The End of Time

by Avi

  The boy was playing the small drum some called a naker. The others were playing a harp, a mandola, and a bagpipe. As soon as I saw the bagpipe, I realized it was its sound that I’d first heard. Shrill, to be sure, but nothing fiendish.

  The older woman who sat opposite the four had no instrument. Rather, she was leading the four in their music making by singing in a high, wavering voice while jigging one foot up and down to set the tune.

  Near the boy lay what appeared to be a ragged ball of fur. And within easy reach of the men was a sword as well as a large blade. The flame’s sparkling light made their edges gleam. These weapons—I told myself—were no more than I would wish for defense in such a wild place. Here was safety, too.

  In short, it was all I desired: company, warmth, food, and security.

  As I stood there, transfixed, the woman singer, with a wave of her hand, abruptly changed their music from a plain tune to one of greater liveliness. It was a melody of great cheer, so very like what I had played while Bear had danced.

  My heart leaped with joy and made it impossible for me to think any ill of these people. Quite the opposite. At that moment I had no concern who they were or why they were there—only that they would offer me a welcome.

  With my heart fluttering like a small bird, I stepped forward to show myself.

  8

  THOUGH I DIDN’T SEEK to hide the sound of my steps, the musicians were so engaged in their playing that even when I stood at the edge of their encampment, they failed to notice me. Instead, it was the ball of fur at the boy’s feet which—to my complete astonishment—came to life, revealing himself as a tiny, furry man! His ugly, distorted face, offering a most hideous, toothy grin, glared at me, and then he began to screech horribly.

  The younger woman spun about. When she saw me standing there, she cried, “Mother of God!”

  Equally startled, the other musicians turned, saw me, and instantly stopped their playing. The harp player snatched at a leather sack that lay at his feet and thrust it behind him. The bearded man flung his bagpipe down, plucked the sword from the ground, sprang up, and pointed the blade toward me.

  “Peace be with you!” I cried in haste.

  The little man leaped upon the boy’s chest and clung to him, even as he twisted his head around and grimaced at me fiercely. To my further bewilderment, I saw he had a tail!

  It was the gray-haired woman—the one who had been singing and leading the music—who lifted a hand to calm the man with the sword.

  “In the name of Jesus,” she called out tensely, “who are you?”

  God knows I must have been an outlandish sight. To see me step out unexpectedly from the forest as I had done would have upset the stoutest heart.

  But on my part, what I felt beyond all else was vast relief that they spoke English. “My name…” I stammered, even as I offered an inept bow, “is…Crispin. I’m lost and hungry. Your fire and music led me to you. I mean no harm.”

  I waited tensely for some reply since, as if unsure, the five continued to study me in silence. As I stood there, my eyes went to the strange little creature, wondering what he was.

  The gray-haired woman stood. Her face was old, with small eyes, a sharp nose and chin, and a puckered mouth. Though not much taller than I, she had a commanding stance. With her head tilted slightly to one side and her arms akimbo, I felt challenged.

  “But what are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice bold and loud as though from a larger person.

  “Forgive me, mistress. It’s a long tale,” I replied, and gave a swift version of my tale: that I came from England, was storm wrecked, and had lost my father. That I had been wandering ever since, trying to leave this land, but had become lost.

  “Where were you hoping to go?” asked the bearded man.

  “If it pleases…to Iceland.”

  As if puzzled, they looked at one another.

  “Don’t…don’t you know where it is?” I asked.

  “Only that it must be a cold place,” said the younger man, smiling slightly as if pleased with his jest. “But, as Saint Gerard is my witness, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Nor I,” said the bearded man.

  But the younger woman said, “I think…I think I have.”

  We all looked to her.

  “Where is it?” challenged the bearded man.

  The woman shrugged. “Far off. Beyond the sea.”

  My heart sank.

  “Don’t you think,” the bearded man said to me, “it would be smarter to go to Calais?”

