The End of Time (14 page)

W
E REACHED the road. Once there we were among many people, all presumably heading for Calais. For the most part, they were peasants and merchants with goods to sell. While I’m sure they considered us odd in our wet and dripping clothing, they asked no questions.

We stayed among them—Owen now on his own legs—going as fast as our strength allowed, all the while keeping alert for signs of our pursuers. As it happened, I noticed five soldiers running along the mound that divided the two moats. They were—praise God!—going in the opposite direction. But I knew that would not be the end of it.

We ran on.

As the road bent around the eastern end of the city, the bay lay before me. Beyond was the gray-blue sea. Two small boats—fishing ketches, with their triangular sails puffed by winds—were gliding out of the bay, passing the island fortress. How I wished we were on one of them!

While the people on the road made for the city gates, we turned toward the sea.

The strand was in plain view. Dozens of boats were
pulled up to the shore or tied to the two wharves. They were crowded with bales and barrels as well as the mariners and laborers working with them.

High above the strand, away from most of the work, we stopped running and scanned the wharves.

“Where is our boat?” Owen asked. He was gripping my hand as if it were the only thing that kept him standing.

Thorvard had told me his ship was a cog, the same kind on which I had sailed from England. I could see three such ships. Two were tied to one wharf, one to the other. I could only pray that one of these was the Icelandic boat. It
was
past dawn, the time the Icelanders had said they meant to sail.

“Look there!” cried Owen, pointing.

I saw them: Gerard and Woodeth hurrying about on one of the wharves, where two of the cogs were tied. They stopped and talked to now one man and then another. While Elena and Rauf had searched within the city, these two must have come directly to the docks.

We darted behind a pile of wool bales, then peeked out and watched. I wondered if they remembered that I had wished to go to Iceland. Was that what Gerard was asking?

I turned back to the single cog and spied a man coming onto the high castle. My heart leaped: he had long white hair and a white beard. Thorvard! He was gazing toward the
land, as if in search of someone—hopefully me.

I turned back to watch Gerard and Woodeth. Woodeth was no longer there.

Where could she have gone? Gerard had moved farther along the other wharf. Upon reaching the end, he stopped and appeared to be talking to a laborer. After a few moments, that man shifted and pointed across the way, at the second wharf. I gasped. I was sure he was pointing out the Icelandic ship.

“Hurry!” I cried.

Dragging Owen along, I began to run, darting in and around the many workers and bales of goods. Then there was nothing but a few bales between us and the wharf.

We dashed forward only to have Woodeth step out from behind a bale and stand before us.

We halted. Owen pressed close to me. I could do no more than just look at her.

Woodeth stared back. But then, without a word, she turned away. Though I knew she had seen us, she acted as if she had not. Instead, she hurried toward the other wharf and, by so doing, allowed us to pass by. In haste I murmured a quick blessing on her and then turned to Owen.

“Come on!” I said. When we reached the wharf, we raced along until it reached the cog. A ramp of wooden
planks had been set from the wharf to the ship. I paused and looked back. Woodeth was with Gerard again. She was shaking her head as they stepped out on the wharf.

We ran up the planks and jumped onto the ship. Mord was not there. But to my great relief, I saw Halla.

“Ah!” she cried when she saw me, offering up a bright smile. “You’ve come! Father!” she called back toward the stern. “The boy is here.”

The old man on the castle swung around. He gazed down at me, his face fierce. “So you’ve come,” he said, leaning his elbows on the rail, the better to consider us. “Is that the way you work? Ignoring your first order? Didn’t I tell you we must leave early?”

“Forgive me, master,” I cried. “We came as soon as we could!”

“Did you swim here?” he asked.

“No, master.”

“Is
that
your friend?”

I nodded.

Thorvard just stared at Owen.

Desperate, I cried, “Master, have mercy. We’re being hunted.”

“Ah! There it is! No less than I thought. By whom? Why?”

“I can’t explain. Not now,” I said, fearful that at any moment Gerard and Elena would appear and haul us away. “I beg you, by all the mercy of Jesus. Let us go with you. It’s worth our lives.”

“Father,” cried Halla, “let them!”

Thorvard made no reply. He looked up at the sky. He looked to his daughter. Then he leaned over the side of the boat and peered back along the wharf. At last he shifted back toward Halla.

“Stow them below,” he told her. “And get your brother up here. If we’re to leave before the wind eases, we need to hurry.”

We raced after Halla. She led us to an open square in the middle of the deck. She called down. “Mord!”

