Book of Kells

by R. A. MacAvoy

  Around the discolored hole in the floor were assembled five low benches. So close to the earth were these, that the sitters upon them carried their knees by their chins, as did those who merely squatted on the floor. As many, however, were lying along the benches as sitting upon them, and almost as many sprawled on the floor by the smoldering wood fire, elbows propping their heads.

  John, numb-cold as he was, was kept away from the circle of heat by that sense of disbelonging which hits a man who comes into any neighborhood pub, and which lasts until the first local decides to make a grunt or stare in his direction. He slid down against the grainy wall, using it to counterfeit the Indian squat he had lost through years of sitting at a drafting stool. He glanced covertly at customers of the ale house, avoiding eye contact that might be mistaken for a challenge.

  He was the only human being in the room who was not visibly armed. Even the cook’s girl, who was quite possibly a slave, had a knife. For the first time since he left Newfoundland, he took his little clasp knife case out of his pocket and fastened it on the outside of his belt. He felt very self-conscious doing this, and even more nervous about opening it, as he had to do to eat the curds. He accomplished his deed under the table, only to meet the eyes of a large, russety man sitting at his left, who grinned slyly at him, as though understanding all. He began to nibble at the curds, lifting them up with his knife blade, and following them with swigs of ale. At last he dared look around at the other customers of the alehouse.

  Ye Gods, what an assorted lot. The only thing they had in common was being, as far as John could tell, all male.

  The Irish he’d met so far in this time had seemed like so many pedigreed animals, so much did they resemble one another: biggish, square-set, more chubby than otherwise, with fair to brownish hair. Ailesh was small, certainly, and MacCullen not so broad of face as the usual, but as a rule they were comfortably the same.

  That fellow over by the carefully locked back door of the room had olive skin, that one could see even by the poor light of roof louvers. And his high-bridged nose turned under in a lovely curl into his nostrils. He had no more shoulders than Derval. His drinking companion (each kept a jealous hand on one handle of the four-sided cup) had features equally Mediterranean, as well as kinky black hair kept back by a great deal of grease. Idly John wondered whether such toiletry might not attract flies. After careful observation, he decided that indeed it did.

  Whether the very dark man who hugged the fire between his gaped knees also had the usual kinky hair that accompanies that complexion John could not tell, for everything about the man was hidden in blue gauze except for his face, and the upper part of that was concealed by an awning of the same material. But his nose and mouth managed to express an entire physiognomy’s worth, for the nose was pinched and the lower lip protruded aggressively. He wore a heavy Irish brat over his gauze (also blue) and over the whole, a heavy, carved sword.

  That scimitar itself did not bother John Thornburn. He had seen many horrific instruments in the last few days, as well as discovered the possible violence of his own favorite tool, the stonemason’s hammer. But the combination of that oversized fish skinner with the man’s jutting lower lip he found disturbing. John made of himself a very small package against the wall of the alehouse and determined to do nothing obtrusive. His determination was strengthened at the sight of another scimitared fellow sitting across the firepit from the first. This man was not so black as the Moor, but his face was equally forbidding. He wore a turban, pegged trousers, and so many gold rings they coated his fingers like a suit of armor. His disagreeableness seemed centered on the blue man, and as John observed in mouselike silence, this Turk gave utterance to words that ignorance of language could not disguise were meant as an insult.

  The Moor’s reply was equally incomprehensible to John, but delivered in tones of threat. John turned to his left-hand neighbor for enlightenment, but the ruddy fellow merely widened his blue eyes and hefted up his shoulders to display his own ignorance of the dispute. John looked back at the disputants just in time to see the blade of the Turk’s scimitar catch in a stream of sunlight as it slipped past the dodging Moor and toward the unsuspecting face of John’s neighbor.

  John leaped up as though he were playing lacrosse, a game at which he had once had some expertise, stopping the bright damascene steel with the edge of his wooden trencher. The blade caught, and the swordsman lost his balance, rolling over onto the floor, the bowl burst into two pieces, spraying everyone, including the two Arab-speakers, with curds.