  Knowing nothing of such a place, all I could say was “If it be wise.”

  “Your speech tells me it’s England where you mean to go,” said the gray-haired woman. “And Calais, which isn’t far, is English. It offers the shortest sail home.”

  “Or perhaps to your…. land of ice,” said the bearded man, smiling.

  “Wherever is best,” I said, eager to agree.

  The older, bearded man, eyes agleam with firelight, asked, “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen years, I think.”

  While the others waited for the gray-haired woman to speak, she studied me. Finally she said, “You said your father was killed. How did it happen?”

  “In…in a battle.”

  “May the Mother of God keep your father’s soul,” she murmured, her face softening slightly as she made the sign of the cross over her chest.

  The bearded man leaned in eagerly. “Was he a soldier?”

  I shook my head. “We…we were wandering musicians.”

  “Musicians!” exclaimed the gray-haired woman, one eyebrow lifted. Then she smiled. “Truly?”

  The man holding the sword lowered it a bit. “If you’re a musician,” asked the man who had been playing the harp, “how did you come to be in a battle?”

  I said, “When my father and I came off our wrecked ship, free soldiers fell upon us. They forced us to join them.”

  “Those soldiers are hateful,” agreed the younger woman. “All they do is murder and plunder.”

  A silence, broken by the snap of the fire, followed as they continued to study me. Of the five, only the dirty-faced boy had not spoken. He just stared at me, his mouth agape, now and again wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand.

  One of the men called out, “You call yourself a musician. What instrument do you play?”

  “The recorder.”

  “Excellent! Show it to us.”

  I made an ungainly bow. “Forgive me, masters. It was lost at sea.”

  “A musician without his instrument,” said the gray-haired woman, “is like a priest without his cross.”

  “And makes,” I beseeched, “for a hungry soul.”

  She smiled. “Have you nothing, then?”

  I held out my empty hands. “By blessed Saint Anthony, all I had was lost. What you see is,” I said, struggling to suppress the tightness in my chest, “is…. all I am.”

  The woman glanced at her companions. They may have communicated something with a nod, or a look, which I did not see—or perhaps the woman made up her own mind. She turned back to me and said, “My name is Elena. Of London, England. This is my family. We too are wandering musicians. You’re welcome to share what food we have. Perhaps God sent you. We lack a recorder player—and,” she said with a quick glance toward the others, “if you prove honest—we might find a use for you.”

  “Blessings on you for your welcome,” I said, struggling to speak even as relief brought tears to my eyes.

  “Come then,” said the woman. “Give us your name again.”

  “Crispin.”

  “Crispin, then, without shoes,” she said, turning to the others. “These are my two sons, Rauf and Gerard.”

  Rauf, the one who held the sword, appeared to be the elder of the brothers. Squat and broad shouldered, he had a heavy, black-bearded face. Dirty, matted hair stuck out from under an old red cloth cap, which he wore low on his forehead. He had a distrustful cast to his half-lid
ded eyes, as if peeping out from behind some ill-fitting mask. On his brow was a scar, new enough to be red with mending. It matched his surly, ill-tempered look. He walked, as I would discover, with a limp. It was he who had been playing the bagpipe.

  His brother, Gerard, was as great a contrast to the angelic instrument he held—the harp—as one might ever see. Somewhat taller than his brother, but not so big in bulk, he too had dark hair, with a rough, pock-marked face and a smile that showed large teeth. His eyes shifted often, as if seeking approval from the others for what he said. More than anyone, he looked to his older brother.

  Elena continued. “Rauf’s wife, Woodeth.”

  Woodeth was a buxom woman, short and thick, with fair, if dirty, hair and a weathered, coarse face that had suffered a broken nose. She kept her lips tightly compressed, perhaps to hide the gaps in her teeth. The mandola was in her lap.

  “Our servant boy, Owen,” concluded Elena, indicating the boy.

