by Severin, Tim
I heard Walo take an excited breath. ‘Their noses look like trumpets, not hands,’ he announced.
The artist had drawn the trunks so that they splayed at the tip like a musical instrument.
‘Rightly so,’ said Abram from the other side of the fire. ‘If you’ve heard the voice of an angry elephant, you’ll remember it for the rest of your life. It’s like the hoarse blare of a giant trumpet, far louder and more fearsome than anything you have ever heard.’
Walo could not tear his eyes away from the drawing. ‘If the elephant is so big and dangerous, how did they manage to catch it so that it could be given to Carolus?’
I wondered if he was thinking of his father and the deadly pitfall in the forest. Below each picture in the bestiary a brief paragraph gave selected details about the animal:
‘The elephant has no joints in its legs,’ I read aloud, ‘so it never lies down because it would be unable to get back on its feet. When it sleeps it leans against a tree for support. The hunters cut part way through the tree so that it topples over when the elephant rests against it, and the elephant falls. Then the hunters secure the helpless elephant.’
I heard a barely stifled snort of disbelief from Abram on the other side of the fire. It occurred to me that the hunters would still need some way of getting the captive elephant back on its feet. Perhaps they dug out a sloping pit in much the same way we had handled the aurochs.
Walo reached out a hand to touch the picture with a grubby finger and hastily I moved the precious volume out of his reach. ‘It is also written,’ I told him, ‘that an elephant lives for three hundred years, and is afraid of mice.’
‘What else does the book claim?’ asked Osric. I glanced across at him. He, too, wore a rather sceptical expression.
I read aloud further. ‘The female elephant carries her unborn child within her for two years. When she is ready to give birth, she stands in a pool up to her belly. The male elephant remains on the bank and guards her against attack from the elephant’s most deadly enemy, the dragon.’
‘Will I get to see a dragon on this journey?’ asked Walo in an awed tone.
One of Abram’s servants was approaching. He bent down to murmur in his master’s ear. Abram rose to his feet. ‘Please excuse me, there is something I must attend to.’ Turning to Walo, he said, ‘I can’t promise you will meet a dragon on this journey, but you will see something almost as extraordinary: men riding in small houses fastened to the back of the elephant.’
Walo waited until Abram was out of earshot before asking me, ‘Is that really true, Sigwulf? Men living on top of elephants?’
I remembered Hannibal’s story. ‘They don’t live there. They climb up before a battle, and wage war as if from a moving castle.’
Carefully I shut the bestiary, preparing to wrap it up again safely. The copyists in the royal chancery had been in a hurry. The stitches holding the pages together were uneven, and the book closed awkwardly, the covers slightly askew. Gently I opened the book once more, to straighten the pages.
‘There’s our beast from the forest!’ exclaimed Walo.
He was pointing at a picture of a strange-looking creature. At first sight it did resemble the aurochs, for it had a bull’s head and body, four cloven hooves, and a long whiplash of a tail ending in a tuft of hair. Like our aurochs, too, the animal had enormous horns and there was an angry glare in its eyes. The copyist had coloured it a rich chestnut brown.
‘What does the book say?’ asked Walo excitedly.
I consulted the description. ‘It’s called a bonnacon. It’s not the same as our aurochs.’
‘Are you sure?’ Walo sounded disappointed.
‘According to this book, the bonnacon’s horns curl backwards so far that they are useless as weapons. The animal cannot defend itself with them.’
Walo giggled. He had noticed a comical human figure in the picture. A man dressed as a hunter was shown standing behind the rump of the bonnacon, his face was wrinkled in disgust. ‘Why’s he holding his nose?’ he asked.
‘According to the book, when the bonnacon is chased, it runs away at great speed deliberately shooting quantities of dung from its backside. The dung has a ferocious smell and burns anyone it touches.’
There was a furious outburst of barking from the tethered dogs. One of them had slipped its collar and was snapping and snarling at its neighbour. Walo jumped to his feet and ran off to deal with the situation.
Osric stretched and yawned. ‘I’ve never seen Walo so animated. The pictures in the book draw him out. Perhaps you should show more of them to him when you have time . . .’
