had survived. Survival thought Hulac, pressing his fingers to his wound.

I must survive.

He stooped down and picked up his axe.

He was afraid of no man: but gods. The gods in this land never perished. They linger in the shadows of this land still he thought, in the dark, wet places, waiting to drag you down. And she. She was here; the one they spoke of. They had entered her, defiled her, and now must pray the price.

The holly glistened in the morning light.

The damp walls seemed to press in on him, squeezing him. The scent of damp earth choked his senses. He remembered the wolves, their eyes glinting like amber. But even they never dared to enter this sacred place. This womb of Mother Earth.

Whilst kicking the others awake, he suddenly noticed hanging from the holly tree, a girdle of green. Reaching up with his axe he managed to retrieve it. It was of silk, soft to the touch. Through the green ran strands of beautiful golden thread. Before the others could see, he concealed the girdle beneath his jerkin. A token thought Hulac, a token of life.



Gawain travelled far and wide and withstood many adventures in the desolate wilds. Finally he reached a castle that shimmered and shone through the shining oaks, and was given shelter by the Lord, Sir Bertilak, and his beautiful lady. Here he found comfort, safety and respite: but also temptation. Sir Bertilak, the laughing red haired lord, made a bargain with Gawain. After every hunt, he would present Gawain with his spoils. In return Gawain must offer up what he had gained that day.

Three times the Lady came to Gawain and tempted him with talk of love.

On the first hunt, as Sir Bertilak hunted a terror-stricken deer down into the dales, Gawain, with much trepidation, fended off the Lady’s tempting by submitting to a single kiss. When his host presented him with his kill, Gawain presented him with a single kiss. On the second hunt the quarry was a fierce and huge wild boar that put up a terrible fight. Sir Bertilak plunged into the swirling, ochre-stained water’s of a river to kill the huge beast with his sword.

To Gawain’s chamber once more came the Lady to tempt him with conversation of love. This time Gawain’s chivalry was called into question, and he fought a desperate verbal battle to maintain his precious chastity while showing the Lady no discourtesy. But the Lady kissed him twice; and so on Bertilak’s return with the boar, Gawain greeted the valiant Lord with two kisses.

On the day of the third hunt, Sir Bertilak’s quarry was a sly red fox that nearly escaped him, by use of its cunning, but finally it was hunted down by the hounds and slain for its motley skin. For a third time the Lady came to Gawain’s bedside, and like the fox Gawain used cunning to keep her seductions at bay. But in her grief for unrequited love, she kissed him three times and offered him a girdle of green silk entwined with gold thread, which had the virtue of protecting the wearer from harm.

When Sir Bertilak, none too happy with the foxes skin, arrived back fro the hunt, Gawain, touched by sin, kissed him three times; but the talisman he hid beneath his tunic.



Plenty more fish in the sea they had grinned. Still a young man. Time heals all wounds. What did they know? For Jack, time had become fragmented; his thoughts were displaced in a universe spinning out of control. Invisible hooks had caught hold of his mind, and like the moon manipulating the tides, an invisible force was dragging him into a world of conflict: he was careering along on a collision course where objectivity no longer ruled, and time poured itself back into the infinitude of deep space.

Had he been betrayed?

It was inevitable she had explained coolly. Bound to happen sooner or later. Built on sand.

His thoughts frightened her she had said.

What did she know about his thoughts? She heard only his silence. What did she know of echoes? Of ancient darkness trapped in caves? Of the blindness of being on the edge?

He stood on the edge of reality: the edge of dreams.

A token she had said, with tears in her eyes, of what they had lost.

A token? Betrayal thought Jack. Was it betrayal? Green and gold: soft with sin.

He had deserted her he knew that. Not physically, but he had become hollow inside, an empty shell. He had driven her away.

The sunlight, green and golden flickered on his face through the leaves: an elusive butterfly. He was Jack-in-the-green, peering through the foliage; nature timeless in her cycle, retreated into shadows.



