The End of Time (7 page)

H
ANDS BALLED INTO fists, struggling not to look back or burst into tears, I walked off a number of paces. Then I paused, took a deep breath, and tried to gain a full sense of where I was, how the land lay before me, and what I must do.

I was in an area where the forest had almost ceased to be, though here and about stood random trees and low stubble. These few trees were not tall and appeared to be windblown into grotesque forms, as if squeezed and shaped by some clumsy hand. As for the land, it was not entirely level but had scattered hills to the southwest, which rose to some height. To the east and north, it was flat and, to my eyes, lifeless.

The ground beneath my bare feet was softer than within the forest, damp and almost marshy. My toes could press into it. The air held a damp heaviness, ripe with the smell of sea. How far off the sea was I had no idea, but surely not so very far.

Overhead the sky was as gray and cold as dull battle armor, enough to make me shiver. Perhaps it was fear. For
I could see the French soldiers with perfect clarity, though they appeared not to have noticed me—not yet—for which I was grateful.

I glanced back. When I saw that the family had already gone, that I was abandoned, my heart seemed to squeeze with pain. I had to remind myself they had only done what Rauf said they’d do, move eastward through the trees while I went west.

Who, I asked myself, was my greater enemy: the family or the French? It was a sensation I had before: as if I were a kernel of wheat between two millstones, likely to be ground to powder.

For a few moments, I played with the notion that I might go directly to the French and tell them about Elena and her family in hopes they would provide a rescue. At least for Owen. I fingered the coin Rauf had given me, the one taken from the murdered merchant. Momentarily I considered bribing the soldiers. But I had little doubt it would not be enough.

Then I realized that since I could not speak their language, I could never even explain. In any case, being French, they might kill me before I could.

But then a new thought came to me: I was free of the family! I need not go back to their murderous ways. Next
moment, however, I thought of Owen and my vow to rescue him. I’ll not deny it: at that point I wished I had not given my word to help the boy. The next emotion I felt was shame that I should forsake him so. What if Bear—I chided myself—had acted that way toward me?

Tense, I glanced heavenward. How I wished I knew the names of all the holy saints Bear had called upon for each special need! The most I could whisper was “Heavenly saints, and you, dear Saint Giles, who have so blessed me with your favor, look over me!”

With a trembling hand, I made the sign of the cross. Commending my soul and my hope of heaven to my Maker, I turned, knowing it was time to attract the French soldiers’ attention and lead them toward the west.

I decided, however, that if I drifted in a more northerly direction, I would also be going toward where I understood Calais was. That would mean there would be the forest on one side—the place from which I had emerged—and on the other, northern side, somewhere, Calais. Though it was to Calais I truly desired to go, if the need came, I might escape back into the forest.

With that plan in mind, I began to walk away from the soldiers, having little doubt that they would soon see me. That I was finally going at a steady pace served to calm me.

As I walked, I tried, by keeping my head down, to avoid looking at the French. My fright, however, had me constantly stealing glances to where they were. So it was that I had gone no more than a few hundred paces when I saw that one of the soldiers had shifted and was now facing in my direction. I began to walk faster.

It didn’t take long before all the French soldiers were looking at me. Though I reminded myself this was only what I was supposed to do—lure them toward me—it was all I could do not to run for safety back among the trees. Trying to strengthen my will by staring straight ahead and whispering prayers, I kept on.

The soldier with the cross of Saint Denis on his chest climbed upon his horse and gestured to his companions. The whole French troop now began to move, not in any haste—I was, after all, a solitary boy. I supposed they were bored and had nothing better to do. But I could have little doubt they were coming after me. If so, I had been successful in my task. Simultaneously, as I grasped more than ever the risk into which I had been placed, my heart began to pound.

I glanced toward the forest, wondering if it was not better to seek safety. Then I looked in a southwest direction and considered the hills I’d noted before, wondering if I could reach the top. If I could safely reach it, I might
have a better sense of how the land lay. Might even find some escape. Calais—my real goal—could be closer than I thought. I decided to try.

I walked faster, trying to act as if I were paying no mind to the soldiers. All the same, I kept glancing around. It served only to make the horseman begin to lope. His companions trotted by his side.

Though the French were still a considerable distance from me, fear took hold. I broke into a run, racing toward the hills. It was the worst thing I could have done. I heard shouts behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the mounted soldier coming faster after me. He was calling to me too, and though I did not understand, I could have little doubt he was telling me to stop.

