A potent, musty smell clung to the air. It was thick and gloopy; cold and smooth like wad of honey. Heavy and intruding, the smell was smokey like cooked ham. Accenting the air, the lukewarm sun layered itself with the cold sweeping of the wind. Before me lied a river, which gushed with furiosity. Condensing the air that drifted close to it, there appeared to be a sheet of vapour drifting over the bitter water. It was here that I found myself most evenings of my adolescence, sat stout on a little path of crackly stone steps that led right into the water, designed so boats could take to the land. Adorning the riverside towpath was an assortment of trees. Each leaf was a different hue, forming an ensemble of golden yellows, muted greens and bloody reds. They were yet to tumble to the floor, and find themselves embedded in the squishy, wet mud. The rusty colours, the mellow, smokey must, the stirring warmth all melded to form a golden tenderness.
But soon, a black gloom began to sneak into the orange sky. Fog sprouted from and around the river, which now appeared like dark, shattered glass. The frowsy haze became thin and soft before a sharp cold struck through it. Night had fallen quickly, leaving a terrific cold. Though I was dressed snugly, I still felt a chilly sting that made my hands and spine feel tight and stiff. Silent aside from the running water and distant motorway; the smell of gassy fuel filled my senses. Nights felt so palpable, like you could cut straight through them. The freezing air seemed to latch on and bundle you up tightly, the moon was obscured and shrouded behind an expanse of pale fog, and it’s moonlight was twisted and bastardised as it broke through the mist.
I loved the riverside, the towpath, the water and everything else besides. I sat like a toadstool beside it. Tonight, all that preoccupied my static thoughts and blank gaze was the swans that glided like doughy clouds over the slick water. They were always sinister looking animals. They had very little eyes, no larger than a screw, which I remember being the most frightening part about them when I was younger, other than their very confronting size. I’d seen them do battle with dogs, snarling like rattlesnakes and battering their chests with their enormous wings. They had egregiously long necks, bent and craned, coiled so that they were ready to strike, and they often did. I watched them each night grapple, chomp and bite as one pursued another at a dishearteningly scary pace in the water.
In truth, I’d always been more at peace with animals, though I was only really drawn to the ones untypical to consort with. For eleven nights in a row, I’d seen what I believed to be a local fox gallivanting or otherwise running amuck. He came out late, so I’d only ever see him cast by static street lamps or by light seeping from windows as he crept gingerly around people’s homes, tearing sluggishly into their bin bags and vegetable gardens.
Once, as I sat desperately still in my garden one September night, the fox had trusted me enough to creep close. He was lightly treding across the rain soaked ground, stalking insects in the grass. His shrewd, long face was focussed, and he arked his slender body, ready to pounce. Close as he had come, he seemed to be weary of me, but not provoked. Often, we’d find butchered pigeons over our grass early in the morning; that night I watched the culprit roughly pat and slash at the worms in the grass, scooping them between his paws and haphazardly trying to shove them in his snarling jaws. After he was finished, and his chops were battered in mushy worm discharge, he looked at me and flopped onto his side like a playful cat.
I decided to brave an approach. He was much larger up close, his fur seemed more puffed out, whereas he usually seemed quite skinny and wretched. Remember, these aren’t beautiful country foxes with fur as orange as pumpkins - these lot were dim, ratty little urban creatures. He sat calmly, not in the least bit startled as I gingerly reached out my hand to pat his head. He pulled away before I could, sulking off once more. He’d burrowed a little escape ditch bellow my garden fence, which was frequented by his kind and cats alike, and from there he scuppered off into obscurity.
Though the pleasantry of night time solidified my incorrigible loneliness, I wasn’t stupid enough to sit there till the sun limply spat its glow into the haze of autumn. The next morning I had to trudge to work, arriving barely after morning prayers had subsided.
The emerald green spire of St Anne’s Church shot up tall and poked the belly of the sky. A beautiful feat of architecture once, in the twilight of its long weighing concernment, the church was as impressive as a chicken shop; as stately as a field of grass. Pigeons cradled themselves cozily within the grime-soaked nooks of the church; wrapping their soot drenched wings around their sunken frames. Having long made the roof their nests, they purred deeply and laconically; constantly. Along the steeples, outside and in, they fluttered, scooted and cooed without respite. During mass, you could hardly hear the sermon, and instead just them.
That morning, above the doorway on the centuries old stone ridge above it, sat a content crow that loomed it’s head forwards to look upon me. I parted the large wooden doors that barricaded the church shut. I felt like a child opening the seal to a great tomb, and a tomb it very much was. A congression was filtering out of their seats as I stood stolid in their way. They filtered out all around me, their lemon faces slowly tuning into smiles. They were mostly old ladies and gentlemen, plus a few young families - the kind who you’d imagine dressed in cardigans, cactus green trousers, polished shoes and such. Once they had dissipated, there was no one inside aside from a lonely priest: Father Bramwell. He sat in the middle of the church’s rowed seats, slumped over and dryly mumbling to himself.