Hulac knew his gods had deserted him. Strong male gods. Odin and Thor. They had dissolved into the morning mist, when the longship, with its mighty dragon prow, had first landed on the rocky shore of this island. No place for them here. This was a place of birth, life and death. Of creation and destruction. The dwelling place of the all-devouring mother.

The others with much groaning and cursing staggered to their feet. Eirik’s face was swollen and his nose was broken. Star looked about the ravine and shivered. He was bruised and bloody. If he was to die, it must not be in here like Nudd, he thought. Not in this gloomy place. Like Hel; not a place for warriors.

Skallagrim looked down on Nudd. He had been a good friend, but always unlucky he thought. But they would meet again and tell tales; Nudd had always liked his stories of elves, goblins and dragons.

Hulac would get them out. That was his way. He was a survivor. Those monks were crazy men thought Skallagrim. Berserkers. The one with the cross had fought naked, his eyes had been mad; he fought in frenzy like a wild wolf. The mushroom of the birch wood had entered his mind; nothing could hurt him. Red and white in his frenzy. Their God had been powerful, the cross hung in his memory, scarring his mind with cold fire.

Hulac felt the wound in his side open up once more; his life’s blood soaked into the green silk girdle concealed beneath his jerkin. He walked down the ravine following the narrow path, the others shambled close behind. There must be another way out, he mused, not wishing to leave by the way they had entered. The narrow slit of sky followed them high above. There was no time to bury Nudd now; perhaps they would come back? Skallagrim closed his friend’s eyes and pushed his lucky dice into Nudd’s dead hand. They would game together once more in the Great Hall of Asgard.



Before even the sun had risen above the hills and forests of that wild domain, Gawain had said his farewells to Sir Bertilak and his Lady, and followed the guide provided by the laughing Lord, who led him to the region of the Green Chapel. The early morning was cold and damp and heavy mist lingered on the high moors. As a pale sun shone through the clouds, the guide, whose eyes seemed strangely familiar to the valiant knight, came to a halt and would travel no further. Although urged by the guide to turn from his perilous quest and save his own life, Gawain bid him farewell and followed the man’s directions through the wildwood.



Gawain felt the fear of death in his youthful heart and, his breath steamed white in the cold air, as if frozen in time. A new year filled the hollows and dawned over the hills and wild moors; a hallowed moment, riding on ancient mist, as the Dragon’s breath rose from the ground to greet his coming. The sacred birch trees seemed to part at his approach, leading him ever forward, into the depth of winter’s embrace, in order that he may fulfil the challenge at the Green Chapel: the trial by axe.

Although the green of the land was sleeping, its spirit having fled to the safety of the holly, ivy and mistletoe, Gawain felt the resurgent energies of life, the endless dance of nature and time course through the chill silence … ever waiting … waiting for sacrifice.


Like the sun that chased the scurrying clouds, to reveal a clear blue sky, Jack’s confused mind attempted to establish some kind of order to the pattern of his life. Time appeared to be issuing backwards, rushing back to the birth of creation; that period in the history of the universe, when man’s philosophy, his religions and his first paintings had decorated cave walls, were yet to be.

Jack walked up through the woods, climbing higher towards the moor. He didn’t need her now. She had tempted him; but he now knew she had never betrayed him. He still walked on the edge; on the edge of the universe; on the edge of understanding.

The birds seemed to whisper secrets, urging him on, sweet songs of reason among the scented foliage. But there was a far stronger call. Echoes were returning home, merging in time and relativity. Jack heard the call, load and clear. The Great Mother had stirred in her dreamtime slumber and, once again challenged the human spirit. Jack rushed headlong to meet his destiny, to balance on the edge of time, where all that is and all that once was, embrace as one, and decide the direction of future things.

