Crispin_ At the Edge of the World - Avi [36]
In truth, all too soon, our cog crested the waves with such pitch and yaw that I felt as though I was always falling. The sound of the waves came with a repetitious roaring monotony as if the voice of eternity were trumpeting into my ears. My need to cling to something not moving was great, but nothing on that ship remained still.
Increasingly queasy, I stood near the ship’s master, clinging to the rail with both hands while taking great gulps of pungent air. Twice I purged my stomach, and in so doing, any further desire to be a mariner.
I looked round for Bear. He was forward on the deck, alone. He, like Troth, had his eyes turned toward the receding shore. His face bore such melancholy as I had never seen on him before. Had I wrongly urged our departure? Was it a mistake to have left England? But when I recalled those brotherhood men and Bear’s weakness, I knew we had to go. It was right, I told myself, then turned about and cast my eyes upon the sea.
What I saw was a numbing expanse of gray sea and sky, a world of utter emptiness, spotted by frothy white. I was upon a world I never knew, going to a place I could not imagine, in a fashion I could but dream. I was excited, frightened, and bewildered, alarmed to be leaving what was old, proud to be doing something new, eager to see what was yet to come, yet fearful that all the newness would find me wanting. And—recalling Troth’s thoughts about the edge of the world—I felt much unease.
“Will we lose sight of land?” I called to the ship’s master.
He looked round at me and pointed to the mast. “Climb that!” he shouted over the wind. “You’ll never lose sight of land. On a clear day you can see for fifteen leagues.”
I declined with a vigorous shake of my head.
Laughing, he shouted, “I take it you’ve never been to sea before!”
I shook my head anew, afraid to open my mouth for fear of what might come out.
“God’s eyes!” he exclaimed, grinning wide. “You need not worry. We’ll never be far from some shore. Then again, you mustn’t get too close to land.”
“Why?”
“A sudden change of wind and tide—and this narrow sea is infamous for such—and you’ll get sucked in and wrecked. A watery grave is a sodden place for a Christian soul to rest. Can you swim?” he asked, his eyes so merry they crinkled.
Refusing to be teased I said, “Do you often make this voyage?”
“There’s always wool to be brought and cloth to return.”
“Are we close to Flanders?”
“We’ll sail up the Kentish coast. Reaching the Dover light we’ll cross to Normandy in France—that’s the narrowest passage—then northward along that coast until we come to Flanders.”
Remembering how France was the one place Bear did not want to go, I said, “Will we touch France?”
“Not if God is kind.”
“Do you still think our voyage will take two days?”
He grinned. “Once it took twelve.”
“Twelve!” I cried—and we without food.
He licked two dirty fingers and held them in the air. “The wind, my lad,” he said. “God’s great breath has us at His mercy. Confess your sins!” he said with glee. “Some never reach land at all.”
I swallowed hard. “Will it get rougher than it is now?”
He snorted. “This is smooth. So best get to your knees and pray. Blessed Saint Nicholas is kind to sailors and infants. And if he fails you, there’s always Saint Jude for lost causes.”
As we sailed on I had an urgent need to sit. To stand. To keep holding on. To let go. To hide. To do all those things at once yet dare not allow myself any excess movement. With my back pressed hard against the castle wall, my head bowed against my knees, I kept my eyes shut. Blackness somehow helped. Even so, the continual rise and fall of the cog was a constant reminder as to where I was and what was happening.
When Troth joined me I noted she was not ill. “You’re a better mariner than I,” I said.
“My herbs would cure you,” she said.