Hush

by Donna Jo Napoli

  He pushes down on the crying woman’s shoulder till she sits. We understand; those of us standing now sit.

  The wide man pulls a basket out from under an animal-hide blanket. It’s a hickory basket, the kind you find all over Ulster. He reaches in and grabs a handful of light-colored things. He drops one on each prisoner’s lap. They’re parsnips. Boiled parsnips. Peasant food. And these are filthy. I can see dirt still pressed in their skin—disgusting. My empty stomach clenches against my will. I salivate on my gag.

  The wide man goes from prisoner to prisoner, taking off our gags now. People groan in relief.

  “Mother,” cries one of the children in a huddle of three, as the gag falls away. “Mother, help me.”

  Neither of the two women responds. And the child doesn’t look at them, anyway. He doesn’t look at anyone.

  The man removes Brigid’s gag now. Her eyes flicker toward mine, then away immediately. She turns her back in silence, without even a groan. I must call to her. As soon as this cursèd gag is off, I’ll comfort her.

  The wide man removes the gag from the peasant woman across from me. She twists her head and bites him on the shoulder.

  He shouts and clubs her across the face with the back of his fist.

  Her mouth bleeds. “Dirty devil!” She spits blood on the man’s arm. “God will punish you for this!”

  The man grabs the parsnip from her lap and throws it on the lap of the next prisoner, a child. This is the child who ran to that woman as soon as his blindfold was removed. That peasant woman must be crazy. Her hands are tied. What did she think she could do besides enrage the man? Now she has no parsnip.

  The child’s eyes look wild. He bows his head quickly as the crew member ungags him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t make a peep.

  Finally I am ungagged. I glance at Brigid. She’s staring at me. The instant our eyes meet, she looks down. There’s fierceness in her face. She’s trying to tell me something. I wait to see if her eyes will speak again, but she doesn’t lift her head. Why won’t she look at me? For all the world, it’s as though she doesn’t know me.

  But, of course! Brigid is clever. If we’re lucky, the crew won’t remember that we were taken together. So long as we do nothing to remind them, they won’t be expecting us to act like sisters. And that could give us a slight advantage. I turn my face to the sky and my heart bangs in excitement; it’s good to have a smart sister.

  And her silence is smart too. She didn’t make a groan when her gag fell away. Probably she’s holding her tongue because these men are animals. The man who took us, the stinking man, is worse than an animal. He’s a beithioch—a beast. Brigid won’t talk around him. That’s her rule with animals. But silence is also a part of our deception, because our language would give us away as being from the same place.

  I won’t speak either.

  A crew member comes around holding a beer jug. It’s the leering one again. He puts it up to the lips of the child near me. My own thirst now scrapes my throat raw. It’s absurd to be this thirsty in just one day. But I am Melkorka. I am a princess. I will not beg with any gesture of face or body. I try to sit tall, but even that small movement causes me to flinch. The skin over my ribs has swollen; I sense the puffiness.

  At last the jug comes to my lips. I drink as deeply as I can before the leering man takes it away. Blessed beer; it slakes the thirst, and, once it gets deep within, it will dull the pain in my chest.

  When the leering man comes to the crazy woman, he hesitates and says something in that infernal language.

  “I’ll bite you, too.” She bares her teeth. “Devils, all of you! You’ll all roast in hell.”

  The other crew member, the wide one that the crazy woman bit, the one who uses his fist as a club, says something to the leering man with the beer jug, who moves on to the next prisoner.

  That woman is insane. No parsnip, no beer. You’d think she was a deranged princess, the way she’s so haughty. Except for her peasant talk.

  Now the wide man—who I think of as Club Fist—unties our hands. All of us except the crazy woman.

  I have neither blindfold nor gag now. And my hands are free. Brigid’s are too. I look toward the land. I can only gaze upward, because the side of the ship comes higher than my level line of vision. But I can still see that, though the white cliffs are past, the coast remains steep and very far. Even if we made it there, where would we climb ashore?

  I eat my parsnip. It’s salty.

