Chapter 2

Cast Adrift

I remember, in my youth, a certain moment which I still think upon often. It was a bleak autumn day, with the winds cast awry in each direction, flustering the patches of red and yellow strewn across the ground. The heavenly fields of white were not dispersed, and the lack of sunlight laid a shadow upon the paved road that led out of the market-town. My own family, like many in the Calais region, was a member of the peasantry. However, my father, in his youth, was bless'd with an mentor who imparted unto my father his extensive knowledge of the written word, and of the countless tongues that drew the boundaries of the world. My mother, alternatively, was born into a family of seamstresses, a breed of people that fashioned the finery for those of higher offices of themselves. My mother worked at her vocation to the point of mastery. Nowhere in Europe would one have the talent she possessed with materials as the exclusively Chinese grown silk, and with fabrics such as cotton.

My parents, Alexandre Authier and Sylvie Delacroix, as they were called, married each other at mutually young ages. Admittedly, and although there was a truthful and affable feeling of pleasantness betwixt them, the marriage was primarily one of convenience. Considering my mother's talent for tailoring, and the fluidity of my father's words, they had created an incredibly lucrative tailoring business. Although my family was still technically that of the peasantry, it was one of the most upstanding within all of Calais, if not all of France. This fact was not something that made them popular with either the Duke, which was slowly becoming suspicious of the designs my father might have upon his power, or the fellow villains, which had become envious at the success at which my father had achieved.

Thus, it was on this bleak fall day that, on an errand through market-town, I had been tasked to deliver the finery that had been commissioned of my mother. Jeanette, devoid of anything better to do, had endeavored to come with. About half-ways through the transportation, we were met by a barbarian of only four-teen years, four older than myself, clothed in the aspects of his savagery, who had found it appropriate to bar our way. I was never one to lean towards conflict, and I was nervous at his uncouthness, which must have shown plainly upon my face. I made no movements, wishing not to be struck or otherwise risk some form of harm.

Jeanette, however, had none such restrictions, and launched herself at such an angle that she was able to force the brute, who possessed a considerably larger size, upon the road. Immediately, the thug begged for pardon, which my sister would have been lax to give if not for my own protestations. With the swine departed, we began again our march towards our ultimate destination.

"Why did you do that?" I had asked, after some time.

"I didn't like him, or his attitude!" She yelled, forcefully.

"But he was four or five years your senior, double your size, and possessing considerably more strength. You could have been hurt, Jeanette." I said worriedly. "Where do you think I would I have been if you had ended up battered?"

"And if I had done nothing, where would you have ended up? Did you not see the gestures he was making towards you? He was preparing to strike you, Courtland! Had I not acted, you would have ended up more hurt than I would've." She said, calming. "Where do you think I would have been had I not acted, and you hurt?"

Looking out into the vast expanses of the sea, I at last understood my sister's impulsiveness. She had done six years ago something that I only a fortnight ago had done for her. The ties between family defy all logic, and it well that they should, lest family lose true meaning. For days I had been floating, days that had swiftly steeped themselves in nights. My provisions had run low, and the craft on which I had been cast away had begun to deteriorate, which led me to wonder what I would truly kill me: The lack of food, or the ocean itself, or perhaps a third death brought about by a lack of rest, being as I had since lost the ability to sleep.

Leaning towards the side of the craft, I stared down into the endless water. The sea rippled, not resting, but I could still make out a face. Ebony hair contrasted ivory skin, and murky, brown eyes coincided with the general gloom of the water. An expression of hopelessness writ itself all across the physiognomy, and an air of terror presented itself unto it. Unable to any longer regard the terrifying face, I pulled myself up towards the top of the raft, attempting to find surcease from the non-perishable provisions. Reaching for a nondescript book, I managed again to begin reading the tales of Odysseus. I could not help but compare myself to this hero in terms of our situation. Cast adrift, longing towards home, without any guarantee that we may reach our destination. I both situations, the fates seemed to have conspired against us, driving us father away from our destinations, and farther from our hope.

