At the Edge of the World (4 page)

9

M
ORNING’s DULL LIGHT
nudged me into wakefulness. I opened my eyes but lay still, listening, trying to take measure of where I was, of what was happening. What I heard was a steady
shhhh
sound, which I gradually recognized as rain. I recalled my sighting of the old woman and the girl during the night—chanting in the moon glow. I felt a chill.

Easing up one elbow, I peered about. Rainwater dripped down through the leafy roof, making a constant,
pat pat pat.
The bower floor had turned muddy in spots while rocks to either side glistened wetly. The fire was cold, the ashes white. The constant dripping sounds made me tense.

Across the way from me, on the other pile of straw, the old woman lay asleep, her toothless mouth agape. Her breath was raspy. Troth was curled by her side—cat and kitten.

On my knees I studied Bear’s face. He seemed to be in peace, breathing with greater regularity. No sweat was on his brow. The redness on his wound had abated somewhat. But when I touched fingers to his brow it was still too warm.

Hearing a sound, I swung about. The girl had woken. She was staring at me. When I returned the look she pulled her hair across her face in that gesture that hid her disfigurement—her Devil’s mark. Our eyes held.

“Can you speak?” I said.

No reply.

“Can you?”

“Ugah,”
she said, or some such sound.

I pointed to one of my ears. “Hear?”

She nodded yes.

“And your name is … Troth.”

“Oth.”

A hand to my chest. “My name is Crispin.”

“Ispin.”

I pointed at the old woman. “Aude.”

Another nod.

“Mother?”

No response.

“Is she your mother?” I tried.

The girl shook her head.

“And … your father?”

No reply. Her face was like an empty mask.

“Are you … Christian?”

Again no reply. Then I recalled what people said, that demons and witches recoiled from a visible sign of the cross. I held up my hands and made one with my fingers.

She returned a look absent of emotion or any hint of knowing. Still—I noted—she had not cringed. And though yet uncertain what she was, I reminded myself that she had helped Bear.

“May Jesus,” I said, “grant you a blessing for being kind to my friend.”

She continued to fix her gaze on me. But this time, she shifted her hair so it was no longer covering her disfigured mouth: as if she wanted me to see,
dared
me to see. That confused me. Was she showing me her evilness? I made myself hold my gaze while inwardly saying protective prayers.

Then, to break the moment, I pointed to
my
mouth. “Hungry,” I said and patted my stomach.

She made another guttural sound, got up and leaned over the fire, blowing on the coals till they flamed. She put some wood on. The fire blazed. She set a helmet on it and added a handful of something. Now and again she stirred.

Frustrated by my inability to make any clear sense of her, I kept watch over Bear.
Tell me what to do!
I kept thinking. As God’s mercy would have it, his eyes fluttered open.

“Crispin,” he whispered, “where are you?”

I leaned over him. “Here.”

“What … is this place?”

“Deep in the forest. Where a crone and a girl live. They’re tending to you.” Then I bent down and whispered into his ear. “Bear, I don’t know who or what they are. Except, they aren’t Christians.”

He made a feeble effort to get up only to fall back. His eyes closed. He slept.

Ill at ease, I looked over my shoulder. Troth was stirring her pot, but I sensed she’d been watching me. Had she heard my words?

She scooped up what she had been cooking, put it in a bowl, and offered it to me. It appeared to be cooked oats.
Was it safe to eat?
I wondered.

Troth made an impatient gesture to her mouth—as if urging me to eat.

Though fearful of her food, my stomach begged. The last time I had eaten was when I took that morsel of hare I’d cooked for Bear. Unable to resist, I closed my eyes, made a prayer for my safety, used my fingers to scoop up the food, and shoved it into my mouth.

Nothing untoward happened.

All that damp, warm day Bear remained asleep on the straw, though now and again he tossed about. I had hopes that he was mending, but being so uneasy, I remained by his side, on guard, keeping a wary eye on Troth and Aude.

The rain continued, a steady, sopping rain. At times thunder rolled, and crackling lightning sucked all color from the air, turning the world a ghostly white. Humid air was thick with the sweet smells of wood and decaying leaves, mingling with the pungent herbs that hung within the bower.

Once, while I looked on, and the old woman worked on Bear, she suddenly squeezed where the arrow had entered Bear’s arm. A spurt of dark blood and yellow pus erupted, and with it a splinter of wood. I gagged with disgust. But Aude snatched up the splinter and, muttering incomprehensibly, flung it in the fire, then went back and salved Bear’s wound anew.

I felt gratitude that she took from him something that was ill. In truth, I was finding it increasingly difficult to deny that no matter what or who these people were, they were not acting wickedly.

