At the Edge of the World (10 page)

26

A
S THE SHIP
continued to toss and roll, Bear left us to crawl about on all fours. Reaching the bow, he found a length of wet rope, dragged it back, and wrapped it round us and then to a rail. We were held fast.

“Why did you do that?” Troth asked.

“So we won’t be washed away,” Bear told her.

I looked at Troth. Her eyes were on some inner vision I could not fathom.

When I turned to the master, I saw that he too had lashed himself to the rudder pole.

As the turbulence grew greater, it became darker still. Such light as we had came from the three small lanterns and was hardly more than a blur, like memories of distant days.

The winds howled. The waves crashed. My soul felt naked. Then a damp mist fell heavily about us like wet wool only to transform itself to drizzle. I opened my mouth and sucked in the sweet water to cleanse my foul tongue. But all too soon the rain turned heavy, pelting the deck like some mad drummer’s call to arms. It seemed to compete with the ocean—as if to make of the air another sea. We could do naught but compress ourselves, trying, by being smaller, to hide from the storm’s assault.

Bursts of lightning tore through the dark with jagged clawlike streaks, followed by a thunderous rolling that made the skies tremble. The same flashing exposed the mariners’faces, making them look like pallid skulls.

In this hurly-burly void, the cog leaped and fell with ever-increasing frenzy, twisting and climbing, only to drop into what felt to be a void. Sometimes we canted so far over I thought we must capsize. Even when the ship righted herself, the sea flowed across the deck with abandon. The lantern lights spit and hissed. The wind cried mournfully, rising and falling like tormented souls bewailing their fate at being left to wallow in an endless sea.

At some point, I hardly knew when, the three lanterns were swallowed whole and with them went the last sparks of light—and so it seemed, any hope of life itself.

My heart hammered. My breath grew short. Our hair streamed. Our clothing clung to us like sopping winding sheets. Sure we were about to perish, I prayed incessantly, confessing to everything while vowing I would perform multitudes of holy penance—if only God would show His clemency. A crying Troth pressed herself against Bear’s chest. I clutched him too. Oh, vanity to think tears could be measured in such a storm!

As the storm rioted on, Bear held us tight. At one point he began to sing a raucous, vulgar soldier’s song that dared do battle with the weather.

Each moment I was sure the storm had reached its final fury. Each time it surpassed what came before. Once, in a blast of lightning, I saw the four mariners struggling with the rudder, their fear palpable. Bear squeezed us that much more tightly and roared on with his ferocious song.

“I want Aude!” I heard Troth cry aloud.

“I’m here, Troth!” cried Bear. “I’m here!”

Though I tried to keep my eyes closed, crackling lightning flashes caused me to blink them open. As the black night was torn asunder, I saw that our sail had split into several parts, and was now flapping like so many flags—each one an offer of surrender.

Then, midst the howling wind and drenching rains, came the cry: “Man over!”

I don’t know if any attempts to save the mariner were made. It seemed unlikely. But shortly after, as if a human sacrifice had been wanted and delivered bodily to the raging gods of storm, the weather began to subside. Though the winds roared on, the rain eased. The cog pitched less.

“Is the storm gone?” Troth cried.

“I pray so,” said Bear.

As if to provide a last salute, a final burst of booming lightning struck, and in that blast of brightness, I could see that there was no one at the rudder.

We were alone.

In utter darkness, as the rain continued to fall and the wind to blow, I sensed the cog was still moving apace, but where driven I could hardly know. The boat, the water, the wind, my despair, all was one. The only sounds I heard were the continual
slip-slap
of waves as the cog skipped along.

Adding to my sense of doom was the fact that Bear did nothing but hold us mutely. No more songs. No more words. But by Saint Jude, what could he or any of us do? We were alone in God’s great hands—if He only would hold us. My private sickness faded only to be replaced by the greater dread of being lost—lost by life, lost by the world, lost by God.

Gradually, the rain dissolved into mist. A sullen dawn suffused the air, so dismal, so weak, I could just barely see my own hands. The world had turned phantom.

