Relics bp-1

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  And now here I was, an erstwhile monk who had been nothing but blamessly orthodox, fallen amongst Moors, Jews, Schismatics, heretics. And those where the ones who professed their faiths. Behind many others I detected closely guarded secrets. The truth was that I had fallen amongst men upon whom religion had been turned like a weapon. Yes, there were rogues like Zianni who had placed themselves beyond the laws of men and God by ill-fortune or simple choice, and men of war who knew no other life than that of violence. But perhaps the greater number of crewmen would find persecution or even death if they practised their beliefs in any country other than their own – and many were condemned out of hand in their own lands too. The only home they had, the only church or temple, was the ship. Chief among these were the group of men closest to the Captain, former subjects, like him, of the Duke of Provence. They spoke their own language, which they called Occitan, and which sounded like French and Latin stirred with honey and warm sunshine. To a man they carried some secret burden of the soul, a great anger and greater sadness within them. These men of Provence had suffered some fearful wrong, and de Montalhac, judging by their deference to him, had suffered most of all. I had heard of the dreadful wars that had afflicted their land – I was a cleric, after all, and knew of the Cathar heretics and their blasphemous, idolatrous ways – and remembered, dimly, when the news came to my abbey that the great heretic castle of Montsegur had fallen. It had meant little to a twelve-year-old novice monk, and now I wished I had paid more attention to news from the wider world. There was nothing monstrous about the Captain and his companions, though, and I confess I was filled with curiosity, although I did not have the nerve ever to enquire further.

  So we made our way northwards through the Irish Sea. We had calm seas and light winds, and the land drifted by, a distant bruise on the starboard side. At first I was more or less ignored as I wandered about the ship, and I quickly found a place for myself in a corner of the forecastle where I was unlikely to interfere with anyone else's business. This suited me. My whole arm had swelled, and it ached and throbbed as if it were a sausage stuffed with tiny demons trying to find their way out. It was almost impossible to turn my head. Isaac the surgeon changed my bandages daily, prodded my shoulder, and assured me I was healing well. It did not feel so to me, and the pungent, slightly nauseating balm he pasted over the wound failed to work its magic on my spirit, although it had great effect upon my body. Within a week I could look stiffly from left to right, and the demons under my skin were beginning to lose heart. But meanwhile I felt like a cripple and a useless mouth in a place where no food, no motion appeared to be wasted. Unlike the quiet regime of my monastery, I had been thrust into a community defined by constant activity. If a man was awake, he was mending, painting, trimming the sails, steering, navigating. Even the Captain and Gilles, who to my way of thinking were the lords of the ship, never seemed to take their ease, unless it were at the supper table. But even here they were frugal, eating with one ear cocked to the sounds of the crew and the wind in the sail.

  One day – it must have been our sixth day at sea, although I stopped counting soon afterwards – Fafner woke me in his usual fashion, taking my nose whole into his mouth and giving it the gentlest of nips with his great white teeth. His breath was as foul as his nature was sweet, and banished the last mists of sleep like a splash of cold water. I lay for a while, stroking the cat, until he slipped away to other entertainments and I rose and went on deck.

  For the first time since leaving Dartmouth, land was clear on our starboard bow. I saw dark, low hills in a line fading to the north. Looking around, I noticed that the crew were paying little attention to the shore. But I was curious, and instead of climbing forward to my spot in the forecastle, I went aft and joined Nizam on the bridge. I had exchanged no more than a nod with the helmsman since our meeting, but he greeted me with a smile. I remembered his odd gesture of welcome and made it now, a quick touch of my fingertips to breast, mouth, forehead. He returned it with great solemnity, then roared with laughter, so much so that I feared the ship would careen off course.

  'Master Nizam,' I began, cautiously, 'I see land over yonder. Do you know where we are?'

  'I would be a poor helmsman if I did not,' he replied. 'Those hills are the Rinns of Galloway. We are in the North Channel – Scotland is to starboard, and Ireland will show to larboard soon. If it stays clear, you shall see the Mountains of Antrim on one side, and the Mull of Kintyre on the other. We shall clear the Channel today, and perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after we will be in the Minches between the Western Isles and Skye. From there, it is due north to the Faroes, and Iceland beyond.'