  This boy was small, younger than I, with dark curly hair, a pinched, filthy face with thin lips, and large, watery eyes that stared at me timidly. The torn clothing he wore did not hide the bruise marks on his arms. It was to this Owen that the little fur man clung.

  Even as Elena introduced Owen, Rauf leaned over and slapped the boy on the head. Whether it was meant to be playful or not, the boy winced and shrank away, eyes cast down as if ashamed.

  Now that I truly saw these people, they appeared, despite their cheerful music, a rough-cut clan. And beyond the fire’s edge, I noticed other weapons besides the sword and blade. Which is to say, these people were heavily armed—more so, it occurred to me, than might be considered needful.

  “As for that creature,” Elena said, looking toward what I had thought to be a miniature man, “he’s called a monkey.”

  “Is he not…human?”

  “Not at all,” said Elena.

  “Can he speak?”

  “Gibberish,” said Rauf.

  I stared.

  “Mostly harmless,” said Gerard. He leaned out and gave a sharp tug to the leather strip that held the beast. The monkey hissed at him.

  “Though,” added Rauf, “be advised: he has his temper, with teeth and claws. We call him Schim.”

  “Schim only obeys the boy,” Elena went on, turning the attention back to me, “but the beast helps us greatly in our work. And it’s our work,” she went on, “that takes us to Calais. A Master Humfrey Talbot, a wealthy merchant in the wool trade there, is having a wedding for his daughter. Word has spread that he wishes musicians to attend. We hope to play at the festivities and earn enough to bring us safely home to England.”

  “Forgive my ignorance, mistress,” I said. “But what manner of place is this Calais?”

  “It’s a fine walled city by the sea,” explained Gerard. “As many, they say, as three thousand live there—plus an English garrison.” He darted a glance at his brother for confirmation.

  “Great King Edward,” agreed Rauf, “took it from the French some years ago. Ever since, it’s been under English rule. And better for it, I’m sure.”

  “A trading place,” said Elena. “With much wealth.”

  “But mostly surrounded by the French,” added Woodeth. “Which is not so good. It can make it hard to reach.”

  “Indeed,” said Gerard with a glance at his brother, “we’ve been wondering how best to get there.”

  To this Elena quickly added, “But all sea merchants plying the English trade are required to pass through its port. Many ships go back and forth.”

  “So it will take no real effort,” said Rauf, “for you to find your passage.”

  “God is kind,” I replied.

  “He has been to us,” said Rauf with a quick, sly look at the others.

  “But if you can make music,” Elena was quick to add, “you should consider joining us.”

  “The richer the sound, the richer the reward,” coaxed Gerard. “As Elena said, we’ve no one to play recorder.”

  “Not anymore,” said Rauf with a knowing air. “Owen,” he cried, kicking out upon the boy. “Fetch Master Mark’s recorder.”

  Owen started up—the monkey still clinging to him—grabbed a sack, and pulled out a weathered recorder. He offered it to Rauf, but the instrument was waved on to me.

  As I took it, I briefly wondered who Mark was and where he was now. More importantly, I knew I was being called upon to prove myself. Much, I thought, would depend on it.

  With the recorder in my hands, silently blessing the day Bear taught me how to play, I fingered the holes. I raised the instrument to my lips, took breath, and played a simple song.

  “‘Ah, Dear God, How Can This Be,’” said Elena, naming the tune I’d offered. “We know it well.”

  They all nodded and seemed relieved that I’d been able to prove I was what I claimed to be.

  I lay the recorder down and picked up three stones that lay at my feet. I began to juggle. That brought grins of delight. Even the boy gave a shy smile.

  “A juggler, too!” cried Rauf. “Nothing could be better.”

  “Deft hands are always welcome in our trade,” added a smirking Gerard with a quick look at the others, as if sharing a jest.

  “We can do tricks, too,” said Rauf. “Owen!” he cried. “Make Schim jump!”

  The boy set the monkey down and said, “Jump!”—the first word I heard him say.

