“Something to that, I shouldn’t wonder,” his son said. “I will thank the Lord, though, if we don’t have to put it to the test.”
“So will I.” Edward nodded. “Yes, by God, so will I.”
Edward Radcliffe took an unarmed cog well out to sea before sailing south. He didn’t want any of the Dovermen’s fishing boats spotting him. His ploy worked: the first boat he saw was the Breton Amzer Gaer—the Fairweather, she would have been in English. When he hailed her, her skipper thought he was a Freetown man and made ready to fight.
“No, God butter you and the Devil futter you!” Edward shouted in Breton. “I’m Kersauzon’s friend—can’t you get that through your bloody thick head? Take me to him. I have news he must hear.”
“Why should we believe a lying Saoz?” the Breton yelled back.
“If you don’t know who Edward Radcliffe is, you son of a dog, I’ll board your scow myself and pound some sense through your hard skull.”
The Breton fisherman was bigger and younger than he was, but backed down before his fierce temper. “Why didn’t you say you were Radcliffe? That’s not your St. George. Yes, I’ll listen to you—for a while, anyway.”
“Thank you so much,” Edward said with a mocking bow. “But I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Kersauzon—I know he doesn’t keep his brains in his backside. Where have you hidden this new town of yours?”
“Cosquer lies south-southwest of here. You’ll know it by the big rock offshore,” the Breton answered.
The name made Radcliffe smile: it meant Old Village. Only the Bretons would use that kind of name for a place on a barely explored shore. “Obliged to you. God give you a good catch.” He could be polite enough—after he got what he wanted.
“And you the same, Saoz gast,” the other man shouted. Edward laughed as he swung his cog on the new course. How many times had the Bretons called him an English whore? Not enough to make him believe he was one, anyhow.
The rock in front of Cosquer was almost big enough to make a small island. Several of the strange Atlantean almost-trees with barrel trunks and leaves sprouting from the tops of them clung to its side. As for the village itself…Edward laughed again when it came into sight. Here was a bit of Brittany transplanted to a far land, all right. The thatched roofs had a steeper pitch than they would have in Hastings. The windows were different, too, even if the houses were built from wood rather than stone.
Henry was thinking along with him. “Only thing missing is a circle of standing stones in a meadow by the town,” he said.
“By God, you’re right,” Edward said. “Damned if I’d be surprised if the stubborn buggers didn’t put some up to remind ’em of home.” He pointed. “Isn’t that the Morzen lying right offshore?”
“Sure looks like her.” Henry eyed François Kersauzon’s cog. “She didn’t carry those swivel guns last time we saw her.”
“You’re right—she didn’t.” Edward frowned. Those guns were longer and would probably shoot farther than the ones aboard the St. George. “If Kersauzon wasn’t thinking along those lines before he saw us last, maybe we gave him the idea.”
Half a dozen men pushed a boat into the Atlantic and rowed out toward the cog. “Ahoy, Englishmen!” Yes, that was Kersauzon’s bellow, made louder by the hands he cupped in front of his mouth. “Is it you, Radcliffe?”
“No. It’s your mother-in-law, come from Brittany to nag you,” Edward answered.
“Anything but that!” François Kersauzon cried in mock terror. “Come ashore if you care to, and see what you have to nag about.”
“I’ll do that, and gladly, but first let me say my say—the Freetown men are not your friends.”
Kersauzon clapped a hand over his heart. “I am shocked to hear it,” he said, which made Edward and Henry both chuckle. More seriously, the Breton continued, “And you say you are?”
“Against them? Yes, by God!” Edward said. “I told them the same, too.”
“You had better come ashore, then!” the Breton fishing captain said. Even across a broad gap of ocean, Edward could see how wide his eyes got. “Yes, you had better come ashore, because we have much to talk about.”
“Let’s get our boat in the water,” Edward called to his crew. To his son, he said, “Would you rather come and dicker with me or stay here and do whatever you have to do in case there’s trouble?”
“Do you need me to help put something over on the Bretons?” Henry answered his own question: “No, of course you don’t. You can diddle them slick as grease all by yourself.”
