It was dusk by the time the cog – as I later learned was the name for such a vessel – was loaded. I could see her beginning to lift and rock on the incoming tide. The captain was ignoring us so Osric and I waded out thigh deep and hauled ourselves aboard. Behind us the two guards, their task accomplished, began making their way back up the path. Doubtless they would report to Offa and my uncle that they had seen us safely on our way.
There was a good deal of grunting as the sailors came aboard and hauled on a heavy, wet rope hanging over the vessel’s side. It must have been tied to an anchor set some distance off the beach. The cog bumped several times on the sand, and then began to back her way out into deeper water. The moment she was properly afloat, there was a different flurry of activity. The men ran here and there, unfastening, hauling and re-fastening ropes, untying the sail, hoisting it, fitting a long wooden handle into the shaft of a massive paddle that hung down into the water. I presumed it was the device which guided the ship. The captain shouted and swore, directing his men to their tasks with strange commands whose meanings were a mystery to me. I understood about one word in five. I looked on, trying to grasp what was happening, and every few moments I was shouldered out of the way by an impatient sailor.
Eventually the big, single sail flapped and banged, then filled with a great groaning of the mast and a twanging of ropes. All of a sudden the deck tilted beneath my feet and I had to sit down on the planking before I fell over. Out to sea the sky was darkening, and the wind seemed stronger than it had been on land. There was nothing to be seen ahead of the ship except an expanse of grey-blue water flecked with an occasional wave. I was feeling queasy already. I wedged myself in a corner and fought down my rising panic. A wave slapped against the side of the ship which gave a shudder, and a few flecks of spray fell on my face. I licked my lips and tasted the saltiness.
I closed my eyes and an image swam up into my mind. I could not push it away. It was my brother’s face, greyish white, the sodden hair clinging to the scalp. It was how he had looked when I found him. Both hands grasped tendrils of the weed he must have seized as he tried to claw his way to the surface. Around one ankle looped a single thick, slimy snake: the massive lily root that had wrapped around his foot and held him down as he gulped desperately for air.
It was only a small pond. In summer, clouds of gnats and midges danced above its surface like swirls of smoke. In winter, it froze over, and the cowmen smashed the ice so that their beasts could drink. The pond was as much a part of our lives as the sheep pens and the cattle byres, and we had known it since early childhood. As toddlers we had made mud pies on its rim, and in later years tested our aim by throwing stones at floating twigs. The still water was so black that it was impossible to judge the depth. Nothing and no one warned of its dangers.
We were six years old and that afternoon we were climbing in an ancient alder tree. It was early autumn and the deep green leaves were still thick on the branches. They concealed just how far the alder overhung the pond. Normally Osric would have been in attendance but was suffering one of his recurrent fevers and had stayed in the slave quarters. My brother and I were alone when the branch beneath him broke. He gave a cry of surprise and crashed down through the foliage. I heard the heavy splash as he struck the water. I swarmed back to the ground as fast as I could, skinning my hands and knees on the tree bark. The moment my feet touched the ground I ran to the edge of the pond. The inky black water was swirling and eddying, but there was no sign of him. Dismayed, I stepped into the water. Immediately my feet sank deep into the sucking slime, and in another two paces I was up to my waist. I lost my footing and fell backwards, the water closing over my head. Neither my brother nor I could swim and I panicked. I scrambled back to safety and crawled out on the bank on all fours. Then I ran home, seeking help.
There was only one person in our inland burgh that could swim – Osric – and he was handicapped by his deformity. It was he who dived down again and again until we recovered my brother’s body. We dragged it out and lay on the bank. The water trickled from his clothing and he was utterly limp. His head flopped over to one side. A pinkish froth oozed out from his mouth and nostrils. He looked small and helpless. I was numb with shock and pain. It was as if half my existence had been torn away, and I turned aside unable to watch. On the ground nearby lay the broken alder branch that had caused the accident. The raw splintered end was changing in colour from a creamy white to reddish-orange. According to our village elders, it was Nature’s warning that the alder tree harbours evil in its veins.