At the Edge of the World

by Avi

  The day faded to darkness. But if stars were above, I saw them not. Above us, tree leaves stirred as though to soothe the air. The footfalls of small creatures plucked the darkness. An owl hooted twice. Whether Troth slept, I could not tell. From the way Bear breathed I knew he was still awake.

  “Bear,” I called, “was it wrong for me to disobey you—when I went with Aude and Troth?”

  “Wrong for you to have gone. Right that you were there.”

  “But … but one does not follow from the other.”

  “Ah, Crispin, you desire your freedom, don’t you?”

  “Yes … I do.”

  “Then best learn: freedom is not just to be, but to choose.”

  Though I tried to understand of what he meant, it was too hard. My thoughts drifted. “Bear,” I asked, “what will happen to Troth?”

  For a moment he said nothing. Then he said, “The girl’s marked, unwanted. Feared. What’s feared is abused. She’d perish. She must stay with us. Do you object?”

  “No, no,” I said in haste. “Not at all. But, Bear, where will we go?”

  “To the southern coast, to the sea.”

  Remembering his words about the great ocean, something in me stirred. “And when we do …”

  “It’s easier to find employment in coastal towns. Men come and go. Perhaps, as well, men who’ve seen a bigger world have bigger hearts. Hopefully they’ll be more accepting than peasant folk. We need some generosity. Let’s pray to Saint Lufthildis that he’ll protect us. He can be kind to those who are homeless.”

  “Are we homeless, then?”

  “Perhaps all are,” said Bear with a sigh. After some brooding silence he said, “When I was a child, there was a song often sung to me.” Lifting his voice, he began to sing:

  Oh child, you are a pilgrim horn in sin

  Who must forever wander in

  This world where death flies out

  of darkling doors

  To cast down Adam’s kin,

  as he has done so oft before.

  For Adam, who, though once devout,

  In God’s Eden of bright delight

  Caused eternal suffering throughout,

  By taking up the serpent’s gift of

  never-ending night.

  Then with a yawn, he said, “I’m exhausted. That running has heated my fever.”

  “Bear,” I said, “will we never find some peace?”

  “Every night,” he murmured, “gives way to day.”

  “Does it always come?”

  But Bear made no reply. I supposed he’d fallen asleep.

  I—unable to get the images of Aude’s slaying out of my head—could not sleep. I still felt wretched that I had once thought so badly of the crone, and of Troth.

  “Blessed Saint Giles,” I whispered, “it’s hard to be a man.” Full of remorse, I reached out and gently set my hand to Troth’s back.

  I did not know if she slept. Even so, I said: “Troth, in the name of my God, I beg your forgiveness for all my unworthy thoughts, and herewith make a sacred vow by my Sacred Mother that I will treat you with true kindness, that I will be a brother to you for all my days forever and anon.”

  To my surprise, she stirred, turned, and took my hand that had rested on her back, and set her broken mouth to it in a kiss. My heart swelled. I thought: though broken, a mouth cannot bestow such a forgiving blessing and be evil.

  “Amen,” I whispered to her.

  She turned away. No more was said.

  Greatly wearied, I made myself go on my knees and prayed desperately to my Saint Giles. I prayed for Aude’s soul. I prayed too, for Troth’s. I prayed, of course, for Bear.

  By then I could hardly keep my eyes open. Even as I drifted off, I realized I’d yet to pray for my own keep. “Saint Giles!” I cried to the all-embracing night. “Help me have an open heart. Help me know my ignorance.”

  But mine was not an easy sleep. I had an ill-omened dream in which Aude’s eyes—the blind one and the good—gazed at me from some distant place. In my troubled fancies I knew she was seeing two futures, the good and the bad. Which future, I kept calling, would be mine?

  And in my dream I heard Aude’s mumbling voice. “Crispin,” she was saying, “take heed. Be a man.”

  “Have I not saved Troth? What more need I do to become a man?” I cried.

  The dream gave no answer.

