Crispin_ At the Edge of the World - Avi [39]
Adding to my sense of doom was the fact that Bear did nothing but hold us mutely. No more songs. No more words. But by Saint Jude, what could he or any of us do? We were alone in God’s great hands—if He only would hold us. My private sickness faded only to be replaced by the greater dread of being lost—lost by life, lost by the world, lost by God.
Gradually, the rain dissolved into mist. A sullen dawn suffused the air, so dismal, so weak, I could just barely see my own hands. The world had turned phantom.
More light came. The mist thinned. I could see my feet, the deck, and then much of the cog. I saw one of the mariners lay stretched midship, his foot tangled in a rope. His lifeless hand flopped with the boat’s random movement.
The mast with its shredded sail was still erect, although the topmost parts melted into mist. Where the rudder rod had been was … nothing—just a jagged splinter of wood.
Bear’s rope had saved us. What, I wondered, had it saved us for?
He slept, snoring slightly. His beard was dripping wet. His face looked wan, and despite so much sea and rain, so parched I could see his cheekbones. It brought on a sudden memory of how I’d first found him—a mountain of flesh, a great barrel of a fellow, whose arms and legs were as thick as tree limbs, and with a great stomach before all. How much of that—waxlike—had melted.
Troth pressed against Bear’s chest, soaked. Her eyes were open.
“Are you all right?” I whispered.
She nodded, shivering, and squeezed herself closer to Bear.
“Bear!” I called.
“Alive,” he muttered.
With the cog now at greater ease and rocking gently, I loosened the knotted rope. Once free, I reached up, took hold of the rail, and stood on unsteady feet.
A deep, damp gray fog enclosed us. I could barely see the water flowing by.
I kept watching for something to tell me where we were. Were we near England? Flanders? I had no idea. But I had been drained of all desire to become a mariner. If I never set foot on another ship, it would be soon enough for me.
As our speed decreased, the light increased. The mist swirled. In places it parted. What I saw caused me to stare with disbelief. Looming through the mist and fog—as if rising from the sea itself—were towering cliffs of rosy stone.
As God is holy, it was as if we had truly reached the rock-hard boundaries of the mortal world—the true edge of the world.
27
BEAR!” I cried. “Look!” Not fully awake, he shifted with a slight groan.
“Bear, you must look!”
He breathed deeply and blinked up at me with bleary, red-rimmed eyes. His clothing, like mine, was wet and dripping.
After running a finger round his mouth as if to rid it of a fetid taste, he rubbed his pale face, and raked a hand through his tangled, wet beard. Only when he leaned forward did he recall that he was still bound by the soggy rope he’d tied. With sea-puckered fingers he teased the knot apart. He stood slowly, stiffly.
Troth—equally wet—slipped out of the rope. Bear extended a hand so that she might stand. Only then did the two of them look out. If I understood their faces, they were as startled as I had been.
Stone cliffs seemed to be moving in and out of the mist on mighty hinges. Mist hovered so low it was impossible to know just how high these cliffs were. That they were jagged, hard-edged and rosy in cast, I could see. By contrast, the water surrounding us was mostly calm, dark blue flecked with white foam, clotted with green weeds. Here and there, black rocks stuck up. From aloft I could hear birds—or what I thought were birds—squawking. I half expected dragons with yawning maws to rise up and swallow us whole.
“Where are we?” I asked with awe.
“I have no idea,” said Bear as he stared about, his voice just as full of wonder.
“Could we be back in England?” I said.
“We could.”
“Or is this Flanders?” asked Troth.
“Anywhere,” said Bear, shaking his head.