Aethelstan's vision

Aethelstan, King of England, sat down outside the abbey’s refectory, laying his sword belt on the grass beside him. He watched the old woman’s slow approach and was amused by the disapproving looks on the monks’ faces.

‘You’re the prophetess, aren’t you,’ he said as she drew near to him.

‘Some say so,’ she replied. ‘Why did you summon me?’

He looked closely at her, narrowing his eyes against the low winter sunlight but glad of its brief warmth on his aching limbs.

‘I’ve spent my whole life welding this land together, just like my father and grandfather before me. I’ve no children, so what happens next? Was it worth anything – all that fighting?’

**

The prophetess waved her hand a fraction and, in an instant, the monks had disappeared and the abbey was in ruins amongst long meadow grass. A man with a camera was taking a picture; his wife was spreading out a picnic rug and two children were playing in the nearby stream.

**

Then they were back in the present again. The woman crouched down and placed a pinch of soil in the dying man’s palm.

‘Rest in peace, O King,’ she whispered. ‘The land endures.’