At the Edge of the World (2 page)

2

H
IS CRY STARTLED ME
, and made Bear blink open his eyes. “We thought you dead,” said the man to Bear. It was as much an accusation as a statement.

“All in God’s good time,” returned Bear, scrutinizing the man with his red-rimmed eyes. “How do you know me?” he asked. “And who is
we?
”

Instead of answering, the man swung about to look at me as if to reassess who
I
was. I recalled him then. He was a member of John Ball’s rebel brotherhood, which had met at a shoemaker’s shop in Great Wexly. At that meeting, Bear had helped this man and others to escape, though it resulted in his being taken prisoner.

The man turned back to Bear and asked, “Aren’t you the one they call Bear?

I am.

“The spy,” the man said, not kindly. “How did you free yourself?”

Bear considered the question and then said, “The boy freed me.”

“Lord Furnival’s bastard?”

Bear frowned. “His name is Crispin.”

“This one?” the man demanded, turning back to me.

“Himself.”

Alarmed, I rose to my feet, though I did not know what to do. It was hardly the moment to tell him that to ransom Bear’s liberty, I’d renounced any claim to my noble name.

The man considered me with harsh contempt before turning back to Bear. “Why have you come here?”

“Be assured,” said Bear, holding up one of his large hands as if to show it empty, “it’s by chance. We’re trying to get as far from Great Wexly as we can. Passing by, the boy saw your broom. We’re weary. Hungry. I’d no idea you lived here. In faith, I don’t even know your name.”

“Have you abandoned the brotherhood?”

Bear paused. “My friend,” he said, “the only thing I wish to abandon is my fatigue.”

“We’re all weary,” snapped the man. “Did you give names in exchange for your freedom?”

“Not I,” said Bear.

“Watt the butcher has been taken. So too, Guy, the miller’s man. We don’t know what’s become of them.”

“God bring them quick release,” said Bear, making the sign of the cross. “I’m from other parts. By Saint Peter, I don’t know any of your names.”

The man glanced about, as if others might be lurking near. Momentarily, he fixed his eyes on me.

I was so agitated I hardly knew where to look.

“Then was it this boy,” he persisted, “who bought your freedom with our names?”

Bear sighed. “The sole payment he gave was his courage.”

“I don’t believe you,” said the man.

“That’s as you may,” said Bear. “But, as Our Sacred Lady is witness, what I say is true.”

I kept wishing Bear would
do
something. I just wanted to leave.

“Then explain if you will,” cried the man, growing more raddled each moment, “why among those held only you are free?”

“I cannot,” said Bear.

“The authorities would never let you go without something in exchange.”

“I know nothing about our brothers,” said Bear. “I saw no one else where I was held. God knows they pressed me, but you may be sure I gave them nothing. I wouldn’t do so to save my soul.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Bear snorted with contempt. “Believe what you wish.”

“I say you’re an informer!” cried the man. “A traitor to the brotherhood!” He turned then, and with a broad stroke of his hand and arm, swept bowls and bread away, sending all aground. “I’ll serve neither you nor the boy. Take yourselves off before I kill you both.” His hand was on his dagger.

Greatly frightened, I edged from the table.

Bear ruffled his beard with deliberate care while eyeing the man with visible—if mute—ill will. Then, with a grunt, he used his large hands to push himself up from the bench. He was a head taller than the man—enough to make the man back away some steps.

“Crispin,” Bear called. “We’re not wanted here.”

“Your kind are not wanted anywhere,” declared the man. “Traitors! Be gone with you!”

Quite slowly, Bear walked away from the house, moving in the direction of the road. I stayed close by his side. But knowing all too well the man was behind us—and recalling the dagger—I found it hard not to turn around.

“Crispin!” Bear whispered harshly. “Don’t look! It will provoke. Just head for the trees.”

“Do you know him?” I asked.

“Only by his face. As he said, he’s part of Ball’s brotherhood.”

We moved to the road, crossed it, and approached the forest. Bear’s step continued to be measured, refusing to honor the man by looking back.

