Carved from the chalk escarpment that rose above, where the wind puppies dash and dart. Their formless shapes carving swathes through ripening wheat and winter pasture that narrow to an arrow point before swelling and running off across the flattened plain that looks to the casual observer like the edge of the World. There, just below the lip of this formless place lies the Chapel.
Crouched down below the puppies' realm, nestling in its hollow below the ridge, and above the well worn track that man and sheep have trodden for centuries. Hurrying by from the strange haunted, lonely prospect of plain, chapel and lake. Bordered by a small glint of lake where a pair of swans, majestic in their proprietorial arrogance of all things aquatic. Knavely ducks fall back before their regal approach. A dab-chick apes their maker by running fast, an illusion of water walking.
In the statuesque reeds a Coot calls it's lonely cry, with only the occasional response from a passing gull high overhead. Who built the small soft limestone building is not recorded, neither did it matter to anyone. The slate roof had seen off a thousand rains and snows. The arrow slit windows, glassless but behind which no eyes kept lookout.
The oak, metal studded door, with its heavy iron latch so rarely lifted shut the moaning, aching world out. Not in living memory had any priest thrown wide that portal and welcomed in his flock driven down by the wind puppies above to seek the shelter and spiritual succour that lay within.
No weary bodies lie here for eternity. No passers by come close and wonder at how this singular chapel was erected so far from habitation. Few sheep come this way now, the chapel stands alone, forgotten; that is how many prefer it to be. But not she. Her life had been spent in the village below. Here she was born and raised.
Her schooling had been poor as each day had been a torture from pupils and elders alike. She was marked. Blood red it spread across her cheek. A two pronged scar that no other in the district had. She had scrubbed and scrubbed, but the evil disfigurement had resisted and looked back, redder and angrier.
She plunged her childish face into her mother's apron and wept her tears. Ugly, horrible, marked for life. What future did she have. Her mother too had wept and pulled away from her own child. She it was who suffered the sideways looks, the turned backs and averted eyes. She knew those looks. There was no truth in it. She had not lain with the Devil, her child was not his. Her man had gone, he could not take the comments, the fear and hatred. No more children would swell her belly.
They had lived the life of the outcasts, but there was no other place for them. Here they must remain until at last they would be brought to sweet repose and lie within the land alongside saints and sinners from years past.
The daughter - letís call her Agness - as that is what her mother named her. That woman seemed as afraid of her as the others and treated her harshly. Scolding and beating her for even the smallest misdemeanour. A name that means "chaste" as indeed she would be for no one would want a girl with the mark of the Devil upon her. Agness took to walking alone on the Plain.
Her old dog, her only friend, accompanied her, but looked askance at the wind puppies that advanced upon him and challenged him to play. So it was that the two of them came upon the chapel. The girl was at first afraid at the loneliness that seeped from every rocky pore. Over time, she came to learn that this small fortress was her friend, her companion when times were hard and words hung in her like the barbed arrows that the boys used to bring down the King's deer.
She would lie beneath the draught breeze of the puppiesí breath and let the sun bathe her with its warmth. Long thin fingers traced the patterns that the lichen made upon the stone and she would pick the green, clinging moss from the north side to reveal a cold, damp stain beneath that slowly dried as the light weakly fell against it.
Sometimes, when the heat became intolerable she would lift her shift and slowly sink waist deep into the cool welcoming water that was to her, her private lake. At times she would disrobe entirely and then gasp with a chilled delight as the coldness clasped her chest and clung tight in its icy grip.
Afterwards, lying naked on the grass whilst the sun dried her she saw for the first time an apparition. No, a real man! She shrank back praying for a miraculous lifting of the turf to envelope her. He was tall dark skinned and muscular. Dark hair, flecked with wisps of silver cut short sat atop his square jawed, Norse looks. Something leapt in her breast. A feeling that she had dared not hope that she would ever experience.
But now she felt real physical attraction. Daring not breathe in case he saw her, she lay still and silent. With widening eyes she watched as he pulled his own woolen tunic off and slowly waded into the welcoming, cooling water. She couldn't help but point her lust filled eyes at that point beneath his waist and imagine the pleasure. She watched as his torso dipped beneath the darkness of the lake and with strong, even strokes he swam to the middle and lay back the better to let the heat and cool to mingle on his burnt skin.
Like a surprised serpent Agness struck for the safety of the building. She slithered on her belly, her skin brushing roughly against the grasses until she was at last hidden. Swiftly she pulled her shift back on and then crouched wondering what to do now. She dare not be seen this far from the village, her mother would beat her. But neither could she escape.