  This was more information than I had dared to expect, and so I sought some more. 'Is this ice-land where the Skraelings dwell?' I ventured.

  'No, no. Iceland is – well, it is indeed a land of ice, but that is also its name. To the north-west of Iceland is Greenland, which is more of an ice-land than Iceland – if you follow me – and still further west are Aelluland, Markland, Vineland and Skraelingeland. I see you have never heard that such places lie beyond the setting sun, but men have visited their shores for centuries – nay, men – your Skraelings are men like you and I -have lived there time out of mind. There: I have told you the last great secret of the world. But this time we go to trade with the folk of Greenland.' 'Are they not Skraelings?'

  'They are Norse folk. Their forefathers were Vikings out of Iceland. They tell us that in the Viking days, Greenland was indeed green. Now it is becoming pitiful: winter has crept down on them from the north, and allows them but a grudging summer. With the ice and snow come the Inuit, Skraelings who cover their bodies in seal fat and furs, and eat their meat raw. They kill the Greenlanders whenever they can, and in return are slaughtered like vermin. But their numbers grow, while the Greenlanders grow thin and weary. We trade warm cloth for their walrus ivory, and they are horribly grateful, poor wretches.' 'Is that what the Captain does? Trade with the Norsemen?'

  Yes, among other things. We are traders, it is true. But we prefer to keep our arrangements – what is your word? Ah, yes: informal. Where we are going, it is the King of Norway who holds the monopoly on trade. Bergen is where he holds court, but Bergen is far out of our way. And we would not bother the King with trivial matters. The poor man has quite enough to worry about.'

  It dawned on me. 'So you are smugglers,' I said, half to myself. Realising what I had let slip, I jerked my head down in panic, wrenching the wound in my shoulder and sending a ghastly spasm of pain down my left side. Gasping, I regarded Nizam through eyes misty with tears, sure that the giant would toss me overboard like a piece of carrion for my hasty words. But instead he reached a hand across the tiller and steadied me. We are traders who keep no accounts but our own,' said another voice. We respect no borders other than the walls of this ship, pay neither toll nor tax save to our own consciences, and as for kings, each man of us is king unto himself It was the Captain; I had not heard him climb up to us. 'Fancy words. Smugglers – yes, you cut through to the quick. Does the thought trouble you?'

  I tried to think above the waves of misery flowing from my wound. 'No,' I said at last. 'No. Truly it does not.'

  'I am glad – truly. But whatever your feelings, you are safe with us. I will put you ashore in some safe port, if you wish. That has always been my intention. Or…'

  The thought of the world beyond the Cormaran filled me with sudden dread. Dry land – it looked so peaceful, drifting far off in a haze of blue and purple, but it held only death for me now. Then I patted Thorn where she lay against my tunic. I was safe out here on the sea, in this strange company that seemed to have adopted me. Laying my good hand on the smooth wood of the tiller, I followed Nizam's gaze to the far horizon, where sky and ocean met in a perfect silver line. 'I wish to stay,' I said.

  Chapter Eleven

  North and north we sailed, until I was sure we would brest the top of the world and fall down the other side into oblivion. But then we reached the Faro
e Isles, and I wondered whether we had not already sailed out of the familiar world. This place of looming cliffs and smooth green grass was unearthly. Myriad seabirds wheeled and shrieked about the crags, and waves boomed and rang in the caves below. The beaches were desolate, and the inhabitants avoided us, although we passed one of their villages, the low houses thatched with living turf so that the place looked like nothing so much as a colony of ant-hills. There seemed to be as many sheep as seabirds. White shapes against the blue sky above, and the green grass below.