“I thank you for your trust in me,” Edward Radcliffe said dryly.
He didn’t faze Henry a bit. “Any time,” the younger man replied. “We won’t have trouble at sea from Kersauzon’s people, either. Right now, after what you just said, they’d pick you for Pope if they had the chance. But if the Dovermen decide to raid Cosquer today…I’d better stay here.”
“All right.” The fishermen Edward chose to row him to Kersauzon’s new village all spoke some Breton, or at least some French. They’d be able to make themselves understood once they made it to dry land—and maybe they would hear something the settlers didn’t want them to.
Kersauzon waved when he saw the English boat heading toward his. A little to Edward’s surprise, the Breton’s rowers didn’t make a race of it. They went back to shore sedately instead. A couple of the English fishermen sent Edward questioning looks, but he shook his head. Why push things? They’d get there soon enough any which way. And besides…
“Warmer here than it is in New Hastings,” he called to Kersauzon. It was warm enough, in fact, to make the sweat stand out on his face, and unpleasantly sticky, too.
Unpleasantly for him, at least. François Kersauzon made a joke of it: “You are from the north, so you settle in the north, and you think chilblains are every man’s God-given right—is it not so?”
“We like the weather we’re used to,” Edward said, and left it at that. The boat’s keel grated on hard sand. He hopped out and helped haul it farther up the beach. Kersauzon and his men were doing the same with theirs. Edward pointed to the land they’d cleared in back of Cosquer. “Are those vines you’ve planted there?” he asked.
“What else would they be?” the Breton replied. “Beer is all very well—I have nothing against beer. Who could? But I want wine, too. And I’ll have it…soon. Not yet, mind you, but soon. Maybe we can trade this for that, eh?”
“Maybe we can,” Edward agreed. “My other son—not Henry, who’s with me, but Richard—is starting a new settlement deep in the woods. Before long, we may have more lumber than we can use ourselves. And who knows what else we’ll find once we look around a bit?”
“Who indeed? You’re ahead of us. I think even Freetown”—Kersauzon pronounced the name as if it tasted bad in his mouth—“is a year ahead of us. But do you say the Dovermen want a war with us?”
“They’re sure thinking about it. They’re thinking hard, I’d say,” Edward answered. “I told them to their faces I’d sooner stand with you if they start a fight. They didn’t care to hear that, but I told them anyway.”
“You are a gentleman.” François Kersauzon bowed, as if to a nobleman in his own country. “It could be that Cosquer and New Hastings should band together and take this Freetown pesthole off the map before more trouble comes from it.”
Radcliffe had wondered whether the Breton would say that. Not without some regret, he shook his head. “No, I don’t want to. There’s enough fighting across the sea—why bring more here? That’s the other thing you need to know: if you strike first at Freetown, New Hastings will stand with her, too.”
Kersauzon scowled at him. Some of the other Bretons swore. One or two of them ostentatiously turned their backs. Their leader asked, “Who appointed you the man to say who may war and who may not?”
“I say nothing of the kind,” Edward answered. “I only say what will happen if a war does start.”
“And if Cosquer and Free
town move against New Hastings together?”
“Good luck,” Radcliffe said. “Watch your back—you’ll need to.”
Kersauzon stared at him, then started to laugh. “Well, when you’re right, Saoz gast, you’re right. But how long do you think you’ll be able to keep the peace all by yourself?”
“I don’t know. As long as I can.” Edward sighed. “Sooner or later, something will go wrong. We aren’t in Eden, so it has to. We’re closer to Eden here than we were back home, though. I feel that in my bones. So maybe—I hope—it will be later, not sooner.”
V
An axe on his shoulder like a soldier’s spear, Richard Radcliffe strode through the woods of Atlantis. No man had ever seen what he was seeing now; the only tracks in the soft, damp earth were the big, deep three-toed ones that belonged to honkers and other, smaller, bird prints.