  The child beside the crazy woman looks around. His eyes take in my face but don’t linger. He’s already eaten one parsnip. He holds the other in his hand. Now he jerks that hand quickly toward the crazy woman.

  She takes a big bite of parsnip.

  The child’s hand is back in his lap in a flash. It happened fast.

  I wait to see if a crew member will punish the boy. A child that size couldn’t take a blow like the one I received.

  But nothing happens.

  The boy’s eyes are scanning everyone again. I cannot believe this; he saw Club Fist hit the woman. He knows what can happen.

  His arm jerks out again. And again the crazy woman takes a big bite. That child is as crazy as the woman.

  Another crew member, one with a long mustache, shouts at the boy and comes lumbering over.

  The mustache man grabs the rest of the parsnip and eats it himself.

  And that’s the end of it. Crazy woman, crazy child. My breath comes back.

  A man calls out. I look. It’s the man who captured me, the one who stinks of clay. The crew gather at the rear, near the tiller. They eat. I can’t see the food, but I smell it. Cold roasted goat. I salivate again.

  When they finish, Clay Man says something to the group of three children and points to the waste pot. One of the boys obediently uses it. Then the other children do. Even Brigid. She acts just like the others—a perfect little peasant. The small boy who fed the crazy woman lifts her tunic for her as she sits on the pot, because her hands are still tied.

  And now it’s my turn. My cheeks flame, but I follow Brigid’s example, meeting no one’s eyes. Deception is far more important than this disgrace. And such a minor thing cannot truly sully the soul of a princess. At least our tunics rest on our thighs and offer a vestige of privacy.

  As each of us get off the pot, the mustache man ties our hands again. And now the leering man and Club Fist gag us. But they leave us without blindfolds.

  Clay Man shouts to the crew. He’s definitely in charge.

  The crew members go to their stations. Some work the sails. But some row now too. Sails and oars together. Clay Man must be in a sudden hurry. Why?

  I look around. But the sea is empty; the shore is empty. He’s not rushing from anyone.

  So he must be rushing toward something.

  The oars clunk in the oar holes. Clunk. Clunk. Something deep inside my head throbs in the same rhythm. I am nothing but a beat. Clunk. Clunk.

  I sink to the deck, wincing with each movement, and curl up small.

  Clattering wakes me. Two boys come tumbling headfirst into the boat. They knock things aside, fighting and flailing in their hysteria. Their hands are tied behind them. They are gagged and blindfolded. They wear only crude Saxon britches and those britches are soaked.

  They must be thinking they’ve wound up in hell. And they can be at most only twelve or thirteen. Younger than me, I’m sure of it. What were they doing outside without shirts on? Senseless fools.

  One of them knocks into the crazy woman. I expect her to push back violently. But she only tilts her head sadly toward him. A gesture of pity. So there is some reason in her.

  It’s midday and we’ve stopped. Sitting like this, I can see treetops over the side of the ship on both right and left. They’re close. This is a cove.

  I look at the new boys again. They have managed to find each other quickly, even blindfolded. They press together on the deck floor. Their hair is dry. So are their backs. That means this cove is shallow enough to w
alk in. Even for Brigid.

  I lower my head so no one can see where my eyes are directed, and I look up at Brigid. Please, Brigid, look at me, too. Please.

  Brigid sits with her back against a wooden chest. Her eyes are closed. But I’m sure she’s awake. No one could sleep through that clatter. Besides, it’s broad daylight. Why won’t she look at me? Why won’t she let our eyes talk to each other?

  But, oh, she is talking with her eyes. She’s saying no. And she’s right. Broad daylight is exactly the problem. No chance for escape. Especially with our arms tied. I mustn’t be a fool. Picking the right moment is crucial.

  The crew members who threw the youths into the boat now climb in. One is Clay Man. The other is almost as tall, with a scar that slants across his forehead and slashes one eyebrow through the center.

  We set sail. With our two new prisoners. All children or women. No men. These crew members are not trying to get back at anyone. They’re just taking random children and women.

  Children and women whisked away. I remember Brogan back in Downpatrick talking of his capture, saying “whisked away.” Children and women taken far from home, to lands where we don’t even speak the language, where we can be of use only in the most menial tasks.

