FAIR EXCHANGE
Bolstered by this intelligence, full of food, dry and rested, I was in good spirits as I set off again. It was cold but dry, perfect for walking, although out in the open there was a wicked wind, buffeting and bitter. I followed a path along the shore. I was thinking of what I might find in the next village and dreaming of a harbour full of ships, when I was set upon.
There were two of them, big, blond-haired and armed. They blocked my path, and the biggest raised his weapon – an iron cudgel.
‘Come now,’ I said. ‘Don’t hurt me please. You can have anything.’
‘What?’ The thug with raised weapon frowned, as if this was not the response he had expected.
‘How much gold is my life worth?’
‘Give him the bundle.’
I let my gnomon fall, unslung the fleece-wrapped box from my back. Slowly. Trying not to make any rapid movement.
‘I’d be grateful if you would lower your weapon,’ I said. ‘I’m unarmed. It’s hard for me to stay calm with the threat of your cudgel. Please.’
The big man didn’t change position. I placed the box on the ground, loosened the leather strap, unwrapped the fleece and stepped back, out of immediate range of injury.
The lesser giant of the two, who seemed to have some authority over the other, bent down and opened the box. He looked at his colleague and grinned. The cudgel was lowered.
‘I’m grateful.’ I unfastened my leather pouch from my waist and held it out. ‘My gold. Help yourself.’
The thug grabbed it and took out a handful of coins for scrutiny. His boss was rummaging in the box, lifting out tools. My case of writing equipment clearly baffled him.
‘I need those for writing.’ This did not seem to clarify. ‘Look at the codex. The square thing.’
He took out my book.
‘Open it.’
He did, and wrinkled his brow at the first page, my attempt to create a map of the coastline north from the Garonne.
‘This is the coast of Gaul. This is the river Garonne.’ I crouched down and reached towards the picture, stroking the lines. ‘This is the sea. My journey took me north up there. That is the island of Albion. To the east of there is the North Sea. There is a vast ocean out there. And this is here, whereas that land is many days’ sail from here. I need this to find my way home.’
He was looking at me with curiosity. Either because what I was saying was of real interest or because I was confirming myself as a madman, the like of which he had never met before.
I shuffled closer, and reached into the chest for my quill. He tried to stop me touching the tools, as if I was going to arm myself, but could barely repress a grin when he saw that what I was holding was a feather. I mimed dipping it in ink and writing onto the parchment. I think he saw then how I conjured the marks, perhaps only then realised that I had made the diagrams.
I took my courage in both hands, prised the codex from him, laid my quill across it in an act of closure hoping it would protect the contents it had helped me create and set it on the ground beside me. Then I reached into the box, lifted out my sheathed whittling knife and handed it to him, as I would in a ceremony, handle towards him. He could not refuse it, and had to receive it with grace. I pointed out how the safety hasp worked, and he ran his finger appreciatively along the blade. He whistled softly, and said nothing, but when I glanced up into his face, his blue eyes were clear and bright above a provocative smile.
I wasn’t quite clear what the next move in the game should be, but a chisel came to hand and he took it with a nod. Then the small adze.
‘What’s he got?’ The thug barely took his eyes from the coins, which he was sorting.
‘Carpentry tools.’ His boss’s voice was deadpan, but his raised eyebrows made it clear we both knew I had handed him three lethal weapons and my act of bravery was a calculated risk that was paying off.
The next objects I removed from the box were my other writing tools. My pen knife was first. ‘I need this for preparing the quill,’ I said, ‘and this is my ink box and block for making the liquid for writing, and I use this needle and thread for sealing parchment sheets.’ They were little, delicate objects compared to the weaponry I had given away. My captor lifted his left shoulder in a permissive shrug.
Bread came out next, which he took, tore a bit off to chew, ripped the rest in half, passed one piece to his friend and gave me back the rest. He was genuinely smiling now. The game was on.
A small hammer and some iron nails tied together with twine interested him and I saw, in the neat way he was lining the tools up, that he would take these objects away and make something with them. Anyone passing by would have thought, from our civilised dialogue, that we were friends making an exchange of goods of mutual interest.
My spare shirt? This almost brought the two of them to blows over who should have it, until socks were able to trump it. The boss man took them with glee, leaving the thug with the shirt. Then, lying at the bottom of the box was a tin ingot. My heart sank when I got it out and saw both men realise exactly what it was. Only they could not possibly understand its significance to me.
‘I need this,’ I said.
They shook their heads.
‘Give him back his shirt,’ Boss said.
‘For that?’
‘Yes.’
Thug proffered my shirt and tried to take the ingot from me.
‘No, I need it.’ It was heavy in my hand. It was all I had to show for my discovery of Belerion and the tin mine. In this ingot was my purpose. It was a symbol that I had reached a certain destination. It was my proof of the metal’s origin. I thought of Og’s uncle and prayed to the Goddess Artemis to let me keep this ingot. I gave her permission to let Ussa do whatever she would do with the stash I had left on her boat, if only this one last piece could remain in my possession.
