A Miracle on the Moors

Setting: Northeastern England, mid-14th century.

Thomas sat on the edge of an old stone trough with his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes were fixed on the worn leather boots he wore. They had carried him through mud, through cold, and through the long days in the fields, and now they bore the marks of it. He smiled faintly as he pondered it. Scuffed and cracked, heavy with dried earth, their soles curled at the edges like the pages of an old book. The leather thongs were drawn tight that morning with care, the way a person might tend to something sacred, though they were the most modest thing he owned.

Tall for fifteen, his long arms and legs made him seem out of place in his own body, still growing into the shape of the adult he would become. His dark hair curled damp against his temples, and his blue eyes were steady, older than his years. He wore a rough wool tunic and a cloak that had seen too many winters. Both were stiff with use and smelled faintly of smoke. The late October air stung his face as he watched his breath rise and vanish in the chill before him.

A portly monk came through the archway with a small bundle of bread and dried meat in his hands. He did not speak or look at Thomas as he passed the parcel over, his eyes fixed on the ground between them. Thomas tried to catch his gaze, but the monk turned away before their eyes could meet. He must have heard what happened last night, Thomas thought. The monk’s footsteps faded toward the chapel, leaving him alone with the food in his hands.

The courtyard was small and gray. Across the way stood the chapel with narrow windows that hung dim in the morning light. A thin line of smoke rose from the vent above the roof, fading into the cloudy skies. To one side, the small bell tower loomed quiet. Along the wall, a few bare trees trembled in the wind, and beyond them the garden stood empty, as if the monks had left in haste.

Bran stirred from his place by the gate, a lean, charcoal-colored sheepdog with a gray muzzle and eyes that were fixed on his master with quiet devotion. At his first whimper, Thomas rose with the help of his worn wooden staff and shook the frost from his coat. Beyond the archway, the sheep were gathered in a slow, bleating mass with their breath hanging in the cold air.

Thomas slung the bundle of food over his shoulder and stepped out from the courtyard. Behind him, the heavy wooden door groaned shut. The ground before him was hard and uneven, scattered with stones and patches of frozen grass. He knew this path to the moor only too well. It stretched pale and silent under the morning light, and Bran trotted on, weaving between the sheep as they began their slow climb toward the open hills.

At the crest of the hill, Thomas stopped and leaned on his staff before turning. The monastery stood behind him, crouched against the slope like a root grown from the rock itself. Its thick gray walls were streaked with age and lichen. The small chapel tower rose square and plain above the roofline, and the cross at its peak reflected the pale morning light. It looked smaller from here. He felt a ball of pain gather in the pit of his stomach, swelling into a wave of unease that passed through him before he turned away and continued on his path.

* * *

Thomas looked up at the sun. A pale disk hung behind the fog, dim and shapeless, spreading a weak light over the hills. He had hoped for a clear morning, a bit of warmth on his back, but the mist was thickening and the air grew colder. Ahead of him, the flock moved on, and he counted shapes he could barely see as his chest tightened with quiet worry. Somewhere ahead, Bran barked once and was lost again in the white.

He felt the pull in his knees as he climbed, a slow ache that grew sharper with every step. The cold air bit at the bruises that still marked his knees and hands, and the memory of last night pressed down on him like a stone. His temples throbbed as he saw it again in his mind: the dim light of the chapel, the stone floor, the carving in the wall, and an old red cross with flared arms, half-hidden beneath years of dust. He knelt and traced it with his finger, wondering what it meant, though he had been told not to ask.

Father Godfrey was the one who found him, his shadow stretching long across the stones. He was tall and thin, with a face that had been hollowed out by fasting and years of rule. His eyes had no warmth in them. He said nothing at first, only watched the boy shiver with a cold, measuring stare before giving the order. Thomas felt the sharp gravel bite into his knees and the blows started to rain on him. The pain came fast, and afterward the silence, broken only by the sound of his own breath against the wall. Now, climbing the hill, he pressed a hand to his side as if the ache still lived there.

Ahead of him, the fog thinned for a moment, and he saw a small family of rabbits by the edge of the path. One of them lifted its head, ears twitching, and for a time they stayed still, listening to the quiet. Thomas stopped where he was. The sight of them brought something low and warm to his chest, though he did not dare name it. Then Bran barked once, far off, and the rabbits vanished into the mist.

