Egelric sees signs of magic or a miracle
Egelric walked fast enough that Father Brandt could not talk if he expected to keep up. This was deliberate. The last thing Egelric wanted to do just then was talk, and the last person he would have wanted to talk to was Father Brandt.
As they got closer to the church, Egelric saw the crowd of peasants and, more importantly, a tall shape against the sky that had not been there the day before. Father Brandt had not told a lie.
“Get back!” Father Brandt roared. “Let us through.” The tall priest plowed a path through the crowd and led Egelric through.
The peasants had been keeping a respectful distance from the strange sight, and now they kept a respectful distance from Egelric as well, but in Father Brandt’s presence none dared to make a sign to ward off the evil eye.
Once through, the priest stood back and allowed Egelric to approach the grave alone.
It was either magic or a miracle.
Overnight a massive willow tree had grown out of Elfleda’s grave. If that were not strange enough, the tree was green and leafy as Midsummer, though it was early November.
Egelric approached hesitantly, twisting the fingers of his trembling hands.
The earth was damp and disturbed. The grave had been filled in the very day it had been discovered open, but he could see that the dirt had been stirred since then – no doubt last night. Of course, if one were to plant a tree… but one didn’t plant a tree that was taller even than the bell tower of the church!
Nor could the small patch of turned earth account for the massive roots of such a tree. The tree had simply grown there – grown a hundred years in one night.
Well, it was not the strangest thing he had yet seen in the valley.
“Are you there?” he whispered, staring down at the grave. Had her body been returned? They could never know now – surely the roots of the tree had wrapped her round.
“Or are you there?” he asked the tree.
Had she…? Could she be…?
The tree’s stringy branches tossed in the wind like tresses of hair.
He thought he might be able to tell if he touched the rough trunk. But he did not dare.
“I know no word for this but miracle,” Father Brandt said gently behind him.
“Perhaps now you will be sorry you did not bury her in the churchyard,” Egelric snarled.
“I always have been sorry I could not. Dost think she is in there?”
“In the earth or in the tree?”
“In the earth, I mean.”
“Perhaps the elves did this, and brought her home,” Egelric said.
“I know not what they might do.”
“And put the tree here to prevent her from being disturbed again.”
“I know not what they might do,” Father Brandt repeated.
“You would rather believe in a miracle that comes to a damned woman than believe in the magic of elves.”
“I would.”
“I would rather believe that the elves did more for her than you would.”
Egelric turned away from the priest in disgust and nearly ran into the wise woman, Mother Duna.
“Squire,” she said softly. “It is a good omen.”
“An omen?” he asked, shaking his head. “This is far more than an omen. This is the sort of thing of which omens tell.”
He tried to push past her, but she followed. “It is a willow tree. This is a tree of protection.”
“And of mourning, and of unhappy love. Leave me pass.”
“You should talk to her mother. She would know.”
“Her mother will not speak to me. Leave me pass.”
“It is a good omen. I will tell the people.”
She let him pass.