  17

  W E WOKE to a misty dawn. Like limp-winged moths emerging from cocoons, we tried to shrug out of our sleepiness. Once alert, we offered our prayers—I don’t know if Troth made any—and then continued on, trudging beneath the crowded trees.

  Troth went first, small, dressed in rags. Next came great Bear in his rough-made garment, without shoes, red beard unkempt, his two-pronged hat with bells a-jangle. I came last. I had my tunic, much torn. My hair had become long again. And filthy. On my back was our mostly empty sack.

  An odd threesome we were!

  By midmorning we reached the forest’s edge. As if a veil was being lifted, the bosky dimness melted. We stood upon a bluff and gazed upon unending rolling hills of new green, broken occasionally by clumps of leafy trees. Grass was thick and tall. Swallows swooped low before soaring up to distant heights. Beyond southern hills, the distant spire of a holy church pointed heavenward. Higher still was the sun, a pale white disk in the vast gray sky, a reminder of Aude’s blind and milky eye.

  “What is it about an empty countryside that seems so peaceful?” mused Bear.

  “No people,” I replied. “And we have been fleeing them for too long. Do you know where we are?”

  Bear was taking his rest, sitting with his back against a tree, gazing out upon the open world. Close by, I leaned against another tree. Troth sat near Bear on the ground, clasping her knees in her arms, staring at the landscape. I wondered if she had ever seen so much land in one vista before.

  That made me recall how much I had come to see of the world. Indeed, as I gazed out upon the unending land, I sensed how much more there was for me to see. The thought pleased me.

  Bear glanced at the sun. “We are still going south,” he said.

  I asked, “Do you think anyone could be following us?”

  Bear grunted. “There’s an old saying: ‘No matter where they go, the ignorant never travel far.’”

  “May Heaven make it so,” I said.

  We sat and stared. After a while I said, “Forgive me, but I’m hungry.”

  “I am too,” said Bear. “Troth, are you?”

  She shook her head, but whether to give a yea or nay, it was hard to know.

  “Then it’s time we found some place to perform,” said Bear. “That church,” he said, pointing to the spire. “There should be a town or a village hard by. Crispin, it seems as if God wishes us to resume our old labors.”

  “Are you strong enough?” I asked.

  “Methinks I must be,” he returned.

  “Will it be safe?”

  “We can be watchful.”

  “And Troth?”

  “In time, she needs to learn the drum, or make music in some other way. Or even dance. She can begin by passing around my cap for coins.” He turned to her. “Troth,” he said, “I suppose that with Aude not given to much talk, you had little reason to use words.”

  Troth nodded.

  “Well, by Saint Ursula,” said Bear, “we’ll engage to teach you as much speech as we can until you converse as freely as a bishop. Come now, surely you can say your name.”

  Troth, alarm in her eyes, looked down, as if ashamed. She forced herself to look up again. Her hands were fists. Indeed, her face contorted with some inner struggle until she said, “Oth.”

  It was a reminder to me of her fierceness.

  “Well done!” cried an exultant Bear, patting her back. “Did you hear, Crispin? Troth speaks her name as well as you and me.” He added a private wink over her head so I would not contradict him. “By Saint Drogo, Troth, before long we shall have you giving speech
es before King Edward at Westminster!

  “Now, then, Troth, can you say Crispin? Can you say Bear?”

  Shyly at first, the girl spoke her sounds with halting struggle. They were not the words as I might say them. But Bear was generous—as only he could be—in her praise. He would find no fault. And she, in her grave way, repeated the words over and again, determined to get them right.

  Laughing with pleasure, Bear got up and took Troth by the hand so that she might walk by his side. We started for the place where the spire stood. As we went along, Bear paused to point out things and say them loudly to the girl, “Tree! Grass! Stone!” and such, insisting she repeat his words.

  No matter what she uttered, Bear always told Troth she had spoken well, exceedingly well. I joined in the praise. The praise seemed to free her. She spoke with ever greater frequency.

