The Unfinished Land

¿Irlanda o Islandia?

THE OLD MAN returned an hour later, wearing a greatcoat too large by half for his thin frame—a greatcoat and a sort of crested watch cap that made him look like a scrawny gray cat. “They say we are cursed,” he muttered. “What think’st thou? Curse or blessing?” He smiled, revealing the few rotten snags left on his gray-pink gums. “I shall inform el capitán thou hast true knowing.”

“I know nothing!” Reynard cried, angry now that it had all come to this, that, Earth’s trembling aside, they must have come to the Irish coast, or at the worst a French beach, and that he would soon be shot or cut to pieces or hanged. “I do not wish to be here!”

He did not add, I am afraid! Because in fact, strangely, he was not very afraid. This place had aspects of a dream, and perhaps it was a dream. In which case, he would soon awaken.

And if it was not a dream, he felt the possibility of a new chance, a new place not to fear, but to explore and hope to understand! Away from fish, away from Southwold, from his uncle’s tasks—but perhaps closer to his grandmother…

“Not a wish I can grant,” the old man said, and gave him a look that might have carried irritation—but also a touch of wonder. He opened the cage and untied the ropes. “But I can share a little more freedom.”

Reynard got up, legs cramping, and stumbled onto a deck crisscrossed by men carrying boxes and barrels, and one leading a horse—a fine horse, a gentleman’s horse, caparisoned as if for battle, with a forehead shield and side plates that would no doubt drown it had it to swim.

The old man led Reynard under the net, now being rolled back, to the rail, between weaving lines of frantic sailors and soldiers. By now, two more horses had been brought up on deck, rearing and spinning, screaming, adding to the crowd and confusion.

The ship had grounded on a long beach of black sand and shingle. The crests of the ocean waves were touched with gold by clear morning sun as they rolled between far-spread headlands topped with curling trees, so far off they seemed like bushes. The air was cold but not freezing. How far north had they come?

Dozens of soldiers and sailors had lowered themselves on ropes and a climbing net and were already walking around the ship, calling out that there was damage—a wide hole in the larboard hull.

The old man tied a rope around Reynard’s neck. “Stay by me. I am th’one who hath heart for you.”

Reynard gripped the rope in both hands, twisted it until it burned his neck, and for a moment, considered how he could escape from the Spaniards and even from the old man, to escape and discover this place on his own!

And to die thyself unfinished.

That inner voice again, not quite his grandmother—and not quite the man with the white shadow.

“My head is truly haunted,” he murmured.

The old man heard this. “I share that concern,” he said, and raised his wrinkled hand. “Stay alert,” he advised, “and do nothing rash.”

Cardoza seemed to want to stay and explore. The gentleman’s horse had had its armor removed and was fitted into a leather sling. A dozen soldiers and sailors rigged a crane and slowly, jerkily, lowered the unhappy beast over the rail to the beach, where it whinnied and scuffed, scattering pebbles and sand. As it was loosed from the sling, several more soldiers held its tack and tail, but it kicked free and ran for a time on its own, then turned, looked startled, reared, and trotted a fancy circuit of the cove.

Reynard thought he saw trees on a headland shiver as if in reaction to the horse’s spirit, though it might have been wind. He stayed close to the old man as three brown dogs, almost as large as ponies, with leather muzzles, were also slung and winched down, but these were not set free. Instead, a single small man in pantaloons and a leather jerkin held tight to their ropes, as they seemed eager to leap and attack any and all. Fierce dogs. Dogs that wanted to fight and kill. Now would not be a good time to break free and run. The Spanish might enjoy such sport.

A long ramp was run out over the rail, and then another, aft of the first, and more soldiers scrambled down to the beach, where they flanked the boards and prepared to steady them. Reynard and the old man descended now, single file. On the beach, the old man squatted slowly, knees popping, then sat. Reynard settled down beside him and resumed his study of the land and the ship, the soldiers and sailors and boys.

Small crabs raced the waves and picked along the rocks. The rear of the beach, inland from the black sand, was shingle of a type he had not seen before—mixed rocks and polished pebbles, brown and gray, even pink, all shiny as glass. Now they jostled and rattled like dice. The great ship complained, groaning, creaking—making alarming reports like gunshots. Reynard had heard of trembling ground before, in Iceland… Volcanic. With earthquakes. Maybe they had reached Iceland!

