All the while, the seasons, and the seas, grew slowly warmer. The grey-green waters of the north gave way to the green-blue waters of the south, and spring gave way to summer, and then autumn, as Skidbladnir slipped down and down along the coast. They passed Normandy and Frankland, and then places Murdo had never heard of: Navarre, Leon and Castile, Portugal, and still on and on, south and ever south.
As the journey wore on, the daily routine became established habit and small diversions loomed large with the longship's crew and passengers. From the stories they told, and the amusements they contrived, it became clear to Murdo that Jon Wing and his men were used to lengthy sea voyages in strange, if not hostile, waters. Murdo listened to their talk and learned what manner of men his fellow pilgrims were.
Although the crewmen were Norsemen one and all, Murdo discovered that none of them had seen their homeland in many years. Five had lived in Eire: Hallvard, Hogni, Tiggi, Vestein, and Svidur; and five had lived in Scotland: Fafnir, Sturli, Raefil, Nial, and Oski; three had lived in Normandy: Olaf, Ymir, and Digri; and two had lived in both England and Frankland: Amund, and Arnor. All sixteen, including Jon Wing, had sailed with King Magnus on various expeditions, and spoke well of him. Murdo was impressed by the respect the king commanded, even in his absence.
He also began to unravel the complicated system of loyalties which bound the crew to one another, and to the ship-which they considered second to none in the king's fleet. Skidbladnir, he discovered, belonged not to Magnus, but to Jon Wing, who had agreed to provide his ship and crew to support the king on his pilgrimage, in return for the plunder they would receive. The crew and their master were not ordinary vassals of the king, but mercenaries who had taken oaths of fealty for the duration of the voyage.
When the crew discovered that it was Murdo's first voyage beyond sight of his island home, they undertook to teach him all they knew of the seaman's craft. They taught Murdo how to steer a longship-how to rig the sail, and which guide stars were most useful. And when Murdo proved a ready pupil, they delighted in teaching him other things as welclass="underline" how to catch fish ten different ways, how to read the water for signs of trouble, how to forecast the weather by the smell of the air, and how to take care of his fair skin.
Unfortunately, this last lesson came only after Murdo had fallen asleep in the hot southern sun. He awoke feeling sick to his stomach, and as evening came on, began to experience a most remarkable agony. He felt as if hot pitch had been tipped over his back and shoulders and then set to the torch; he could not stand to have his clothes touch him, and the slightest movement brought rushes of pain cascading over him.
After the sailors had a good laugh over his calamity, they took pity on him and showed him how to take the fiery sting out of the sunburn with an unguent made from seaweed, and thereafter-until his skin developed its own protection-how to avoid getting another nasty burn.
Rarely out of sight of land, they put in to shore for fresh water as often as necessary, but seldom camped overnight; they much preferred lying at anchor in a calm bay or hidden cove. The few times they did sleep on solid ground, Jon made certain it was far from any human habitation; he said he did not trust folk from foreign lands. Once, however, after coming ashore for water they found themselves near a small farming settlement; after dark some of the crew went off for firewood, returning some while later with three sheep and a clutch of duck eggs.
The sailors claimed the sheep were strays they had discovered wandering lonely in the woods, but Murdo noticed that one of the men had a vicious gash on his leg not unlike a dog bite, and another displayed an unexplained lump on his forehead. Jon Wing seemed uninterested in further explanations, and everyone, even the mildly disapproving monks, enjoyed the mutton for the next few days.
As the endless succession of days stretched on, Murdo accustomed himself to the ceaselessly bouncing boat, and grew to enjoy sleeping under the night sky with its endless, wheeling canopy of stars. Often, when the wind was fine and the night good, Jon let the ship run through the night, steering by starlight and moonglow. The Norsemen took it in turns to stand the tiller, and Jon allowed Murdo to try his hand. Though the ship was larger than any he had sailed, Murdo found the skills much the same and soon became as accomplished as any of them, priding himself in his ability to keep the sail filled and the prow true.
To augment the nightly meal of porridge, hardtack, and salt pork, Murdo and the monks fished. At dusk, when the sun had sunk in a blood-red mist in the west, and the mackerel were flayed, spitted, and sizzling over the charcoal brazier, and night stained the far-off coastal hills in shades of purple and blue-that was the part of the day Murdo liked best. For then he would settle himself against one of the grain bags, drink his ration of ale with the monks and listen to their chatter as they cooked supper. Much of their talk was vaunted nonsense, so far as Murdo could telclass="underline" what was the proper hierarchy of the five senses; whether cherubs ever grew into angels; if the moon was full of devils… and such like.
Often, after their meal, Emlyn was prevailed upon to tell a story. He possessed a fine, expressive voice and a seemingly inexhaustible trove of tales from which he drew extraordinary stories-some of them lasting two or three nights altogether. They were, he said, just old stories of his people-some of which he had undertaken to put down in writing in the Abbey's scriptorium-and old they undoubtedly were. Yet, they produced a curious effect in Murdo, who felt drawn to them, and fascinated by them in a way he would have been embarrassed to admit to anyone aloud.
The Briton told them well, adapting his supple voice easily to the various tones of the tales-now hushed with fear or sorrow, now shaking with anger, or ringing with triumph. Emlyn also sang, and that was even more peculiar, for he sang the most beautiful songs in an impossibly obscure tongue; and though Murdo could not understand a single word, he found himself moved to his very soul by the power of expression alone.
If, when the song was finished, Murdo asked what it was about, Emlyn would say something like, 'Ah, that is Rhiannon's Birds…' or, 'That was Branwen's lament for the loss of her poor child…' or, again, 'That was Llew Silver Hand's triumph over the Cythrawl…' and Murdo would agree that yes, he had heard the birds, and plumbed the depth of Branwen's grief, and had indeed taken flight on the wings of Llew's exultation.
As the months passed, the intermittent songs and tales began to produce in Murdo a curious and potent longing-a yearning after something he did not know. It was as if he had been allowed the taste of an unimaginably pleasurable elixir, only to have it snatched away again while the cup was at his lips.
Occasionally, he caught the familiar echo of something his mother might have said, and then it was as if he had heard a call from the Otherworld-a voice reaching out to him from across the abyss of years, a distant shout, faint as a whisper and intimate as a kiss-and the shock of recognition made the hair stand up on the nape of his neck, and his heart beat faster.
One night, he listened to Emlyn sing a tale called Rhonabwy's Dreamy and for days afterwards he felt empty, yet oddly stirred. He felt restless within himself, and fidgeted so much that Jon Wing, noticing his agitation, told him he was merely growing impatient with the close confines of the ship. 'It will pass,' Jon assured him. 'It is best not to think about it.' But Murdo knew his disquiet had less to do with confinement than with the queer world Emlyn's stories described.
If anyone else was likewise affected, Murdo never learned. He kept his yearning to himself, hiding it deep within, clutching it tightly as a rare gem lest anyone try to steal it. He went about his chores as one bearing an illness that produced both pain and rapture in equal measure, gladly suffering the torment for the sweetness of the affliction.