The Barghest

They moved in a hushed formation. Hardened skin under bare feet pushing down and squelching into the bog. As mud squeezed through toes, he inhaled sharply. He tried to forgive the scratching sting of frozen clumps knocking his knees. His body understood the infliction of pain and his mind knew no bounds to belief, yet his shoulders shook under the pressure of the coffin and his ankles clicked as they stiffened in the frigid water. He’d watched the tides his whole life. He'd watched the muddied plain never dry as the Northern waters crept with the powerful grumble of unwinding waves. He'd tracked the times and made the journey across the causeway to and from the mainland countless times. It was how his feet had first come to step on the stones of the island, his desperation lifting and placing his bony teenage legs through the causeway like a marionette. Now his feet were leading him away from Lindesfarne, carrying the embodiment of God’s charity and omnibenevolence, carrying an emulation of the giving nature of the very island that had cleansed his body of hunger and gifted his mind with hope.

He breathed in unison with the others, creating collecting spires like billowing chimneys above the wooden box. He grimaced to hold back the tears that haunted his mind at the knowledge of never returning to his sacred home. His eyes continued to scan the darkness, looking for any point to show how far they had left in the varying degrees of greys and blacks. The sharpening of the rising water against the back of his lower thighs made him panic, but he’d long known how to contain himself within the shell of his mortal body. They hadn’t appreciated the immense weight of a saint; how not only was his body as full and hefty as it had always been, but the fear of disrespecting and disturbing his Earthly presence was even more of a burden for their shoulders to balance. Their treads were forceful with such weight but careful with trembling precision. Alas, the water does not slow, not even for the saviours. It is not unforgiving, as he’d heard others within the monastery whisper. He knew the water was not unkind, but it was cyclical and the tide should not be controlled by the land or its people. This is how it was meant to be. He watched the tides to respect the graciousness of the sea for opening up the pathway to the island daily. He saw it as a blessing, and the many whom the tide swept away should have also respected this gift. 

His stomach’s worry pushed sweat out of his palms, pressing into the wood at the memory of watching those bodies slowly sink from afar. That’s when he saw it. When he was trying to calculate how much time they had left by the position of the moon, he saw it out of the corner of his eye. He searched for its antlers and wondered how large a stag must be for it to create such a prominent blur. With each step, each sharp breath, he watched the shape grow, its darkness increasing the chill in the air. He was tempted to ask, to whisper to his fellow men and warn them. Before he could he watched as the creature lowered itself into the bog; its large body unnaturally gliding through the shallows, long legs striding. His eyes widened, desperately searching for its blackness against the grey. He spotted it by the glowing red eyes. Eyes that made him want to scream, to cry for the mother he’d long forgotten. As the creature effortlessly pushed its legs through the mud as if it were air, through the cold his narrow face and triangular ears began to create its forbidden image. He did not know what it was but knew of no dog that could grow to be taller than man with such sheer black hair that seemed to absorb even the moonlight into obsidian.

As it passed the first of the men, he saw the bloody crimson in his eyes was a reflection of the island behind him. In the glistening, he saw the monastery burning. The obscene red and amber blaze of Lindesfarne as its land was flooded in the oily sheen of burning bodies. The monk looked behind him in terror, but he was only met with the consistency of darkness, the continuation of grey hues outlining hills. As the creature passed him he looked up into the vast depths of his ears and heard screaming and destruction. He heard his people gurgle on spurting blood as the high-pitch sting of metal sliced through flesh. He heard the new men chant as they repeatedly throttled and maimed his brothers. He felt his veins swell to bulging worms along his forehead with an anger he had thought buried. As the tears fell from his eyes and his heart sank and buried itself into the bog his legs forgot their task, causing the man behind him to step into his back, and then the one after him. As the coffin creaked at the tipping weight he watched the monster stop. Its dark body slowly turning, its snout twisting to point and accuse. The party stopped in dis-formation, the body of Saint Cuthbert barely balancing atop their slowly breaking structure. As the dripping black nose of the beast lowered, it sniffed his salty eyes mixed with tears and sweat. He watched as a cloud of breath seeped out of its nostrils. It was alive. Death itself breathed and moved and faced him. He looked up into its towering eyes to no longer see the island, no longer see the death of the monastery. He saw himself glimmering in the icy reflection. He saw himself older, further. He saw himself with a knife between his cracking ribs, convulsing as he bled. He saw himself dying.

They all watched him, silent and afraid and irritated. He cowered, shaking, his eyes trailing the beast as it returned on its track for Lindesfarne, for his beloved Holy Island. He knew as soon as it reached the shore and its long legs heaved its mass up onto the rocks that the new men’s boats would follow. That’s when all his brothers would die and his home burn. But not the Saint. He finally breathed. His mouth opened as he invited air and life back into his body, into his mortal purpose. They would succeed in saving Saint Cuthbert, because he now knew when his task here would be over.