  From that point on, Troth spoke as if to make up for lost time. That it was hard for others to understand I can attest. And, God’s truth, she never did speak much, or with great complexity. Indeed, I learned to read her hands and eyes as much as I heard her words. Those eyes of her spoke much. Bear and I, who heard her repeatedly, came to understand her manner, voice, and speech. Or, as Bear once said: “Mind, Crispin: a loving heart hears more than ears.”

  Thus when I render Troth’s talk here on forward, I’ll give it as we understood it, not the broken way it was spoke.

  18

  AS WE WENT on, Bear instructed Troth about our performances. “Now, Troth,” he said, “Crispin and I shall show you how we eke out pennies. We’re heading for a village. Let’s pray it’s small and remote. When we arrive, Crispin will play the recorder while I sing, dance a jig, and juggle. If the good people look kindly upon us, we might earn enough to buy some bread.”

  I could see that, though Bear’s words made Troth nervous, she made no response other than to nod.

  Bear went on: “Therefore, Troth, you must study and learn from us, for in good time you must do your part. We’ll have no sluggishness here. Have no fears. No harm will befall you. Just stay close to Crispin and me.”

  After going for perhaps a few leagues, we came upon a narrow road, which appeared sparsely used. Wagon tracks were shallow and for our brief passage we saw no one on it. It suggested an isolated place—just what we desired.

  We pressed on, passing over a bridge that crossed a frothy stream. There we drank our fill. We also paused long enough for Bear to search out some smooth stones, which, by the way he hefted them, I guessed would be for his juggling. Then on we continued until the village we’d been seeking appeared before us.

  Bear handed me the recorder.

  “There, you see?” he said, as I gave a few fluttering trills. “We’re as ripe and reedy as ever.”

  “Are you?” I asked, doubting it.

  “Crispin,” he said, “I think we have no choice.” He flexed his arms and hands until his knuckles cracked, smoothed his beard and took a deep breath.

  Excited to reengage with our old life, I put the recorder to my lips and offered up a light and lilting air, an easy one to step. Bear slipped into it, like foot to boot, and began his dance.

  To see Bear romp caused Troth’s eyes to open wide with delight, for—fever or no—Bear was stepping high and lively, now moving forward, heading for the town, hat bells a-jingle. Step for step I was with him with all my being, piping out my pithy tune.

  Troth ran to keep up with us, calling, “Bear! Crispin! Wait for me!”

  As God willed, it was a miserably poor village we’d come to. But then, the kingdom had no end to such impoverishment. Hardly bigger than Chaunton, it was far less than my Stromford. Otherwise, it was much the same and thus unworthy of description. No doubt it was smaller than its name, which no one ever bothered to divulge. Perhaps it had none.

  As always, the children were the first to see us come. Where they came from one never knew, but come they did, running and tumbling like tail-shaking, squealing piglets at their play. No doubt we were as rare as furry eggs. They laughed and clapped their hands. Some made attempts to dance like Bear, skipping along, knees high, and hands clapping, as we came into what passed for the center of the village.

  I think Bear loved these parades of tumbling, gleeful youth as he headed—in our normal fashion—for the church.

  The village church proved fairly large and suggested that the community it served had once been larger, perhaps before the great sickness. I could see Troth eyeing the building with wonder. Remembering tiny Chaunton, no doubt it was the biggest structure she had ever seen. It allowed me to think that I had seen much of the world.

  When we drew close to the church porch, Bear sank to his knees and removed his cap with a generous flourish, making the bells ring with merriment.

  I stopped playing and knelt by his side, head bowed. Troth, imitating us, did the same, staying close to me. She was tense, with eyes for everything, while trying to shield her mouth with her hair. I reached out and tried to reassure her with a touch. She edged nearer.

  As curious villagers gathered round we kept in place. It was not long before a priest arrived. He was an elderly, tonsured man, tall and thin, who looked—despite his advanced age—strong as an ox. Indeed, it appeared as if he had just come in from the fields, and had been working hard.

  “My blessings on you, strangers,” called the priest, as he approached. “Do you wish words with me?”

