I waved a final farewell and, upon reaching the shore walked inland a short distance and climbed the sloping dune to watch as they put out from the bay. As soon as the wind caught the sails, they were gone.
I struck off in good spirits, knowing that if I kept to the coast with the sea on my left, I would eventually reach the great estuary called Mare Habrinum by the Latin speakers and Mor Hafren by everyone else—a wide tidal basin that split the lower portion of Britain like a spearpoint jutting inland. Following little sheep trails over the deserted moorland cliff tops, I walked along with eager steps.
Oh, but it was a forsaken, empty land. I met neither man nor beast in all that wild region. I ate and slept as I would and moved ever eastward over the barren hills and headlands. Any people living thereabouts, though there could not have been many, no doubt lived inland, away from the constant buffeting of the wind off the sea. I did not attempt to seek them out, however, because I wanted to get home as quickly as possible and did not care to let the estuary out of my sight for long.
On the third day I glimpsed land across the tide basin, and four days later, I reached a small fishing settlement tucked in to a dell where a stream emptied into the estuary. I called out a greeting but received no reply. Nothing more than a couple of huts and a few sheds, the place was lately abandoned; the fisherfolk had moved elsewhere to avoid the cold winds and high water of winter. All the same it was my good fortune to find a hide boat in one of the sheds—a little coracle that had been left behind. It was damaged, of course, but not so badly that it could not be repaired.
This I set out to do at once. Using bits of cast-off netting which I unraveled to make stout thread and a fishhook for a needle, I sewed up the dogleg tear in the underside of the boat, then bound up the broken rib. In my search for something to use as a paddle, I chanced to find some oakum, coiled for use and stuck up over the lintel. This I used to pack the tear in the bottom of the coracle. I broke off a section of flat-planed wood from the door of the shed, and that became my oar.
It was almost dark by the time I finished, and so I waited until low tide the next day. Meanwhile I gathered blackberries and currants to add to my ration of food and drank water from the stream. Although I had nothing to make a fire, the larger of the two huts was dry and kept the wind off.
Next morning dawned cool and bright. I rose and sat for a while watching the tide flow, trying to determine how the currents moved. The water was dense and dirty; its long, lazy swirls and eddies constantly shifted and changed. For all my study I remained none the wiser. I did, however, determine the best place to launch my unsteady vessel, so that when I saw that the tide had reached the lowest ebb, I began to drag the coracle down to the water’s edge, which, as it happened, could now be reached only by crossing a great, flat expanse of mud.
I started off well, but the farther out from the bank I went, the deeper became the mud. I quickly sank in over the tops of my shoes before I thought to take them off. Then, standing in mire up to my knees, I decided to strip off the rest of my clothes, too, before taking up the rope and proceeding on.
By the time I reached the water, I was covered in muck to my naked thighs. I tried washing off some of it before clambering into the boat, but it was useless. I scraped off as much as I could and then got in.
Launching myself on the mudflat while sitting in the boat proved far more difficult than I could have imagined. Using the paddle, I humped and nudged my way forward and was heartily glad no one was there to witness this ridiculous spectacle. I was just about to get out and push some more when I felt the rounded keel slide a little more easily. Two more nudges and a few strokes of the paddle and I slid off into deeper water.
Then it was simply a matter of making for the opposite shore. I paddled with strong, steady strokes for a goodly while but did not seem to make any headway. What is more, the still-outflowing current in the main channel was far stronger than I had calculated, and the opposite shore was moving past at a worrying rate—such that I appeared in danger of being swept down the channel and out to sea! Fool that I was, I had chosen the wrong tide. If I had waited for the incoming tide, it would have carried me closer to my destination, not farther away.
Cursing my stupidity, I put my head down and redoubled my efforts with the paddle. Another arduous stint produced no better results; I succeeded only in raising blisters on my hands and getting myself caught in a giant eddy that spun the little coracle around and around. After a while the eddy dissipated somewhat, allowing me to break out of the current.