He waited until I had closed the bestiary and carefully wrapped it back inside the stiff linen cover, then added, ‘Have you checked our pages from the Oneirokritikon for the meaning of those elephant dreams that have been troubling you?’
‘There’s nothing,’ I answered, rather more abruptly than I intended.
Osric and I had agreed that our fragments from the Book of Dreams were too valuable to leave behind in an empty house in Aachen. They were hidden in the outer, double folds of the same heavy linen wrapper that protected the bestiary.
Osric frowned, searching his memory. ‘Dreams of elephants were mentioned somewhere. Maybe in the complete version of the book. I remember translating them. What precisely have you been dreaming?’
‘Mostly, that I was riding on the back of an elephant. But sometimes the animal is trying to stamp me into the ground,’ I told him.
My friend thought for a moment. ‘If I remember correctly, to dream of riding on an elephant means you will meet someone of great power and influence, a king or an emperor.’
‘That sounds promising,’ I said with more than a touch of sarcasm. My vivid dreams were not only worrying. They meant that I had been losing sleep. ‘Maybe we will get to meet the caliph in person. What about the dream of being attacked by an elephant?’
Osric ignored my ill humour. He was serious. ‘If the elephant succeeds in crushing the dreamer, it foretells an early death. But if the dreamer evades the attack, it means the dreamer will face great danger yet escape with his life.’
‘I wake up before the dream elephant squashes me to pulp,’ I said. His words left me uneasy, and at that moment I felt the sudden sting of a biting fly on my neck. I reached up and slapped it. My hand came away with a tiny smear of blood and, despite my outward bravado, I wondered if it too was an omen.
My friend glanced across to where Walo had succeeded in calming the quarrelling dogs. ‘Did anything come of your dream of Walo with those wolves and the bees?’ he asked.
It was my chance to tell Osric that the bees foretold Walo’s death. But I shied away from admitting that earlier I had kept the truth from my friend. Instead I described how the sight of Walo in Kaupang seated between the ice bears in Ohthere’s bear pen was the fulfilment of my vision.
Osric heard me out in silence. ‘And now? Does anyone else appear in your elephant dreams? Like Walo with those wolves?’
‘Abram. I see him climbing onto the carcass of a long-dead elephant and delving through a slit in the grey skin. Then he pulls out great long white bones.’
A look of relief crossed my friend’s face. ‘Surely that dream is about the past, not the future. It’s about the death of the elephant that Abram was bringing to Carolus.’
There was a sudden flicker in the air as a bat swooped over the dying fire in pursuit of a flying insect. The night was drawing in. Though the air was still warm, I shivered. ‘I think I’ll stay in the tent after all. It’ll save me from the midges,’ I said as I got to my feet.
I made my way back to the tent, carrying the bestiary; something was nagging at the back of my mind. I crawled into our tent, slipped the book inside my saddlebag, and was fastening down the flap when, all of a sudden, I had a faint recollection that the Oneirokritikon did offer an explanation about elephant bones: someone seen extracting the bones from a dead elephant in a dream meant that the person would mak
e a great profit from an endeavour. I racked my brains, wondering how the prediction might make sense. Then, in a flash of understanding, I knew: Abram was using our embassy as an opportunity to line his pockets. That explained the six laden pack ponies on the day he met me on the road outside Aachen, and the extra waggons hired for the overland journey to the Rhone. Our dragoman was carrying his own private trade goods, buying and selling as we travelled. As I tied the final knot in the leather lace, I wondered what items Abram was carrying that were so profitable. I decided I would not ask. If Abram wanted to keep his business dealings a secret from me, that was his affair. The dream of Abram and elephant bones was an omen. If he was to make a great deal of money from our journey then that, in turn, implied that our embassy would be a success.
That night, my mind at ease, I slept so deeply that Osric had to shake me awake when it was time to get up. He made some light-hearted remark that he and Walo had finally got a good night’s rest, without my wild dreams to disturb them. None of us could have anticipated that what lay ahead was to be as bad as any nightmare.
