Cædmon The Cowherd

One day a little boy stood by a fishing-boat from which he had just
leaped. He dug his toe in the sand and looked up to the edge of the
rocky cliff above him.

"What dost see, lad?" said his uncle, who was tossing his catch of fish
to the sand; "creatures of the mist in the clouds yonder?"

"Nay, uncle," answered Finan, "there is no Grendel in the clouds.
Last night at the Hall a man sang to the harp that Grendel was a
moor-treader. Also he told of the deeds of the hero Beowulf, and he
said that Beowulf had killed Grendel."

Finan's eyes were on the distant moor, which was the color of flame in
the evening light. Already twinkling above were little stars bright as
the sheen of elves. There, he knew, for everybody said so, lived elf
and giant and monster. There in the moor pools lived the water-elves.
Across its flame of heather strode mighty march-gangers like Grendel,
and in the dark places of the mountains lived a dragon, crouched above
his pile of gold and treasure.

There stood the miraculous tree, of great size, on which were carved
the figures of beasts and birds and strange letters which told what
gods the heathen worshiped before the gentle religion of Christ was
brought to England. There lived the Wolf-Man, too, so friendless and
wild that he became the comrade of the wolves which howled in those
dark places. There lived a bear, old and terrible, and the wild boar
rooting up acorns with his huge curved tusks.

Nearer the village was the wolf's-head tree--more terrible tree than
any in the mysteries of forest and fen-land. This was the gallows on
which the village folk hung those who did evil. Finan could see the
tree where it stood alone in the sunset light. And he heard the rough
cawing of ravens as they settled down into its dark branches to roost.

"Caw, caw," croaked one raven, "ba-a-d man, ba-ad man."

"Caw, caw," sang another raven, "ba-ad."

Then they flapped their wings and settled to their sleep.

"Uncle," Finan said, "I will go up the cliffside."

The fisherman looked up. He heard the chanting from the church, and saw
an immense white cross upright on the cliff's edge. But he knew not of
what adventure little Finan was thinking.

"Aye," he said, "go. Perhaps you will see the blessed Hild."

So it came about that little Finan climbed the cliff on that evening
which was to prove a night wonderful in its miracle. There was born
that night that which, like the love of Christ, has made children's
lives better and happier.

Finan reached the top of the cliff by those steps which were cut into
it, and then took the main road, paved and straight, which led toward
the Great Hall. He went along slowly under the apple-trees. He saw a
black-haired Welsh woman draw water. Little children not so big as
Finan were sitting on the steps by their mothers, who were spinning
in their doorways. He passed a dog gnawing a bone flung to it for its
supper.

A cobbler, laying by his tools, looking up, saw Finan and greeted
him. A jeweler was fixing ornaments on a huge horn he had polished.
Carpenters were leaving a little cottage which they were building.
The road was full of men--swineherds and cowherds, plowboys and
wood-choppers from the forests beyond, gardeners and shepherds--all on
their way to the Great Hall. Some men there were in armor, too, their
long hair floating over their shoulders.

Inside the windows, which in those days contained no window-glass,
torches and firelight would soon begin to flame, and mead would be
passed. Already a loud horn was calling all who would to come.

Suddenly something sharp stabbed Finan, and he cried out.

A man, a woman, and a little child came rushing from one of the
household yards, flapping their garments and screaming: "The bees! The
bees!"

They had just found their precious hive empty. The bees had swarmed,
and unless they could find them there would be no more sweet-smelling
mead made from honey in that household that year.

Another bee stung Finan. And there they were clinging to a low apple
bough just above his head. They hung in a great cluster, like a bunch
of dark grapes.

"Dame," said a cowherd, who was in the road, to the people who were
crying out for their bees, "yonder lad knows where the bees are."

Finan rubbed his head and looked up at the angry, humming swarm.

"Aye," he said, and laughed.

"Throw gravel on the swarming bees," called the cowherd, Cædmon.

The man and woman and Finan took handfuls of gravel from the roadside
and flung them over the bees, and sang again and again, "Never to the
wood, fly ye wildly more!"

Then they laughed, and the bees swarmed.

"Now," said Cædmon, who was a wise cowherd, "hang veneria on the hive,
and if ye would have them safe lay on the hive a plant of madder. Then
can naught lure them away."

When they reached the Hall folk were already eating inside. Little
Finan saw Cædmon go in quietly, for Cædmon was attached to the Abbess
Hild's monastery and had a right to go in and eat. Inside they were
singing for the sake of mirth, and the torches and firelight were
flaming.

Through the open window--for windows were always open then, and the
word window meant literally "wind-eye"--Finan saw the harp being passed
from one to another.

They sang many songs as the harp passed from hand to hand, songs of war
and songs of home.

But when the harp was passed to Cædmon, who had charmed the bees, he
shook his head sorrowfully, saying that he could not sing, and got up
sad and ashamed and went out.

Little Finan wanted to shout through the window to him to sing about
the bees. He did not dare, for he was afraid of being discovered.
Instead he followed behind Cædmon. He wished to ask him why he could
not sing. This he did not dare to do, either, but he went on to the
fold where the cowherd had gone to care for the cattle. And there
on the edge of the fold the little boy, unseen by the cowherd, fell
asleep. Shortly afterward Cædmon, too, fell asleep.

It must have been near the middle of the night when the stars one and
all were shining and dancing with the sheen of millions and millions of
elves, and the sea down below the cliff was singing a mighty lullabye,
that little Finan started wide awake, hearing a voice speak.

"Cædmon," spoke a man who stood beside the sleeping cowherd, "sing me
something."

Cædmon drowsily answered: "I cannot sing anything. Therefore went I
away from the mirth and came here, for I know not how to sing."

Again the mysterious stranger spoke. "Yet you could sing."

And Finan heard the sleep-bound voice of Cædmon ask, "What shall I
sing?"

"Sing to me," said the stranger, "the beginning of all things."

And at once Cædmon began to sing in a strong voice, and very
beautifully, the praise of God who made this world. And his song had
all the beat of sea waves in it--sometimes little waves that lapped
gently on the shore and bore in beautiful shells and jeweled seaweed.
But more often its rhythm was as mighty as ocean waves that tossed big
ships.

Then the wandering stranger, hearing the beauty of the song, vanished.
Cædmon awoke from his sleep, and he remembered all that he had sung and
the vision that had come to him. And he was glad. He arose and went to
the Abbess Hild to tell her what had happened to him, the least of her
servants.

In the presence of many wise men did Hild bid Cædmon tell his dream and
sing his verses. And he did as he was told, and it was plain to all
that an angel had visited Cædmon. The Abbess Hild took him into the
monastery, and she ordered that everything be done for him. And Cædmon
became the first and one of the greatest of English poets. And even as
Christ was born in a manger in Bethlehem, English poetry was born in a
cattle-fold in a town which was called Streoneshalh, which means "Bay
of the Beacon." And to mankind since Cædmon, the first English poet,
English song has been a beacon to all the world.