About this time the boat began to leak. I suppose the oakum did not hold, or the thread stretched, or whatever; in any event I suddenly found myself sitting in water. There was nothing to be done but paddle all the harder. I rowed like a galley slave and eventually reached what I imagined to be the middle of the estuary, where I noticed that the shoreline had slowed its relentless race. The water in the boat was much deeper, however. I moved my bundle of clothing higher, ceased paddling long enough to bail out some of the water with my hands, and then resumed.
In a little while the tide flow all but ceased. In the still water I began making the first good progress since starting out. Indeed, I entertained the hope that I would yet reach the bank before disaster overtook me. In this I showed myself no seaman, for the instant the thought was born in my head, I heard a popping sound, and water began trickling into the boat.
I rowed for all I was worth. My hands were raw and bleeding by this time, but I had no other choice than to ignore the pain and drive my increasingly waterlogged vessel forward. Paddling like a madman, I was rewarded by the sight of the bank drawing slowly closer.
Too slowly, to be sure. Long before I reached the shore, the stitches I had made in the hide parted, and the rip in the bottom of the boat expanded. Water gushed through the rent. I had time but to grab my shoes and clothes and abandon the coracle. With the shoelaces in my mouth and the bundle of clothes on my head, I departed my leaking craft—rather, I allowed it to sink beneath me and began swimming.
I made but a few strokes, and the soft ooze of the riverbed met my toes. A few more strokes brought me to a depth at which I could stand. With my feet under me at last, I strode for the bank, wading through water to my waist. I reached the broad mudflat, floundered across, and dragged myself up the bank onto dry ground, where I collapsed into the long river grass, sweating and panting, filthy with muck, but happy to have made a successful crossing.
The sun felt good on my skin, and I lay dozing, gathering my strength, until dark clouds moved in and took the sun away. Loath to rise, I nevertheless gathered my things and made for the higher bank of the estuary. The mud had dried on my skin, and I was disinclined to put on my shoes and robe until I could wash properly; so, tucking my shoes and bundle under my arm, I set off naked, climbing the rest of the way up the steep bank and setting off along the trail.
At every turn I expected to come to some holding or settlement, but the day ended before I reached any habitation—although I did find a clear-running brook where I could wash off the caked mud and bathe my raw hands. When I finished, I drank my fill of the sweet, clear water and then found a hollow beside the stream filled with dry leaves, where I settled down to sleep. Thus ended my eighth day in Britain, and still I had seen no other human being.
THIRTY-ONE
IN A HOLLOW near a river grew a little stand of ash saplings. I cut one to act as a staff and to carry my provision bag. Anyone I happened to encounter would take me for a bard, I reckoned, and would not have been far wrong. Yet I met no one.
Day by day I walked. Often in the rain and wind, but what of that? In my time on Sliabh Mis, I had spent whole winters outside in every weather under heaven. The chill damp of my homeland did not daunt me. I walked along, in fog and mist, content in my own company, secure in the knowledge that if I continued in an easterly direction along the banks of Mor Hafren, I would eventually reach Morgannwg and my home. Before that, however, I would come to any number of sm
allholdings and settlements along the coast, and inland there were scores of villas and larger estates where I might get help.
On the fourth day after crossing the estuary, I came upon the old post road that linked the towns of the coast. The sight of it snaking off over the low hills sent an unexpected pang of longing through my heart. Who could have imagined that the mere sight of anything so mundane as that scruffy, overgrown scrape of a track could have moved me so? It came to me then, as I put my feet on the long-familiar path, that I was indeed home at last.
Oh, but it was a home I no longer knew.
The first settlement I encountered proved this beyond any doubt. Through the rain I saw a clutch of dark rooftops cramped into the fold of a valley. There was no smoke coming from any of the houses, and all was silent. No barking dogs greeted me as I came into the midst of the holding—and I soon discovered why: the place had been sacked and put to the torch. I looked in some of the burned-out houses, but aside from a broken chair, a cracked pot, and a worn-out broom, I found nothing of value. Everything worth taking away had been removed—although I did find some leeks growing in a disordered patch beside one of the houses. I pulled a few to take with me, put them in my bag, and moved on.
