Hush

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “Not a little boy,” says the messenger. “A youth of fourteen.”

  “A Norse youth?” asks Father.

  “Yes. He got into a dice game, lost whatever he had, but kept on playing.” The messenger hesitates. “So the winner demanded he chop off the hand of a Christian slave as his payment.”

  “A slave?” yips Mother. “Nuada hardly looks like a lowly slave.”

  “Of course not. His clothing bespoke riches. But they watched him a moment from the doorway, and his meek demeanor—”

  “Nuada’s demeanor is kind, not meek!”

  The messenger nods in agreement. “Boys in a dare make mistakes.”

  Outrageous words. To cut off Nuada’s hand instead of a slave’s!

  “The winner is as much to blame as the youth, then,” says Mother.

  “Bjarni agrees,” the messenger says quickly. “They’d been drinking too much.”

  “Tell us the details,” says Mother. “Exactly what happened?”

  Brigid takes my hand and squeezes. I sneak a glance at Nuada. He stares at the bedclothes. I can’t tell if he’s listening. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling.

  “Your son was—”

  “Prince Nuada,” says Mother. “Have the courtesy to use his name.”

  “Prince Nuada,” says the messenger, “was looking at a tool on a wooden bench. He leaned forward, his hands splayed to either side like this.” The messenger demonstrates. “His right hand was in a perfect position. The youth simply came up behind and swung the ax. Just once.”

  I see it in my mind. Poor Nuada, standing there, then slam, the ax comes down from nowhere. Like a curse. The brutality makes everything go black for an instant.

  “He grabbed the hand and ran,” continues the messenger.

  “And destroyed our son’s future in one cruel act.” Mother sinks back onto the bench.

  “What is the youth’s name?” says Father.

  “Bjarni will not reveal that. Nor the name of the winner of the dice game—who was also just a youth.”

  “They won’t get away with it,” says Father. “This act will not go unpunished.”

  “Bjarni asks that you think not in terms of punishment, but, rather, compensation.”

  “Compensation?” says Mother. “Don’t you people require blood for blood? How about having that boy’s hand chopped off?”

  I gasp at her words. But of course it’s only fair.

  The messenger blanches. “Bjarni is ready to compensate well for the indiscretions of the boys.” He slips a satchel from his shoulder, gets down on one knee, and dumps the contents on the floor. Gems glitter.

  Mother stands and stamps a foot. “This is outrageous. He offers us his loot.”

  “Wait,” says Father. “Don’t say things you’ll regret.”

  “You can’t hush me! Does this Bjarni think we’re idiots? He’s stolen these gems from Irish monasteries”

  Father shakes his head and looks at the messenger as though he’s asking for commiseration. “This is what it’s like to be married to a headstrong woman.”

  “The Vikings are the most vengeful of all,” says Mother. “If anyone understands revenge, they do. Why should a Viking expect us to withhold punishment?”

  “For a very important reason,” says the messenger. “Families shouldn’t deal in punishment.”

  Mother shakes her head in confusion.

  “Explain yourself,” Father says sternly.

  “The gems are only part of the deal.” The messenger licks his lips nervously. “They are to ensure the wealth of Prince Nuada his whole life long. But Bjarni has another offer—and this one is to ensure the happiness of your family.”

  “Our son has been mutilated,” says Mother. “And you talk of an offer that can bring happiness?”

  “He asks for your daughter, Princess Melkorka, in marriage.”

  “What?” Mother’s hand goes to her throat as though she’s being strangled. She looks at me.

  I am staring back at her. This cannot be happening. I am the one being strangled. I run to her and stand half behind her.

  “Bjarni has wealth beyond your dreams,” says the messenger.

  “Does he live in Dublin?” asks Father.

  “Don’t ask!” screams Mother. “Don’t you dare ask. Don’t you dare consider that offer.”

  “And don’t you say another word,” says Father. I’ve never heard him use such a tone with Mother before. “There are things I must know. You can listen. All of you can listen. But if you say another word, any of you, I’ll make you leave the room.”

