And the vision disappeared, but the fragrance of the roses lingered
long in the little cell.
Then was Walter the Norman made Abbot, and forthwith he began to build
a vast and beautiful minster, the fame of which should be rumoured
through all the land. Speedily he emptied the five great chests filled
with silver which Agelwyn had left, and then there set in a dearth of
timber and stone and money, but the Abbot bethought him of a device for
escaping from his difficulties. He took into his counsel the wise
monks Hereman and Rheinfrid, because they had both travelled through
many shires, and he entrusted to them the shrine containing the relics
of St. Egwin, and bade them go on a pilgrimage from one rich city to
another, making known their need, exhorting the people to charity, and
gathering gifts of all kinds for the building of the minster. So with
lay-brothers to serve them and a horse to carry the holy shrine, the
monks began their journey, and, singing joyful canticles, the
brotherhood accompanied them with cross and banners and burning tapers,
and set them well on their way beyond the river.
Now think of Rheinfrid and Hereman traversing the wild England of those
olden times. One day they were wandering in the depths of the woods;
on another they were moving along some neglected Roman road, through
swamps and quagmires. Now they were passing hastily through the ruins
of some Saxon thorpe which had been burned by the Normans, or lodging
for the night as guests at some convent or priory, or crossing a
dangerous river-ford, or making a brief stay in a busy town to preach
and exhibit the shrine of the saint, so that the diseased and suffering
might be touched by the miraculous relics. And all along their journey
they gathered the offerings which the people brought them.
"This, surely," thought Rheinfrid, "is the journey appointed me," and
his spirit was at last peaceful and contented.
Now in the third week of their pilgrimage they came to a wide moor
which they had to cross. A heavy white mist lay on the lonely waste,
and they had not gone far among the heath and grey boulders before
Rheinfrid, absorbed in prayer, found himself separated from his
companions. He called aloud to them by their names, but no one
answered him. This way and that he wandered, still crying aloud, and
hoping to discover some trace of the faint path which led over the
moor. Suddenly he came to the brink of a vast chasm, the depth of
which was hidden by the mist. It was a terrible place and he thanked
God that he had not come thither in the darkness of the night. As he
gazed anxiously on all sides, wondering what he should do next, he
perceived through the vapour a tall dark figure. Approaching it, he
saw that it was a high stone cross, and he murmured gratefully, "Here I
am safe. The foot of Thy cross is an ever-lasting refuge." As he
ascended the rough granite steps, he noticed how wonderfully the cross
was sculptured, with a vine running up the shaft, and birds and small
wild creatures among the vine-leaves, and he was able to read, in the
centre, words from a famous old poem which he knew:
_Rood is my name; long ago I bore a goodly King; trembling,_
_dripping with blood._
As he read them he became aware that some one had come out of the mist
and was standing near him. "In the darkness the danger is great," said
the stranger; "another step would have carried thee over the brink; and
none who have fallen therein have ever returned. But the wind is
rising, and this mist will speedily be lifted."
While he was yet speaking a great draught of air drove the mist before
it, and shifted and lifted it, and rolled it like carded wool, and in
front all was clear, but the light was of an iron-grey transparency,
and Rheinfrid saw into the depths of the chasm into which he had
well-nigh fallen.
Far down below lay the jagged ridges and ghastly abysses of a gigantic
crater, the black walls of which were so steep that it was impossible
to climb them. Smoke and steam rose in incessant puffs from the
innermost pit of the crater and trailed along the floor and about the
rocky spikes and jagged ridges.
Then, as Rheinfrid gazed, his face grew pale, and he turned to the
stranger.
"What are these," he asked, "men, or little statues of men, or
strangely shaped rocks?"
"They are living men and women," said the stranger.
"They seem as small as images," said Rheinfrid.
"They are very far distant from us," replied the stranger, "although we
see them so clearly."
"There seem to be hundreds of them standing in crowds," said Rheinfrid.
"There are thousands and hundreds of thousands," said the stranger.
"And they do not move; they are motionless as stone; they do not even
seem to breathe."