This was not the last abandoned settlement I passed. Would that it were! I put several more derelict holdings behind me before I came to a villa—an estate, very like my father’s in size and extent—and at first sight it, too, appeared deserted and forsaken. Some of the buildings had lost their roofs, and most bore the signs of fire. Even so, there were people living in the ruined southern wing.
Thinking me a druid, they hailed me as I drew near and all but pulled me into the filthy yard. Needless to say, my hosts were not the original owners of the villa. Far from it. Tenant farmers, they had been driven out when their villa fell to a barbarian raid.
“How long have you been here?” I asked, first in Latin and then, when that brought no response, in Briton.
“Four years,” replied the head man of the group after a moment’s calculation.
“What happened to the owners here?”
He shrugged. “Killed or run off. Either way they’re gone.”
I asked them how far it was to Lycanum, but, having come from somewhere farther north, none of them seemed to know the place. They asked me to stay the night with them then, and as much as I would like to have moved on, I thought it unwise to refuse the invitation. “Nothing would delight me more,” I lied. “I am hungry and could use a good meal.”
That night they all gathered to feed the bard and hear him sing: this being the price of my food. I did not begrudge them their song, mind. Indeed, adapting freely from the Irish, I sang a lengthy portion of “The Battle of the Birds” and “Math ap Mathonwy” in payment for my meal and lodging. I did my best to make a good tale of it, and they went away well satisfied.
They would have had me stay longer, but I told them I was expected elsewhere. I promised I would come back one day soon and see them again, and then took my leave. Wretched as they were, they would not have it but that I should take some onions and turnips with me. I intoned an elaborate declamation over them, which prophesied coming abundance and prosperity for the settlement, and then went on my way.
More ruined settlements and half-populated holdings followed; everywhere it was the same story: Those who could leave had gone; those who remained eked out a niggling subsistence in the wake of their much more prosperous predecessors.
Whether sleeping in ditches or welcomed as a bard, I held firm to my purpose, moving on early each morning. In this way I at last reached Lycanum in Morgannwg, where I found the first of my true countrymen—fifteen days after coming ashore.
Sadly, Lycanum, like the rest of the southern region, so far as I could see, had changed. The walls of the town were higher and thicker now, encircling the little market town in a tight embrace, broken only by the stout double gate through which I entered. The streets were empty of the bustling activity I remembered. Many of the houses were deserted, and most of those that were still inhabited stood in urgent need of restoration and repair. The market was gone, and in its place stood a small field planted with grain. I walked around, looking at the once-thriving town, recognizing it, to be sure, but not knowing it anymore.
Hungry, footsore, thirsty, and disappointed beyond words, I remembered the Old Black Wolf and, surprised that I had not thought of it sooner, made my way to the inn without further delay. On the way I wandered past the garrison. The big ironclad gate was open. I could tell at a glance that the legionaries were gone. The parade ground had become a midden heap for the people living in the barracks, stores, and outbuildings. Three forlorn-looking cows stood in a too-small enclosure beside the wall, and a skinny, swaybacked horse was tethered to a chain; chickens strutted in and out of the houses as they would, and goats stood watching from the rooftops.
How, I wondered, could they allow it to come to this?
I continued, meeting the same disheveled, desolated appearance at every turn. And then, all at once, I found myself running along a narrow street where I had so often come with my friends. I turned the corner, and there it was: the Old Black Wolf. The building was still there, but it was no longer a tavern. Dark smoke rolled up out of the chimney, wheels and rims leaned against the walls, bits of harness, broken plowshares, mended scythes, and such lay about the yard. A trough stood on the stump where the tree had been. The sight astonished even as it appalled.