I was not so composed. In spite of Bear’s warning, I darted a glance back. The man was standing before his house. To my horror, he had a longbow in his hands. Worse, he had nocked an arrow and was pulling back the drawstring.

“Bear!” I shouted. “He’s going to shoot at us!”

3

U
PON THE INSTANT
, Bear swung about and shoved me so hard I tumbled. Then he dove down. Even as he did, I heard a sound—
zutt!

Bear gave a harsh grunt, cried, “Run!” then picked himself up and ran headlong for the protection of the trees.

With Bear hobbling along as best he could, we stumbled into the forest. Once there we continued running for I don’t know how long. When at last Bear halted, he leaned against a tree, gasping for breath. He looked at his left arm. I followed his gaze and near swooned: an arrow was sticking through the fleshy part. Blood was trickling down.

“Bear,” I cried. “He struck you!”

“Just barely,” he said, though his hand was already crimson with blood. “If you had not warned me, I’d be dead.”

“Forgive me,” I said. “When I said we should stop I only meant—”

“No, no. It’s only sweet Jesus—and you—who care for me. Feel free to disobey me at any time.”

I gazed back, but could see nothing of the road, the house, or the man. “Do you think he’ll follow?”

“That kind will get others first. And then, I promise, they’ll follow.”

“But wasn’t he a friend?”

“Doubt it not; old friends make the worst enemies. I know their secrets and their way of thinking. If they believe I’ve betrayed them, I’ve become their worst foe. They won’t rest until they kill me. But no more talk,” he said, beckoning me toward him. “You must pull the arrow out.”

“What do you mean?” I cried.

“Take hold of the end of the arrow, break off the feathered end, then pull the whole thing out.”

“Are you … sure?” I stammered.

“Crispin,” he said, “more men die of wounds than blows to the heart. Quickly, now!” He held out his arm, winglike.

With my stomach churning to the point of illness, I went to him. Bracing myself, I gripped the arrow at the nether ends.

Bear gritted his teeth. “Do it!” he said.

I faltered.

“Crispin,” he shouted. “On my life! Break it!”

Hands shaking, I took a deep breath, and broke the arrow.

“Jesu!”
Bear cried out.

I stood there, panting, feeling faint.

“Now!” he commanded. “Pull it out, pointed end first!”

Grimacing, I did what he told me, then flung the arrow away as if it was some loathsome snake. The effort left me so weak, I leaned against a tree.

Bear, meanwhile, bent over, scooped up some dead leaves, and pressed them against his bleeding arm. It staunched the blood somewhat.

“Will … will you be all right?” I managed to say.

“As God wills it,” he growled. “I’ve seen worse for men that lived. We need make haste. I’m sure we’ll be pursued.” That said, he held out a hand. I helped him up. After shaking himself like a wet dog, he plunged deeper into the forest.

I hurried after, but kept glancing back.

The forest was without tracks or trails. The more we stumbled on, the more I lost my sense of time and place. Stout oak, elm, and ash grew beyond any number I could count. The warp of branches hid the sky. The air was humid, thick with the stench of decay. Tangled bushes clutched our feet. Here and there were boggy mires. All in all, it was an uninviting world, with not the slightest trace of human life.

Bear was constantly clutching his arm, increasingly a-sweat with struggle. Even I was short of breath.

“Shouldn’t we seek a path?” I asked after we had labored long.

“The more marked the path,” said Bear between heavy panting, “the more likely it will take us to a place others will know. Didn’t someone say, ‘New lives require new paths’? This way’s best.”

In faith, I’m not sure who led the way, Bear or I. It might have been the occasional ray of sunlight that gave us direction—fingerposts set down by God on high.

After we had gone for what felt like many leagues, Bear began to falter increasingly until he abruptly halted. “God’s heart,” he exclaimed. “I can go no more.”

All but falling, he sat with his back propped against an oak. His face was drawn, paler than normal. Shivering, he wrapped his cloak tightly round while holding his wounded arm in such a way I knew it was giving him much pain.

“You said the wound was not bad,” I said.

“No such thing as a good wound,” he muttered, shutting his eyes.

