At the Edge of the World

by Avi

  This time, however, knowing that our aim was to unbar the door, he did not advance but stood his ground and began to bellow to his companions, “Give aid! Give aid!”

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  IT WOULD BE, I knew, just moments before others came to help him.

  Troth gestured, telling me to advance to the side.

  I crept forward as she bid, my heavy sword in both hands, shifting it back and forth.

  The soldier, unable to watch the two of us at once, put his eyes solely on me—the sword bearer.

  His face glistened with sweat. He was breathing hard. He started to step forward, only to hold back.

  Knowing he was waiting for his companions, and feeling the pressure to draw him, I crept closer. Instead of holding the sword with two hands, I used just one so I could extend my reach that much further. It was enough to rub against the soldier’s blade. The rough, grating sound made me clench my teeth.

  Grimacing, he advanced, swinging his sword out with all his strength, albeit uncontrollably. Sensing a rash confidence on his part, I yielded a few steps, trying to act as if I were overawed. Tempted, he came forward, moving even farther from the door. When I continued to step back, he came with me like a fish drawn on a line. Now and again, our swords touched—a sharp, teasing ring.

  No doubt believing he’d gained the advantage, he began to press me harder, using his sword to force me into a further retreat.

  Troth—I could just see—was getting closer to the door.

  The soldier pounced, and in so doing, struck my sword with so much force it was all I could do to keep it in my grasp. Sensing my weakness, he waited not at all, but struck again and again, crashing his sword hard against mine.

  It was then that Troth dove forward and reached the door. Using both hands, she shoved up on one end of the crossbeam, got it over one of the iron holds, and let it drop. It fell with a crash, but it still barred the door.

  The noise alarmed the soldier so, he hesitated in his attack on me. Though he still held his sword out, he darted a look back. At that instant, I gathered all my strength and swung my sword against his. In his moment of distraction, I was able to shake his hold. Desperate, I struck again. That time I hit the side of his arm. He yelped with pain. Blood began to flow. With a clatter, his sword dropped. Scrambling to pick it up, he slipped on his own blood and went down on his knees. Thinking I would surely strike, he lifted his arms over his head.

  Instead, I used the moment to leap to the door where Troth was struggling to lift the other end of the crossbeam. With two of us hoisting, it rose up enough so that we could pull it free. It fell with a crash. Even as it did, we pushed against the doors.

  They swung open.

  Ten armed soldiers—helmeted and in body armor—222poured out of the tower door and came rushing down the length of the church nave toward us.

  Side by side, Troth and I ran out of the church.

  Dudley’s troops must have seen the church doors swing open. By the time Troth and I burst from the building, they were already rushing toward us. Foremost, Dudley and his two lieutenants were charging on their mounts, their swords up. To my horror, I saw that Bear still had the rope round his neck and was being all but dragged forward by Dudley.

  Troth and I leaped to one side just as the soldiers within the church burst out the door. When they saw what was coming at them, most rushed forward to confront the onslaught. Others raced to close the doors.

  As I watched, I saw one of the church soldiers lift a crossbow and shoot at one of the advancing horsemen. The bolt struck the man with so much force he spun about and fell to the ground. His beast, in confusion, twisted about, colliding into the other horse, breaking the momentum of Dudley’s attacking troops.

  The fighting at the church door was as fierce as it was tangled. Shouts and screams, and the constant clang of metal on metal filled the air. Men fell. The ground was soaked with blood. Even as we searched for Bear, Troth and I tried to keep free of the fierce fighting.

  “There!” screamed Troth and pointed.

  I saw Bear. He was on his knees, desperately trying to get the rope from around his neck, even while attempting to keep from being hauled about. He had lost his helmet. His body plate was askew. His garments were rent in many places. Though there were soldiers around him, no one was paying attention to him. But the rope still held, and, attached to Dudley’s horse, was yanked this way and that as the captain fought, utterly unmindful of what was happening to Bear.

  “Stay here!” I shouted to Troth and dashed forward, sword in hand.

  There were soldiers all around me, yelling and screaming. More than once I dodged a stroke from one side or another, I hardly knew which.

  “Bear,” I screamed so hard it hurt my throat, trying to make myself heard above the furor.

  He turned toward the sound of my voice. His eyes were wide with panic, his face filthy, one cheek gashed and bleeding profusely. His red beard fairly glistened with blood.

  I reached his side. “Hold out the rope!” I shouted.

  When he did, I struck, severing it. He fell, free, then made an effort to get back on his feet, only to stumble.

  “Take the sword!” I yelled, thrusting it in his hand. He took it while I ducked my head beneath his arm, and strove to lift him. “Push up!” I cried. He struggled and finally rose up.

  Clumsily, step-by-step, we tried to move away from the melee in the direction where I thought I had left Troth.

  As I went, I shifted slightly and saw the fighting at the church. As I would understand only later, once Dudley’s forces had turned to attack the church, the garrison within the castle left the fortification, crossed the lowered moat, and were now pressing Dudley and his troops from behind. Moreover, with one church door closed, the fighting had become more desperate. The howls and shrieks of pain, mixed with the constant clash of metal on metal, produced an appalling chorus of butchery.

  Troth saw us, and began to run in our direction.

  There was a great shout behind us. I shifted about, and saw that the second church door had been closed.

  “Retreat! Retreat!” I heard from Dudley’s men.

  Even Bear turned his head.

  Dudley’s men were trying to break away from the church before they became encircled and annihilated.

  Next moment, I saw Dudley, still mounted, repeatedly slashing with his sword, forcing his way through the ring of garrison troops who were trying to bring him down with spears, glaives, and swords.

  Suddenly, he broke though and galloped forward. Troth was running toward us—directly in his path. Dudley, red-faced with fury, swerved straight toward her—as if to trample her.

  Bear saw the danger.

  “Troth!” he screamed, and broke from me with sword in hand. Stumbling as much as he ran, he hurled himself forward to block Dudley’s way. The captain saw him. Instead of drawing back or away, he lifted his sword, prepared to slash Bear. It was then that Bear flung—javelinlike—his sword forward. It struck the horse in the neck. When hit, the horse jerked his head up, stumbled, and fell to its knees. The shock of the horse’s collapse caused Dudley to be thrown over its head onto the ground. The horse, recovering, whinnied shrilly, shook itself to a standing position, and, though bleeding profusely from its neck, bolted.

  Dudley lay facedown upon the ground, unmoving.

  Bear had also fallen to his hands and knees. With enormous effort, he scrambled for his sword that lay not far from where he was upon the ground. Taking hold of it with two hands, he used it as a prop to stagger up, then lurched toward the prostrate Dudley. It was perfectly clear what he intended—to kill the fallen man.

  Troth raced forward. “Bear!” she screamed. “Don’t! You mustn’t kill!”

  Bear, his sword poised over Dudley, hesitated.

  Troth came to his side. She reached up and pulled his arm down. To my amazement, Bear let her. Indeed, she took the sword from his hands and with all her strength, flung it away.

  39
r />   WE 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.