Redoubling my speed, I reached the bottom of a hill. I clambered up, struggling, until, gasping for breath, I reached the high point. Once there I stood panting, heart beating to the point of pain.

Open, barren land stretched before me. But to the far north, I thought I spied something that looked like a walled city, with a few churchlike spires, which I assumed was Calais. I saw, too—or fancied I saw—a ribbon of gray upon the farthest horizon, which I took to be the sea. But between the place where I stood and that escape lay an
expanse of emptiness. There was so far to go!

I also noted a multitude of small, meandering streams, many of which looked to be no more than ditches. Some had water in them, others not. There was even one right below where I stood. But though the land was broken in this fashion, I could not see any place to hide.

I looked back toward my pursuers. The one on horseback was coming directly toward me, moving at a steady pace. Those on foot were now moving between me and the forest. It took but an instant to grasp what they were doing: cutting off any retreat in that direction.

Undecided which way to go, I remained in place and stared at the dreary land before me, praying I’d find some way to save myself.

The soldier on horseback—now coming up the hill—began to shout. I had no understanding of his words, but saw only too clearly the sword he held aloft. Moreover, he had set his horse galloping toward me. I could have little doubt the Frenchman was intent on trampling me down, or at the least striking me with his weapon.

Terrified, I bolted down the far side of the hill.

Running as fast as I could, I all but tumbled down the hill. When I reached the bottom, I paused briefly, struggling for clear thought, trying to decide which way to go.

I glanced back. The horseman was now where I had been, atop the hill, looking down at me. Once again he cried out. Once again I ignored him.

I recalled there had been one of those streams before me. Unsure what protection it might afford—if any—but unable to think of anything else, I ran for it. In moments I reached its bank.

The stream was not very wide—no more than thirty feet—with a muddy, gently sloping bank and water flowing at a sluggish pace. Whether it was shallow or deep, I could not tell.

I looked back. In pursuit, the horseman was plunging down the hill.

I had no choice. I charged out to the edge of the stream only to sink deep into cloying, clinging mud that reached my knees. Worse, it held me. To go forward I had to yank up each leg one at a time. Every step took enormous effort and made a ghastly sucking sound. It was as if the mud were a greedy mouth, seeking to swallow me whole.

It took frantic efforts to move on, half stepping, half falling, forcing myself through mud and then into the stream itself. Once in water, I finally found sounder footing.

I was now able to walk forward, albeit clumsily. I dared not look back, but stumbled on with strained breath. The water
quickly rose to my chest, the cold making me gasp. Then came new alarm: I didn’t know how deep the stream might be, and I could not swim. Even as I kept going—I really had no choice—I feared that the water might rise above my head.

So it proved. As I pushed on, the river’s bottom seemed to fall from my feet. In an instant I found myself floundering, sinking, and struggling for air. Certain I was about to drown, I kicked my legs wildly and thrashed my arms.

My blessed Saint Giles must have been with me. There proved just enough forward momentum to carry me on so that my toes touched firm bottom again.

The surge of relief I felt swept me on, enough so I staggered to the far side of the stream. There, as before, I had to work my way through thick mud until, at last, I crawled onto the other side.

Gulping for breath, spitting water, my shivering body coated with mud, I stopped and turned about. The French horseman had now reached the river’s bank and was yelling at his horse, urging him forward. The horse, after some hesitation, went on, only to sink into the same morass of mud into which I had sunk. The horse, moreover, carried far greater weight than I and so sank deeper, completely hampering his movement. Snorting and whinnying, he thrashed wildly even while being sucked down.

The Frenchman grasped the danger. He flung himself off the horse and, while trying to avoid its frenzy, struggled to find his own footing on the more solid bank. Once he reached it, he stretched out for the horse’s reins, grabbed them, and began to coax and pull the beast back to safety.

For the moment I was forgotten. I stood there staring until, with a start, I grasped that I was—at least for now—safe. Making the most of it, I turned and fled.

Though cold and wet, I ran as fast as I could, now and again looking back, relieved to see the Frenchman was still struggling with his horse. Surely he no longer cared about me. But then I wasn’t looking where I was going, either. One moment I was running freely. The next moment I was hurtling through the air.

I
LANDED WITH a bruising thud that blew all breath from me. The plunge left me stunned, face pressed into the muddy ground. With my head spinning, I could not move for some time. At length I was able to roll onto my back and gaze up at the vast gray sky. All I could see was its emptiness.