More light came. The mist thinned. I could see my feet, the deck, and then much of the cog. I saw one of the mariners lay stretched midship, his foot tangled in a rope. His lifeless hand flopped with the boat’s random movement.

The mast with its shredded sail was still erect, although the topmost parts melted into mist. Where the rudder rod had been was … nothing—just a jagged splinter of wood.

Bear’s rope had saved us. What, I wondered, had it saved us for?

He slept, snoring slightly. His beard was dripping wet. His face looked wan, and despite so much sea and rain, so parched I could see his cheekbones. It brought on a sudden memory of how I’d first found him—a mountain of flesh, a great barrel of a fellow, whose arms and legs were as thick as tree limbs, and with a great stomach before all. How much of that—waxlike—had melted.

Troth pressed against Bear’s chest, soaked. Her eyes were open.

“Are you all right?” I whispered.

She nodded, shivering, and squeezed herself closer to Bear.

“Bear!” I called.

“Alive,” he muttered.

With the cog now at greater ease and rocking gently, I loosened the knotted rope. Once free, I reached up, took hold of the rail, and stood on unsteady feet.

A deep, damp gray fog enclosed us. I could barely see the water flowing by.

I kept watching for something to tell me where we were. Were we near England? Flanders? I had no idea. But I had been drained of all desire to become a mariner. If I never set foot on another ship, it would be soon enough for me.

As our speed decreased, the light increased. The mist swirled. In places it parted. What I saw caused me to stare with disbelief. Looming through the mist and fog—as if rising from the sea itself—were towering cliffs of rosy stone.

As God is holy, it was as if we had truly reached the rock-hard boundaries of the mortal world—the true edge of the world.

27

B
EAR
!” I cried. “Look!” Not fully awake, he shifted with a slight groan.

“Bear, you must look!”

He breathed deeply and blinked up at me with bleary, red-rimmed eyes. His clothing, like mine, was wet and dripping.

After running a finger round his mouth as if to rid it of a fetid taste, he rubbed his pale face, and raked a hand through his tangled, wet beard. Only when he leaned forward did he recall that he was still bound by the soggy rope he’d tied. With sea-puckered fingers he teased the knot apart. He stood slowly, stiffly.

Troth—equally wet—slipped out of the rope. Bear extended a hand so that she might stand. Only then did the two of them look out. If I understood their faces, they were as startled as I had been.

Stone cliffs seemed to be moving in and out of the mist on mighty hinges. Mist hovered so low it was impossible to know just how high these cliffs were. That they were jagged, hard-edged and rosy in cast, I could see. By contrast, the water surrounding us was mostly calm, dark blue flecked with white foam, clotted with green weeds. Here and there, black rocks stuck up. From aloft I could hear birds—or what I thought were birds—squawking. I half expected dragons with yawning maws to rise up and swallow us whole.

“Where are we?” I asked with awe.

“I have no idea,” said Bear as he stared about, his voice just as full of wonder.

“Could we be back in England?” I said.

“We could.”

“Or is this Flanders?” asked Troth.

“Anywhere,” said Bear, shaking his head.

“Perhaps,” I offered, “it’s the end of the sea.”

Bear shrugged, and turned to survey the cog. I followed his gaze. We were still moving, but very slowly. Oddly enough, the cog was in perfect order. All that had been loose had been washed away. Bear’s dagger—gone. Our sack with the recorder—gone. Our fire-making tools—gone. There was just the mariner lying there. Bear went to him, and put a hand on his chest.

“Is he alive?” I called.

Bear’s response was to make the sign of the cross and back away.

“Where are the others?” Troth asked.

Bear shrugged. “Lost. Swept over.” He began to wander about the boat looking for what I knew not.

Troth and I remained side by side at the rail, gazing up at the cliffs. The cog, eased on by a rising tide, was drawing closer to the cliffs. Three times we struck rocks. Each time the cog recoiled, only to edge further in, the ship’s hull making a scraping noise. Finally, there came a harsh, grinding sound as the cog’s keel struck bottom, sounding like the rattling breath of a dying man.

The ship shuddered. It seemed to settle. We stopped moving. All that remained of the torturous journey was a gentle rocking which matched the wash of waves. These waves flicked against the ship like kitten tongues as though to soothe the remnants of our terror.