The air smelled spicy. It smelled green, Richard thought. It made you wish you could fill a bottle with the scent and take it back with you. Wherever people lived for a while, things started to stink. Smoke and manure and slops and unwashed bodies…Getting away was a relief to the nose.
Moss and ferns grew between the curious barrel trees and the pines that rose above them and the enormous trees—redwoods, the Bretons’d named them—that towered over the pines. Some of those redwoods seemed a bowshot tall. No way to be sure just how immense they were till you felled one and measured it. Since the monsters were as thick through the base as three or four men were tall, that wouldn’t happen right away.
Something stared out at Richard from behind a barrel tree. He stood still and waited. His father was right: the creatures here had no natural fear of man. After a moment, this one came out and walked along with a rolling motion that brought a smile to his face.
“Oil thrush,” he murmured. Not since Adam and Eve had people needed names for so many new creatures. The birds and lizards and snakes of the new land were for the most part unlike any the settlers had seen back in England. Oh, ravens croaked from tree branches and sometimes harried hawks and eagles. Barn owls glided ghostly through the night. Fork-tailed swallows dipped and darted after flying insects. They were all familiar enough. And the red-breasted thrush that acted and sounded like a blackbird was easy to get used to. But the oil thrush…
It had the shape of one of those red-breasted thrushes. (Some people were calling them robins, though they were bigger and less vivid than the redbreasts back home.) It had the shape, yes, but it was the size of a chicken, or even larger. Its legs were long and strong, its wings too stunted to lift it into the air. And its beak…
Richard smiled. It was as if someone had made a thrush out of clay and pulled and stretched the beak till it could go no farther. It was more than half as long as the oil thrush’s body. A beak like that might have made a formidable weapon, except that the bird didn’t seem to realize it could use its beak so. The oil thrush stared at Richard with a beady black eye, its head cocked to one side.
When he just quietly stood there, the bird peered down at the ground instead. Suddenly, that long, strong beak stabbed into the dirt. When the oil thrush pulled its beak out, a plump earthworm wriggled between the mandibles. A twist of the bird’s head, and the worm disappeared.
On waddled the oil thrush. Six or eight feet farther along the trail, it paused again. Was it listening? Sniffing? Richard had no idea. But its beak thrust down again, and came forth with another worm. This one tried to wrap itself around the bird’s beak to keep from getting swallowed, but to no avail.
Richard followed the flightless thrush. It looked back at him, as if to say that was an unusual thing for anyone to do, but then kept walking. It didn’t seem to take alarm when he bent down and picked up a fist-sized stone. The gray rock was cool against his palm; little bits of mud and moss clung to his fingers.
He was only a few feet from the oil thrush when he let fly. The stone knocked the bird over. A startled squawk burst from its throat as a puff of feathers floated up into the air. Richard finished it off with the axe.
As always when he hunted here, he felt a little guilty. It was like playing draughts against an idiot child—of course you were going to win. But he was hungry, and one thing the settlers had found was that the oil thrush made tasty eating.
He bled and butchered the bird, keeping the liver and heart and gizzard to toast over the fire when he buried the rest of the offal. A layer of golden fat under the skin led the settlers to give the oil thrush its name. Back at New Hastings and Bredestown, they rendered the fat over a slow fire and used it in lamps and in cooking and for grease. Richard didn’t have time for that. As he cooked the bird, some of the fat melted and dripped down into the flames. The rest he ate with the dark, flavorsome flesh. The taste reminded him of woodcock, perhaps because both birds lived mostly on worms.
Several different kinds of mushrooms grew close by the fire. They looked good. He knew a couple of kinds were safe, so he ate of them. The ones he wasn’t sure of, he left alone. He didn’t need to take chances on them, not when the hunting was so good.
And he could roll himself in a blanket and sleep by the fire with very little fear. No wolves and no bears here to harry a lone man. He did get a surprise the next morning, when he found a snake curled up not far from him. It slithered in amongst the ferns and disappeared before he could grab a rock or a stick to smash it.
Some snakes here, the settlers had found, were more deadly than any vipers back in England. English poisonous snakes were the size of a man’s arm. The ones here could be as long as a man was tall. They had bigger fangs and delivered more venom.
