The Wooden Cathedral

Only forty years ago, a mighty storm hit the coast of Blato. The sea swallowed much of the land and its inhabitants. The sea returned to its old place, leaving alga covered eggs behind.
The wind that whipped and stirred the salt waters of the sea was a catastrophe to the woods. All trees went down, their mighty crowns dropped forever in the mud. Large areas of land became covered with fallen, stinking, rotting trees, a place where predators had the time of their lives. The catastrophe was called the Big Treefall and tales of it were told aeons afterwards.
During those years, a new wood grew. Tiny willows and poplars became large, strong trees, their roots solid in the soil of peat and rotting old wood. But the mighty oaks never returned in the lower parts of Blato.

It was a heavy and damp mist that hung over Blato for days. It was impossible to tell any direction, and the sun was covered. Light came from everywhere, and sometimes it was as if fireflies swam in the fog. The strange light hurt the eyes of the travellers.
When the night came, the fog would turn from hellish orange to fierce red, deep purple and dark blue and finally there was nothing to see anymore. The day came, and the light coloured the fog in reverse order. It wasn’t hot, nor cold, but the fog made everything damp and sweaty. It seemed the soil itself sweated.
It was difficult to travel. They only went forward because it wasn’t any use to stay in the same place all the time, or going back, for that matter. Gijs hoped the fog would go away soon. He felt they might be moving in circles, though the landscape -as far as he could see it- changed even when he was looking at it. The veil of fog hid most of the changes, and the monsters, and the devils, behind the blurred green bushes.
So they moved on, and hardly spoke. They caught a few fishes and birds for food, and found some berries to eat. They walked for days now, and even the horses seemed tired and scared.
It was one evening, when the fog turned a lighter shade of orange, that the soil became more steady and sandy, and the trees higher than they had ever seen before. The branches, high above their heads, dropped their shadow a curving path, nothing more than an animal track.
“Look,” said Wilfryd, “These are oaks. Are we still in the Lower Lands? Or have we returned to the Vain Old Land?”
“It will be dark soon,” Wendelmoed replied, “We’d better look around to find out if it’s safe here and then find a place to sleep.”
So they split up and walked around under the high trees. They found out the sandy hill was not very high nor very big, but big enough to get lost in. There was a small well under a big old oak, and the water was cool and fresh. They decided to put up camp there, under a low, broad branch, where dry grasses provided a soft bed.
Gijs walked a little away from the camp, but not too far. He never went out of sight of the firelight. He kneeled in silence and began to pray, muttering the strange words, whispering his prayers. And as he did so, he noticed he heard nothing but his prayer, the fire behind him, the soft voices of his companions. He heard no animals, no birds, no wind in the trees. A shiver ran down his spine and hit his heart. He prayed even louder now, stronger, hoping his god would hear him and give him a restful, peaceful night. “Thank You, and Amen.”
He returned to the fire and soon fell asleep next to his friends. The fire kept burning, and disturbing shadows moved along its outer limits, but didn’t come closer.
Wilfryd was on guard, and he sat deep in his cloak, watching the oaks, staring into the fire, keeping an eye on his little sister, his other two friends and the slightly uneasy horses. He also noticed he couldn’t hear any life in this ancient wood. And he wondered why the trees hadn’t fallen in the Big Treefall. He had seen some of the fallen trees near Udl, and those oaks and beech trees had been bigger and stronger than the ones surrounding him now. It scared him and he held his sword tighter.

The dawn came, and morning dew covered their cloaks. The sun shone brightly through the oak leafs. They got up, and Wendelmoed, who had the last watch, had made them a hot herb tea. The fog was gone and if they ever doubted their eyesight, now they were reassured it wasn’t their eyes that had blurred the landscape.
After a long breakfast with the hot brew, some old double baked bread and fresh, sweet berries, they left the camp place. They walked through the wood, lightfeeted and filled with hope. The clear green trees, the herbs, the grasses and bushes were welcome after the days in the grey swamps.
Gijs started to sing his song, the only song he knew, and he didn’t know the whole of it anyway. “The birds have started to build their nests, build their nest to lay eggs and rest, except for you and me, what are we waiting for honey?”
He sang it over and over again, until Wendelmoed told him to shut up. He did, but then the silence of the wood fell over them. No bird songs, no buzzing of insects, no other sound of life, no wind whispering through the leafs. It scared them.
The first sound they heard, was the thunder. It growled and rolled through the air, as Tiwaz expressed his anger. Dark clouds covered the sky, quickly and pregnant. Another thunder stroke was heard, and shortly after that the first heavy raindrops hit the leafs. In a few moments, everything was soaked. The sandy path had turned to mud, and pools came alive everywhere around them. It was as if the wood had waited for this to happen. It came to life. They didn’t see much in the darkened wood, but they heard it nevertheless. A whimbrel sang high above them, worms looked out of the mud. A deer ran over the path, it’s white tail shimmering like a ghost.

Then they found the dry spot. At first, it just seemed another part of the wood, where the trees were even higher than the ones surrounding this spot. A darkness hung over the spot, where the sun was hidden by clouds and leafs. The sandy soil was uncovered, no plants grew here, and fallen leafs and twigs weren’t around. That was strange.
Then, Maike discovered the dead twigs strung to the living twigs, making improvised roof and walls. Not only twigs but also big branches where high in the trees to make something of a structure. Yet, there was no sign of human life.
Tiwaz hit again, lightning flashed through clouds and leafs alike, thunder rolled through the darkened sky, and seemed to echo through the structure.
“There is something on the other end,” Wendelmoed said. Nobody dared to move now. “It looked like a stone,” she whispered.
They waited till Tiwaz struck again and the bright light of his anger lit the whole spot. And indeed, on the other end of the structure a stone stood upright in the sand. It was a huge dark stone, the size of a bed. They walked a little closer, scared but curious. What kind of stone could stand here? This part of Blato had no big boulders, like the eastern Marks had.
Maike heard whisperings, chants in a strange language. She turned to Gijs and told him to stop praying because it scared her; she felt this spot was a sacred place of something or another, but definitely not the Christ’s.
“I’m not praying,” Gijs said in a small, trembling voice. They both heard the chanting grow louder, accompanied by the increasing rhythm of their heartbeat.
Now fear struck, all four they ran to the wall of the structure and hid themselves in the bushes, close against each other, so they heard each others heartbeat growing faster every moment. The horses ran even further, panic struck.

An era later, or so they thought, green clad men and women reached the structure, chanting in a loud voice. Their chants were so loud, the cries of the young girl in their midst could hardly be heard.
“Grote geest van de gronden,” so they chanted, “Neem dit offer, neem dit offer.” Again and again, droning through the wood, the sounds of their stamping clogs and the pouring rain added to it.
“Net triuwe!” the girl cried as she felt to her knees, right in front of the boulder. Someone hit her, and unconscious she fell in the wet sand. Two man picked her up and laid her ungently on the boulder. One suddenly held a big knife in his hand.
“Oh, no, they are going to sacrifice her,” Wilfryd whispered. He wanted to turn his eyes away, but it wasn’t something for a knight to look away. He reached for his sword, but found it in the hands of Wendelmoed. She looked enraged, and Wilfryd felt afraid of her. What was it she had in mind?

[To part 2]