“There’s the top!” I cried as the mist lifted further. The cliffs reached some two hundred feet over our heads.

It was possible now to see that the cog was in a little inlet, a finger of the sea, surrounded on three sides by rock. At the lower levels of the cliff I could see boulders piled high. The boat—with us upon it—had been nudged there by the movement of the ocean, wedged between the high stone walls with no room for turning about.

Bear went to the bow of the boat. “Even the anchor is gone,” he announced.

“Will the boat stay?” I wondered.

“We’ve been brought in by a rising tide,” said Bear. “I suppose the tides could pluck her out again.”

“Will the other mariners be found?” asked Troth. She was looking down at the dead one.

“Not in this world,” said Bear. “Are you as exhausted as I?” he asked.

We both nodded.

“Thirsty and hungry, too, I suppose.” Bear went to the hatch, and labored to pry it open. We worked with him, pulling out the caulking. Once we managed to get it open, Bear stuck his head down.

“Dry as stone,” he announced. “That caulking saved us. If the hold had flooded … But unless we eat wool there’s no food.”

“Was there a rudder?” I asked.

“I don’t see one. I think I saw another sail.”

“What will we do?” I asked, my
voice
hushed.

Bear looked out on the shore. “We’d best get off while we can. My feet would like to find some solid soil. Then we’ll need to climb those cliffs to learn where God has brought us.”

“What about him?” I said, indicating the dead mariner.

“The living first,” said Bear.

He clambered over the cog’s side, and dropped heavily into the water with a splash. As it reached his waist, I could see him shiver with the chill. Turning, he let Troth jump down into his outstretched arms, set her on his shoulders, and waded toward the shore.

I leaped after them, feet first. The cold water clutched my chest and squeezed my breath away.

Walking as best I could, I followed after Bear, arms over my head. It was rocky beneath the water, forcing me to go1 5 2with care, seeking my balance as best I could. Once I slipped, and for my pains was soaked to my hair and draped in weeds.

Closer in, Bear set Troth atop a huge boulder upon which he pulled himself. The two began to make for real land, crawling and walking toward the shore, jumping from stone to stone. I came after, pausing now and again to look up at the cliffs, wondering how we would climb them.

We reached the shore. The beach was a narrow, rocky place, embedded with great boulders—no doubt fallen from above. Bowls of fine sand lay between. Seaweed was abundant. White oyster shells were scattered everywhere. With each passing moment, the air cleared further, revealing blue sky and a warm, bright sun. Birds called like rasping angels. Though it seemed odd to find the land so firm, I was grateful to be there.

How extraordinary, I thought, to be
some
place without knowledge of where one was. I considered anew the possibility that we
had
died. Perhaps Heaven was no more than this unknown shore. Then I had to remind myself, it was equally possible we had come to Hell.

Bear was gazing at the walls of stone that confronted us. Troth and I watched him.

“That may be a way up, there,” he finally said, pointing to what looked to be a crevice in the cliff. He went toward it. Troth and I clambered after. As he walked, he stumbled slightly, enough to strike his knee against a stone. He swore, rubbed it, but labored on, limping again.

When we reached the spot that Bear had seen, it proved to be a cleft that went some ways upward. It was hard to see how far it reached.

Bear stood before it, so hesitant I could read his exhaustion from the way he fixed his shoulders. In protecting us during the night, he had become much spent.

Knowing he would not admit to it, but that we had to go forward, I simply pushed past him. “I’ll go,” I announced. And without waiting for Bear’s permission, I began to climb.

28

M
Y ASCENT
went easily at first, hardly more than walking up a steep incline. Gradually, however, the passageway began to narrow, and became increasingly steep. I soon found myself pressed close on either side by hard and jagged rock. Sharp edges were enough to score my hands, though they did provide places for my fingers to grasp.

Fearful of falling, I glanced down only to be frightened by the height I’d reached. Bear and Troth, standing below, seemed distant. The cog was equally remote. No other land was in sight save some rocks that broke the water’s surface.

“Are you all right?” Bear shouted.