"They are waiting," said the stranger.
"Their faces are all turned upward; they are all staring in one way."
"They are watching," said the stranger.
"Why are they watching?" asked Rheinfrid; then looking up into the
iron-grey air in the same direction as the faces of the people in the
crater; "What huge ball is that hanging in the sky above them?"
"It is a globe of polished stone--the stone adamant, which of all
stones is the hardest."
"Why do they gaze at it so steadfastly?"
"Not hard to say," replied the stranger. "Every hundred years a little
blue bird passes by, flying between them and the globe, and as it
passes it touches the stone with the tip of its wing. On the last day
of the hundredth year the people gather and watch with eager eyes all
day for the passing of the bird, and while they watch they do not
suffer. Now this is the last hour of the last day of the hundredth
year, and you see how they gaze."
"But why do they watch to see the bird?"
"Each time the bird passes it touches the stone, and every hundred
years it will thus touch it, till the stone be utterly worn away."
"Ten thousand ages, and yet again ten thousand, and it will not have
been worn away," said Rheinfrid. "But when it has been worn away, what
then?"
"Why, then," said the stranger, "Eternity will be no nearer to its end
than it is now. But see! see!"
Rheinfrid looked, and beheld a little blue bird flash across the huge
ball of glimmering adamant, brush it with the tip of a single feather,
and dart onward.
And down in the crater all the faces were turned away again, and the
crowd fell into such confusion as an autumn gale makes among the fallen
leaves in a spinney; and out of the innermost pit the smoke and steam
rose in clouds, till only the jagged ridges were visible; and a long
cry of a myriad voices deadened by the deep distance rose like the
terrible ghost of a cry from the abyss.
And this was one of the Seven Cries of the World.
For the Seven Cries of the World are these: the Cry of the Blood of
Abel, and the Cry of the Deluge of Waters, and the Cry for the
First-born of Egypt, and the Cry of the Cities of the Plain, and the
Cry of Rachel in Ramah, and the Cry in the darkness of the ninth hour,
and, more grievous than any of these, the Cry of the Doom of the Pit.
"Truly," said Rheinfrid, shivering, "one day is as a thousand years in
the sight of the Lord."
"Come with me, and I will guide thee from this place," said the
stranger. And he led the way along the brink of the gulf till they
came to a bridge, high and narrow and fragile, glittering like glass;
but when Rheinfrid touched it he perceived it was built of ice, and
beneath it ran a fierce river of fire, and they felt the heat of the
river on their faces, and the ice of the bridge was dissolving away.
"How shall I pass this without falling?" asked Rheinfrid.
"Follow in my steps," said the stranger, "and all will be well."
He led the way on the slippery ice-work of the bridge, and in great
fear and doubt Rheinfrid followed; but when they reached the crown of
the arch the stranger threw aside his cloak and spread six mighty
wings, and sprang from the bridge to the peak of a high mountain far
beyond the burning river. The bridge cracked and swayed, and pieces
broke away from the icy parapet.
With a shriek of terror Rheinfrid sank down, and called upon God to
help him. Then as he prayed he felt wings growing on his shoulders,
and a terrible eager joy and dread possessed him, for he felt the ice
of the bridge melting away, and the water of the melting ice was
splashing like rain on the river of fire, and as each drop fell a
little puff of white steam arose from the place where it fell. So,
unable to wait till the wings had grown full, he rose to his feet, and
attempted to follow the Angel. But his wings were too weak to bear
him, and he fell clinging to the bridge, which shook beneath him.
Once more he prayed; once more his impatience urged him to rise; and
once more he fell. And the melted ice rained hissing into the river of
fire, and the quick whiffs of white vapour came up from the surface.
Then he committed himself to God's keeping, and waited in meekness and
fortitude, saying, "Whether we live or we die we are in Thy charge,"
and it seemed to him that, so long as it was God's will, it mattered
not at all what happened--whether the bridge crumbled away, dissolving
like a rainbow in the clouds, or whether his body were engulfed in the
torrent of burning.