Soon he reached a sandy path on the edge of the wood which led him to a gritstone rock formation called Castle Rocks. Jack scrambled up to the top of the rocks and, the view of the surrounding countryside opened up to him. Somewhere below, deep in the valley, the River Dane rushed beneath the camouflage of the trees. The hills bunched themselves across the horizon and, rough green fields, won from the spreading moor, lay criss-crossed by a network of gritstone walls. In the distance one particular peak, Jack knew to be called Shutlingslow, pushed her nose into the air. Behind him the moor rose menacingly up to the edge that cut along the sky.

Jack breathed deeply and closed his eyes. He could still see the view. The vision was not new to him. The very landscape was carved in his mind like an ancient memory, calling to him, tempting him with out-stretched arms to penetrate its vastness.

The seducer of dreams; she lay nearby; Jack could feel her pulse, hear her gentle song on the breeze. He would surrender to her; meet her challenge on the edge of darkness.

From somewhere in the wood a tawny owl called twice, and then fell silent.

He felt suddenly in his pocket for the gift; green silk with gold thread, soft with shame; then he walked on through the shining birch trees, lured by the echo of his own soul.


The path through the ravine twisted through the belly of the earth like a snake, but finally it led Hulac and his followers to another set of worn, mossy steps, that led upwards into the wood. Hulac began to climb, and then suddenly turned; a startled look on his face betrayed his fear. Skallagrim brandished his sword and looked back down the ravine, but could see or hear nothing. They all gazed on Hulac. His eyes were those of a trapped animal, as he stared up at the lip of the ravine, high above the holly tree where the sky taunted the watchers with glimpses of hope.

The holly is full of spirits, thought Hulac, they laugh and mock me, and its leaves reflect the sky and the stars as they move away. Somebody hovers on the brink of birth and destruction. I feel his hand on my heart. Like a falcon new born to the world, he craves the rush of wind beneath his wings.

I’m out of time, thought Hulac, I’m out of time.

Hulac’s hands gripped tightly around the familiar ash shaft of his battle-axe, then breathing deeply of the damp air, he began once more to climb the steps into the glimmering light of day.

The breeze felt good on his face as he stepped from the entrance hole, and he rejoiced in the sight of a whole sky that arched over-head. They all silently celebrated their release from the womb of the earth, their prison, yet all were tainted by its terrible spell. It was as if Nudd had been swallowed by the stagnant darkness. They would never go back for him, they all knew that.

Hulac hurried them along through the trees. He must find somewhere to spy-out the land; get their bearings. Soon they came out of the trees into a clearing, green with bracken. Out of the greenery rose a strange formation of rock, standing like a natural castle. Hulac sent Star up to the top of the rocks to see what lay below in the valley. Star gazed out over the harsh moorland landscape that was broken here and there by scant patches of green.

He saw a land of peaks and valleys, but he also saw a thin line of smoke drifting into the air above the trees down by the river.

Soon they were winding their way down through the oak woods into the valley, smiling at their good fortune. In the hidden depths of the wood, the wild boar, the frightened deer and the cunning fox, watched their progress with eager eyes; and from the verdurous gloom, the owl called thrice more and Hulac cursed this land and its mother-goddesses. Skallagrim shuddered.


Gawain dismounted and peered down into the fearsome hole of the ravine that appeared to him to lead down into the darkness of Hell itself. Drawing forth his sword, he prayed to the Virgin, who adorned the inside of his shield, felt for the green girdle beneath his armour and, descended the rocky stairway into the stygian gloom of the deep chasm to confront his fate; each step took him deeper into the innards of the Dragon. On reaching the bottom of the steps, Gawain stood beneath the towering walls of the Green Chapel and called out to his foe. He saw a holly tree growing out of one of the walls of the ravine and, was reminded of the fearsome knight he had travelled many leagues to meet on this bitter day.

Suddenly Gawain heard a frightful din; the grinding of metal on gritstone, as the Green Knight whetted his axe in readiness for the challenge to be met. Then above him, emerging from a hole in the cliff, the Green Knight appeared, calling for Gawain to stay. In his powerful grip he held a mighty axe, a full four feet in breadth. All in green as before he was garbed and, his eyes glinted with mischief.