  We put in to a sheltered cove on a little island to take on water. My wound having healed in the salt air and Isaac's bastings, I went ashore in the long-boat with the watering party, and after the casks were filled at a little stream that ran clear as diamonds down to the sea, I wandered among the tussocky grass for a while, marvelling at the odd birds that squatted and scurried about everywhere on bright red feet, creatures the size of ducks with grotesque wedge-shaped beaks that seemed to bear all the colours of the rainbow. In the air they whizzed about like crossbow bolts. 'Puffins,' Horst called them. 'Funny, are they not? You will be cursing them before long.' I wondered what he meant: the stubby, self-important creatures looked good-natured and harmless. I stored Horst's remark away in the overflowing sea-chest of my mind with all the other odd lore I had heard on board. 'Ask about puffins,' I told myself. A shout came from the long-boat: time to be off. I forgot all about birds as I ran back down to the shore, horrified at the prospect of being marooned in this desolate place.

  We put in for half a day at Torshavn, a little town of turf-roofed houses that Nizam told me was the most important place hereabouts. Tough, salt-wizened men with bleached out hair and eyes unloaded a few dark bales from our hold, and loaded on a few more casks and bottles, some bundles of sealskins, and many sacks of wool. The Captain went ashore, and I saw him deep in conversation with a small but important-looking islander. They nodded back and forth, then the Captain roared with laughter while the other grinned gap-toothed at him. They embraced, and the Captain strolled back to the ship.

  'These are good people,' he told me later. We were standing on the bridge, the Captain, Nizam, Gilles and myself, watching Torshavn dwindle to a blur behind us. 'Sheep and whales are all they know, but although they are farmers, they have pirate blood in their veins.'

  They look as tough as old ox-hide,' I said. 'I would not live there, not for all the spices of India.'

  Gilles grunted pleasantly. 'It is lucky you did not wish to be put ashore in a safe port, Master Petroc,' he said. 'I can think of no safer port than Torshavn.'

  What did we take on board?' I asked, to change the subject. 'I saw woolsacks.'

  We trade wool for skins,' answered the Captain. 'Bear, wolf, simple stuff. The fur is as welcome as gold, and we will trade the wool in Greenland.'

  'And where do we sail now? To Iceland?' I shivered. Further north, towards the abyss. I could feel the loneliness of the islands with me still, as if it lingered around the ship like mist. I dreaded to think what awaited us next. 'Aye. We'll stop for water and provisions, but no trade, I think, this trip. Sturri – the man I was talking to, a councillor -warned us off. King Haakon has men in Reykjavik, to smother unlawful business. A shame. You would like the Icelanders. Odd folk, but friendly. They are all related to each other, you see. Vikings, every one.' And the Greenlanders?'

  You will see for yourself. A sad place, too near the world's edge for people to settle comfortably. In times past it was safe and green, but this age of the world is turning cold, and they freeze, little by little, year by year. It is… you will see.'

  With that, the subject was closed, and we stood quietly and watched the petrels skim our wake as the islands dropped below the edge of the world. The horizon was wide and desolate, and the water was fretful. Away ahead of us, sea and sky merged in a dark green haze. Nizam hunched his shoulders for an instant, as if settling a heavy load upon his back. 'The Sea of Darkness,' he murmured.

  A steady south wind eased our crossing to Iceland, although the sea was black and troubled, and we were followed by dark sea birds that swooped and scudded across our wake. Leagues and leagues from any shore they wandered, never alighting, not even on our masts, which to me seemed incredible; but these creatures were wedded to the air as men are bound to the land: even on the oceans we create little landscapes of wood on which we can firmly set our feet. When I was not working -and I now had my share of chores with the rest of the crew – I would climb to the bridge and stand with Nizam, looking out at the little birds that were so close and yet so unknowable.

  Iceland appeared as a stern grey line one late afternoon. We found landfall at Hofn, a small port on the south-eastern coast, a dour place that huddled on a flat shore behind which mountains rose and beyond them, so the Captain told me, the great ice-fields of Vatnajokull spread out in a frigid hell, many days travel of desolation in any direction. As in the Faroes, some business was conducted on the wharfside, and we carried many small but heavy barrels aboard. As the Captain had said, we did no trade, but he and Gilles spent half a day in conference with some of the town's important men. We took to sea again, stopped for water and set a western course.

  The southern wind blew for a week or so longer, and we skipped and rolled crosswise over a steady swell, although I began to notice a deeper mood in the motion of the ship, a faint, almost imperceptible roll at odds with the action of the waves. I asked Nizam, who had become my oracle in all things relating to the sea and the ship, about it.