But never once did Odysseus surrender to circumstance, and I knew that I had with me the one true God, the one of love and mercy, as my navigator.

Unable to continue reading, I laid myself on my back to watch the sky. The sun was shining brightly, and the familiar smell of salt filled my nostrils. I could feel the lethargic movement of the ocean as it ebbed and flowed, lulling me best it could. White birds dotted the skies, as they flew aimlessly across the heavens.

It had taken me a few moments to realize the true implication of these birds.

Being from a costal town, I heard many tales from mariners and traders from far-off lands. I remember one in particular, being from an Arabian sailor who had found himself in a storm, cast upon by the winds of chance.

"Land seemed impossibly far. I had wondered if I had perhaps enter'd the 'Endless Sea', when I say a ray of hope. Rather, I saw eight. Eight birds, flying in formation across the boundless ocean."

"But sir, how would that be a 'ray of light', as you put it?" I asked, confusedly.

"Ah, I forget I am not speaking to a sailor! Most birds will not fly very far from land. Some exceptions are made, such as with courier doves, but most will never fly far from land. After all, flying would be an equivalent to swimming for us. Whenever one sees birds, one can presume that land is close by."

The birds provided to be own ray of light. My sign from the heavens not to abandon hope. My journey, I had thought that my journey was nearly over.

In actuality, it had merely just begun.

My presumption of land was correct, though not what I had hoped. First, tendrils of white fog had settled across the placid waters, fog so thick that one could have cut it with a knife. I was worried, and prayed for reprieve, but was overjoyed at the sight of something tall in the distance. It was unrecognizable in the fog, but in my mind it was concrete proof that land was nearby.

Not one person could comprehend my disappointment, and my subsequent discouragement. I saw no land, but rather several spires, the kind that marked the watery graves of ships past. Tall, gray minarets stood overbearingly, soaring hundreds of cubits into the air. Dismay overcame, and I was sullen and distraught. Moved by the currents of providence, I genuinely thought, then, that I had finally perished, and the turrets: the markers leading those lost at sea to home, their true home in heaven.

Naught could I do, but to think upon the psalm:

"Blessed are they that go down in ships, for they see the wonders of the Lord."

But to my surprise and joy, the fogs lifted, just as soon as they had been laid, and I was removed from the watery plain of despair. To my further glee, I could see, in the distance, a considerable archipelago, dotted with trees and snow-capped hills. My glee was uncontainable, and I yelled out with vigor, an odd combination of gaiety and relief. The lands were approaching quickly now, and the discouragement that I had felt only previously was then gone. My joy was such that I was able to forget about the pain in my stomach from a lack of food, and the hopelessness that had for so long been forced upon me.

After what seemed like seconds, though what was likely more of around an hour, I landed on shore. It was a small beach, covered with sand, and pulled itself steeply upwards towards the resplendent majesties of lumber. Yet, for all my time spent in prayer to be delivered from the wretched craft, I found myself unable to remove myself from it. The boat had, in a sense, brought me security. It was something I was unfamiliar with, and the land so close to me, I was afraid. I knew not what lurked ahead: Beasts? Demons? Even worse, the barbaric Vikings?

But courage is a thing that whispers for us to tread where few have tread before, and courage had held me that day, for I stood, taking a tentative step off the craft.

The cool sands curved to match my shoes, and I took stock of my surroundings. The cold air passed throughout, pulling the hairs on my arms outwards. A strange smell filled the air, a strange but pleasing odor that combined the placidity of the ocean with the untamed aroma of the surrounding pine trees. Upwards, the skies had cleared, but night was falling as swiftly as a ill king on his deathbed. Birds and other creatures chattered in the distance, shocked at the disruption of the tranquility of dusk.

At that moment, I realized my somnolence was paramount. Few hours had been gained upon the raft, and with a month at sea, I realized my need for rest. I took steps up the hill, and sat in the shade of the tree. Stars began to appear in the forthcoming night's sky, leaving me to count them as I fell asleep.