Then straightway, as he submitted himself thus, his wings grew large
and strong, and he felt the power of them lifting him to his feet, and
with what seemed no more than the effort of a wish he sprang from
narrow way of ice and stood beside the Angel on the mountain.
"Hadst thou not been twice impatient in the cloister," said the Angel,
"thy wings would not have twice failed thee on the bridge. Now, look
around and see!"
Who shall tell the loveliness of the land on which Rheinfrid now gazed
from the mountain? To breathe the clear shining air was in itself
beatitude. He saw angelic figures and heard the singing of angels in
the heavenly gardens glittering far below, and he longed to fly down to
their blessed companionship. Suddenly over the tree-tops of a golden
glade he descried a starry globe which shone like chrysoprase, and
round and round it a little blue bird flew joyously. And so swiftly it
flew that hardly had it gone before it had returned again.
Rheinfrid turned to the Angel to question him, but the Angel, who was
aware of his thoughts, said, "Yes, it is the same globe, only we see it
now from the other side. Each circle that the bird makes is a hundred
years; for five hundred already have you been here, but you must now
return."
Then the Angel touched the monk's head, and Rheinfrid closed his eyes,
and in an instant it seemed to him as though he were awaking from a
long sleep. Cold and rigid were his limbs, and as he tried to sit up
each movement made them ache. He found that he had been lying under an
aged oak. He rubbed his hands together for warmth, and a white lichen
which had overgrown them peeled off in long threads. A heavy white
beard, tangled with grey moss, covered his breast, and the hair of his
head, white and matted with green tendrils, had grown about his body.
Slowly and painfully he moved from tree to tree till he reached a broad
road, and saw before him a bridge, and beyond the river a fair town
clustered on the higher ground. So strange a town he had never beheld
before--such a town as one sees in a foreign land, built with quaint
roofs and gables and curiously coloured. As he crossed the bridge he
met a woman who stared at him in amazement. He raised his head to
speak, but he had lost the power of utterance. The woman waited; and
at last with a feeble stammering speech he asked her the name of the
place. She shook her head and said she did not understand his words,
and with a look of pity she went on her way.
Then down to the bridge came an urchin, and Rheinfrid repeated his
question.
"This is Eovesholme," said the lad.
"That cannot be," said Rheinfrid, "for it is little more than twice
seven days since I left Eovesholme, and this place is noway like the
place you name."
"Nay, but it is Eovesholme," replied the lad, "and you are one of the
monks who used to be here before the King pulled down the Abbey."
"Pulled down the Abbey! Hath King William pulled down the Abbey?"
Rheinfrid asked in bewilderment.
"Nay, it is bluff King Hal who has pulled the Abbey down. Come, and
you shall see."
The lad took Rheinfrid by the hand and led him through the streets till
they came to the ruins. Only one beautiful sculptured arch was left
standing, but Rheinfrid had never seen it before. They passed through
and stood among a litter of stones, tumbled drums of pillars and
fragments of carved mouldings and capitals. Rheinfrid recognised the
spot. The land was the same, and the river, and the far hills, but
nearly all the forest had been cleared, and the Abbey had vanished.
What had happened to him and to them?
"Hast thou where to pass the night, old father?" the lad asked.
Rheinfrid shook his head sorrowfully.
"Then I will show thee a place," he said.
And again he took Rheinfrid by the hand, and let him among the ruins
till they came to a flight of stone steps which led down into the crypt
of the minster. These they descended, and there was a dim light in the
place, and Rheinfrid's heart beat quickly, for he knew the pillars and
vaulted roofs and walls of this undercroft.
"Here you may rest peacefully and sleep well," said the urchin; "no one
will venture here to disturb your slumber."
"Sorrow be far from thee, little son," said Rheinfrid, speaking he
perceived that it was the Child, and that the Child's head was crowned
with roses and that he carried a rose in his hand.
Then the aged monk sank on the cold stones of his old minster, faint
and happy, for he knew now that he had finished his journey. But the
Child touched Rheinfrid's brow with the rose he carried, and the old
man fell asleep, and all the crypt was dark.