She did not listen, or if she did, she either ignored me or had some wiser view. Again, on reflection, it was the latter. She is a goddess. She was sending me to you.
My ingot was prised from my hands by Thug. As soon as Boss started to pull my knife from its scabbard I relented. You may call me a coward if you wish. I don’t think it is brave to die in the hands of robbers. It is braver to find a way to live on, knowing what we know.
My box was soon empty. After the ingot, there was nothing of value or interest. The box itself I managed to retain, for which I will be eternally grateful. It is watertight, more or less. It kept my manuscript dry and survived the whole of my journey.
There is a box inside each of us that is similar to this casket. No matter what is looted from it, if we can keep it sound, it is possible for us to journey on. If our inner casket is broken, we are doomed. I know it is possible to break it, and my own came close. The Greatmother tried her best to ruin it, but she failed. I am one of the lucky ones. I carry my inner space intact. I wish to be buried with it.
I tried to put a brave face on my loss. ‘Well, at least my luggage is much lighter to carry now,’ I said. Especially without that heavy lump of tin. I missed its weight already, its comforting heft of quest fulfilled. I packed the meagre objects I retained back in my box and wrapped my fleece around it as the two men secreted their takings about their persons, in folds and pockets. I refitted the strap and slung my bundle on my back. It weighed nothing.
‘I’ll continue on my way,’ I said.
They seemed abashed now, and it was left to me to try to keep things civil. I was also suddenly more frightened than ever that they might kill me now, even after I had bought my life. They might steal it anyway, because they could, so there would be no witness of their thieving. I could see the thought in Thug’s eyes, but Boss was my saviour.
‘Fuck off now where you belong,’ he said, handing me back my gnomon.
I was grateful for his churlishness and knew if I said anything at all I could be dead.
I fled.
They did not follow.
I don’t know why it happened, but I
guess the word had got around that I had gold. Perhaps the real surprise is that it didn’t happen sooner. I have wondered since then if I colluded in my own robbery, but I know that what they were really giving in exchange for my gold, my tin and my woodwork tools, was clemency. We all three knew that they could, if they wanted, take my life as well as all my possessions, without discretion, but they were choosing not to. Our discussion was one of real fundamentals. What is the value of a life? What is the value of a written story, of the ability of a chronicler to make the marks on a page that, scratch by scratch, amount to a timeless thing, a document that can transcend time? What is the value of a journey, an adventure that needs to be completed in order to achieve its possible worth, a circle that needs to be closed?
For a long time I considered it to be one of the worst experiences of my journey, but I’ve come to realise that, in a strange way, the mugging led me to discover you, so I look back on it now with something close to fondness. Memory is a strange thing.
THE BOULE
Have I told you yet about the amber bear? I have had it in my pocket for most of today and now it is out again, on my writing desk, catching the sun.
This morning it was the meeting of the Boule, of which I am no longer a member, and I was asked to give my views on their plans for extending the harbour. I was up early and took care dressing, in order to seem the statesman and authority this required me to be. It felt rather like play-acting and yet, once the proceedings began I realised that I do know enough to advise them, and I have strong views on the matter. I have seen a great many ports and harbours over these years.
The local fishermen have been arguing for years that the space given for the triremes is unfair and it is unreasonable that they should be squeezed out of the boatyard at the only time it is feasible for them to take their vessels out of the water for maintenance. Winter is a poor time for fishing but we all expect to eat fish for the spring festivals. We depend on the fisher folk for our sustenance just as much as we do the triremes for our security. So I argued on behalf of the small boats, not for their own sakes but in terms of the year-round business they support around the harbour, the trades they keep alive with their needs for tackle and repairs, the guidance they provide to visiting merchants through their knowledge of the waters, the navigation lore they possess and refine and transmit. I concluded by talking of the role they play in our security by acting as the early warning system of untoward activity in our waters and the ability to help rescue people if a calamity happens at sea. My arguments won the day. I shall be made most welcome down at the harbour next time I go for a stroll around the boats.
I was introduced as Pytheas, the great explorer and seafarer. My father would have been proud, and how I wish there had been someone watching who could carry the story on within my own family, just as the navigation lore is passed down the generations of fisher folk. Instead I set it down here, on this scroll, the periplus of my life.
On the way back from the Boule, I stopped at the Artemis temple to pay my respects to the priestesses, which the amber bear reminded me I should visit. I took them honey and wine, and they were delighted to receive me. One of them is pretty, with an auburn tinge to her hair, and she of course conjured Rian in my mind. But the priestess’s eyes were brown, with none of the brightness of those I loved, which were the colour of shallow sun-drenched seawater over silver sand.
The amber bear was in the tiny cloth bag the Greatmother thrust at me when the boy Arald was murdered in that so-called wedding ceremony. I sometimes miss his awkward company even now. How few friends we have in life who make only demands we can meet and who are happy to spend time quietly together with us, not interrupting our thoughts, engaged in some quiet mutual work that is, on the one hand, not too mentally demanding yet, on the other hand, rewarding. Such is the search for amber, and such was Arald’s company, also gilded by memory, perhaps. Anyway, the amber bear was the Greatmother’s gift to me, the symbol of having been chosen for the great ‘honour’ of being the next to be slaughtered, and I thank Artemis for my escape, always. It is small enough to perch upon my thumbnail. There, I am doing it now. Can you picture it? Its legs are foreshortened, its head is raised as if it is looking up and out, perpetually attentive. Which I was not.