The young man climbed up. She said something in her own language. He nodded.

“Drop down there,” Halla said to us, adding in a softer voice, “quickly!”

We sat on the edge of the open space. In the hold below, I saw bolts of cloth and sacks of wheat. I let myself drop down, landing softly on some cloth. Then I turned and caught Owen as he followed. As soon as we were down there, the open area above our heads was covered. The only light was two beams that seeped through chinks in the
wood. They cut through the darkness like glowing swords.

Alone, no longer running, utterly spent, my body shuddered with exhaustion, pain, and fear. “Dear Saint Giles,” I whispered. “Protect us!” It was the only prayer I could utter. But I kept repeating it.

Owen lay facedown upon the bolts of cloth. I could hear him crying. The best I could do was rest my hand upon his trembling back.

From overhead I heard footfalls on the deck. Then voices. One of the speakers—to my ears—sounded much like Gerard.

After a few moments the voices ceased.

I waited, breathless, afraid to guess what was happening. Abruptly, the silence was broken by a harsh rasping sound. The space overhead was yanked open. The hold where we were hiding was flooded with light. A hand reached down. A voice called, “Crispin! Come out of there!”

Trying to determine whose hand it was, I shrank back. But then all strength seemed to drain from me. I could struggle no more. Though I did not know whose hand it was, I grasped it and was hauled up like some limp sack.

O
NLY WHEN I reached the deck did I realize it was Mord’s hand. His pretty sister was standing by his side, all but laughing at me. Thorvard was there too, looking grim. I glanced about: I saw nothing of Gerard or Woodeth.

I can only guess what I looked like, save that there could have been very little promise: bedraggled, cold, and wet. And very young. Desperation and fright must have been stamped large upon my face.

Perhaps it was my fancy, but I thought I saw a fleeting smile on Thorvard’s lips and in his crinkled eyes. He sighed as if, upon full examination, he questioned his judgment in taking us.

“Your self-proclaimed friends,” he informed me, “have gone. I’ll hear you out later. But if we’re to take advantage of the wind, we must make haste. Just know that if your work is worthless, I’ll hurl you back into the sea. Let’s go!”

I helped Owen out of the hold and told him we were safe. He flung his arms around me in relief.

Mord, meanwhile, went to the bow and began to untie the binding lines. Thorvard went the other way, climbing a
short ladder to take his place on the castle by the rudder bar. As for Halla, she brought me to the base of the castle, where there was a windlass, the machine for hoisting the sail. It had a drum that wound a heavy rope, which was connected to the top of the mast and then looped down to the sail yard.

She handed me a wooden handspike and showed me how to insert it into the windlass and turn the wheel. The turning required all the strength I had.

As the large brown canvas sail rose up, it filled with wind, flapping and snapping loudly. Then, with a lurch, the cog heeled, veering from the wharf.

In moments we were moving through Calais bay, passing the island fortress. The city was falling behind us, its walls, towers, and spires becoming smaller.

Mord, having hauled in the wharf ropes, ran back to where we were, shoved me aside, and turned the windlass that much faster, until the sail reached the mast’s pinnacle. Then he raced back to lash down the dangling ropes that hung from both bottom corners of the sail. Now taut, the sail filled. Our speed increased.

Thorvard was standing with one hand on the rudder bar, guiding the boat out into the bay. For her part, Halla pounded pieces of wood into the windlass to
keep it—and the sail—in place.

Thorvard gave a shout.

Mord turned to me. “He wants you.”

Leaving Owen, I climbed the ladder to where Thorvard stood on the castle. His large right hand was on the rudder bar, his eyes fixed somewhere on the water.

“Tell me your name again,” said Thorvard.

“Crispin.”

“And the other?”

“Owen.”

Thorvard shook his head as if in regret. “Crispin,” he said, “saints willing, you’re going to Iceland, though you look too puny for such a voyage.”

“God bless you, master,” I replied. “I swear, by the sacred blood of Jesus, I’ll work hard for you.”

“So you say,” he returned with a curt nod. “Pay heed. I speak bluntly. My orders shall be your obligations.” He fell into silence.

After a moment I said, “Please, master, how long will the voyage take?”

“No less than twenty days. Perhaps sixty. Maybe forever. We go by the wind, and the wind is God’s whip.”

Suddenly the cog lifted and dropped, making me stagger while sending a cold spray of water over us. I grabbed
hold of a rail. We were now upon the sea.