  Mother lowers herself slowly onto the bench. I sit beside her. Brigid comes and sits on Mother’s lap. We cling to one another.

  “Bjarni lives in Nidaros, at the mouth of the River Nidelva, way up the coast of Noregr, the Norse land.” The messenger raises his hand in the air as though he’s painting the north country for our imaginations. “He’s here visiting.”

  “Raiding,” says Mother under her breath.

  If Father hears, he doesn’t show it.

  I press my knees together till it hurts. Everyone knows the stories about Viking towns up in the north country. Nidaros and Bjørgvin and others whose names I forget, but that are just as horrible. Wealth means nothing there. The whole lot of them might as well be disgusting peasants, for, rich or poor, they are all filthy heathens with unspeakable rituals. A slave in Eire has a better fate than a queen up there. The thought of living with such brutes—no, no, it’s unbearable.

  “Are the boys who harmed Nuada in Bjarni’s family?” asks Father. He talks in a normal voice. As though this whole conversation is not horrific.

  “Not in his family,” says the messenger in a barely audible voice, “no.”

  “But from his town?” asks Father.

  “Yes.”

  “And where are they now?” asks Father.

  “In Dublin, visiting, like I said. They came for the winter. But they’re leaving next week. For the southern parts of the Nóregr.”

  “All of them?” asks Father. “Bjarni and the two youths?”

  “Yes. And Bjarni wants to take Princess Melkorka with him.” The messenger looks at me. “She’s assured a life of luxury.”

  “How did he choose Melkorka?” asks Father.

  “He saw her on the streets of Dublin. All in red. The day of the accident.”

  “It was no accident,” Mother hisses.

  “I have a counterproposal,” says Father.

  The messenger nods. “I will bring it to Bjarni willingly.”

  “Tell him the act of these two youths has changed the destiny of our family. Nuada is my only son.”

  Mother puts an arm around me. I sit tall to hear more.

  “Tell him that a room full of gems wouldn’t be enough to compensate. Making my daughter his wife is a better attempt at compensation, but an irrelevant one. Melkorka is beautiful, and she would soon be married to an Irish king anyway.”

  Good for Father. He’s standing up for us. He has always hated Vikings. We will go to war against them, rather than accept their shameful offer.

  “Tell him, however, that I am a reasonable man. I loathe violence. If he truly wants to compensate, he must assure us that Melkorka will live the life of a queen. That’s what she’d have here. It’s her due. And he must throw a party on his ship the night he comes for her. An extravagant party. I’ll send fifteen women of my kingdom to keep his men happy. I will pick them myself.”

  Mother forms a fist and bites her own knuckles. Brigid is crying. But I do nothing. I have turned to stone.

  “And tell him to have three more satchels of gems brought to me. Immediately.”

  CHAPTER FIVE: FEAR

  Father closes the door behind the messenger. Then he closes the three other sickroom doors. That’s against Liaig’s rules. We are just the family now.

  He turns to us. “Get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Mairg ar maccu—woe to our children.�
� Mother’s voice is flat, “Have you gone mad?”

  “My brain has never functioned better.”

  “You’re selling me,” I cry, finally finding my voice. I sit hunched in a ball.

  Mother puts her hand on my back. “You want your daughter to bed down with an animal? You want our grandchildren to be Gall-Gaels—half foreigner, half Irish? And then you promise fifteen girls to frolic with those savages. We are Christians; have you forgotten? Oh, King, your brain isn’t functioning at all.”

  “I’ll run away.” I sit up straight as I speak, fighting off dizziness.

  Father gives a little laugh. “You? Where would you go? The contemplative life of a convent would never do for my daughters. And you couldn’t serve anyone, taking orders.”

  “Don’t scold hen Don’t you dare.” Mother’s words come strong. “You’ve turned against us all. You’re the one acting inexplicably.”

  “Not a single girl of my kingdom will get on a Viking ship,” says Father.

  Have my ears heard right? I push my hair back and listen hard.