“Yes!” I called, though I hardly felt it.

Having no choice—other than to drop—I kept on, moving grip by grip, pushing as much as pulling. Every part of my body trembled with the struggle, aware as I was of the likelihood of falling and dashing my head on the rocks below.

But with God’s blessing I came to a place where the climb was not so steep. I was able to crawl upward on hands and knees, not caring that they were battered. My sense of relief gave me a surge of strength. With quicker progress, I reached the top. Once there, I looked out upon the land we’d reached. To my surprise, there was no surprise.

It was much like land I had seen before: naught but rolling green fields and at the distance of perhaps half a league, a line of trees. As for any hint or clue as to
where
we were, I saw not one jot. Passing strange, to have come so far across the world only to see what was familiar.

After my quick look, I returned the way I came, or at least the last, easy part. Leaning over the cliff, I cried, “I reached the top!”

“What’s there?”

“Nothing!”

“Nothing?”
exclaimed Bear.

“Fields. Grass!”

After a moment, Bear said, “We’ll come along.”

“Take care!” I warned.

Troth came first. She scampered as agile as any goat. If she had any fears or difficulty, I saw them not. In fact, it seemed she reached the top in half the time it took me.

With Bear it was quite otherwise. I could hear him swearing and grunting his painstaking way. As Troth and I looked down there were moments—more than a few—that we held our breath, fearful he would fall.

At length, Bear reached the top, puffing mightily, sweating hard. I
led
them along for the remainder of the way so they could see what I saw.

Troth and Bear gazed out over the open fields. I looked with them. No one spoke, until I asked Bear, “Do you know where we are now?”

“No,” he replied. “Not at all.” He sat down, breathing heavily. “By Saint Luke, I’m weary.”

“I don’t like it here,” Troth announced. She had been gazing about.

“Why?” I demanded.

“It makes me uneasy.”

“There are plenty of places in England where you won’t see people,” Bear said. “What troubles you?”

She only shook her head.

“Those trees over there,” I said. “I could explore them.”

Bear did not respond. The look on his face was of great fatigue. He was favoring his wounded arm again. “Go if you choose,” he said. “But be cautious. I need to try and rest a bit.”

“I’ll go with Crispin,” said Troth.

“Keep safe,” muttered Bear, who had laid himself out on his back, face to sun, arms spread wide.

Troth and I waited. It took only moments before Bear fell asleep. Without another word, Troth and I turned and started across the fields.

I found pleasure in striding over ground that did not move, pushing through grass almost as tall as Troth. The grass was wonderfully sweet to smell and, here and there, yellow flowers rose as if to remind us we had returned to a more loving earth. With the sun’s golden glow beating on our faces, it almost seemed a paradise. When I thought of where we had been, no contrast could have been greater. Rejoicing, I breathed deeply, and allowed myself to give thanks to God for His mercy.

As we went further, I glanced back in the direction from where we’d come. To my surprise the ocean seemed to have vanished—as if it didn’t exist. I had to remind myself that it was merely below the cliff. I didn’t see Bear either.

A touch from Troth brought me out of my prayerful musings.

“Crispin,” she said, looking up at me with her solemn eyes.

“What?”

“On the ship—during the storm—I thought we were going to die.”

I stopped walking. “I thought so, too,” I said.

“It was Bear,” she said, “who saved us.”

“I know.”

She looked back where he was. “But,” she whispered, “it exhausted him.”

“If we care for him,” I said, “he’ll regain his strength.”

She hesitated before saying, “I’m not so sure.”

“I promise you he will!” The words came out angrily.

She turned and went on silently. I ran after her and we went on toward the trees, neither of us speaking. It was as if we had quarreled.

As I drew closer to the trees, I could see that they were not very tall, and were twisted into bizarre shapes. It was as if winds and storms coming off the sea had shaped them.

We were perhaps twenty yards from them when I suddenly halted. “Look there!” I cried, pointing up. “Birds.”

Black birds were flying over the trees in a circular movement.

“What about them?” asked Troth.

“They’re fleeing something. Bear taught me to look for that.”

“It could be an animal.”