* * *

Thomas drew his cloak tighter around him as the first drops of rain began to fall. As he fought the oncoming wind, his thoughts turned to home. It had been a year since he left. His father was a cobbler, quiet and distant, away for much of his childhood. His mother was the only source of warmth in the house, a kind woman with a soft voice who always kept herself busy in and around the home. He remembered the way she would touch his hair, the way her hands smelled of bread. She seemed so distant now, though he still saw her in his dreams, standing by the doorway, whispering something faintly. Two of his siblings had died before him, and two of his brothers still lived, though he could not know how they fared. None of them could read or write, and there was no way for word to travel between them. His family had sent him to the monastery because they could not feed him, and since then, he had heard nothing.

The rain continued to soak through his cloak and into his clothes. He felt small against the wind, a boy lost in the open hills. The fog that had once hidden the moor was breaking apart, torn and scattered by the gusts. Shreds of it drifted across the ground, catching the rain and vanishing as quickly as they formed.

Suddenly, a sharp bark cut through the wind. Thomas turned, squinting through the sheets of rain. The flock had tightened against the slope, restless and crowding one another, and at once he saw it: two were missing. His stomach dropped. He counted again to be sure, then once more, but the gap remained.

He felt his chest tighten. If he lost any sheep, Father Godfrey would know, and the punishment would come again, sure as the dawn. He glanced down the path. He had walked this way before and knew the signs of it – a split rock and an old ash tree – but to follow Bran he would have to leave the beaten trail. The rain was too heavy now to see more than a few paces, and the moor stretched out like a gray sea, shapeless and cold.

He hesitated and gripped his staff as water ran into his eyes. Bran barked again, somewhere beyond the roar of the storm. Thomas cursed under his breath, then whistled for the flock and drove them forward. The sheep moved slowly, bleating in protest as their hooves slipped on the wet ground. He followed the dog’s cry through the pounding rain and away from the path he knew, his heart heavy with the fear of what waited if he returned without them.

The rain came hard now, each drop striking his face like a pebble. The wind tore across the hill, bending the grass flat and driving the flock in every direction. Thomas shouted, but his voice got lost in the storm, and the sheep turned in a slow panic. He tried to hold them together, calling Bran’s name, but the dog’s bark was carried off by the wind. The path was gone. The landmarks he knew, the ash tree and the rock, were lost in the vast gray blur around him.

Then, faint through the storm, he heard Bran again. The sound was closer this time, sharp and insistent. Thomas forced his way uphill, leaning into the wind. Bran was circling a single sheep caught by the edge of a ditch. Thomas could feel his heart pounding with relief as he reached them. He freed the animal, pushed it back toward the flock, and looked around for the other, but it was nowhere to be seen.

He wiped the rain from his eyes and turned toward Bran. The dog had moved higher, barking again, as if calling him onward. Thomas looked up. Through the rain, where the sun should have been, there were three pale circles of light, blurred and shifting in the cloud. He blinked, unsure if he was seeing them at all. The wind howled across the hill. He looked back at Bran, then at the sky again. The lights held there, still and cold. Thomas hesitated, then tightened his grip on the staff. He turned toward the dog and began to climb.

* * *

The climb felt endless. The wind pressed against him, driving the rain into his face, and the ground turned soft beneath his feet. He leaned on his staff, pushing one step at a time. When he finally reached the crest, the light was nearly gone. The sky had turned to a deep gray, and he could see nothing but the storm.

Through the curtain of rain, a cluster of low, close-branched trees took shape ahead. They formed a kind of hollow, dark and sheltered from the worst of the wind. He called to Bran and waved the flock forward. The sheep moved at once, eager for any place that offered cover. They gathered beneath the trees and pressed into one another.

Thomas followed after them. Across from the trees, he found a small opening in the rock, no higher than his shoulder, half hidden by roots and moss. It was not much, but it was dry inside. He guided Bran in first, then crawled in after him. Outside, the wind roared through the trees, and the rain struck the stones like handfuls of gravel. Thomas pulled his cloak tight and sat back against the wall. Bran lay beside him with his head resting on his paws. The boy reached out and touched him, grateful for the warmth, and closed his eyes as the storm raged above.