The Green Knight bade Gawain take off his helmet and bare his neck to his axe for payment. Gawain without argument bent for the death blow. Up went the axe on high, but as the awful weapon swept down the Green Knight stayed his blow only a fraction above the others neck. Gawain had shuddered in readiness for sudden death, and the giant mocked his adversary with harsh words.

Gawain now knelt for a second blow, vowing never to move a muscle until his destiny had run its course. Once more the axe was raised high into the chill air of that New Year’s Day, and the giant as if mad with rage, brought the weapon down once more, slicing through the air with menace, until it again stopped just above brave Gawain’s bare neck. Gawain at first remained stock-still, and then angrily cursed the fellow for playing threatening games at his expense.

The Green Knight’s eyes now burned fiercely. “NO longer will delay what is my right by the beheading game,” he vowed, and lifted the axe high into the air above Gawain.

The valiant knight of Camelot gripped the stone of the ground, in readiness to meet his death in that grim place, seeing the dim shadow of the mighty axe on the damp, mossy walls of the Green Chapel, begin to descend in a mighty arc above his head.



Jack veered off the sandy path and stumbling over the tussocks of smooth green grass, pushed his way through the birch and rowan trees, whose thin branches, like fingers, tugged at his clothing, as if imploring him to turn back. The insects in the wood droned in his ears, filling his mind with confusion.

For the first time he felt panic grip him, a shadow that laughed in his face. He climbed higher, struggling through the tangle of branches and undergrowth, the drone in his ears now gave way to a soft seductive whisper that tugged him forward, taunting him; challenging him.

He felt near to tears as he lurched suddenly out of the trees to find himself balanced on the very edge of the steep ravine he knew to be called Lud’s Church. Cool, damp air rose to greet him, sweet with uncertainty. Jack found that his eyes were closed, pressing in the darkness of his own body. Slowly they opened.

Jack hovered on the brink of eternity.

Stretching his arms out wide he stood as motionless as a cross; like a kestrel hanging in the wind. Somewhere nearby a tawny owl uttered a single ghostly cry.

The insects had ceased their drone inside his head, but the silence boomed through the hollow land. Jack swayed as if a reed touched by the wind. Below him, a holly bush reflected fragments of sky, and for a short space of time, his heart seemed to beat in unison with another. Both betrayed fear of the moment and, of the past. Lifetimes met in unison; two rivers merging as one, like Black Brook spilling itself into the River Dane.

Reaching into his pocket, Jack pulled out the gift. His fingers squeezed the silk tightly, as he remembered a face both pale and beautiful.

He was letting go.

The green and gold, caught suddenly by a glimmer of sunlight, sparkled briefly, then twisted in the chill air and drifted down like an exotic feather into the gloom of the ravine, to be captured on the leathery, dark green spines of the holly bush, where it hung as an offering of hope to another in the pregnant silence.



The dew lay heavy on the grass; sparkling and virginal.

This would be easy thought Hulac surprise will at last be on our side. He looked at the others. They were tired and gaunt. Skallagrim appeared anxious, touching a pendant of amber that hung about his neck as if for reassurance.

Just a hovel of huts, thought Hulac, encircled by a rough palisade of wooden stakes: ours for the taking. Food and warmth: and anything else that comes our way.

A shadow crossed his memory. He remembered Nudd’s lifeless body.

No not that! No more death!

The vision stood on the brink, peering down into the depths of his soul.

No more.

Hulac turned to the others. He would somehow lead them back home. They would follow then river; keep out of site.

Suddenly a cry rang out through the mist. It came from the village. The morning shattered as if made of crystal. Star was already running towards the palisade wielding his heavy sword, followed closely by Eirik.

They must follow them.

No more, thought Hulac. No more.

His eyes met those of Skallagrim. The eyes were those of a warrior. Fate had found its mark in the depth of their acceptance.

They were running now, through the wetness of the dew; reborn into the harsh light of day; casting off shadows like a snake casts its skin, rejoicing in their very vulnerability.