Chapter Eight
IN THE LAST WEEK OF August a broken bridge halted us. The crumbling stone structure looked as if it dated back to Roman times. The central arch had collapsed into the river below, cutting the road. Several flatboats were drawn up on the gravel bank, ready to serve as ferries. Their narrow shapes reminded me of weavers’ shuttles. Each had an ingenious arrangement so that the blunt bow and stern could be lowered to form a ramp and carts could be wheeled aboard. Worryingly, our oversize waggon for the aurochs appeared to be too wide to fit. Abram went forward to talk with the boatmen and when he came back after some time, I was surprised to see that he had a pleased look on his face and was carrying his itinerarium.
‘Let me show you where we are,’ he said to me, unrolling a section of the drawing and laying it out on the tailboard of the nearest cart. ‘This dark wavy line is the river ahead of us. Our road meets it at a point close to where you see that symbol for a monastery.’
He unrolled the itinerarium another few inches. ‘If you follow the line of the river you will note that it soon joins a larger one. That in turn flows into the Rhone.’
‘You’re suggesting that we travel by water once again?’ I asked. ‘The river here looks too small to be navigable.’
‘I’ve checked with the ferrymen. They say that last spring there was much rain, and there is still enough depth of water to take their craft downstream.’
I took a second look at the river. It ran sluggishly, its murky water an opaque green. ‘Where do we find boats?’
He pointed with his chin towards the waiting ferries. ‘With a little modification, those are suitable.’
I was still dubious and must have showed it in my expression because Abram quickly added, ‘The local monastery owns the bridge and charges a toll to use it. But the monks have discovered that they can make more money by collecting fares for the ferry. The boatmen are obliged to work for the monastery a certain number of days each year, and they resent it. Several of them are willing to work for us.’
He gave me a sideways look. ‘If the monks lose their boats, they’ll be obliged to repair the bridge. You would be doing a service to other travellers.’
I had to smile at his deviousness. ‘I’ll go to see the abbot.’
As it turned out, the abbot was away on business. I met instead his deputy, the cellarer. A small, timid man, he was suffering from hay fever and used his gown’s sleeve to wipe his streaming eyes as he read my letter from the palace treasurer. When I asked to be provided with the ferries, he let out a tremendous sneeze, then two more in quick succession, before recovering enough to tell me that first he had to consult with the abbot. I stressed that I was on royal business and short of time. I cautioned that, if necessary, I would simply commandeer the boats. He released another massive sneeze and used his sleeve again, this time to staunch his runny nose. It would be simpler, I suggested, if he agreed to my request and sent a claim for compensation to the king’s treasury. In a gesture of goodwill I offered to leave our horses with the monastery since they were no longer required. His eyes filled with tears and his chest heaved as I waited patiently for his answer. He was helpless, sucking in air before the next volcanic sneeze. All he wanted was for me to leave him in peace. He waved one hand at me in desperation. I took it as his agreement and left.
As soon as I got back to the others, Abram set about organizing our transfer into the boats. Two were fastened side by side to make a surface wide enough to carry the aurochs’ waggon. Supervised by Abram’s attendants, a team of ox drivers backed the waggon down the riverbank and manoeuvred the vehicle aboard. The boatmen then removed the large solid wheels and, with a series of levers, carefully lowered the cage with the aurochs inside it to sit firmly on the platform. Next it was the turn of the ice bears in their waggon to be placed on a second boat – again the wheels were removed in what seemed to be a lengthy and needless operation but the ferrymen insisted it was done. By the time they were satisfied the light was fading, and we set up camp and held a farewell feast for the ox drivers.
The men built an enormous bonfire on the riverbank, and sat around it, guzzling their rations and swilling vast amounts of ale as if determined to bring home their carts completely bare. As the night closed in, sparks from the bonfire swirled up, carried high in the still air, their pinpricks of light reflected on the black surface of the river. Abram had paid them well, and there was a carnival atmosphere. The men shouted and guffawed, their local dialect impossible to understand. Someone produced a flute and began a tune to which the others sang drunkenly or banged on makeshift drums. Men stood up shakily and started to stamp and dance. The noise threatened to give me a headache so I left the circle around the bonfire and made my way down to the water’s edge. The summer night was very warm and I was wearing a light shirt. Through the thin cloth I touched the thin scar on my side where the would-be killer in Kaupang had missed with his knife. The wound was scarcely tender. Osric had cleaned it well. I wondered yet again whether the attack had been directed at me in person or was something to do with Carolus’s embassy to the caliph. If King Offa had been behind the attempt to have me killed, every mile was taking me further from his reach. But if the Greeks in Constantinople had been responsible, then I should be increasingly wary as we travelled eastward.