  Oh, Lord.

  A hideous guess has been forming in my brain, and now I am entirely sure it is right, for what other answer is there?

  This is a slave ship.

  CHAPTER TEN: STORIES

  We veer to the right. I stand to see what’s going on. We’re leaving the coast behind, heading out to open water. The winds are high and the boat goes fast. It’s immediately much colder.

  Somehow all of us have clustered in the middle of the deck. It’s as though an ancient herding instinct has taken over, for I had no intention of coming together with the other prisoners, but here I am.

  A slave ship.

  Horror seizes me again, and clarifies my vision—with discouraging results. I would wring my hands if they weren’t tied. The ten of us are a sorry lot, indeed: the two youths from Saxon Britain, one weeping woman, one crazy woman, the four bleary-eyed children, Brigid, and me. I’ve seen no evidence one way or another yet whether the youths are competent. But besides them, I am convinced Brigid and I are the most able. We can’t count on help from the others. It’s up to Brigid and me—it’s all up to us. We have to slip away somehow. This cannot happen. Not to us.

  We sail for a long while. The children and the two youths sink to the deck in a pile. Brigid sinks with them. Soon the weeping woman follows. But the crazy woman and I stay standing.

  Ahead all I see is water. I look back. Water. Oh. There’s nothing but water in any direction. An eerie feeling creeps through me. In all the ships I’ve been on, I’ve never traveled beyond the sight of land. I feel lost. No one can rescue us now. And escape is an illusion.

  Oh, Lord. I sink to the deck with the others, unmindful of the pain such careless movement causes. The crazy woman stays standing. I close my eyes. We are in the middle of the sea. We could die. Brigid and I could die on this voyage. I cannot force away the thought: Death could be preferable to the fate ahead. It would be easy to jump overboard and drown.

  We Irish are no strangers to drowning. Each settlement knits sweaters in its own unique pattern, so that if a fisherman drowns, when his body washes up on shore he can be returned home. We should be returned home, Brigid and me. It’s only right. We should be returned for burial in consecrated ground. This is a degradation a princess must not bear. But if we drowned by our own doing, we wouldn’t deserve a Christian burial. We’re trapped.

  The only consolation is that we’re together. Immalle.

  The wind whistles, and I shiver so hard it makes me tired. I drift in a half sleep.

  The crew cheers. I jerk to attention and manage to get to my feet.

  There’s land to starboard again. That must be why the crew cheered. They’ve been anxious too. They slap one another on the back and laugh and drink from a beer jug, which almost makes them seem human.

  Almost.

  The one with a mustache comes around and takes off our gags. He pours beer down our throats. He does this to everyone except the crazy woman. When he turns finally to her, he says something in his incomprehensible language.

  She stands there, unblinking.

  He takes off her gag.

  She shouts, “I will bite. Never fear: I will bite off any part of you that comes near me.”

  The mustache man steps back, holding the jug. His brow furrows.

  The child who fed the woman parsnip before moves in front of her. “I’ll give it to her. Just untie my hands.” He turns around and extends his hands toward the mustache man. He looks over his shoulder at him. “Please, sir.”

  The mustache man steps farther back, but his face shows he’s trying to understand.

  “Please, sir,” says the child. “A dead woman is no use to anyone”

  I cannot understand how these children speak so sensibly. Such maturity can come only from experience.

  “Please,” says the weeping woman. “Untie the boy. Let him give her the beer. Please”

  The mustache man unties the child’s hands. If it had been Clay Man or Leering Man or Club Fist or Scar Face, this wouldn’t have happened. I don’t know about the rest of the crew, but there’s no reason to think they’re any better. The crazy woman is lucky today.

  The boy holds the jug to the crazy woman’s mouth. She drinks as though her thirst will never be slaked. I cannot understand that boy, taking risks like that. For what?

  Mustache Man goes toward the bow of the ship, but Clay Man yells at him. He hesitates, then comes back and gags us again.

  But he leaves that child’s hands untied.

