beside a thick bough of driftwood. I immediately knew that I could float away on this wooden ark.
Surely, the Lord, who had inspired the frog to call me over with His croaking, did also ensure that the driftwood beached itself in good time, and at the proper spot. I praised Him and entered the water, which was so unbearably cold that the breath was forced from my chest. I had not floated far when my hands and fingers grew numb and became useless for gripping the bough. For a moment I sank like a millstone, but managed to surface by thrashing my arms and legs. My breathing was loud and desperate, and with the noise my splashing had made, the companions searching for me in the woods not far away were alerted to my presence in the water.
They shouted to the men at the jetty, “He’s in the water! Quickly, fetch the boats!” My swinging arms struck the lucky bough, which I grabbed, and wrapped my whole arms around since my hands and fingers were completely immobile on account of the chilly river.
I could now see Sigeheard’s men, about six of them, climb into a fishing boat at the jetty. I prayed again to Christ for deliverance and, although in mortal foolishness I found it difficult to imagine a favourable outcome, I remained as trusting as I could.
As it was, the Almighty Lord, in His infinite grace, had already saved me. The vessel boarded by the companions lacked a sail. It must have been tied to the jetty for repairs. The warriors, if they may be called that, for they seemed brutish and ignoble, cried out to their captain on the shore, and immediately concerned themselves with returning to the jetty. There was much profanity, and the panicked men used their hands as paddles to guide their vessel back to land.
I gave thanks, and kicked my legs so as to move me with the current down the river. I managed to recite fifteen Psalms before my body, shivering with bitter cold, demanded that I make for shore, and warmth.
I selected the south bank, for I knew that Sigeheard would be less likely to follow me deep into Kent, and made my way there, nearly slipping several times from my lucky bough into the bowels of the black water. Hoping to travel as far away from Sigeheard’s slaughter-wolves as I could, I walked south until late afternoon the following day. It rained, and I was hungry and cold. But I was elated at my deliverance, and gave thanks the whole time. Nothing cheers a man like gratitude!
As I was still wearing my cassock, I decided to seek refuge in the first monastery I could find. The monks received me kindly, and warmed me before a fire with a hot meal of stew and bread. In a moving gesture of humility, the abbot himself washed my feet and tenderly applied an ointment to them. He told me that the pagan South Saxons, who are fierce, and live sinfully in the great forests west of his monastery, made this ointment. But the ointment was now consecrated to God, and was properly fit for healing in His mighty name. From the way the abbot talked, I could tell he was eminently trustworthy and good, and I asked him if he knew of where to sail for the continent, for I had urgent need to land there.
He replied that his brother cellarman often bought fish from the Frisians who visited a village on the coast just a short walk from his monastery. The brother cellarman, who was apparently most eloquent and wise, had converted some of them to Christianity on his fish-buying trips. The Frisians who traded in this little town were therefore well disposed towards English men of the cloth. Some even spoke our tongue. The venerable abbot informed me that my chances of buying passage on a fishing boat were excellent, and that I should ask for passage to Dorestad, the vast Frisian trading port in the Rhine delta, where there is a monastery full of Englishmen.
After a good night’s rest I woke to find a new cassock on the stool beside my bunk. It was a gift from the abbot. There were three pennies resting on top of it. From instances like these, we know it is true that God works in holy and beautiful ways. I could not thank the abbot enough. I made for the village on the coast, and spoke with some men who wore different clothes and had slightly different faces from the majority of its inhabitants. They were indeed Frisians. They told me politely that on their boats, the fare to that country was three pennies. Thanks be to God and His wonderful abbot!
We set out for Dorestad the next day. The weather was fine, and the voyage most pleasant. I have never sailed in a boat on the ocean before, and was exhilarated beyond description by the simplest things, much to the amusement of my pilots. I particularly liked the slow heaving of the green waves, which seemed to wholly surround our ship at times. The ocean is powerful; she could crush the biggest vessel in an instant. I felt blessed by her good mood during our voyage.
We pulled into port that night. My gracious Frisian captain pointed through the dense chaos of ships’ masts in the harbour to the English monastery and wished me well.
At the monastery I met Duggo, who had served at our abbey until a few years ago. Like so many other Englishmen, he had heard the exciting stories of our dear Father Boniface’s missions, and left to join with them in the vast wilderness of Germany. From all accounts the work is dangerous - as you know, Archbishop Boniface was martyred here in Frisia just a few years ago. I asked Duggo what kept him interested in such work. He replied that it was a privilege to shine the light of Christ upon the heathens as they cower in the darkness of their superstition.
Duggo has changed much from the boy of twenty-one years who left Barking. His deep faith and great courage has fairly burst into the most wonderful and dedicated love for Christ that I have ever seen. He is twice the man that left our abbey. His eyes are glowing with the spirit of his trials in the dark eastern forests. I know not if you remember blessing him before his departure four years ago, but he remembers you fondly and sends his peace.
It is thus I write to you, my lord and friend. I am safe and well. I await your signal to return to England. Please pass news of my presence here to Eulalia. Tell her not to worry; that her good friend is safe, and always mindful of her. I look forward to returning once this trouble has passed.
May the Blessed Trinity, one God, guard you, glorify and reward you.
Ohthere.
4
“To build itself a hideaway high up in the city,
a room in a tower, timbered with art,
was all it aimed at …”
The Moon, a riddle from The Exeter Book, c. 970 AD
It took me nearly two hours to read, then re-read and translate the first document. The text was small, about a quarter of an inch high, and had been more difficult to read than I had hoped, even in the strong light. There was little space between each word, and almost no punctuation. My eyes were sore, and I had a slight headache. There was still the second document to go.
I gave my eyes a break from reading and examined my notes for the first two pages. The names in this document were all Anglo-Saxon, spelled in seventh or maybe eighth century fashion. Overall, the excellent quality of the Latin was surprising.
Latin, unlike English, does not rely on word order to convey the meaning of a sentence. The meaning of a sentence is inherent in the form of the words employed, and many words could therefore occur in different parts of any given phrase without confusing things. Great Roman writers like Virgil and Cicero masterfully exploited this aspect of the language. Prose from writers of this stamp read with musical precision, perfectly and exquisitely phrased.
This Ohthere was highly accomplished. He had a sound feel