Out of the corner of my eye I became aware of two figures weaving their way down the slope of the riverbank. Two ox drivers were stumbling towards the boats. They had the loose-kneed, lurching shamble of men who were very drunk, and occasionally they clutched one another to stop falling over. A snatch of drunken laughter reached me. My stomach gave a sudden lurch as it became clear that they were heading towards the boat with the ice bears’ cage. They had to be intercepted. I scrambled up the bank, looking for Walo. I saw him at once. He was seated by the fire, playing his deerhorn pipe, his head wagging loosely from side to side to the rhythm of the music. It was clear that he too was completely drunk. There was no sign of Osric and I presumed he had gone off to our tent. There was no time to find him so I turned on my heel and set off at a run towards the boats. Ahead of me the two drunkards had already climbed aboard the boat and were standing next to the ice bears’ cage. In the flickering light of the bonfire’s flames they were capering stupidly, dancing and calling out to the bears, encouraging them to join in. I suppose they must have seen a travelling showman with a dancing bear and imagined that Modi and Madi would oblige them.
Desperately I hurled myself down the slope of the bank, shouting at them to stand clear of the cage. They did not hear me. One of the men stopped his capering and, egged on by his companion, he leaned up against the cage, thrust his arm between the bars and beckoned. Modi and Madi were already on their feet. The noise and music from the campfire had roused them. Behind me the flames flared up and in a sudden wash of brighter light I could see the two ice bears staring intently at the intruder. Their eyes were distinct black dots
in their white faces. My shouts died in my throat as I recalled the foolish dog in Kaupang whose face had been slashed by the claws of an ice bear cub when he came too close. Modi and Madi were no longer cubs. Half-grown, each was bigger than a bull calf, and infinitely more dangerous.
I was too late.
With a deep-throated growl, one of the bears sprang forward. There was a glimpse of bared teeth and the jaws closed on the out-thrust arm. At the same moment the second bear rose on its hind legs and flung itself against the bars, seeking to attack the second reveller. The boat rocked with the force of the impact.
A terrible shriek cut through the blare of singing and drunken music. Behind me the noise of celebration faltered, then died away. Instead there was scream upon scream of pain, and a low-pitched growling, an awful sound, as the bear – I guessed it was Modi the angry – tugged and twisted at the human arm and tried to drag its owner into the cage. The other bear, Madi the strong, kept dropping back on all fours, then rising up again and hurling his weight against the bars, roaring as he batted with his front paws, trying to reach the other drunkard.
The bile rose in my throat. I was only a few yards away but felt helpless. The entire cage was shaking. Ripples spread as the boat rocked. The agonized screams made it impossible for me to think clearly. Several heartbeats later, someone ran past me – Abram. He was holding a flaming branch that he must have snatched from the bonfire. He jumped onto the boat and thrust the brand between the bars, and straight into Madi’s muzzle. By then the bear’s victim was no longer standing, but slumped on his knees, his shoulder and arm pulled between the bars of the cage.
Abram was yelling at the top of his voice, jabbing at the bear with the flaming timber. On his right the second bear, Modi, continued to roar, swatting at the bars.
Reluctantly, Madi opened his jaws and released his grip on the mangled arm. Then the bear half-rose on its hind legs, spun round clumsily and retreated to the back of the cage. I stumbled forward, alongside Abram, and reached down to drag the bear’s victim clear. Between us we carried the badly injured drunkard away and up the bank, his damaged arm hanging uselessly. Behind us Modi flung himself three or four more times against the bars, then he, too, dropped back on all fours, and began to pace up and down. Abram and I carried the moaning ox driver to the campsite and laid him on the bed of an empty cart. The arm was crushed; white bone gleamed through the mangled flesh. His comrades, suddenly sober, clustered round and clumsily tried to help. Osric arrived to wash the wounds as best he could and swathe the arm in tight bandages. An hour later a team of oxen was yoked and the cart had been driven away into the darkness, heading for the monastery infirmary.