“Or a person.” I looked back. With Bear sleeping on the ground, there was no sign of him. Knowing how tired he was, I had no wish to disturb him—less so if there was nothing to relate. “We’d best first find what it is,” I said.

Cautious about going directly to where the birds flew, I led the way to one side. In moments, we were among the trees, where it was easy to be concealed. Once there I changed our direction, going where I thought the birds had flown. We moved from tree to tree quietly. Then—unmistakably—we heard the whinny of a horse.

We halted. From Troth’s look, I knew she had heard it, too.

“Where did it come from?” I whispered.

“There,” she said, and crept forward silently, somewhat crouched, head turned slightly to catch any sounds—the image of Aude. Suddenly she stood, extended one arm, and whispered, “There!”

I looked. There were three horses.

They were powerful beasts, destriers, the kind of horses used by soldiers. Tethered, they were at their ease, eating grass. All had leather harnesses without any decorations, reins over necks, bits in their mouths. There were three saddles stacked on a stump, one atop the other. The saddles had high seats that allowed a rider to ride standing. There were protective pommels too.

Troth looked to me as if I could provide some explanation.

“Soldiers’horses,” I whispered.

I sniffed, sensing a faint smell of roasting meat.

We stood in place, searching for the people we knew must be near. Farther in among the trees I noticed a two-wheeled cart, and not far from it, an ox.

Suddenly, Troth began to move.

“Troth!” I called. “Don’t!”

Ignoring me, she went on. I thought to hold her back, but then I recalled the time when I first saw her in the woods: she had been as silent as any spirit—all but invisible. Still, I watched her go with sudden trepidation. How hard, I thought, if something happened to her!

Then—as if one thought followed from the other—I thought of what she had said of Bear: that he had never fully recovered from his time in Great Wexly or the arrow wound. Then we had had to flee. The storm had worn him more. He was much weaker. It would not have surprised me if he still had a fever.

Standing there, in a world I did not know, Troth before me, Bear behind—both out of sight—I had the keenest sense of how much these two—so different one from each other—made up my world. From that flowed an almost overwhelming sense that loving meant I must also know what it must be to lose them.

I don’t know how long I waited nervously, but Troth returned as suddenly and as silently as she had gone.

“Did you find anything?” I asked.

“Over there,” she said, pointing. “People.” Not knowing how to count, she held her hand up many times.

“Forty? Men? Women?”

“Men.”

“What are they?”

“Some had swords. Some wore helmets. I saw bows leaning against a tree. There were poles with metal points.”

“Did you hear them speak?”

“I wasn’t close enough. Do you want me to go back?”

“Show them to me.”

She set off and I followed. Within moments, we covered some forty or fifty yards, keeping ourselves hidden among the trees. Troth knelt and pointed.

Sure enough, perhaps forty men were gathered in a clearing. For the most part, the men were young, though I saw one with graying hair. They were dirty, tattered, and ill-shaven. Exposed arms had scars. Among them I saw no smiles, not one gentle face. No two were dressed the same. A few wore helmets, some of the kettle-hat kind, others, open-faced basinets. These helmets were dented and rusty. One or two had jagged holes. All the men wore shoes or boots, but no two jackets were alike. There was some metal plating worn, much tarnished. Some soldiers carried bullock daggers on their hips, some carried swords. A few shields, dented and without design or insignia, had been propped against a tree. I saw a pole with a banneret leaning against a tree, but could not make out its heraldry.

Some of the men were resting, backs against trees. One man had his eyes shut, sleeping. Others lay stretched out on the ground, perhaps also asleep. Most were standing, sharpening swords, or working arrows. It was as if they were preparing for some action. One small man tended a fire upon which sat a large pot. It was that which we had smelled.

I spied yet another man sitting against a tree. The soldiers seemed to defer to him. I took him to be their captain. He did not look to be very different from the others, though beneath his quilted jacket I spied what appeared to be chain mail covering his chest and arms.

“What are they doing?” whispered Troth.

“I don’t know. Resting. Preparing.”

“For what?”

“Battle.”

Then the one I took to be their captain lifted an arm, and called, “Jason! Come here.”

They were Englishmen.