  To my amazement, the creature did a complete somersault and then, grimacing, leaped back to the boy.

  “Never mind the beast,” said Elena. “Come, we’ll make music until the birds are cooked.”

  This promise of food made me more willing than ever to find goodness in these people. “Hard looks,” I had once heard Bear say, “can mask soft hearts.”

  Elena turned to her family. “In honor of our guest: ‘The Jolly Juggler,’” she announced. With that she began to sing while the others played.

  Once I gathered the sense of the tune, I took up the recorder anew and joined in, taking pleasure that I could. As I played, they looked at me and nodded, and then did so to one another. For his part, Schim the monkey walked—if that’s the word—to Rauf, leaped up, and grabbed his red cap. Legs bowed, the creature waddled upright toward me, holding the cap before him as if begging. When I gave him nothing, he made a toothy expression, retreated, curled himself into a ball upon the boy’s lap, and appeared to sleep.

  But we played on. Though I did not truly know these people and they did not know me, the music formed a bond. It was as Bear had once told me, “Music is the only language to survive the curse of Babel.”

  For the first time since I had left Troth, I was calm. And what was even better, I felt safe.

  9

  THE MUSIC MAKING DONE, we finally supped. Even Schim, the monkey, received his bit. He held his portion in his tiny hands while continuing to stare at me. No doubt, I studied him as much.

  While we ate, the whole family—save the boy, who remained silent the entire meal—talked of where they had been. They had been part of the Duke of Sunderland’s retinue. They went with him from the English city of London to an Italian place called Genoa. Then the duke unexpectedly made for home, promising to return. He didn’t. They never learned why.

  Worse, they explained, the duke left them without any money. (Rauf cursed him roundly.) Abandoned, they had little choice but to try to make their way back to England as best they could. They had been doing so by performing at fairs and, when able, in the homes of merchants and noblemen. As the family traveled north from Genoa, they passed through Italian lands, over high mountains, and on into Gascony, to the wine city of Bordeaux.

  “Where England’s new boy king, Richard, was born,” put in Gerard.

  After months of travel, they were finally close to their London home. “Calais,” said Elena, “is, we think, just a short march away.”

  From there they planned to sail for England and London, vowing never to venture across the seas again.

  By then
the food had made me relaxed. The fire had warmed me. Their easy talk was soothing. I felt much at my ease.

  “But now, Master Crispin,” Elena said to me, “it’s your turn to tell us more of your travels.”

  “You said you and your father joined a band of soldiers,” said Rauf, his eyes hard upon me. “Were you engaged in any fighting?”

  The question seemed weighted with meanings I could not grasp. Not wishing to say anything that might cause them to turn me away, I wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “Fighting?” I echoed. “Not…directly.”

  “No experience with weapons?” Gerard asked.

  I felt the heat of shame on my face. “May Jesus forgive me—I had to kill a man.”

  Rauf’s eyes seemed full of eagerness. “Well now,” he said with a knowing glance to the others. “How did a boy like you come to that?”

  While I tried to think how best to reply, they leaned forward with anticipation. I could hardly escape the notion that they were pleased by what I, ashamed, had revealed.

  “A man attacked me,” I said, adding, “I…I had no choice.”

  “Ah!” cried Rauf, sitting back. “I can understand that.”

  When the others smiled and nodded, I was comforted by their sympathy.

  “Have you no other family?” asked Woodeth.

  “A sister.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In…a convent.”

  That stilled them for a while. Then Elena said, “Share more of your life.”

  I felt obliged to tell them, though not my entire tale. But by Saint Anselm, what I said was true, save that Bear was not my real father.

  Their faces intent, often nodding encouragement, now and again exchanging glances—as when I told them of Bear’s death—they listened closely. The only one who moved was the boy, who went about and put the family’s things—cloaks, bags, knives—in order like a mute servant. Now and again he stole a glance at me, but since he had spoken just that one word, I began to wonder if he could truly talk.