Historical Setting: At sea, 794 C.E.
I’m staying with the boat at the Ludonwec market port while Cloothar explores the city. While waiting here, I’ve discovered he keeps a chest of coins under the heap of black moldy monk’s robes he intends to sell in Iona. But I think he meant to keep me from knowing that we are carrying this abundance of wealth. It is probably his whole life’s treasure. So, instead of airing the robes just now, I put them back as they were so he won’t have to worry that his secret was revealed. Indeed, moldy black monk’s robes do make a fine deterrent against thieves. This also explains why, this little boat rides so low in the water.
It’s late in the day when Cloothar returns with a heavy load of goods, having made trades all day. The nearly warn out heap of linen tunics he took with him were all traded off for dresses and aprons in cotton fabrics. Some are dyed in colors. Cottons are not often available in the northern markets so he feels he has done well for himself. He also has a keg of ale strapped on his back, and a basket of fruits and dried fish for the journey to come.
He’s been asking around of others who travel this coastline and he’s learned that we are not even halfway to Iona by the way we are traveling. When we sail on, probably tomorrow, we will come to the turning place where this part of the journey ends, and following the shoreline will take us westward for a short while before we turn north. Then that journey northward is longer than the distance we’ve already come.
If we had possibly formed any bonds of friendship, they will be strained. The stories of our lives we never shared as friends would be old and worn from too much telling, if we ever just chatted — which we have not. And this keg of ale looks small compared to our need.
But thank you God, for Creation of days with the tender touch of springtime. May we endure the drone of sameness, as well as any storms that may threaten this hollow craft we sail.
It’s a good night’s sleep, moored as we are in the calm of a cove. Calm is good. I would be rowing against the west wind today, if it weren’t for the calm. These are long days at the oars, and damp bug-bitten, itchy nights of sleeping on the beaches.
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 