She held her old dog for guidance but he simply glared up to where the wind puppies raced and offered no consolation. She walked forward as if she had simply passed behind the chapel. There was no path there, if he saw her then he would know that she had been hiding. She walked fast, not looking back and stayed at a pace for a mile or more before daring to peek back. The chapel was gone, as was the man. A deep, dissatisfied sigh broke within her and she slowed her gait to a walk.
She had to return. To visit the chapel again. A hot morning haze lay across the village as she walked purposefully away. The embers of cooking fires twinkling like precious stones in cooling ash soon to be reborn as pottage's and stews got underway. On she pushed hurriedly; today she did not want the company of the village boys who jeered and called her names.
Striding out she climbed the winding track that reached out to the top of the ridge that formed the edge of the plain. She followed the edge until at last she saw the roof of the chapel and the beckoning water that lay alongside. Today she was off to see her LOVER! For that is what she meant for him to be.
She hid silently behind the building again. Watching and waiting. She prayed that he would come again. Who he was barely crossed her mind, she just knew that she wanted to be close to him. To feel his eyes bore deep in to her and to feel his arms cradle her as she clung to him and drew his life into hers.
The morning passed and he did not come. She felt silly now. He was probably just a passing pilgrim resting and easing his heat soaked skin with a swift bath. He would have no time for a girl with red hair, a barely tolerated outcast from her own village. She wished she'd brought her dog. She could have walked off with him and amused herself at his irritation when the wind puppies blew his fur backwards and spat dry earth in his eyes.
Her knees ached from being locked in their prayerful state as she slowly clambered to her feet and brushed the dead grass from the front of her shift. Wistfully she looked back at the lake, a final glance, how she hoped. But nothing. The sun was high and she knew that her mother would be unhappy that she had been away so long. There was wood to gather, and eggs to find.
As she made off across the sheep grazed grass she saw from the corner of her eye a ripple form on the lake. Agness stopped and stared hard as concentric circles spiraled larger and larger until at length the first ones lapped into the reeds shaking them gently as if an invisible hand was slowly caressing them.
However, it was the centre of the circles that really had her attention. She saw a head, his head. He turned and looked straight at her. His blue eyes seemed to almost enter her soul as if to say "may I help?". Without taking his gaze from her for a second he swam towards her. She inched forward to meet him.
They sat together on the edge of the river. On a plank of wood that seemed to have been put there for the purpose of a nervous girl and her water man to while away an hour or so. He explained that he was not a priest but a man sent up from St Botolphís Monastery to gather the tithes. She had heard of the monastery. Knew it even. It was a ruin. How could he have come from there? As for tithes. Did not the freemen pay theirs to their own master, the Lord? Maybe he gave money to the church, but no one that she knew did. This man intrigued her.
At length she realised that now the day had worn on well and that when she returned to her mother it would not just be harsh words that would come her way. Her mother would beat her, she was sure of it. Not for her the excited girlish laughter as they discussed the handsome stranger and the effect that he was having on the younger woman.
He raised his fingers and traced her scar. Her face blazed as red as that stain on her. She pulled away. His fingers hovered and then returned to her face. This time she let him. He was curious, but not critical. He let the fingers drop to her mouth and gently, almost butterfly like, he ran the tip of his forefinger around her lower lip. Lightly pulling it down to expose her teeth beneath. She was transfixed. Spellbound. She pushed her head forward to him and he tenderly and oh, so gently delicately pressed his lips to hers. Her breath was halted as she returned his affection. Deep within her she felt her heart leap and her stomach clench.
He pulled back, his magic cast. She looked at him with longing, like a small child who can see the freshly baked cakes but cannot, yet, be allowed one. He took her hand and held it to his chest. She thrilled at his warm naked skin. She felt his heart beating, no it was her own. Thumping with the excitement of discovery. An exhilarated squeal burst out of her as, overcome with the moment, she flung herself into his arms. There they lay. Joined together. Their love as one.
No one missed Agness when she didn't return. Not for a day or two. Her mother eventually made a cursory search.
The boys that called her names searched wider still. Only her old dog knew where she was. Where she is.
Go past that chapel now. Look into the lake. Perhaps, on a still summer's day you will see deep in the water not just your own reflection but something else. Like two bodies entwined as one.
They do say that it is a magical place where if your love is true, you may just happen to see a man and his love, she with a scar like the Devil's horns smiling up at you from deep beneath those steely waters.
Photo 1 by kretyen
Photo 2 by Lida Rose