  “Tomorrow you will gather a group of women. No slaves. No servants. Only your closest friends. You’ll make tunics that will fit fifteen men and dye them colors, like women wear. And you’ll stuff them in the right places, to make the right curves. Next week fifteen Irish soldiers will meet Bjarni’s Viking ship.” Father paces, rubbing his hands together. “Our soldiers, dressed as maidens—why, you can even add some of Brigid’s ribbons to their long hair—they will go on board and greet the Norsemen with smiles and hugs. And slay the entire lot of them.”

  “The two youths will be on that ship,” says Mother with slow realization. “The youths who harmed Nuada.”

  “Exactly,” says Father.

  “A heinous plan,” says Mother. “And one they deserve. We will avenge our son.” She looks over at Nuada.

  Nuada’s eyes are unblinking.

  “It must be kept secret,” says Father, “Only the women who sew the dresses, only the men who wear them—only they can know. The word must not get back to Bjarni, or he will launch a preemptive attack.”

  “Of course,” says Mother.

  “Do you understand, girls?” Father squats before Brigid. “When Vikings attack, they come in huge numbers. They steal, burn, kill. This is a secret unlike any other of your life, Brigid. You must not speak of it to anyone”

  “I won’t, Father” Brigid puts her hand on his head. She’s done that since she was small. “But after the Irish soldiers kill the Vikings, won’t other Vikings come to avenge them, too?”

  “They’ll never know what happened. We’ll kill all the men on board and sink the ship. When others come to ask, we’ll say the ship never arrived.” Father stands now. “I’ll act indignant that my daughter and the fifteen lasses were left in the lurch.” He puffs out his chest. “If they act suspicious, I’ll accuse them of disputing my word and demand they pay the fee for abusing my honor. Vikings know how we Irish feel about our honor. That will be the end of it.” He turns to me. “You’ll be safe, Melkorka.”

  I stare at him. The word “safe” makes no sense. “Your plan puts everyone at risk.”

  “Their offer put us at risk. And you two girls will be far from here. Your mother will dress you as boys and send you away.” Father opens the four doors of the sickroom. “Like I said before, get a good nights sleep. You’ll need it.”

  Brigid and I crawl under the bedcovers together again. And, again, she falls into slumber easily.

  Mother and Father enter quietly. So do our personal servants. And everyone sleeps. Except me. My mind plays tricks in the dark.

  What if there’s a traitor among us? A dirty supporter of the Norsemen? I pull at my hair.

  What if Father’s soldiers are recognized as men right off? The Vikings will have time to grab their weapons. Swords, spears, shields, arrows, knives. And, of course, axes. I saw Viking weapons in the toolmaker’s in Dublin. I may have looked upon the very ax that severed Nuada’s hand. The angry Vikings will kill the soldiers, then march into Downpatrick and kill everyone else. Except the women. The women’s fate will be worse than death.

  We have to make the men look just right. I’ll give them lessons myself on how to walk like girls. The “maidens” can carry jugs of mead and pour them down the Vikings’ throats. Everyone talks about how Vikings get so drunk they stagger and fall off their ships and perish in the sea.

  What if someone escapes? A single Viking who makes it back to the other ships could be our ruin.

  And, oh, where will Brigid and I go while all this happens?

  I toss hard. Finally I get up and walk outside. The chill of deep night makes me small within my cloak. Winter has returned for a final lashing before spring.

  I climb the outside stairs to the top of the east fort wall. The steps are irregular in height, so that attacking strangers cannot run up them without stumbling. But I know them by heart; I climb without falter.

  Up here the winds whip my hair across my mouth. The sea is turbulent tonight, white wave-tips shining in the moonlight. I think of the famous poem:

  Is acher in gáith innocht

  fo-fuasna fairggae findholt.

  Ni ágor réimm mora minn

  dond láechraid lainn ua Lothlind.

  (The wind tonight blows harsh

  and spews the white sea foam.

  My heart need not fear Vikings crossing the Irish Sea.)

  I haven’t grown up fearing Vikings. Hating them, yes, but not fearing them. Not like my parents.