I stood there dismayed. “What shall I do?” I asked.

“All I need is some food, warmth, and a term of peace.” He turned toward me without opening his eyes. “If you have any to spare, I would be willing to share.”

Not fooled by his raillery, I sat down opposite and waited anxiously for him to do something. Alas, he continued to sit in a state of collapse, breathing deeply, as if he had run a race and lost.

The more he remained there, the more unnerved I became. With the two of us, Bear had always taken the lead. Great in soul, size, and voice as he was, I had never had to wait on him. What kind of freedom had I gained, I wondered, to be so soon on the edge of calamity?

“Are you hungry?” I asked, somewhat lamely.

“I can’t remember when I’ve eaten last,” he confessed.

“I can set a trap,” I said. He had taught me how. “I’ll catch a hare.”

“Good lad,” he murmured, his breath labored, his eyes still closed. Then he said, “I’m cold.”

I stood up. “While I’m gone,” I said, “this might help.” I set his split hat back on his bald head, and tied it round his cheeks. A poor thing, that hat, but I knew he cherished it as an emblem of his being. When I set it on him, the bells that hung from the two points tinkled; in the forest they made an empty, mocking sound.

I gathered some fallen leaves and spread them over him from his feet to his chest.

“Does that make you any warmer?”

“I’m well planted,” he replied. “Just don’t let it become an early burial.”

“Bear!” I said.

“I jest,” he said, but, in faith, it didn’t seem that way to me.

“I’ll be quick,” I said, and started off.

“Crispin!” he called.

“I’m here.”

“I’m not prepared to die.”

His words struck hard. “What … what do you mean?” I said, upset that he should speak that way.

“In Jesus’s name, I’m weak. And I’ve sinned much.”

“I’ve … I’ve never seen you sin,” I said.

He took a deep breath and started to speak, but seemed to change his mind. Instead he whispered, “Just don’t abandon me.”

“By all that’s holy, Bear,” I returned, “you know I never would. Call with any need. I’ll be no farther than a shout.”

I stood there, afraid to leave. But when he said no more, I made myself set off in search of a likely spot to place a snare. As I went, I kept thinking how painful it was for me to hear Bear speak of weakness on his part.

For if he was weak, what did that make me?

4

I
SEARCHED FOR
an open glade where grass grew, knowing that was where rabbits and hares most liked to feed. As God would have it, I soon found a likely spot close by. There, the sun, finding a rent in the canopy of leaves, had kissed the earth as sweetly as a blessing. It was but a few paces across, a soft green sward of bright green grass that invited rest. Respite, however, was not my mission.

As taught by Bear, I found some thin, flexible willow wands and twisted them into a spring trap much like a noose. Trying to touch the twigs as little as possible—lest the beasts sniff out my scent—I set the snare down in the middle of the glade, then took myself off the immediate spot and waited, rock in hand.

Bear had instructed me not to move, to breathe softly; merely, in fact, to think, and to do so silently. But how difficult to wait when you are wanting food and that food is not yet caught—nay, not even visible. For the sound of waiting is full of noise: every creak was hope, every rustle expectation.

I kept mulling over Bear’s words—that he had sinned much. I, who loved him as a father, thought of all I knew of him, but could not imagine what forgiveness he might need, save for some small measure of anger or vanity, his daily faults. I could not help but think of how truly short a time I had known Bear, how—save some fragments he’d revealed—little I knew regarding the full measure of his life. Still, Bear’s condition made me aware how large was my dependence on him, how small I was alone. What, I kept asking myself, if he grew worse? How I cursed myself for urging him to stop at the alestake!

Then and there I swore—by my Saint Giles—a sacred
vow:
As Bear had taken care of me I would care for him. I could not be a boy. I
must
be a man!

“Lord Jesus!” I prayed with all my heart, my eyes full of tears. “Give me the strength to help Bear. Give Bear the strength to live.”

Despite my intent, exhaustion caused me to nod off only to wake with a start, brought back from sleep by the frantic thrashing of a small hare tangled in my snare. I leaped up and grabbed the rock that had fallen from my lap. Diving flat out onto my belly, I snatched the beast, and despite its frantic kicking, brained it. It died with the stroke.