Or Reynard had died, and was now being punished.

“You are not dead,” the old man said, as if reading his thoughts. “Nobody returneth from that country, so how could we?”

Sailors and soldiers crowded the rails, eager to see, but not so eager even now to go ashore. How many fully armed soldiers were there? Reynard wondered. At least a hundred, and as many sailors.

How many had died at Gravelines?

“You begin here,” the old man said. “Or, like me, start over.”

They watched young boys, los grumetes, as the old man called them, trying to shove through the crowd to the rail.

“The young are still curious. But most sailors, and smart soldiers, are less so. This is a strange land, and the ship is familiar, however much its bilges stink, however infested with lice and fleas.”

Both had already found their way onto Reynard but, strangely, were either dying or dead. He had already plucked and tossed a few of their small, familiar corpses. “You have been here before?” he asked.

“Not for decades,” the old man said. “I know not what hath changed. The sailors wish to return to sea with the flood,” by which he meant the tide. “But el capitán is eager for conquest. And so his mare.” He turned his head and pointed to the galleon. “El maestro.”

A very fat man climbed onto the forward ramp, then stepped down delicately to the beach, face pale and sweating despite a steady breeze that blew up the cove. He was soon followed by the gentleman, Cardoza, el capitán, who whistled and called as he descended, until his fine mare trotted to him. Soldiers in armor brought down an ornate tooled saddle, and soon the gentleman rode tall over to the fat man.

Then Cardoza and el maestro called for the rest to descend, all but a small crew to tend the ship and bring out weapons, and a guard to watch from the remaining crow’s nest.

The old man prodded Reynard. “Get up,” he said. “They have need of us.”

Cardoza dismounted and led his mare over to them. Reynard knew horses from his uncle’s stable, where, between fishing voyages, they had tended a fair number of Southwold’s draft and work animals. Cardoza’s mare was of mixed Arab blood, brown-eyed, with a concave forehead, strong despite the hardships—magnificent and nervous and very tired of being cooped up on the ship. No doubt her hooves would need tending, and soon, if el capitán planned to ride her about on these clattering shingles—as he seemed eager to do.

“The old sailor hath skills sharpening swords and repairing locks,” the captain said, “but he saith thou know’st the needs of horses. Is this true?”

Reynard patted the animal’s neck until it seemed to accept him, then got down on one knee, lifted its foreleg, and studied the horse’s hoof. “Too long she stands in wet and piss,” he said. “She wants a good trim and new shoes. Hot shoeing will be best. I can do it.”

“We had twenty horses. Ten died. Thou wilt prepare the shoes from ship’s stores… And from a barrel of special shoes for my beauty.” el capitán said a forge would be set up and an anvil would be brought down later. The old man said he would return to the ship to retrieve clippers and files.

el maestro was a bulky man, maybe fifteen stone, with thick arms and fashionable but worn clothing. In appearance, with his mottled, pale face, he resembled a stage clown, a marked contrast to el capitán, but a formidable presence nonetheless—in command of the galleon’s day-to-day operations, but going where el capitán ordered. From a seaman’s perspective, el maestro was the real captain.

Reynard never did learn his name.

“Where are we, boy?” el maestro inquired in English, taking advantage of the old sailor’s absence. Until now, Reynard had kept his head down and focused on the horse, but this question was direct. Reynard wondered what the Spanish would do if they discovered his ignorance. Would they punish both him and the old man?

“¿Irlanda o Islandia?” Cardoza asked.

The old man returned with surprising speed, carrying a small bag of tools, and stood near Reynard. He stooped and picked up the rope again, cap in hand, not to interrupt.

“Come we to Irlanda, boy?” el maestro inquired, staring critically at el viejo.

“No, señor,” Reynard said. “The trees and wind are wrong, and there be nought of Queen’s soldiers. And neither is it Iceland, ’cause I heard we ply too far north, and not so far west.” He knelt and bowed his head. “señor, the horse’s hooves are damp and could split on these rocks. You should not ride far till they be trimmed and shod.”

Cardoza observed him critically, then turned to the old man. “I will see what is near and a threat—and then thou canst do thy work. Unless thou wish’st to discourage me?” el capitán chuckled. “el viejo, this boy is either a cunning fraud or a spy.”

The old man inclined his head. “Spies know much, lord. And he knoweth horses.”