  “Pimp and son of a pimp!” screamed the Turk, as he flung himself again upon the Moor. “Your head be a sacrifice for all true merchants!”

  “Out! Out of here. No duels in my house!” bellowed the landlord. “Get out—you’re breaking the market peace!”

  But the Saracens were deaf to him. The struggle moved toward the hearth, with the combatants chasing one another around the four king-posts of the house which stood at the four corners of the hearth. The two of them were a swirl of cotton robes and razor-sharp blades. Everyone who could not get out immediately plastered themselves against the wall to prevent being sliced. The servant girl hid behind the open cask.

  Suddenly a point of stalemate was reached. For a moment one combatant was on each side of the fire. They circled each other, teeth gritted, eyes bugged with fear and anger, blades raised. Then the Moor swung over his head, cutting the bread rope, which came crashing down on his enemy, and while the Turk tangled with that, he escaped into the street. Two heartbeats later the Turk followed him, shrieking his battle cry. It was over.

  The publican, standing in the middle of his disordered room, said quite calmly, “That Moor thinks fast.” The greasy-braided servant girl began to pick up the bread. John felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and turned to see the big man who had been sitting next to him. He had a fiery red beard, brown hair, and perfectly round blue eyes.

  He smiled fiercely, but his embrace was warm around John as he said in Norse, “Thank you, my friend. You saved my life.” The fellow clapped enormous horny hands on John’s shoulders. He had cheeks as red as his beard and slightly protuberant lips that were even more red. “My name is Snorri Finnbogison. I’m from Eyjafjord in Iceland.”

  John, though taken aback and speaking no Norse, knew at least that he was expected to introduce himself. He pointed to his breastbone. “John Thornburn of Newfoundland.”

  “Oh. Jan Thorbeorn.” The big stranger grinned. John tried to correct him several times, then gave it over as hopeless. Snorri took over the conversation. “I knew a Thorbeorn at Hafurbjarnarstadir. Is he akin to you?”

  John shook his head blankly.

  “No? Well, that’s all right. Sit down and I’ll make up for the loss of your meal by buying you something far better.” He pressed John back down onto the bench, and, brushing curds out of his beard, called for the alewife. He spoke to her for a moment, and then turned to John and began a long rambling speech. He seemed unperturbed by John’s minimal, uncomprehending response.

  John began to gather here and there, from individual words (and by the fact that Snorri talked with his hands), that the man had been shipwrecked. He heard Grenlandinga and over and over again wormener.

  “Wait!” John cried out in English. “Worms. Toredo worms. You lost your ship to toredo worms, eh?”

  Snorri laughed aloud. “You do not speak my language, yet you seem to understand me a little. Are you from the Anglander Dane-law?”

  “No. Nei.” John had heard the word “Anglander.” “You Graenlendingur, eh?” And he pointed north and west. Snorri looked astonished, and then smiled and grinned. “So you have heard of it?”

  “Yes. Uh, ja.” John was now feeling a frenzy to communicate. He gesticulated for Snorri to sit where he was, jumped up and searched the hearth until he found a slip of charcoal from among the kindling wood. On the table he began to draw a longship. He drew worms eating it. He looked at Snorri, pointing to the drawing. “Wormener,
eh?”

  The Norseman nodded and grinned.

  John drew a pine tree, drew the process of pitch extraction, showed with round still and fire how turpentine could be made from it, drew the extraction of lye from ashes of the fire, showed the distillation of alcohol from barley, and then indicated that his mixture should be painted on the hull to repel parasites. Such was his gift, that without language of tongue or body language, he explained the process to Snorri. “No more wormener,” John said to him, and dusting the charcoal from his fingers, began enjoying the cheese, apples, butter, loaves, and meat that his new friend had provided for him.

  Snorri sat in silence for a moment, knuckle in his mouth, then embraced John again, who nearly gagged on his food in surprise. “You are an openhearted and good man,” said Snorri earnestly. “Not only have you saved my life today, but you have given me, a total stranger, a precious secret of your trade. I am ready to swear lifelong brotherhood with you!”