“There! We’re barely out of the bay and you’re twice wet,” said Thorvard. “Go on now! Mord will set you both to task. Go!” he bellowed when I didn’t move. “Your master has given orders. There’s needful work!”

I turned away and held on as the ship pitched and rolled among the ocean swells. It was not the movement of the ship that caused me such unsteadiness: it was the pain in my chest.

We sailed all day. For all our exhaustion, we worked throughout, sometimes under the direction of Mord or Halla, sometimes Thorvard.

There was nothing neat or clean about the
Stjarna
. She was a filthy, cluttered boat. Knots of rope lay everywhere midst tools, pieces of wood, parts of canvas bales, even shaggy clumps of wool. In the bow was stored a large stone anchor. The tall mast was set somewhat forward of mid-ship, and from it a tangle of ropes ran down to the deck. I could make no more sense of those strands than if I had been given a book to read.

Night came. On the castle Thorvard steered the ship. Halla had taken to Owen—as he to her—and she was treating him with special kindness. She had even made a bed for him in the hold with bolts of cloth, and he
was sleeping the sleep of peace.

I sat near Thorvard by the rail at the high stern.

Waves rolled and sounded. The ship heaved. Our sail snapped and cracked. Now and again the sea sprayed over us. Above us was the vast array of stars. Staring at them, I recalled the night at the convent when I found Troth looking at them. Was she looking at them now? Though she was in her small world and I in this vast one, I hoped we were looking at the same stars.

Thorvard said, “Do you know the stars?”

“Just that they are there.”

“Learn the heavens,” he said, “and you will know the earth.”

“What do you mean?”

He pointed up. “There’s a bull. There’s a fish. There’s Hercules.”

“Where?” I said, straining my neck.

Pointing, he began to mark these heavenly bodies by showing me how to draw lines in my head, thereby connecting the stars and turning them into pictures. It was amazing to see it thus. It was as if, by a kind of conjuring, the heavens turned into a vault of images.

Then he said, “And there’s Great Bear. There, Little Bear.”

My heart jumped, for I had felt much anguish for what I had thought of Bear.

“Bear?” I cried. “Truly? Where!”

He pointed out the picture.

“I had a…friend named Bear,” I said, my voice thick. “He died not so long ago.”

Thorvard considered my words. “To be so well placed in heaven, he must have been a good friend.”

“None…better.”

He studied me. “Is that the one who told you those things about Iceland?”

I nodded.

He grunted. “Then he must have been human—like us.”

Quite unexpectedly, I began to weep, hard racking sobs full of the deepest pain.

His voice low and thick, Thorvard said, “For whom are those tears, Crispin? Who are you? Where do you come from? Who was that friend called Bear?”

I said nothing. I could not. It was enough to breathe.

“Well, then,” he said, “you need not say. I’ve seen many a broken boy—was one myself—and you are among the most bent. But perhaps I should ask: why, in Calais, were the people so eager to hang you?”

I did not, could not, and dared not answer right away.
Rather, I was silent a long while, staring up at the stars where he said Bear was. But Thorvard’s silence seemed to call on me to speak. Suddenly I felt the need to tell all. Which I did.

While I related everything that had happened to me, I never looked at Thorvard, not once, nor did he say a word. Even when I’d finally done, he remained quiet. Only the sea spoke.

We stood in silence. Then, after a while, he said, “Come here. Stand next to me.”

I did so.

He kept one hand on the rudder bar. His other hard hand he set upon my shoulder. Just rested it there, heavy, firm.

“Crispin,” he said, “God doesn’t make saints for us to think about their perfections. He makes them so the rest of us can consider our sins. Mortals—like you and I—have sinned. Like your Bear.”

He pointed up. “Consider that bear. The smaller one. Can you see it clearly?”

“I think so.”

“That bright star there—at the end of smaller bear’s tail,” he said. “Do you see the one I mean? It’s called the North Star. Ancient mariners called it Cynosure.”

I looked along the reach of his arm and hand and thought I saw what he meant. “What of it?”

“That’s the mariner’s star. It shows true north. It’s always there. Unmoving. Know that star and you shall know where you are and where to go. That star is the sailor’s hope and guide. I named this ship after it. Always look for it. It can be your salvation. Crispin, follow your Bear.”

My heart seemed to swell. “Will it…will it always be there?”

“Until the end of time.”

I stared at the star, fixing it in my heart. “Then can I follow Bear forever?”

“Not follow, Crispin. Use. Learn to use him to help you know where you are and where you’re going.”

My tearful eyes made the star blurry. But I saw it still. And would see it, I knew, till the end of time.