  Bear gave his usual response, with just enough alterations to make it appear fresh upon his lips: “Most reverend Father,” he began, head still bowed, but loud enough so all might hear, “I, known as Bear, am a juggler. My son, daughter, and I, being but lowly pilgrims, are making our way from York City toward Canterbury to pay our humble homage to England’s sainted Becket, there to beseech his blessings upon the children’s late deceased mother, my lawful, churched wife. For so doing we humbly ask your approval.”

  I noted that Bear now included Troth as his daughter, as well as providing us with a common mother and him a wife. I wondered if Troth had heard and what would be her thoughts.

  “You may gladly have my blessing,” returned the priest, and he lifted his hand to bless us with his Latin words and the sign of the cross. “But I suspect,” he added with a generous smile, “there’s something else you wish.”

  “My children and I,” Bear went on, “beg leave to perform some simple songs and dances for the greater glory of God, for this fair village, and for his grace, King Edward, England’s golden lion, with whom I have had the honor of fighting on the victorious fields of France.”

  “With King Edward, you say?” said the priest.

  “Himself”

  “Did you not know he has died?”

  “Died!” cried Bear, looking up sharply. “When?”

  “The news reached us these past few days.”

  “And is Edward’s son, the Duke of Lancaster, the new king?” asked Bear.

  “Apparently not. It’s the true heir, the late king’s grandson, Richard of Bordeaux, who has been crowned. God grant him long life! But mark this: it seems that when our young king was crowned—he’s been styled Richard the Second—and was being carried away, one of his shoes fell off. An ill prophecy for his reign.”

  “Who put it back on?”

  “His uncle, the duke. Still, let’s pray there’ll be some measure of peace for a while. God knows, despite the truce, the word is the war in France goes on.”

  “How far are we from the coast?” Bear inquired.

  “The sea?” returned the priest. “The closest port is the town of Rye. Perhaps a week’s journey. I’ve never seen it myself, but there are those among us who can tell you the way.”

  “Father,” said Bear, “I’m grateful for your information and your blessing.” That said, he sprang up and with a nod to me—his signal for me to start—and I commenced to play and Bear to dance.

  As God was kind to us, we earned enough to purchase three loaves of bread. Bear, I could see, was much wearied. But n
o one spoke ill—to our hearing—of Troth, who had shyly passed Bear’s hat.

  That night we were allowed to sleep in a donkey stall, sharing our place with the beast. The cost to us was another song and dance for the crofter’s family. Still, this man not only provided us a place to sleep, but some rare mutton and turnip and enough to drink.

  “Bear,” I asked as we sat about after eating, “will the king’s death make a difference to us?”

  Troth looked up. “What’s … king?” she asked.

  To which Bear replied: “A king, Troth, is the ruler our loving God bestows upon us. While at times the gift appears to bless us, at other times it seems meant as a trial.”

  “Is the new one good or bad?” I asked.

  “He’s a child. Some nine years old.”

  “Nine!” I cried.

  “And whereas an infant may still have angels hovering round his head, as king he’ll more likely bring on the Devil. The point being, he’ll not truly reign. Not for years. It will be his uncle who holds the power, if not the scepter.”

  “Who is that?”

  “The Duke of Lancaster, John of Ghent.”

  “The one who replaced the king’s shoe?” asked Troth.

  “Exactly so. And small events can foretell great acts. There are four things that can be said for the Duke: He’s brother to the late king. The wealthiest man in all England. Perhaps the world. England’s most powerful man. And the most hated.”

  “Why hated?” I asked.

  “He’s haughty. A poor soldier. A man greedy for power.”

  No one spoke for a while. Not until a somber Troth stood before Bear and said, “Bear … am I … your daughter now?”

  Bear’s somber mood was replaced by a grin. He clapped a large hand on my shoulder, another on hers. “If this lad can be my son,” he said, “you can be my daughter. Will you have me?”

  To this the ever-solemn Troth said, “I will.”

  To which I said, “Then, Troth, I am your brother.”

  “So be it!” cried Bear, and reaching out with his great arms he encircled and bussed us both. “My two cubs!” He laughed.