He ate the rest of the oil thrush and pressed on. Every so often, he paused to blaze one of the smaller trees. The marks would help him find his way home again. Meanwhile…Meanwhile, he had Atlantis all around him, and it was wonderful.
When he sailed on the St. George, he would sometimes stand at the bow and look out over the sea. The broad sky and the endless, ever-changing wavescape let him almost forget for a while that he was cooped up aboard a fishing boat. When he smelled stale cod, the illusion of aloneness in immensity wavered. When he had to clamber into his hammock of an evening, it vanished altogether.
Here in Atlantis, it was no illusion. Fern and shrub and moss, pine and redwood and barrel tree, honker and oil thrush and red-crested eagle: he was alone among them, and no thinking being save God Himself had ever set eyes on them before.
The same held true for the serpents and the peculiar frogs and the big snails and the even bigger bugs. Well, almost the same: Richard was willing to believe the Devil had looked at them along with God.
He picked his way around a marsh. Dragonflies and darning needles of astonishing size and variety buzzed above the reeds and the stagnant water. A bird snatched one out of the air and flew over to a stump with it. The bird bashed the dragonfly against the stump till it stopped struggling, then wiggled it around till it was in a good position to be swallowed. The dragonfly vanished. The bird’s tail bobbed up and down. “Phee-bee!” it sang in a self-satisfied voice.
Turtles stared at Richard from the water. They didn’t have domed shells like the pond turtles he was used to in England. They were flat as flapjacks, and as big around as the pan in which a woman might cook flapjacks. They had cold yellow eyes and jaws big enough and strong enough to bite off a finger. You could catch them with a hook like trout. They made good enough eating.
Near the edge of the marsh, a honker plucked up water plants with single-minded determination. It was of a variety different from the ones that raided the fields in New Hastings. It was a good deal smaller; Richard doubted its head would have come up much past his shoulder even if the bird raised it instead of leaning forward as it was doing. The ones near the coast could tower over a man if they did that. This one was a dull brown all over, darker on the back, lighter on the belly; it didn’t have the black neck and white chin patch of the coastal honkers. And its feet had more web between the toes than the coastal birds’ feet did.
When it honked, its voice was higher and lighter than those of the honkers by the coast. But it had one important similarity to them: it also didn’t know it was supposed to be afraid of men. It kept right on feeding as Richard walked up to it.
He carried a stout bludgeon on his belt. The honker glanced at him, but it didn’t even try to dodge when he clouted it. Down it went, kicking with the random thrashes any creature from fish to man might make when suddenly killed. Richard jumped back to make sure those flailing feet didn’t catch him. They weren’t aimed his way, which didn’t mean they couldn’t hurt him.
After the honker stopped twitching, he butchered it. Its heart was almost as big as his fist: big enough, with a chunk of liver, to make a meal. He cut off a big chunk of thigh meat to take with him when he traveled on. The rest of the carcass he left where it lay. Hawks and vultures and snakes and lizards were welcome to it. He could always find another honker or oil thrush to kill a little farther west.
As evening fell, frogs began to sing. They came in all sizes, from little peepers no longer than the last joint of his thumb up to baritone croakers large enough to make a cat think twice. Like so much in Atlantis, they were at the same time familiar and strange. Frogs in England sang with small inflated sacs on either side of their throat. Atlantean frogs, by contrast, had a single, larger throat sac under the chin.
The frogs’ croaking couldn’t mask another swamp sound: the buzz of mosquitoes. Atlantis had more of them than England did, and fiercer ones, too. Summer here got hotter and stickier than it did over there; maybe that had something to do with it. Richard put more wood on the fire, hoping the smoke would hold them at bay. No matter what he hoped, it didn’t.
The bigger fire did let him see farther out into the night, though. Eyes glowed back at him. He wasn’t frightened, as he would have been back in England. These eyes were all low to the ground and set close together. They belonged to frogs or lizards or snakes. No four-legged killers prowled Atlantis’ wilds.
Opening Atlantis Page 8