Hulac dearly wished to evoke their powerful northern gods: to have then witness their deeds.

To allow them to lament their glorious death.

Eirik and Star had no time to wonder why. No time to revel in past glories or dream of half-forgotten love. The wooden gates of the village burst open, and out of its gaping dark mouth issued a hail of deadly arrows, rushing to their mark with preordained certainty.

Star threw back his head and released the grip on his sword, letting it slip from his hand, and impale itself into the earth. He looked at the arrows embedded in his body in silent disbelief, dropped to his knees, and then slumped over into the grass, the dew quickly soaking into his clothing.

Eirik ran towards the open gate, the deadly arrows thudding into his body and hissing like serpents into the grass by his side.

He saw nobody.

When Eirik’s legs refused to carry the weight of his body any further, the gift of life having already been drained from him, he sprawled face down in the mud by the gate, the battle-axe spinning from his hands and, knew only darkness.

For a brief moment the echoes called once more to Hulac and, he glanced back towards the forest, where he knew the fathomless mystery of the ravine lay, ever waiting, sleeping in the twilight of the world; a place of death and rebirth.



And there in the gloom, as Hulac looked back and shuddered, the shadow of the axe came down upon Sir Gawain’s neck; the blood fell over his shoulders and soaked into the ground. Yet life still coursed through him. He had sustained the stroke and paid the price. Green had been the threat of death, and green his protector.



Skallagrim ran by Hulac’s side. His cries woke in Hulac the fear of death. In the gateway, many men had appeared. Then in their midst, as if forged from some shadows within, there rose a wooden cross, raised high in the morning light.

Skallagrim laughed. A wicked laugh that spoke of fate and destiny.

So be it, he thought, so be it.

He ran to the shadow of the cross, not as one converted, but as one who had visualised the end of his world. The wild-eyed monk, who wielded the holy rood, fell as a martyr, soaked in blood and dew, the victim of a dying faith: a faith of storm and thunder; of fire and steel and death and destruction, rooted to the very substance of earth.

Hulac, as if suddenly tripped by fate, sprawled on the damp ground and watched as Christen and pagan blood mingled in the mud.

Skallagrim with a last cry of anguish to Thor, his heathen sky-god, was pressed to the earth by the symbol of the new faith and, slain without mercy.

Hulac, caught at cross-roads, chose the path of life.

Half crawling, then rolling over, he slid down the banking into the icy water of the river, plunging into a deep pool. There he hung in the nether World; air bubbles escaped from his mouth in a mute half scream. Darkness pressed down on him as he reached almost instinctively for the green girdle beneath his leather jerkin.

Soft, sensuous voices, for a moment, filled Hulac’s brain, then he stared into the godless eyes of Nudd once more.

Hulac kicked at the vision and rose to the surface gasping for air, emerging into the world as if newly baptised. His wound had opened up and he had lost his battle-axe. His blood, as if a sacrifice, mingled with the river. He could hear the babble of voices once again. But these were angry voices of men. Slowly and deliberately, he lowered himself into the current and, allowed his body to be taken by the river, praying inwardly that its ancient goddesses would be merciful to him.

Before too long the angry voices of the villagers were swallowed by the remnants of mist that clung to the birches and drifted dreamily above the chattering water as it slid over the shallows.

Hulac crawled out of the river and lay exhausted on the bank. The gift of life entwined itself around his fingers; green and gold and sinful to the touch.

Hulac could not tell if the beckoning voices that crept into his head were those of his slain comrades, now safe in Valhalla, or the goddesses of the river calling for an offering, but without questioning the wisdom of their reason, the green and gold silk slid from his hand like a serpent and floated away over the stones to be stolen by the current.

The voices ceased. All the echoes lay wrapped in silence, in the damp, cold air of that haunted place.

Time edged forward like a ravenous beast; then Hulac knew, as he made his way down the valley, he must live with sin and, wear it like a cross about his neck.