excerpt
Before settling into his seat, Brother Ailan checked that all stores were securely
stowed. Rordan watched him readjust three skin bags of whale oil stowed next to the
fresh water flasks beneath the floorboards.
Rordan was in a bad mood. “Brother Ailan, why do you bring that awful stuff on
board? It’s already leaked into the bottom of the boat. Not only does it stink, I’ve
never yet seen it do what it’s supposed to do.”
Laoghaire looked up from where he was stowing Father Gofraidh’s few belongings.
“If Brother Ailan did not pour oil on the sea in rough weather, there’d be a lot
more wind-blown water in the boat and you know it. Then, my dear Rordan, you’d
be soaked in sea-spray and really have something to complain about.”
“Well, it does not work. Oil on water is just superstition.”
Ailan paid no attention to Rordan’s remarks. He was busy moving and securing
the supplies dumped haphazardly by the Brothers. He took the basket of fresh baked
bread sitting at Rordan’s feet and wrapped it in sealskin. A sack of garden-fresh vegetables
was already awash in salt water. They’d not spoil in the bottom of the boat so
he left them in the bailing space next to three fresh-caught and cleaned trout in an
open pot of spring water. Then he looked around as he continued with his mental
list of pre-sailing tasks, pointing at the items as he checked them off: Four oak buckets,
secure but ready for bailing; one bucket handy for the crew in rough weather;
prayer books wrapped in watertight bags; unleavened bread and wine for the liturgy.
Then he repacked the few remaining dried food staples in their leather pouch.
As storesman cook, he was also responsible for all emergency gear. Item by item,
he went over his list: leather thongs fresh-treated with tallow and fish oil; flax thread
and ropes for repair and replacement; spare sail, ready for cover in stormy weather.
His work finished, Ailan sat and attached a flax safety line around his waist. He
winked at Brother Rordan, indicating that he should do the same.
Father Finten, last to board, embraced Father Abbán, then hoisted himself on
board and stood next to Brother Rordan. He looked down at the young poet and
would-be healer. Rordan, a boy of fourteen, was blonde, tall and thin. Ah, poor
Rordan, dear boy, so often teased and rightly so. You are forever humming and talking
to yourself. Always last to rise and so often late for prayer. You could be a saint
but you drive me to distraction. What draws me to you so?
Rordan, unaware and unable to turn his thoughts away from his own discomfort
and simmering anger, looked toward old Father Gofraidh and grumbled under his
breath. “Why must we bring this consumptive relic home to Derry. He can’t even
look after his own bowels. And I’m supposed to nurse him all the way home. The old
fox refused to let me study medicines. He thinks all doctors agents of the devil and
had the nerve to tell me my poems are ‘trappings of worldly pride’. Phew. He stinks
of rotting flesh.”
Libros Libertad 