Dare I show them gratitude?

10

B
EAR SLEPT ON
.

As time passed, Aude and Troth seemed to do very little. The girl plucked leaves from the herbs and ground them into powder in a stone pestle. Once she went into the woods and foraged food. Once, she returned with toadstools, which I knew were unfit for humans. She ate them nonetheless. I was shocked.

The hag sat mostly by the fire as if looking into it, communing with it. Sometime I heard her croon as she rocked back and forth. Now and again she attended Bear. Then she and Troth—with a little help from me—fed him their brew and salved his wound.

By dusk, the rain had slackened. Daylight faded. Everything felt strange, ill-measured, and misplaced. A corpse-gray mist wormed among the knobby roots of trees. Now and again a bird called, its sharp trill weaving through the dim gray light like a lost thread of silver. A fox appeared at the bower entryway, its fur a wet and mottled rusty hue. It stood without apparent fear, sharp nose sniffing quizzically, ears erect, one foot up. Aude took no notice. Troth did. She went to the beast, knelt, and rubbed its ears, after which the fox trotted off. A few times birds flew into the bower, hopped about and pecked.

It was all so fantastical I was convinced these were bewitched people—if they were truly people.

And yet, and yet, they seemed kind.

Once, when Troth went to fetch more wood, and Aude was tending to Bear and therefore close to me, I said, “Is Troth your daughter?”

She considered momentarily before shaking her head.

“Then … how did she come to you?”

“Her mother died when giving birth. The father, seeing that face, pronounced her Devil’s work and would not keep her. No one would. But Aude took Troth and let her live.”

I said, “How was she able to touch that fox?”

“Creatures do not fear her. Humans do.” She leaned toward me so that I felt skewered by her one good eye. “But then men fear most what they understand least. Ignorance,” she hissed, “makes fear.”

“What do you mean?” I said, wondering if she thought
me
ignorant.

She turned away, leaving me to brood upon her words.

Not till next day did Bear truly wake. That’s to say, he opened his eyes and pushed himself up a bit with his good arm. Much weight had been lost. His face was gaunt, his small eyes dark rimmed.

I went to his side.

“How long have we been here?” he asked, as if rising from a long, deep sleep.

“Two days.”

He shook his great head, looked about, scratched his red beard, and rubbed his bald pate. “I’ve little memory of coming,” he said.

Trying to move his wounded arm, he winced and lay back down, eyes closed.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“A bear is always hungry,” he whispered with a welcome hint of smile, though his eyes remained shut.

“He wants to eat,” I called to Aude.

She and Troth came to his side bringing a mazer of broth.

Bear opened his eyes and gazed up at the old woman. “Good morrow,” he said.

Aude stared at him.

“May the blessing of Jesus be with you for your kindness,” Bear murmured.

Making no reply, but working silently, Aude and Troth fed him. When done, they withdrew.

“How far have we come from Great Wexly?” he asked when I returned to his side.

“We had already walked some time when the arrow struck you. Even then we went on. Bear,” I whispered into his ear, “I don’t know what these people are. They have been kind … But they’re strange. Not like anyone I’ve known. I don’t know if we should trust them. Perhaps we should go on.”

“Where?”

“Anyplace.”

He shook his head. “John Ball’s brotherhood is everywhere. They’ve marked me as a traitor and—”

“What?”

“As long as we’re not discovered, we should be fine. Besides, I can’t travel.”

“But—”

“Patience, Crispin. Patience.” He lay back, closed his eyes. Then he said, “I wish a priest was near.”

“Why?”

He sighed, swallowed hard then said, “Crispin, like most men, I’ve done things that … need God’s mercy and forgiveness.”

I gazed at him. It was what he had suggested before. And as before, if there was something he needed to confess, I was uncertain I wanted to hear. “Shall … shall I try to find a priest?” I asked.

“No,” he whispered. “I’m not ready.” He was silent for a while. Then he said, “Once I knew a man who owned a great bear. This man kept this bear cruelly with a chain, so as to make him dance at will. For years he kept that beast, bragging he’d tamed him, though he never turned his back. Then one day, he
did
turn his back and the bear smote him dead. But the bear let me—who had been kind to him—cut that chain. When I did, the bear lumbered off”

“What am I to learn from that?”

“I took my name from that bear.”

“Why?”

“That bear knew when it was time to free himself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Because,” he whispered, “that bear was held back from his natural state, as if … as if the links of the chain were his sins. My sins bind me—just so.”

I felt increasingly uncomfortable. “Bear,” I blurted out, “I don’t want to know your sins!”

He closed his eyes. “To love a man,” he whispered, “you must know his failings.”