  Mother tells how the seas were infested with Viking pirates when she was small. She talks with revulsion about how many Viking settlements there are now in Eire. Not just Dublin, but Wexford, Cork, Limerick, Waterford.

  Father, likewise, goes on and on about Viking raids. They get their gold and silver, their precious stones and chandeliers, from monasteries, where our kings stored them for safekeeping. They loot, then burn the Lords buildings. They’ve even put entire ecclesiastical communities to the sword.

  It was hard for my parents to agree to my birthday request. Oh, wretched Vikings, who ruined everything.

  When Mother and Father were small, they scanned the sea for invaders, quaking. This poem that they recite with fervor never meant much to me before. But now the rough sea signals safety to me. No Vikings will attack tonight.

  But I’m not safe. None of us are. I hug myself and keep my eyes wide, though the drying wind burns them.

  The sea is black, but in the day it is so many shades of green. And the hills have even more variations on that hue. Grandmother used to say there were forty shades of green in Eire, from the tears of invasions.

  I hug myself tighter.

  “Who goes there?”

  I turn to face a soldier. He holds a spear at the ready. It’s surprising that the patrol didn’t find me sooner. Discouraging. This is a moment when our guard has to be at its most competent. My stomach churns. I lift my hands in surrender.

  “Princess Melkorka? Is that you?”

  This man is only a head taller than me. And his hair is almost as long and has even more curls. Were it not for his forked beard, he could be taken for a maid. Yes, I think he could.

  Will he be one of the fifteen? I feel instant pity for him. Father should send slaves instead of fine soldiers.

  “Melkorka, Princess?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Entertaining nightmares”

  The soldier opens his mouth, then closes it. “Shall I accompany you home?”

  “Please.”

  CHAPTER SIX: HORSEBACK

  We’ve in the main hall, one week after Nuada’s hand was severed, preparing for our revenge. Fifteen soldiers dress in tunics. They already have ribbons in their hair—Brigid tied them, carefully making bows. They practice walking like women in a line behind me, but they exaggerate too much. They look like fools. Lord, protect these fools. Let no one die. No Irish man.

 
; It’s afternoon. The men wait their turn to be shaven clean. Father wanted it done late, so that their cheeks will be as soft as possible when they hug the Vikings later today. They munch on wheat bread. It’s a luxury, a food for kings at festivals. But Father said all fifteen of them deserve to be treated like kings.

  Nuada walks through the soldiers, holding his stump high in the air to prevent bleeding. “Take care of one another,” he says to a group, but listlessly. He should be more excited; everyone is risking their lives for our honor, after all. But I know where to lay the blame. In this past week he has been recovering well, but he’s still drunk most of the time. It’s the only way to combat the pain.

  Mother enters and beckons me oven “Find Brigid and meet me in the kitchen.”

  It’s easy enough to find Brigid. I saw her swipe a handful of ribbons and run off with them not long ago. And I know for a fact that the biggest sow had piglets yesterday.

  I take the stone path to the small farmyard within the fort walls. The hens cluck like crazy things as I come up.

  The old dog staggers over to greet me. I scratch him behind the ears. “Where’re the piggies, old boy?”

  He follows dumbly at my heels, as I head to the muddy area the pigs prefer.

  And there’s Brigid.

  The sow struggles to her feet at the sight of me, her fat rolling. Sucking piggies dangle from her and fall away with pitiful squeals. She has such a nasty disposition, that one. If she would act a little nicer, she’d be in the house now, like other nursing sows. Only that sow can’t be nice. Not to most people.

  But she was just lying there for Brigid, still as a dead thing. How my sister does it, I don’t know. Animals simply trust her, even the most unpleasant ones. They know she loves them.

  Two piggies have ribbons tied around their ears. Brigid smiles. “Want to help? There are six left to do.”

  The sow takes a threatening step toward me. The piggies squeal louden.

  “Come. We have to meet Mother in the kitchen. Now.”

  “All right.” Brigid kisses the closest piggy and we run together back toward the manor house.

  “You smell like that farmyard,” I say.

  “What a surprise.” Brigid laughs.