  We sail a long while more, always heading north. We skirt along the western coast of some country that can only be described as godforsaken. It’s sparsely populated, at least from what can be seen out here on the water. The dwellings are of sod, twigs, clay, and driftwood, and every one of them is small and low. Not a single noble manor house. Not a single church.

  We pass a boy leading a cow. Alone. Clay Man shouts something to the crew. My hands clutch at the cloth behind my back.

  Moments later our boat drops anchor off a little beach. I pray, despite the fact that I am certain of what is coming.

  Scar Face and another crew member—a tall, muscular one with a thick neck that pulses visibly—lower themselves over the side with a splash. The water is so shallow they slog through it to the shore easily.

  Clay Man is smart to have made Mustache Man gag us again. I’ve looked into the eyes of the others by now. They might very well shout warning to that boy and cow if they could. There’s a recklessness in them I cannot fathom. But it’s not contagious; I will exercise caution to the end. I will take care of Brigid.

  The crew members pick animal hide blankets off a pile and throw them around their shoulders. I thought before that the cold came mainly because we were moving. But even now, anchored here, I shiver. We’ve much farther north than we were this dawn. Shivering makes my rib ache even more deeply. I long to huddle with Brigid under a blanket. Such a small thing, a thing I took for granted only days ago—it’s become an unattainable dream.

  The two Saxon youths, the ones who wear only trousers, sit hunched over themselves, knees to chest, and visibly shake. One of them eyes that pile of blankets. I watch him. I see the children watching him too.

  The child who helped the crazy woman looks at the other children. I thought he helped the crazy woman because she was special to him. His mother, maybe. He ran to her once, after all. But the way he’s looking at those youths, I see he wants to help them, too. His eyes shine. The poor thing—why, he’s so daft, he would help a total stranger.

  I wonder if anyone realized who Saint Patrick truly was while he was still a slave? Are we born to be good or evil? Does daftness help us do the Lord’s work?

  The boy dashes over and grabs the top hide blanket.


  Club Fist lunges. He snatches away the hide and punches the boy on the shoulder. The boy goes flying into the side of the ship. He falls in a crumpled heap.

  Weeping Woman screams inside her gag. She sobs so hard, she chokes. Her face turns red. She doubles over.

  I look at Brigid. She stares coldly at me. There’s nothing we can do.

  And for the sake of whatever plan we are to come up with, we must blend in. This will be our ultimate salvation. If we are to have one.

  Mustache Man walks across the deck. He lifts the small, limp child, who in my head I hereby dub Patrick after our patron saint, and lays him on a blanket. We stare as he folds the sides onto the boy’s chest.

  One of the Saxon youths gets stiffly to his feet. He goes to stand in front of Mustache Man. His whole body trembles with cold. His torso has a slight blue-gray tinge.

  Mustache Man just looks at him.

  The other Saxon youth comes forward too. A pitiful pair.

  Mustache Man opens a chest and takes out a shirt. He goes to another chest and takes out a second shirt. He unties the youths’ hands and gives them the shirts.

  We stare and stare, caught in the spell of inexplicable kindness.

  Clay Man comes suddenly alive. He barks something at Club Fist. Club Fist rushes over and snatches the shirts back from the youths. He reties their hands tight at their backs. Clay Man stomps to the boy Patrick and rips the blanket away. The boy slides off, a clutter of limbs.

  Clay Man glares at Mustache Man, who now sits on his chest without a word.

  Two of the children go kneel by the limp child, my sweet Patrick. Patrick opens his eyes and stares at the sky.

  The rest of us mill around now. The show is over, and it helps to move; it stirs our innards to fan whatever embers might still glow.

  I think about home; that helps me to stay warm too. Mother, Father, Nuada. But my mind has less urgency now. The cold dampers everything except the need to get warm.

  And maybe it isn’t just the cold that dampers me. A terrible and unavoidable thought slows my brain. Brigid and I are farther away with each passing moment. Even if we do manage to escape, we might never make it back to Eire. We may never know what happened at Downpatrick the night Bjarni came. This thought is almost unbearable. I want to slam my head against the mast and make it go away. I will not let our lives be truncated. I will not allow that first part to be lost. All the people, all the places we ever loved.