That said, he closed his eyes and slept.

I withdrew, greatly troubled. But then, I trusted myself—a gift from Bear—to know right from wrong. I would not, could not allow myself to think of Bear in any way but as goodness itself. How could he have done bad things? No, I didn’t want to know.

How hard it was for me to discern when evil clothed itself in goodness, or when there might be a kernel of goodness within the chaff of evil. Then I recalled what Aude had said:
Ignorance made fear.
But my thought was—as I looked at Bear and pondered what he’d said—if ignorance gave comfort, I would rather cleave to that.

11

B
EAR CONTINUED
to mend. Now and again he sat up, but it was a struggle for him to move. His arm still ailed. Now and again he laughed, always a measure of his health. Best of all, I could see that each passing day brought him strength.

Though he tried to talk to Troth, she kept apart. As for Aude, she paid Bear little mind but went about her mumbling motions.

Occasionally, Troth tried to teach me some hand signs, gestures that seemed to mean
go,
or
come,
or
more.
It seemed to please her when we communicated that way.

Thus did our days pass. I felt as if I were being held in some formless time and place, tottering between worlds I could neither see nor grasp nor fully understand.

I kept thinking that, though Bear was far from recovered, we should leave. Surely it was wrong to stay with such folk. Perhaps it was a sin. Every day we did not go, my tension grew: Would Bear never get fully well? Had they put him under a spell? Were they—in fact—holding us?

One day Troth was gone from morning till night, but when she returned she had some rough cloth. As I was to learn much later, she had purchased it (I knew not where) with the pennies I had given Aude. Under the tutelage of the old woman, the girl fashioned the cloth into rough breeches and a kirtle for Bear.

He was pleased. I, recalling his blue-and-red leggings, his pointy shoes of better days, was not as pleased. Still, I tried to tell myself that it might bring us a little closer to leaving.

Now and again, Aude and Troth left the bower for periods of time. Whenever they walked out, Aude kept a hand on Troths shoulder. She was that dependent on the girl. Though they stayed away all day, they did not tell us where they were going.

Then for an entire night they were gone. When they returned the next morning I was startled to see what looked to be blood on Aude’s garments. It alarmed me greatly. After all, I had never seen them with meat of any kind, only the plants Troth found in the woods. What kind of blood rituals might they have done?

I crept to Bear’s side.

“Bear,” I whispered, “did you see the blood on Aude?”

He nodded.

“What can it mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bear,” I said to him, “surely you must know now we’re in great danger.”

“I
don’t
know. What makes you think so?”

“These people … I suspect they are … witches.”

His look seemed to suppress a smile. “Have you questioned them?” he asked.

“Of course not!”

“Perhaps I should, then.”

Feeling he spoke as if I were a child, I quit his side and kept to myself. What kind of freedom, thought I, did I have if it meant I was always bound by his decisions?

Later on, I lay with my head cushioned in my arms, feeling drowsy. Troth was busy with her herbs. Aude sat before the smoldering fire. Bear pulled himself from the bed of old straw and sat opposite the woman, across the flames. After a goodly while, I heard him say, “Old dame, may I ask a question?”

Aude mumbled her assent.

“Might that,” said Bear, “be stains of blood upon your garments?”

Across the bower Troth stopped her work and looked around. I dared not move but listened closely.

“It is,” I heard the woman say.

“Have you been hurt?” said Bear. He spoke gently.

At first Aude said nothing to this. Then she muttered, “Aude practices midwifery.”

“Ah!” cried Bear. “Then you helped deliver a woman of a babe.”

She nodded.

“And all was well?”

“It was.”

Bear was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Where would this have happened?” asked Bear.

“In the village.”

“A village!” said Bear. “I had no idea one was near.”

“A few leagues.”

“Does it have a name?”

“Chaunton.”

“I never heard of the place. Do they call on you often?”

Aude seemed to consider the question. Then she said, “There is no Christian priest in Chaunton. There is only a bailiff, who lords over all and even preaches to the people. Falsely so, they tell Aude in secret, for they fear him. That bailiff rejects Aude. Spits on Aude. Calls Aude pagan. Tells people that Troth is evil. Warns them not to use Aude, lest they lose their souls.”

“But all the same, they call on you,” said Bear.

“The women do. And some men.”

“And you help them in their time.”

“Aude has the hands, the skill, and a belt that’s never been fastened.”

“Then you are much blessed,” said Bear. “And does Troth assist you?”

“Aude is very old. More and more Nerthus calls to her. Aude shall go to her soon. Aude is teaching Troth all she knows. Troth will take Aude’s place.”

Only when Aude and Troth slept did I dare question Bear. “Why does Aude use a belt?” I asked.