  Chapter Ten

  May the Gods get rid

  Of this ruling reaver!

  Let the heavens hang him

  For highway robbery.

  Egil’s Satire Against

  the King of Denmark

  Translators: A. Palsson and P. Edwards

  “A corduroy road, Johnnie. What do you think of that?” Derval tapped the first log with one sore toe and turned to find Ailesh and MacCullen staring without comprehension. She stepped around to see whether the small Canadian was concealed behind MacCullen’s pony. The hinny bawled protest, for Derval had not released her hold on the animal’s tail. “Where’d he go?” she asked in Irish.

  Both Ailesh and the poet looked over their shoulders. MacCullen rolled his eyes in his head ludicrously. “Abducted by a cow again, no doubt,” he said.

  Derval put her knuckles in her mouth and turned away from the ships and water, back into the crowd through which they had just passed. There was no blond figure in trousers and heavy brat to be seen. No friendly face save that of a smiling pigherd beating his charges along with a thorn stick just behind them. Nothing but cows far away on the long grassy decline to the Liffey. Nothing at all on the straight sweep to the eastern sea. Her perfect fear for him turned into perfect anger. “Shithead,” she announced. “Absolute shithead action. Just like Johnnie.”

  MacCullen smiled at her heat. “But Scholar, what do you expect? Our Eoin is no ordinary man, I have it on authority. And I myself would be willing to wager that he returns to us, and in better state than when he left.”

  The authority’s cheeks grew as red as her kinky hair, and she shot a glare at MacCullen. “I don’t think anger is the proper feeling to show, Bhean Uasail. After all—not eight hours ago it was you who were lost.”

  Derval blinked, remembering. “That’s right.” But then the memory came in full and she added, “But about my getting lost: I think I could perhaps phrase that another way.”

  MacCullen nudged his pony between the women. “Perhaps you could, Iníon Cuhain, and have the right of it. But we have not yet heard Eoin’s side of the story, either, and we may be at fault once more. Tell me, when last did you see him?”

  Derval screwed up her black brows. “I… heard him. Mouth breathing, as we came out of the trees and sighted Christ Church—I mean, sighted Olaf Cuarán’s Hall.”

  “We were all breathing heavily,” Ailesh had to say. “It had been no easy descent. I saw Eoin after that, under sunlight. He stopped to pick a flower.”

  Derval groaned. “You go on to the brehan’s house. I’ll have to go looking for him.”

  The girl’s resentment of Derval turned immediately into concern. “Bhean Uasail, I don’t think that’s necessary. As the Ollave says, Eoin can take care of himself very well, and surely he will remember the name of the woman whom we go to visit now.”

  “Will he?” Derval pushed her hair back from her face. Both the face and the hair were greasy, and her fingers were cold against them. “If you think he can take care of himself, oh treasure of my heart, then you have an unrealistically high opinion of John Thornburn.”

  “She does that,” interjected MacCullen. “And the truth is, Iníon Cuhain, she said the same of you when you were lost.”

  Derval flashed hot and cold with anger, but as she glanced up at the poet, a bitter retort brewing, she saw that his eyes were more than half-closed, and so puffy that he might have been beaten about the face. This recognition awoke similar weariness in herself. Ailesh put a strong hand on her arm as she swayed. “By Mary’s babe! You’re in no state to go seeking through Dublin after anyone. When we are settled, then I will find Eoin Ban for you.”

  It was with a sense of wonder that Derval noted Ailesh’s hazel eyes were bright and clear. “You will, my sister? What is your secret, then? Are you too young to feel tired?”

  The girl turned away, shyly, fingering her hammer in her belt. “No. I am tired also. But there is something…”

  But in between exhaustion and her irritation at John’s disappearance, Derval found herself interrupting to ask, “Or is it that you would rather find ‘Blond Eoin’ alone?”

