The First Sailing
As I look back at the monastery from where I sit, aboard the ship where they have taken me, it still smoulders in the sky from where it had been set ablaze. It is the eleventh day of the Ǣrra Līða; the month of June, Wōdnesdæg, in the year of our Lord 793. Late spring, almost summer - sunny and warm. The seas calm and the skies clear; mild winds. Good for sailing, so it is said, and which belies the events of just a few days before.
I feel a panic rise in me that threatens to overtake my senses if I am not careful. A tattered banner flaps noisily from the masthead high above me, and tells me again of the wind's direction. Roped to the single mast and with my wrists bound, as I look round me to try and distract myself I cannot help but be filled with awe, like a helpless child, not knowing what lies ahead of me, or what will happen to me. One seems to be a man of reason and inquisitiveness; a quiet, born leader who at times studies me with ice-blue eyes. As if to say, do not waste your time looking back and bemoaning your fate, we are not going that way. Another, a born warrior; emotional and passionate. And a woman as well! The storied shieldmaidens. The horn is sounded, announcing the ship's imminent departure.
The waves splash as the sailors cry and begin to push off from the beach with the incoming tide, the vikingskip loaded with all of its ill-acquired riches. A man, whom I believe to be the shipwright because he seems to have an almost mystical sense of the living pulse of the ship and the sea, eyes me warily. The others pay me little heed.
They must have a reason for keeping me alive. I know some of their language, as I had made a halting attempt to speak to them and was soundly rebuffed. But I know I was understood by one, and I now listen intently to try and grasp onto bits and pieces of their conversations, the talk and laughter amongst themselves as we ready to sail on the ebb tide, trying to make sense of it all as my mind races. Perhaps it will be useful in some way.
Once we reach the open sea by oar, two of the crewmen skillfully climb aloft on the ropes and unfurl the reefed sail, and I feel the salt wind against my face as we set a northeasterly course, close to the wind, under full sail and the favour of the Gods, in a whirl of calling seabirds. Safely underway, the now jubilant shipbuilder tosses a gold coin into the sea in tribute. I watch in desperation as the island of my home slips away from me. Dear God, I pray silently, and think of the words of the 22nd Psalm. Please do not forsake me.
I must try and keep my wits about me.