“And of this land, thou say’st correctly, I know little. We will stay awhile, look about, give my beauty a brief run in the sweet air, curry and shoe her, and let her crop sweet grass.”

“After so much time in the galleon, she should not eat her fill of fresh grass,” Reynard advised. “She will bloat.”

“Conozco a los caballos, muchacho,” el capitán said shortly. But then he called for hay and the last of the oats to be sent down the ramps.

el maestro’s bark of a laugh irritated Reynard, who wondered why there was amusement, but the bulky man’s attitude was neither aggressive nor angry—not yet, though el maestro then scowled, perhaps more worried than el capitán. El capitán seemed eager to learn the ground on which they found themselves, restless, Reynard thought, to conquer someone or someplace, having been unable to face an enemy for so many days.

The old man again jerked his rope, but Reynard growled and yanked it from his grasp.

“Rescataste un cachorro, Manuel,” Cardoza said with a curl of his lip.

So that was the old man’s name!

“Sí, señor.”

“Gitano, as thou art?”

Manuel made the most elegant and tiny of shrugs.

el capitán smiled. “Keep him quiet till we have use of him, o córtale la garganta.”

“Sí, señor.” Manuel, for Reynard’s sake, ran a finger across his own throat.

“And watch that he tendeth well my horse.”

“Sí, señor.”

Manuel gripped Reynard’s rope and led him back up the narrow ramp to gather more tools. Two other horses were being calmed on the quarterdeck before also being winched to the beach. Reynard could not understand how such animals could be kept from sun and field, in tight wooden stalls no doubt, without exercise… for weeks or months. Horrible planning.

Soldiers on the shore were ordered to gather wood, and others helped convey an anvil down to the beach as Manuel and Reynard, on the galleon, descended steps to plunge deep into the stink and noise of the hull. Other soldiers were clanking and shouting, still removing weapons and armor, as if preparing to besiege the land they had found; this then was the business el capitán alluded to. Having left the battle for England behind, outcome unknown, the Spanish would now explore, fight, if necessary, and bring this place under Philip’s rule, for that was what the Spanish did. Reynard found nothing unexpected about this effort, this prospect, though he was surprised he would be allowed anywhere near el capitán’s fine horse.

“Are you Roma?” Reynard asked the old man as they opened a crate filled with iron shoes and boxes of nails. They were so near the bilges that Reynard clenched his teeth not to gag.

“Esto es lo que soy. Gitano, from Madrid,” Manuel said, his yellow-outlined shadow moving about in the scant light of his one candle, backlit by whatever echoed from several decks above.

“And think you I am Roma as well?”

Manuel raised his candle and shrugged.

“I am not,” Reynard said.

“Do not deny in haste,” Manuel said. “Here, methinks there be advantage.” Manuel handed him the box, a long iron file, and black iron clippers. “¿Sabes cómo usarlos?—how to use these?”

“Yes,” Reynard said. “Unless the Spanish follow other ways.”

“Caballos son caballos,” Manuel said, and with a wrinkled expression of disgust pinched his nose. “Alejémonos de este olor y regresemos a la playa.”

They climbed out of the lower deck and made haste to the ramp. Manuel stopped them halfway down to the beach, and pointed along the curve of the shingle, southwest, toward an advancing shadow—like a small cloud crossing the sun. Trying to keep his balance, Reynard looked up and shaded his eyes. All he could see was the flash of a rainbow-colored triangle, then another, with a long dark line between, vibrating, rising—and then gone.

Manuel looked at Reynard, glanced over his shoulder, and continued down to the beach. On the sand and shingle, the men seemed frozen in attitudes of listening, of fear. They murmured to each other until Cardoza rode back from the northern curve, shouting orders, telling them to get the horses and dogs under cover.

“Giant eagles!” he cried. “Guard thyselves!”

Reynard did not believe what he had seen was any kind of eagle, nor any bird at all. The triangles, if they were wings, were like panes of glass from a cathedral window, and about as big—and the bodies had been slender and long, too long, four or five yards. As well, the shapes had vanished too quickly, flying too fast. He had once seen a peregrine dive that fast, but never ascend.

He stood beside Manuel on the beach. Soon the sailors and soldiers had all been told to spread out and cut down the trees that lined the shingle, and to bring from the galleon what little lumber and rope remained after repairs at sea. The forward spritsail was cut loose and slung like a tent over the animals, held by six men in a tight, restless bunch—the dogs growling at the horses and the horses scraping the shingle and kicking at the men and the dogs.