  Ailesh flinched. “Derval! I meant… I have a task in front of me. A great task. Heavier than I have the strength to perform, perhaps. When that is done I can rest, but until then… Though I have the love of a kinswoman for Eoin, I would dare make no move to step where I—”

  “Shaa!” MacCullen made a mouth like he would spit and turned his pony’s head sharply around. “I will stand and listen to this no longer.”

  Ailesh trotted up beside the pony, her face fixed despondently on the oak logs of the road. Derval followed them from the low valley and away from the heart of Viking Dublin, feeling absolutely wicked.

  Away from the black pool, they passed along the river and out toward the west gate. There the imposing character of the houses they passed changed. They got smaller and lower. Thatch, bright gold to dull gray, began to replace the wooden-shingled roofs. The walls became wattle and daub. Often there were little gardens surrounding the houses. Often the walls were whitewashed. Here and there a banner or symbol proclaimed the shop of a craftsman or merchant, but these became sparse and then disappeared altogether. Razor-back pigs scavenged the wooden gutter, along with chickens and dogs. The street began to level out. The stench of a tanner’s yard made them gag, and then they passed it by. On some of the houses the clay was falling off the wicker panels. This part of town looked as though it had once been as prosperous as the rest, but had fallen on hard times. Some of the houses and yards were abandoned and burnt out. It was a sad sight.

  They left the stockade behind them and walked across the common fields for a little way. The cattle, sheep, goats, and horses of the city dwellers were scattered all over it. A number of children and a couple of ragged slaves watched the animals not-very-intently. Gathering together around the warmth of a small fire, they didn’t look up as the travelers passed. A little while over the muddy cattle track, and they were back in streets again.

  They were now in the Gaelic town: the old village of the hurdle ford. The road was still muddy, but the mud had a foundation. Slabs of rock paved it more or less. Some houses were of limed stone here, most of them round, with round gardens and cattle enclosures.

  A round thatched house just before them had a look of faded magnificence to it. Thick stone flags formed a porch before the door, which was beautifully carved with patterns of many-feathered birds. Traces of paint and even some gilding could be seen on it. The yard in front was fenced with sally and soft with new fuzzy kale, leeks, turnips, green onions, and many herbs. Two figures bent side by side to work in the garden: a very large man with an iron-shod hoe and a very small woman with a straw hat and one leather gardening-glove on her hand. She stood up and squinted at them from under the hat brim. Her nose was snub and her mouth wide. Her heavy-lidded eyes shone like blue glass, and when they met Derval’s (who stood behind MacCullen and Ailesh at the remove of one who is not quite on the best terms), Derval had the
dizzying impression that her trip through time was either over or had been an illusion from the start, for there was such a comfortable, familiar stability about the aged face, and the hat seemed so familiar (it had feathers in it), and that single, clumsy weeding glove…

  But the eyes of the brehan passed by and returned to MacCullen. “Is it Labres MacCullen I see, my fine poet, my fosterling, looking like he’s been rolling in his own cattle’s dirt?” Her voice was scarcely audible across the five meters that separated them.

  MacCullen glanced down at his stained leínne and the ill-fitting brat Derval had filched for him. “It is, myself, that it is. And to Clorfíonn, Daughter of Thuathal, seed of Niall of the Nine Hostages, he has come, like a bird storm-soaked, out of murder and great loss, bringing with him the companions of his ill fortune.” Her hooded eyes widened, and MacCullen added in a voice that took ten years off his age, “It really has been terrible for us, foster mother. It has that.” Slouched upon the mare’s back, he told the brehan an abbreviated version of their story.

  Very slowly and deliberately Clorfíonn pulled off the dirty glove, and gestured for the large man beside her to take the pony’s reins. Derval found the hinny also being led away behind the house. Without the beast’s support, she almost fell.

  “That’s not the best flattery in the world, my boy. I try not to remind others of that, around here: that I am Niall’s seed.” She stepped between the wandering rows of green onions with delicate steps and turned-out toes, and opened the wicker gate. “A hundred, hundred welcomes to my house, Labres, my child, my friend, and the son of my friends. A hundred welcomes, his companions. Please God that you find help here for all your need.”