“Father.” I said shyly, though my voice still boomed like an actress’ in the church. Bramwell spun around to properly sit facing me, and didn’t justify the extended period of silence by looking deep in thought, but instead just stared back with disembodied nothingness. “Hello.” He said, twisting his face into a smile. I collected my gear from the cupboard opposite the toilets and got to work.
The courtyard was a grotty mess and no morning was ever without toil. The first day I’d starting working here, the grass was thick and twisted like extension cords, so much so that the lawnmower cut through it about as smoothly as it would’ve concrete. I felt the old boar choke to near-death more than once, only resuscitated once I pried a network of smudgy garden waste from its jaws. Thick mud skirted the base of the church proper, but all I had at my disposal to rid it was a gimpy little plastic spade more suited to chucking up sand in the play area than churning mud thicker than a double-glazed window. It resembled more of a spork once it was cleared. It was no wonder this place had fallen so dishevelled, to the point that the Church of England was now eager to cough up a wage and sort it out.
Everyday looked like this, aside from Mondays and Saturdays, where I layed sardonically slumped in my bed and got up to a whole lot of nothing. I’d burn through sludge and squalor in the church gardens, sometimes slinging pigeons out of the toilet cubicles with the butt of my broom, then I’d retire to the riverbank, never quite losing my love for it even as the temperatures turned to somber or the winds blew a fierce squall.
Often at the church they’d have itinerant groups of schoolchildren, drawn away their bemusement and education to learn about the crucifixion, the Nativity, though at this time of year it was a fairly uninviting episode of the Bible being told. On a day marked by devout and pounding rainfall, Father Bramwell had about thirty of the children enthralled when I came in to take my break. I don’t remember the story he was telling, but I assure you that you could guess it correctly. I’d gone to their primary and experienced the same three stories over and over again.
I was well versed in his world, at least compared to most people. I’d gone to a Catholic primary school and been raised in a highly Christian orphanage. Though many years separated me and my stint in the world of Christianity, through the innocuous mediums of the internet, I’d delved into the oddly disturbing worlds of the Bible, folklore and various religions - dead, obscure and thriving. As the months floated by, I’d only felt more compelled to pick the brain of my resident Anglican priest on these matters that vested my mind thoroughly. It was that day that I would, as Bramwell came and sat with me.
The children piled around one another on the floor of the hall, their teacher among them, as Bramwell stepped into his kitchen. The church was his home as much as it was apart of the community, he lived here and kept an open door. I could hardly even imagine how he stomached it and kept even his stingy smile. I didn’t know how to initially set up my string of questions. This was my first attempt at talking to the guy, I didn’t even have a goddamn interview, so I watered him down with some inoffensive small talk, but he soon choked down his biscuits and quickly returned to teaching.
The next day, I tried anew, my intrigue into the mind of this priest growing further. We built up a brief rapport, though I soon felt the pressure of his lazy gaze mounting before he commented that he didn’t like keeping me so long from work.
But the third day brought my mission to salvation. A new score of schoolchildren, this time from a couple years above the first, had come for their lesson. It proved to be as banal as the other attempts at investing these young minds in God, but these lot bore the hallmarks of a disgruntled, bored and non-believing lot, the kind I had grown into at their age. The church really should’ve stuck to the old script of warmongering, concubines, prophecies, philosophy and city squashing, because the Feeding of the Five Thousand wasn’t doing much for this enlightened pack of characters. I met Bramwell again in the kitchen; he seemed a little comforted – likely as his sullen face matched mine.
Our idle chatter began to flow more naturally than before, perhaps because I was the only one paying him any attention. For the first time, I had earnest pity for the man, as he looked very out of it. “Do you think they’d respond better if you were telling stories about Thor and Loki?” He actually laughed, the first time I’d seen him do so. His real smile was nowhere near as laughably plastic as his engineered one. “You’re probably right.” He murmured placidly. The door was open ajar. “Weren’t this place once a… pagan, kinda, worship place?” I asked him. Clearly excitedly, Bramwell began stammering as he spoke, though he wasn’t even going particularly fast.