The weather along the beach grew sharp, and more maggoty clouds swooped in low, obscuring the promontories and the forest along the ridge that lowered over the cove, shadow upon shadow, until the men themselves and the constructs they tried to erect cast no shadows at all.

Cardoza’s personal cook, a small, stout man with a leather apron and a bandolier of cleavers, knives, and spoons slung around shoulders and paunch, waddled at last down from the galleon, followed by three boys bowed under casks and bags. The cook ordered los grumetes to gather wood and set about making a cooking fire, personally gathering rocks on the beach to bank the heat. It seemed certain his efforts would not benefit the soldiers, but only el capitán and perhaps el maestro, who were now exploring the beach and the verge on foot.

Another fire, banked, bellowsed, and hotter, was lit between the anvil and the shelter of the sail, and Manuel and Reynard prepared to forge the shoes and repair the hooves of the horses, which had spent too much time in their stalls aboard ship, mired in sour straw and their own dung and piss.

“The wood is not happy,” Manuel observed, lifting a branch, leaves dead and dry, but still difficult to grip, as if its twists and flaking bark were part of a serpent. Manuel pushed it in with the other embers, where it hissed but at last caught and crackled.

The fire hot enough, they took to their blacksmithing. Reynard inspected and rasped, Manuel tried a selection of horseshoes from el maestro’s cask, special-made for his horse, and saw that some would also fit the other two. The horses twitched their flanks and withers, but seemed happy at this familiar ritual, for the human contact, for feeling once again sure of foot and free of the creak and sway of the ship.

The solid thud of their hooves, bare and then shod, and the gentle clang on the stones as the shod hooves swung right and left, drew in the other men, who stood around the fire, the tent of the sail, the familiar animals, rank upon rank of soldiers, still in their armor, watching, squatting, whispering, cleaning harquebuses and adjusting crossbows, sharpening daggers and swords—and nobody sleeping.

Reynard thought of the food his mother might be preparing right now: haddock and pease, buttered bread, wheat gruel. His mouth watered. As he and Manuel combed the other horses, and then Cardoza’s splendid and nervous mount, a pair of grumetes brought them bowls with moldy rice and a few chunks of dried fish, and with this feast, they made do, wetting it down with sour and watered wine and an unexpected swig of island rum.

That at least was familiar and welcome.

“We arrive at lands none such as they have seen, on a ring of islands far north, very far north,” Manuel murmured to himself. He lay beside a sleeping mastiff, then closed his eyes. The dog sighed but did not growl. “And those were not eagles.”

A deepening dusk followed swiftly, without stars or moon. The soldiers tried to replenish their scattered fires, but wood from the forest spat and hissed as if wanting to speak, and burned with much smoke and little heat. In the gloom, soldiers and sailors held each other like young monkeys clinging to a stick in a river, group by staring group, as the great maestro carried his sputtering torch around the camp and muttered prayers to the Virgin, but also oaths, promising all he had, all the ships he had ever sailed, the riches of Philip himself were they allowed to again see the sun and survive these hours of black nothing.

Reynard crept off a few paces from the tent that covered the horses. The freedom and trust showed him were illusory—nobody in their right mind would attempt to flee through this enveloping night. He curled up on the sand, away from the forest and the fires, where the sailors and soldiers would not bother him, and somehow managed to sleep, if only for a few minutes.

Not quite dreaming, but with his thoughts fluid and unsure, he felt thin, cool fingers with sharp nails play about his face, his cheeks, brushing and then trying to comb his hair. A face seemed to flow into view, just a blur he saw through lids almost shut: thin and faintly aglow, like a candle behind a block of ice. Deep in the face’s black eyes appeared sharp glints, like flints struck in a cave. Reynard rolled his head and saw pale figures glide between the sailors and soldiers, murmuring like waves on the beach—using words he almost understood.

After soft-raking his skin with sharp nails, like cat’s claws, another strong hand grasped his chin and swung his head around. A second face swam out of the darkness, this one female. She used the same strange-familiar language to tell him something, as if out of concern for his well-being, and then backed and flitted off like a moth. If only he could remember enough of his grandmother’s speech to understand!

After that, sleep came heavy, as if to blot out all he had seen.