With pride in my triumph, I took the hare by its bloody ears and carried it back to Bear. I found him asleep, the leaves I’d provided for cover scattered. But at least his wound had clotted.

Not wanting to disturb him, I removed flint and tinder from our sack and began a fire. It wasn’t long before the hare was roasting on a spit. The smell caused my hunger to gnaw at me.

Bear stirred, then woke but only stared at me with glazed eyes. “You did well,” he whispered.

“As you taught me.”

“You were gone so long … I thought you had snared trouble, or that—God protect us—trouble … had snared you.” His face glistened with sweat.

“Does your wound hurt?”

“It throbs.”

My heart tightened. I touched fingers to his brow. It was very hot. “Is it a fever?”

“Merely hunger,” he said as if to tease me, but his unusual mildness undercut his levity.

Wanting to hasten the cooking, I threw more wood onto the fire. The flame flared. The meat turned dark, the smell of it making my mouth water. When the hare was cooked I tore the carcass apart and gave Bear the pieces.

At first he ate—one-handed—with rapacious hunger, which pleased me. Alas, he soon stopped. “You must feed me,” he said.

Though it upset me to do it, I nonetheless did as he bid, like some chick stuffing food into the maw of its much larger parent.

“Yourself, too,” he murmured.

“I’m fine.” In truth, I was famished, but I allowed myself just one mouthful. I made him take the rest.

When he’d done, I said, “Do you feel better?”

“Somewhat.”

I knelt by his side and studied him. He was dreadful pale. His breathing was thick.

I could see for myself that he was sinking. So was my heart.

Not knowing what else to do, I said, “I’ll try and get another hare.”

“As you will,” he mumbled.

I stood up.

“Crispin,” he whispered. “There are private things I need to say.”

God’s truth: I didn’t want to know such things. But the pain in his voice held me. “You need your sleep,” I said in haste.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.” And drifted off to what I hoped was only sleep.

I wanted to get help but hardly knew where to take my first step, much less which way to aim. In the end, unwilling to leave him, I stayed by his side.

Night came with lowering clouds enough to hide all stars. The only light was the smoldering cinders of our dwindling fire. I took it to be an augury of Bear’s life.

Heart full of pain, I went on my knees and prayed to my patron, Saint Giles, that he might help Bear. I pledged I’d do anything and everything if he blessed Bear with strength. Even so, in the heart of my being, my fear was growing that Bear was fated—it choked me just to give it name—to die.

With that fear came a greater fear: if Bear died I didn’t know what to do. Where could I go? What would I be?

Unable to answer, I felt that the freedom I’d so recently won was melting like a spent candle.

What followed was a long and doleful night. The forest creaked and groaned as if an encircling doom was laying siege to Bear. When I slept—which I did but fitfully—my frightful dreams were equal to my waking worries. I took the dreams as dismal warnings. Sure enough, by dawn’s first light, I could see that Bear had turned worse.

Though exhausted, I knew I should act quickly. Yet, despite new and desperate prayers, I had no notion what to do. I stirred up the fire, but beyond that I could only wait and watch my friend, my heart raw with naked helplessness.

But as I sat there, I began to realize that the forest had grown uncommon still—as if it held its breath. Gradually, I began to sense something amiss, as though something was slithering near.

I leaped up and searched about but saw nothing save the creeping shadows of the dawning forest. Even so, I was convinced a thing was there, a thing drawing nigh.

The hairs on the back of my neck began to prickle. My heart pounded. I could hardly breathe. For I recalled a notion I’d heard: that when the Angel of Death slips in to snatch a soul, all sounds, all movements, cease.

Next moment I realized that there were eyes, eyes peering out of the woods, eyes gazing right at us, large eyes, dark and brown, fixed and staring. Nothing but eyes, detached from any corporal body, as if part of some advancing ghost.

Oh, blessed Lord who gives all life
—I thought—
it’s Death, Death himself who has come for Bear!