* * *

Night came without stars. The rain still fell, soft now, steady against the trees. The wind had eased, leaving only the sound of water running through the grass. Thomas lay curled in the small cave. He rested his cheek on his boots, and the leather felt cold against his skin. His breathing was slow and even, the deep sleep of exhaustion.

Bran lay at the mouth of the cave with his head lifted and his eyes fixed on the dark. The sheep huddled close under the trees. Every so often one of them stirred, and Bran’s ears twitched, but he did not move. A faint mist drifted between the trunks, glowing pale in what little light was left. The storm had passed, but the world still held its silence, waiting.

It began with a sound like the buzzing of a thousand bees, faint at first, then swelling until it filled the air. Bran’s ears twitched again, and he lifted his head, listening. The noise seemed to come from everywhere at once – the earth, the air, even the stones. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. Everything stopped. There was no rain, no wind, no bleating from the sheep outside.

Bran gave a low bark toward the mouth of the cave. Then he went still, creeping back until he pressed himself against Thomas’s side. The boy stirred, still heavy with sleep. He felt the dog trembling beside him and opened his eyes halfway. A warmth touched his face, soft and golden, and for a moment he thought it was morning. But the air was too still, too strange. Slowly, he raised his head. The light spilled through the entrance of the cave in long, trembling beams. He blinked, sat up fully, and when his eyes cleared, he could not believe what he saw.

At first he thought it was the light itself taking shape, but then he saw her clearly. She was small, no taller than a child, standing or rather hovering a few inches above the ground. The Lady’s gown was pale, almost white, and seemed to shine from within. Her hair was long and fair, like strands of gold drawn through water, and it fell loose around her shoulders. Her face was soft and clear, neither young nor old, her eyes a calm blue that seemed to hold the light itself. Behind the Lady floated two small orbs, one over each shoulder, glowing faintly like the last embers of a fire.

He could not breathe or speak. A warmth spread through his chest, slow at first, then swelling until it filled his whole body. It was not fear but something deeper, a wave of love so strong it hurt. His eyes blurred, and tears ran down his face. He did not know why he cried, only that it felt like release, like something in him had been seen and forgiven.

The Lady’s lips did not move, but he heard her all the same, not with his ears but within himself. She told him he was watched, that he was loved beyond what he could understand. That there was always someone with him, in his pain, in his silence. That his suffering was not forgotten, and that he was never alone. The knowing of it filled him completely, as if the world itself had drawn close to hold him.

* * *

The morning came bright and clear. When Thomas opened his eyes, the cave was filled with sunlight and the air smelled of wet grass and earth. He could hear birds calling somewhere beyond the trees. Bran was already outside, circling the flock. His bark was sharp and cheerful. Thomas sat up, rubbed his eyes, and for a moment could not remember where he was. Then he looked out and saw the wide, rain-washed hillside spread before him, shining in the sun.

He stepped into the light. The storm had passed, leaving the world still and open. From where he stood, he could see miles in every direction. The ground fell away into soft green slopes and darker patches of forest, and he realized he had climbed higher than he ever had before. The moor stretched out below him, bright and alive under the morning sun.

It all seemed too calm after what he remembered from the night. He wondered if he had dreamed it, the Lady, the light, the strange stillness that had filled the air. Yet something in him felt changed, small but real, like a weight had been lifted. There was a quiet warmth inside him, a sense that the world was not as empty as he had thought. For the first time in a long while, he felt something close to peace.

He looked down at his boots and smiled. They were dry now. The leather was still rough, but it had warmed in the sun. He remembered how his mother had given them to him, holding them out as though they were something precious. His father had made them, the last thing he ever made for him before Thomas left. He tightened the thongs, stood up, and looked toward the valley below. He had lost one sheep, but the others were safe. The detour had brought him shelter, and he was alive to see the morning.

He whistled to Bran. The dog turned at once, ears up, ready. “Come on, boy,” Thomas said, his voice steady and calm. “It’s time.” Together they moved out into the bright day. The flock gathered behind them as they began the long walk home.