fluttering like a small bird, I stepped forward to show myself.
8
T HOUGH I DIDN’T SEEK to hide the sound of my steps, the musicians were so engaged in their playing that even when I stood at the edge of their encampment, they failed to notice me. Instead, it was the ball of fur at the boy’s feet which—to my complete astonishment—came to life, revealing himself as a tiny, furry man! His ugly, distorted face, offering a most hideous, toothy grin, glared at me, and then he began to screech horribly.
The younger woman spun about. When she saw me standing there, she cried, “Mother of God!”
Equally startled, the other musicians turned, saw me, and instantly stopped their playing. The harp player snatched at a leather sack that lay at his feet and thrust it behind him. The bearded man flung his bagpipe down,plucked the sword from the ground, sprang up, and pointed the blade toward me.
“Peace be with you!” I cried in haste.
The little man leaped upon the boy’s chest and clung to him, even as he twisted his head around and grimaced at me fiercely. To my further bewilderment, I saw he had a tail!
It was the gray-haired woman—the one who had been singing and leading the music—who lifted a hand to calm the man with the sword.
“In the name of Jesus,” she called out tensely, “who are you?”
God knows I must have been an outlandish sight. To see me step out unexpectedly from the forest as I had done would have upset the stoutest heart.
But on my part, what I felt beyond all else was vast relief that they spoke English. “My name…” I stammered, even as I offered an inept bow, “is…Crispin. I’m lost and hungry. Your fire and music led me to you. I mean no harm.”
I waited tensely for some reply since, as if unsure, the five continued to study me in silence. As I stood there, my eyes went to the strange little creature, wondering what he was.
The gray-haired woman stood. Her face was old, withsmall eyes, a sharp nose and chin, and a puckered mouth. Though not much taller than I, she had a commanding stance. With her head tilted slightly to one side and her arms akimbo, I felt challenged.
“But what are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice bold and loud as though from a larger person.
“Forgive me, mistress. It’s a long tale,” I replied, and gave a swift version of my tale: that I came from England, was storm wrecked, and had lost my father. That I had been wandering ever since, trying to leave this land, but had become lost.
“Where were you hoping to go?” asked the bearded man.
“If it pleases…to Iceland.”
As if puzzled, they looked at one another.
“Don’t…don’t you know where it is?” I asked.
“Only that it must be a cold place,” said the younger man, smiling slightly as if pleased with his jest. “But, as Saint Gerard is my witness, I’ve never heard of it.”
“Nor I,” said the bearded man.
But the younger woman said, “I think…I think I have.”
We all looked to her.
“Where is it?” challenged the bearded man.
The woman shrugged. “Far off. Beyond the sea.”
My heart sank.
“Don’t you think,” the bearded man said to me, “it would be smarter to go to Calais?”
Knowing nothing of such a place, all I could say was “If it be wise.”
“Your speech tells me it’s England where you mean to go,” said the gray-haired woman. “And Calais, which isn’t far, is English. It offers the shortest sail home.”
“Or perhaps to your…. land of ice,” said the bearded man, smiling.
“Wherever is best,” I said, eager to agree.
The older, bearded man, eyes agleam with firelight, asked, “How old are you?”
“Thirteen years, I think.”
While the others waited for the gray-haired woman to speak, she studied me. Finally she said, “You said your father was killed. How did it happen?”
“In…in a battle.”
“May the Mother of God keep your father’s soul,” she murmured, her face softening slightly as she made
8
T HOUGH I DIDN’T SEEK to hide the sound of my steps, the musicians were so engaged in their playing that even when I stood at the edge of their encampment, they failed to notice me. Instead, it was the ball of fur at the boy’s feet which—to my complete astonishment—came to life, revealing himself as a tiny, furry man! His ugly, distorted face, offering a most hideous, toothy grin, glared at me, and then he began to screech horribly.
The younger woman spun about. When she saw me standing there, she cried, “Mother of God!”
Equally startled, the other musicians turned, saw me, and instantly stopped their playing. The harp player snatched at a leather sack that lay at his feet and thrust it behind him. The bearded man flung his bagpipe down,plucked the sword from the ground, sprang up, and pointed the blade toward me.
“Peace be with you!” I cried in haste.
The little man leaped upon the boy’s chest and clung to him, even as he twisted his head around and grimaced at me fiercely. To my further bewilderment, I saw he had a tail!
It was the gray-haired woman—the one who had been singing and leading the music—who lifted a hand to calm the man with the sword.
“In the name of Jesus,” she called out tensely, “who are you?”
God knows I must have been an outlandish sight. To see me step out unexpectedly from the forest as I had done would have upset the stoutest heart.
But on my part, what I felt beyond all else was vast relief that they spoke English. “My name…” I stammered, even as I offered an inept bow, “is…Crispin. I’m lost and hungry. Your fire and music led me to you. I mean no harm.”
I waited tensely for some reply since, as if unsure, the five continued to study me in silence. As I stood there, my eyes went to the strange little creature, wondering what he was.
The gray-haired woman stood. Her face was old, withsmall eyes, a sharp nose and chin, and a puckered mouth. Though not much taller than I, she had a commanding stance. With her head tilted slightly to one side and her arms akimbo, I felt challenged.
“But what are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice bold and loud as though from a larger person.
“Forgive me, mistress. It’s a long tale,” I replied, and gave a swift version of my tale: that I came from England, was storm wrecked, and had lost my father. That I had been wandering ever since, trying to leave this land, but had become lost.
“Where were you hoping to go?” asked the bearded man.
“If it pleases…to Iceland.”
As if puzzled, they looked at one another.
“Don’t…don’t you know where it is?” I asked.
“Only that it must be a cold place,” said the younger man, smiling slightly as if pleased with his jest. “But, as Saint Gerard is my witness, I’ve never heard of it.”
“Nor I,” said the bearded man.
But the younger woman said, “I think…I think I have.”
We all looked to her.
“Where is it?” challenged the bearded man.
The woman shrugged. “Far off. Beyond the sea.”
My heart sank.
“Don’t you think,” the bearded man said to me, “it would be smarter to go to Calais?”
Knowing nothing of such a place, all I could say was “If it be wise.”
“Your speech tells me it’s England where you mean to go,” said the gray-haired woman. “And Calais, which isn’t far, is English. It offers the shortest sail home.”
“Or perhaps to your…. land of ice,” said the bearded man, smiling.
“Wherever is best,” I said, eager to agree.
The older, bearded man, eyes agleam with firelight, asked, “How old are you?”
“Thirteen years, I think.”
While the others waited for the gray-haired woman to speak, she studied me. Finally she said, “You said your father was killed. How did it happen?”
“In…in a battle.”
“May the Mother of God keep your father’s soul,” she murmured, her face softening slightly as she made
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