In my rush to escape the horror, I never opened the cloth pouch until I was hours away from the village. When I saw its contents I almost threw it away because of what I knew it represented, but such workmanship as could create this tiny icon has always fascinated me. Out of respect for its maker, whoever that was, I kept it, but its death-warrant caused me to bury it deep in the inner pocket of my jerkin where I would not bump into it by accident and give myself a fit of the horrors. So it was that my burglars did not find it. I will always be thankful, for three reasons: because it means I could return home with it, as proof, at least to myself, that I had been to the amber land; because the thieves would have stolen it without doubt; and because if they had found it they would most likely have known what destiny had been marked out for me and might well, out of some religious respect or chance for a further reward, have returned me to the murderous crone who gave it to me.
Anyway, there it is, my keepsake now, which I can watch glowing in the sunshine by the window. It symbolises my life, my escape from the clutches of evil, my safe passage home. It marks, perhaps, my transition from youthful adventurer to experienced middle age. It carries my memories, happy and sad. All of this. And if you have read this far, I hope it now explains a little mystery to you, and I hope that the sun will glow through the amber bear to you, because I shall enclose it with this document in my old travel box and direct it to you, once the story I have to tell you is complete.
IVORY
HOMEWARDS
THE DAWN
It is easier than you might imagine to travel across the world with nothing. Perhaps nothing is the wrong word. I had my health, I spoke several languages, I had experience of boats and many different waters. Once I was at the nearest harbour I simply insisted on getting on board the boat going furthest away. I offered myself, my labour, my company, and was accepted. At the next place I did it again. I ate what I was offered. I talked, I asked questions, I was given answers, I pulled on ropes and hauled on anchors with men stronger than me who nonetheless valued my skinny shoulders and my willingness. I learned new words for knots and tackle. I watched keenly. I made myself competent, and each day found a new way to be useful. By these means I travelled south, seeking always a trader heading west across the North Sea to Albion.
I was introduced to him by a pilot who guided the boat I was on through an archipelago full of dangerous shoals and shallows. She wore her knowledge lightly, but all the crew, and the skipper too, were awed by how she understood what was underwater. She was a small woman, with straight brown hair, a flat round face with big eyes and a broad forehead, a wide mouth with thin lips that didn’t smile often. She had a wistful air about her, as if she had known too many drowned souls. One of the crew said that they had heard she had been drowned herself and had returned to earth to prevent others from meeting the same end in the whirlpools and shallows of these dangerous waters. This sea-nymph called herself Cara.
At our destination, a bay with plenty of shallow water for safe mooring, Cara pointed out a ship to me. ‘This one will cross the ocean,’ she said. When our boat was safe at anchor, Cara whistled to a boy in a coracle who paddled over. She purloined the craft and ferried the two of us over to the ship where she delivered me into the care of an old sea dog named Gurt. Because Cara recommended me, he welcomed me aboard his boat, and made me one of his crew. He slung a rope ladder over the side and I clambered up the wooden rungs onto the big vessel.
Gurt was master of a crew of eighteen men. He would not allow Cara on board because, he said, any female was bad luck, but he spent a long time leaning over the gunnels talking with her down in her bobbing coracle. I guessed they were lovers, if they were ever on land together, but that is only my imagina
tion. How else can I explain his long body hanging half out of the boat and her upturned face, like the sun and moon both in the sky, but never, really, together.
Gurt was a good man. He called his ship The Dawn because it rises in the east, crosses the ocean and delivers amber treasures on the western shore. It was a strong boat of pine and lime planking. As well as amber he was carrying a cargo of valuable goods, including animal skins, rolls of fine silk cloth from far to the east, and metalwork.
There were about a dozen other men on board, some whipping ropes onto shackles, others stitching a big sail, everyone busy. I was told all of their names and forgot them immediately because they were sea animals. Most of the crew members were called after a seabird and each had a specific role. This way the master didn’t need to know his crew’s real names and their lack of history was clearly useful for some of us, for whom anonymity was helpful.
‘You will be Tern,’ Gurt said to me. ‘You’re not as strong as Glaucus and Black-back, Eagle and Bonxie, and you have travelled far. You can row with Petrel. He’s roughly your build.’
A young man, tall and scrawny, made me realise how thin I had become.
‘Is that all you have for clothes?’ My wolfskin coat that I had been proud to buy was so shabby these days it no longer counted as good seafaring gear. My boots were still just about functional. My leggings were ripped and filthy. I nodded. ‘I have a fleece, and this.’ I showed him my hide sheet.
He smiled at me with what I saw as pity, and shouted, ‘Dolphin!’
A bald, chubby man appeared out from under the shelter at the bow and strolled towards us. This was a huge boat, I realised, almost as long as a fighting trireme, with a tall mast.
The Amber Seeker Page 17