Gradually I pushed myself up onto my knees and looked about. I had fallen into a wide, muddy ditch. It was not very deep, so I could prop myself up and peer over the bank to see if I was still being pursued. At first I could see no one. Only when I swiveled about did I see the French soldier. He was leading his horse away from me, his mount now appearing to be lame. With a deep breath of relief, I gave thanks to Saint Giles.

For a while I remained in place, wiping mud away from my face and arms until I felt more composed.

My sense of calm was only temporary. Though I had been safely delivered, my tattered rags were wet, I was cold, and the day was passing quickly. Shivering, I tried to think what next to do. Had Elena’s family succeeded in traveling on to Calais? Was Owen safe? Which direction should I go?

I peeked over the ditch anew, wanting to be sure that the Frenchman was truly gone. He was. Even so, I feared to stand up, but took some time to study the land in all directions.

The ditch I had fallen into had a sharply cut bank and lay so perfectly straight I decided it had been made by men, not shaped by God. A small thread of water trickled down its center. It appeared to lead nowhere. Standing up, I tried to determine the best way to go.

When I had stood upon the hill, I had seen, in a northward direction, what I thought was Calais. Where I now stood, so low, I could no longer see it. But from the position of the sun, it was easy enough to determine which way lay north. Since the ditch I’d fallen into was cut along a north-south line, I chose to go in a northern way.

For some time I traveled in this fashion in hopes of seeing anything that might assure me I was going the right way. Wanting a better view, I climbed out of the ditch. Everywhere I looked, the land proved as desolate as it first appeared, made more barren by a chill twilight wind that had begun to blow. As it increased in force, it carried bits of sand, stinging my face and arms.

Looking around, not knowing what to do, I noticed what appeared to be the ruins of stone walls not too far away. I was reminded of the deserted village where I first
met Bear, a place ravaged by the great mortality. Into my head even now came the song I’d heard him sing:

When I considered the splintered timber that lay amid the widely scattered stones, I concluded that the buildings had been destroyed with violence—as if by war. Did not Elena say the French and English were always fighting here? No doubt, the inhabitants had been driven away or killed.

As the crescent moon rose above the eastern sky, I felt an increasingly sharp wind. With my clothing still damp, I was forced to contemplate a cold and lonely night without fire, food, or shelter. Moreover, I had no true idea how far away Calais was. It seemed best to seek some protection among the ruins.

It was dusk when I drew near the broken walls. The closer I came, the more wretched and wasted the rubble appeared. The cutting wind and daggerlike shadows shaped by moonlight made it appear like a shrine to war. It was a spot where Death himself might sleep.

I reached a wall no higher than my chest. It had been built of wood and wattle, but now seemed more likely to tumble and mingle with the debris about my feet. I made
my way to the largest structure, another low and broken wall of stone, more intact than others. Between where it stood and a long mound of heaped-up stones was a shallow trench. Judging that the trench might afford some protection against the wind, I lay down in it. With cold skin against cold stone, I hugged my arms and gave myself over to a long and bitter night.

As I lay there unable to sleep, I began to think that—rough-hewn though it might be—I was already in my grave. When I wondered where Troth might be sleeping, a sob rose in my throat. Did she ever think of me? Did she regret having stayed behind? I pushed such painful thoughts away. Instead, I tried to convince myself that I would be safer on the morrow.

But as the moon rose higher and the wind began to sing a steady sigh, the cold increased. I began to wonder if I would last through the night. Was I about to die?

That made me think of Bear. It was easy to imagine his large shape, hear his booming voice, and feel his all-enveloping force.
Crispin
, I could almost hear him cry,
you young fool! God gave you life! Who are you to deny it? Be alive!

His figure and voice were so vivid in my ear and inner sight, it made me whisper as if in prayer, “Dear Bear, forgive me. I herewith vow to live—in your and Jesus’s names!”

Such thoughts of life and death made me think that the pile of rubble against which I was pressed might actually be a burial mound. It looked as if it could be. Just the thought was unsettling.

The more I thought the spot was a grave, the less I could
not
think on it. In the end I decided there was only one way to compose myself: push away some of the mound’s stones and free my foolish head of such fretful fancies.

I swung up onto my knees and, by the light of the white moon, began to throw off stones. The hard work brought some heat within me. Once begun, I labored hard and continued as if in self-mockery. But that self-mockery turned piercing when, upon turning over a large last stone, I discovered a broken-jawed skull grinning up at me.