“An open belt laid on the birthing woman’s belly gives her ease. But then, opening all closed things in her dwelling can help, too. I assure you, Crispin, it’s common wisdom. The town is blessed to have Aude near.”

“But, Bear,” I burst out, “what
are
these people?

He looked at me, smiled and only said, “Kind.”

“Aude spoke of a town close by,” I pressed. “You said yourself we’re not far enough away from Great Wexly. The longer we stay, the more likely we’ll be discovered.”

This time Bear considered my words seriously. “As for that … you may be right,” he said. “While I would have preferred to wait and regain all my strength, I suppose we should leave soon.”

“Where could we go?”

“Do you remember that road we were on?”

I nodded.

“I think it would have delivered us toward Scotland.”

“Is that a good place?”

“For all I care,” he said, “that road could take us to the land of the Great Chan. What matters is that we keep our liberty.”

“Bear, lead us wherever you want. You’ve been everywhere.”

“I assure you,” he returned, “my
everywhere
is not God’s
everyplace!’
With a stubby finger he drew crude lines in the bower’s mud.

“Here,” he said with a jab, “sits the realm of Edward’s England. For walking, there’s Wales to the west. That’s closest of all. Alas, the love of English is rather meager there, and they speak a language I don’t know.

“As for Scotland, where we can also walk, that’s to the far north, here. The pity is they speak a knapped warp of English tongue. More importantly, they have been our enemies for endless years in useless wars. Thank old Edward Long Shanks for that. Now, then,” he went on, “England is an island.”

“It is?”

“In the name of Saint Augustine!” cried Bear, “there are times I forget the depth of your ignorance. Yes, England is an island. And the world beyond is very large. Well, then,” he continued, “all round England sits deep sea.”

“Bear …”

“What?”

“What is …
sea?”

Bear looked at me with astonishment. Next moment he broke into boisterous laughter, his first great laugh since being ill. “Oh, God!” he cried looking heavenward, “who hath
all
wisdom, I pray You lend—You need not
give
—just
lend
one eyelash of Your wisdom to this most ignorant of boys.”

“Bear!” I cried, quite abashed.

“Forgive me, Crispin. It’s not your fault. I mock no man’s ignorance, but his ignorance of his ignorance.

“The
sea,
Crispin, is water—also called
ocean
—which covers the world in greater magnitude than land.”

“You mock me,” I said, scoffing at such an absurdity.

He lifted up his good right hand. “I swear it’s true,” he said. “Someday, perhaps, you’ll go to the sea and measure its depth with your own toes. And Crispin, this ocean is not just vast, but second only to God in power, so that in winter it hurls mighty storms one day in three. In summer, one in ten. As Heaven knows, many a man sails to sea in a leaky cog and never touches dry land again.”

I sighed. The more I came to know of the world, the more I knew I knew it not.

“Now, Crispin,” Bear went on, returning to his mud sketch, “sail your fat cog upon the sea this way—east—and there’s France. All we’ll find there is war and devastation. Satan’s playing fields. May good Jesus keep us from that.

“Now, there’s Flanders, here, east as well, but I don’t put trust in such a mercantile people.

“Further north and west is a land—some say—that’s all but beyond the world. A land of
ice,
it’s called Iceland. But so cold no kings or lords will rule there. They live without government. Or war. But that seems too fantastical.

“Go south, here, and back across the ocean. You’ll find the Kingdoms of Navarre and Castile. Alas for the overreaching folk of Babel, they too speak a language I don’t know.

“Cross the sea
this
way—westerly beyond Wales—there’s Ireland. Some say it’s a savage place, but I’ve heard honest men say otherwise. That attracts me.”

“Is the world so truly vast?” I asked, amazed by what he had drawn.

“Aye,” he said, “and much more still unknown to me. And Crispin,” he said, leaning into my ear and whispering, “some say it’s all guarded by dragons.”

“Dragons!” I said, staring at his grinning face. “Bear, I’ve never even heard of these places. Have they … Christian peoples?”

“Some, I suppose, have infidels.”

“Bear, we need to go someplace that’s free from all danger.”

“I doubt such exists. In any case, I’ve not yet the strength to go too far.”

“Bear,” I said, “you think I’m too young to give advice. But I’m fearful that we’ll be found. The old woman spoke of a nearby village. We
need
to leave before we’re found.”

He lay back and closed his eyes. “You may be right.”

“But—”

“Just give me a little more time, Crispin.”

Certain I was right, I took it upon myself to find a way to make him go the sooner. Bear would then see I was not the child he thought me. If he was too weak to make decisions, then I would have to make them for us.