  'It is the swell of the deep ocean,' he told me. 'Though the winds shift all about the compass, yet steadily all weather comes from the world's edge in the far west, and always the oceans feel it and are driven by it – perhaps there are great storms far, far away that whip the seas into mountains of water, and this swell is a faint memory of that. No one knows, but I have heard that on the western shores of Ireland the waves can top the highest cliffs, and that after a great storm sea monsters have been dragged up out of the abyss and thrown onto the beaches. We had an Irishman aboard for a while – Colm, his name was – who swore he had seen such a creature. A great pale serpent bigger than a forest tree and as thick around; when he approached, it yelped at him in a language he did not understand and writhed away back to the water.'

  This was not likely to comfort someone new to the life of a deep-water sailor. My dreams became invaded by writhing tangles of colossal serpents that seethed far below me like the eels that I had seen in the river at Balecester, feasting in the shallows on dead cats and dogs.

  That night in the Captain's cabin each diner wore the same look of tense excitement I had seen on the crew's faces all day. The talk was quieter, the banter a little more restrained than usual. Nizam was there, and Horst and the ship's carpenter, Guthlaf, a pale Dane who generally kept to himself. Tonight, however, he was almost garrulous, deep in a conversation with Nizam about the northern seas. I chatted idly to Horst, who had been teaching me the complexities of knot-tying.

  Just as my stomach began to gurgle audibly, the door was flung open, and Jacques entered. I had become inured to skerpikjot, the dried, smoked mutton of the Faroes that the rest of the crew loathed, indeed almost looked forward to its appearance even though we had been lucky at fishing and had often enjoyed fat cod and herring since leaving Iceland. Wordlessly he set down a great trencher piled with a brown, dried meat. 'Aha,' said Horst at my side. The rest of the party eyed the dish in silence. Finally, Gilles cleared his throat.

  'My friends, the time has come again to give thanks for that special blessing of northern seas, the bounty that comes from above and stints not.' Amen.' The word rippled around the table.

  To our youngest, newest brother goes the serving of honour,' continued Gilles in the same sepulchral tones. The Captain speared a portion of meat and flicked it onto my wooden plate.

  'Eat, and join us in the brotherhood of the Whale Road,' he murmured.

  I prodded the stuff, and glanced up. All eyes were upon me.
I sawed off a corner and cautiously slipped it into my mouth. To my surprise, it was not at all bad, something like very well-aged and smoked venison. It was a little oily, and left a hint, after it had gone down, of the bottom of the herring barrel, but in all it seemed to me to be manna indeed. I said so.

  Gales of laughter. Horst slapped my back so hard I thought for a moment he had dislocated my shoulder. Welcome, brother,' he hooted. Welcome, welcome,' carolled the rest. I blushed and took another, bigger bite. Even tastier this time. What is this?' I asked through a full mouth.

  'Puffin. Smoked, cured puffin, prepared by those witches in Iceland,' said Horst. 'Do you truly like it?' I nodded. 'Churning bowels of Christ! Truly? Captain – do you hear it? The English are hard folk, to be sure.' 'Why do you make such a to-do about this food?' I asked.

  'Lad, this is your first – your second, Mary's tears! – but the rest of us must have eaten a hundred score each of the damned painted imps. By the end of this voyage our feet will all be turning orange, mark me well.'

  Then the Captain slapped the table to get our attention. 'Brothers, friends,' he said, 'late tomorrow or the next day, we will be sighting Greenland. The folk in Hofn gave me news that I find worrying, however. It seems the western settlement at Godthab is all but abandoned, and on the east coast Eric's Brattahild is no more. The chill is creeping over the land, and the Skraelings come with it. It was but four years since we were there last, and in so short a time the lives of those poor wretches have come quite undone.'

  'How could things be worse there, Captain?' asked Horst. 'It was no paradise, to say the least, that we found on our last visit.'

  'That is what I dread to find out,' replied de Montalhac. 'But we will be at Gardar in a short time, and you may have your answer then.' After that the subject seemed to be closed, although the rest of the meal passed under something of a cloud.