“Most churches in England, I can’t speak too confidently elsewhere, but defiently most former ‘pagan’ countries, churches are located in important places to the community. And in the pre-christian times that you’re thinking of, the same can be said for their places or sites of worship, so while this church is not medieval or Anglo-Saxon, this would’ve been the main designated spot for the town to worship for either religion. So not only was it just, you know, convenient worship right here, but in a way the church also wanted to stress a continuation between the old religion and new. Do you get what I’m saying?” “I guess, yeah.” I said despite his speech being a jarbelled mess. “Can I ask you a question? It might be a bit… unkind.” “Go ahead.” He welcomed with a smile. “I kind of view your beliefs in a historical way, you know, so when I think of Christianity I think of the middle ages, kings and, you know, all these ridiculous and other worldly people that I can’t really relate to. How do you view your religion?” “I view it as for today.” He answered sumptuously. “These beliefs, they invest my everyday, they’re not just fairy tales.” “Alright, I get you.” I basically murmured. I couldn’t help but think I’d insulted him, especially once he rose from his seat. “We’d better get back to it.” He finished, leaving me to garner more questions, snowballing them all in my brain.
Over the next two weeks, Bramwell and I always discussed these things during our breaks. Most days I didn’t exactly understand what he was taking a break from. People would come and go from the church to speak to him or to rent out the hall for their kid’s birthday parties. I’d even seen him hearing a couple of confessions. My back grew weak with all my labours, though a peculiar acquaintanceship was beginning to emerge between me and Bramwell that I strangely took to. We discussed the more sinister parts of the Bible, he told me which parts he truly didn’t believe, we spoke on the Day of Judgement and the very intimate nature of his beliefs and world view, which I grew far more fascinated with than I had ever thought I would be. I wasn’t too proud and militant to shoot down what he had to say, even if I discerned each story he told me as a fable, rather than the historical fact he believed it to be. I was perfectly happy to imagine a world where the supernatural can coexist with our founded banality, though I could only do it by leaving reality at the door.
But it was one detail of one story that particularly stuck with me. We were again talking about the Vikings, one of our more secular tangents, when he mentioned a man named Olaf Tryggvason. “He was the man who would one day become king of Norway,” Bramwell explained. “During his reign, he was very forceful with converting the populations to Christianity. But did you know, he was once here?” “Really?”
“It was in, I believe, the 980s. Olaf Tryggvason was a Christian who fared from the Orkney Islands, which were pretty thoroughly Norwegian at the time. Norway itself was still a deeply pagan country. There had been a Christian king before this, but he made a poultry attempt at converting the locals. It would be Olaf who kept this conversion going, however, but that’s not till later. He had spent time in Russia and now, despire being a Christian, he set his sights on raiding the British Isles. He came here with his viking marauders, and sailed up the Thames. They sacked Maldon, Staines and Reading, but they also stopped here in Putnam Green.”
“Wow.” I murmured. “And what, did they attack the town?” “Some of them probably caused a stir, but that’s not the main part.” He quickly moved on. “We have records, kept in London, that a couple of the pagans were converted right here, where we’re sitting. Well, you know, at whatever church was here at the time.” “That’s fucking awesome.” I said. “Sorry, for, uh…” “No worries.” He laughed it off. “But have you ever been told about the tomb?” “No.” “You know Hergenby, down the river about an hour away?” “Yeah, of course.” “Little know fact - it’s short for old English, I believe: hergend byrgel.” He explained. “Or, Plunderer’s tomb. It’s named after one of these vikings who was buried up there.”
The story clung to my brain like fungus, as so many of Bramwell’s tales did. I obviously didn’t buy into many of his subtle persuasions, but this I had no reason to doubt. The idea of the burial site beguiled me far greater than any unsubstantial story or historical epic - this was something tangible, maybe even still physically amidst my everyday surroundings.
I coveted every piece of information that drew me closer to the tomb, the raiders who came to my town over a millennia ago. At first it began as a general probe over every available video and documentary I could find online and soon I found myself staying awake for long nights watching them, reading and scouring every website that made mention of King Olaf or my towns history. The details were sporadic - barer than a sterile wasteland. It almost felt mocking, as though the information was being withheld to tantalise me even further.
I paid for access to the church records next, the ones Bramwell had mentioned. Soon I stayed up in the dark on my computer so late, I felt my eyes begin to wilt and grow foggy and dry; pusy and red and squinting. I sat by the riverbank with a notepad, my phone and an Old English translation book, scanning over archaic documents and works compiled by men of a different age to my own. It was wonderfully spiritual, my descent into obsession.
And soon I believed I had the answer. There was no church in Hergenby anymore. The site that once housed Saint Edmund’s Church was demolished in 1652, a former Catholic priory. Now standing there was a rugby club, who’s field backed onto a row of plotted Victorian houses. If the viking was a Christian, he would have been buried there centuries before its destruction. I found it impossible to quench my hunger any further, I set off for Hergenby as soon as the sun rose.