The Book of the Lion by Michael Cadnum

Author:Michael Cadnum
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US

chapter TWENTY

The next morning I woke with a start.

I did not know where I was. The pallet straw crackled under me, the floor lifting gently, falling.

I had thought I was a boy again, my father out tending the goat, my mother bustling, feeding twigs to the fire. My early childhood had been filled with the bright perfume of stave sap.

On deck I hurried from side to side, drinking in the sunlight. The bright penny of light in the sky was not its ordinary gold—it was blue, like the finest beaten silver. I laughed—the sea was furnished with islands, far-off hills that rose up out of the gentle carpet of the water.

It was as though a hand had set them out, arranged them all for a story lesson, like the sacred plays Father Joseph arranged, the Three Kings traveling from the East to kneel before Our Lord. A distant boat drifted like a gnat in a currentless, glassy patch of sea. Even at the distance I could make out the gauzy brown hand of the net reaching, falling, vanishing into the deep.

The livestock enclosures had been re-pegged and lashed, and Winter Star whinnied at the sight of me, accepting the feedbag eagerly. There is something very pleasing about the sound of a horse chewing, the strong teeth pleasuring in the rich grain, a crunch like footsteps in snow.

I helped the deck hands wash down the wooden planks, mop-ping and scrubbing. I had rarely felt such inexplicable joy, the sun so warm I was sweating through my tunic. The ship was pungent with animal piss, and another, more severe scent, black flux, a fever that struck its victims with astonishing swiftness. The ship’s surgeon, a man who looked smaller and less capable than any of the other seamen, emptied a slop bucket and hurried back to his patients.

“Today I am mastering the sword!” I told Hubert when he appeared, yawning and wan.

“You handle it well enough already,” lied Hubert cheerfully.

“I fight like a milkmaid. Get your shield,” I said. “Unless you are sick.” Indeed, there was a glaze of sweat on his face, and he blinked in the morning light.

“I’m sore, skin and bone,” said Hubert, accepting a cup from one of the sailor-servants. He swallowed wine and water, and looked out at the sea. “Are you quite well?” Hubert asked.

Nigel and Wenstan were meeting with Captain Sebastiano near the mast. The captain folded his arms and did not speak. He shrugged, rolled his eyes. He lifted his palms in bewilderment.

Nigel’s gestures became sharper. At last he turned away, his mouth twisted, spitting curses. Rannulf pointed to the south. He gestured toward the east, a show of reasonable discourse. Captain Sebastiano gazed up at Heaven, and gave a sigh of apology, unable to make out a word.

“I’ll put his head on a pike,” said Nigel. “And all his sailors, too.”

Rannulf said something in a low voice.

The captain wore a thoughtful, inward expression. The storm had left him looking calm but suspicious. He gave an order, and bare feet padded quickly off into the stern.

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