At the Edge of the World (15 page)

39

W
E LED BEAR AWAY
as far from the fighting as we could. When we came to a cluster of trees thick enough to conceal us, we crept within. Once there, we lay him upon the ground.

Eyes closed, Bear was broken and battered, with more than one bleeding wound. Rope-burn marks scored his neck. We tried to clean his face of blood and filth, but we had no water.

We did not talk. All we could do was stay close, both Troth and I holding Bear’s hands.

The clamor of the battle dwindled until we could hear no more. No one came to look for us. We remained alone.

Once—before it was completely dark—Bear opened his eyes. He looked at us, eyes full of tears. He tried to speak, but couldn’t.

“Don’t die, Bear,” I whispered. “In Jesus’s name, we need you.

And Troth said, “In Nerthus’s name, you must live.”

But sometime in the night—neither Troth nor I knew exactly when—Bear did die. At dawn, when we found him so, we wept.

We had only our hands to dig his grave into the red earth. He never seemed smaller in body than he was then. As for the grave, it was far too shallow, but it was the best we could do.

I made the best Christian prayer I could.

Troth lay her sprig of hawthorn over his heart.

Then we covered him with earth.

As I sat by his grave, I refused to think of him as dead, tried not to think that I had lost my real father. Instead, I made myself see him in my thoughts as he was that time after we had fled with Troth, when Bear and I danced and played in that wretched little town.

How fine it was to see Bear perform again! I could hardly keep from grinning even as I played. In truth, never were Bear and I more together than when I piped and he danced. Here was this great and powerful man, a giant to most, his beard aflame, his fleshy face ripe with life, his small eyes as bright as any lofty star, gamboling as if he were some two-day kid sprung new upon a dewy world. How light he was upon his feet, his arms beating the air like angel wings aflutter!

Though no man was ever more earthbound than my Bear, none seemed to leap more heavenward. In truth, Bear’s dance that time did not have the exuberance he had had before, and that lessening was sore poignant to my heart. But I had no doubt that God Himself, looking down, would not hold back His sweet smile at the sight of His cavorting, unchained Bear.

Oh, dear, great Bear in ragged tunic, whose soul fairly burst with the sheer joy of living, a breathing blessing to all who saw him, who bore a heart of loving grace, whose great hands would have gentled all the world if they but could—how I did adore him!

And since no mortal man can forgive sins, I took him as he was for all and all and ever would be.

Amen.

* * *

It was late of the morning, when Troth and I finally left Bear’s grave—unmarked save for our tears.

We did not look back.

I do not know how long we wandered, save we went aimlessly about the countryside, avoiding all dwellings, people, and towns, finding food as we might. We did not speak to another soul and hardly to one another. Sometimes there was rain. Sometimes there was sun. Day and night rolled their endless wheel. It was all one to me.

It was Troth, in time, who said, “Crispin, we must decide where to go.”

“Why?”

“We can’t wander forever.”

“Troth,” I cried, “I don’t know where to go.”

Then she said, “Do you remember that place Bear spoke of, that land where there are no armies, no governments, no wars?”

“The land of
ice?
”

She nodded. “Perhaps we should go there.”

“Troth, it may not even exist.”

“Aude would say—that’s why we should go.”

Perhaps I had wandered enough. Perhaps I could no longer be weary. Something in what Troth said had stirred me. I heard myself speak: “I know what Bear would say to such a notion.”

“What?”

“He’d laugh and then cry out, ‘Crispin, if that place doesn’t exist, we must make it so. Let it be as it
may
be!

And so it was that Troth and I, though weighted down by all that had happened, were guided by what Bear had told us: that freedom is not merely to be, but to choose. We chose to go to toward the edge of the world.

Wherever that might be.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

While the story of
Crispin; At the Edge of the World
is fictional, it is based on a number of historical facts.

Briefly, the end of the fourteenth century marked a time of great turmoil and change, moving England toward modernity. Recurring plagues and famines reduced the population by perhaps as much as half, bringing considerable social upheaval.

Four years after the time when this tale is set, the great peasant uprising of 1381 erupted. Led by the priest John Ball, among others, great numbers of peasants, and what we would call middle-class people, rose up in southern England and tried to end English feudalism, while establishing new personal and economic freedoms. (Whereas John Ball is an historical person, his brotherhood, as depicted in this story, is imagined.) With great bloodshed and destruction, the rebels almost succeeded in their goal of transforming English society, only to be suppressed by more bloodshed and destruction.

Edward III, the old English king, died in 1377, leaving the boy king, Richard II, on the throne. He would be overthrown while in his twenties.

At the time of this story, the Hundred Years’ War was ongoing. This war—really a series of wars—began in 1337 and did not end until 1453—116 years later! Fought principally between England and France, it had to do with who should rule France, as well as with English claims—and French counterclaims—to large parts of what is today modern France. The war did not end until France, led by Joan of Arc, swept the English away.

In the course of this long period of hostilities, with its many great battles (Crécy, Agincourt) and truces, abandoned soldiers—free companies—would go on fighting for their own need and greed in much the way that Richard Dudley—a fictional character—does here.

The ancient English town of Rye still exists, though with changing coastal patterns it now sits inland. The burning of the town by French and Castilian forces took place in 1377.

The cog—the kind of ship that takes Bear, Crispin, and Troth to Brittany—was widely used during this time by Atlantic coast countries. Many relics of these ships have been uncovered. A complete reconstruction of such a ship, the Bremen Cog, as it is called, has been sailed. A good deal of information about the Bremen Cog may be found on the Internet.

Bastides, such as the fictionalized town of Bources depicted here, were fourteenth-century market towns and small cities built in the French Aquitaine. They were designed so that residents might defend themselves against French or English attacks or those deemed heretics by the Catholic Church. The town described here is closely modeled upon the real circular bastide, Fourcès.

Regarding the religion practiced by Aude: at the time of this story Christianity is absolutely the established religion of England. That said, all kinds of pagan beliefs and practices continued here and there. I refer readers to Kathleen Herbert’s book,
Looking for the Lost Gods of England.
But one need only look at the origin of the English names for the days of the week and months to see the extraordinary persistence of old religions into even our own time. Indeed, Easter, the holiest day in the Christian calendar, derives its English name from a pagan Northumbrian goddess.

The best summary description of this fascinating period I know is the brilliant and captivating series of lectures delivered by Professor Teofilo F. Ruiz titled
Medieval Europe, Crisis and Renewal,
as recorded by The Teaching Company.

AVI
’s books are loved by kids and adults everywhere. He has written more than fifty books, several of which have garnered prestigious awards, including the Newbery Award and two Newbery Honors. His titles for Hyperion include
Crispin: The Cross of Lead, The Book Without Words, Iron Thunder
and
Hard Cold: The Colorado Gold Rush of 1859.
He lives with his family in Colorado.