From somewhere inside came the ring of a hammer and the breathy whoosh and wheeze of a bellows. The place had been taken over by a blacksmith, and I could but stand and shake my head. Overcome by the unrelenting strangeness of the town, I shuffled to the trough, sat down on its edge, and dipped out some water to drink, thinking only to rest a little before continuing on. While I was sitting there, a woman came out of the house, saw me, and fled back inside. A few moments later, a man in a leather apron emerged carrying a hammer.
I stood to greet him. “Pax vobiscum,” I said, the Latin feeling clumsy in my mouth after such long neglect. “I grew up near here; I have been away and have only just returned.” He eyed me suspiciously. Putting out my hand, I indicated the building behind him. “I knew this place when it was the Black Wolf.”
He looked me up and down before answering. “It’s no inn anymore,” he concluded. “If your looking to buy something, I’m selling—otherwise, I’ve work to do.”
“What happened to the garrison?” I asked. “Where are the soliders?”
“I don’t know nothing about it, do I? You got questions—go ask the magistrate.” When I made no move to leave, he said, “Now clear off. I’m busy.” He hefted the hammer for good measure.
I thanked him for his trouble, turned on my heel, left the yard and walked back along the near-deserted streets to the center of town. I asked an old woman where I might find the magistrate, and she pointed to the house that had once belonged to the garrision commander.
I went to the house and presented myself to the sallow, pockmarked youth who answered the door. “I want to see the magistrate. Tell him I have traveled a long way to speak to him.”
The young fellow took one look at me sniffed. “Wait here.”
After a time the youth returned, and I was led to an inner chamber where two men sat in chairs beside a table. One was bald and thick-waisted, dressed in a long tunic, and the other a tonsured priest in drab brown robe and hooded cloak.
The sullen young man ushered me into the room without ceremony and brought me to stand before the magistrate, who glanced up angrily at the interruption, sighed and said, “I suppose this cannot wait.” He cast a hasty eye over me. “Do you speak Latin? Hmm? Can you understand me?”
“I understand you perfectly,” I answered, drawing myself upright.
“Well, what do you want?” he said. Before I could reply, he said, “Speak up. Where are you from?”
“I was born and raised in Morgannwy.”
His eyes widened. “The
devil you say!”
“My family owned an estate near Bannavem. My father was a decurion there; his name was Calpurnius—perhaps you knew him?”
The magistrate stared at me. “Yes, yes, I knew him.”
“Great God in heaven!” said the magistrate’s visitor, starting up suddenly.
I turned to him. “The name means something to you?”
The man, agape with wonder gazed at me. “Succat? Can it be…?”
“That was once my name,” I replied.
“Do you know me, Succat?” he said.
I stared at the man; full of face and form, a young man still, but his body running to fat, he seemed somehow familiar. Through the fleshy features of the man before me, I glimpsed the ghost of the youth he had once been. A name came to my lips….
“Julian?”
THIRTY-TWO
FOR THE LOVE of Mary and Joseph!” cried the priest, leaping from his chair. “It is Succat!” He seized me by the arms, gazing rapturously into my face. “It is me—Julian! Of course you remember. How could you forget?”
In truth I did not know him. Gone was the instigator of so many fine adventures, the cheerful fornicator, the heathen-hearted anarchist and scofflaw. Gone was the blithe and feckless scapegrace leader of our rebellious tribe of four: Rufus, Scipio, Julian, and myself. In his place stood a substantial, solemn, shaven-pated priest. Here was a wonder: wanton, worldly, profligate Julian—a priest of the church! Julian—quite possibly the last person under God’s blue heaven I might have imagined would take the tonsure.
“Julian, I—”
He squeezed me in an enthusiastic embrace. Relief and amazement flooded through me. Tears came to my eyes, slid down my cheeks, and into my mustache. I clutched at him and felt all certainty and self-assurance melt away.
Patrick: Son of Ireland Page 30