We spend a good part of the rest of the day taking down our tent and moving it far from the throngs, far from the dice man. Clay Man grumps continually. He ties us to tent poles for sleep.
Clay Man drops the comb in my lap, just like yesterday morning. “Your turn,” he says in Norse.
I sit here with my dirty, ratty hair and pick up the comb in my lap and throw it across the tent floor.
Clay Man erupts in a stream of Russian I take to be curses. He shakes his fist in front of my face. I stare at him, surprised. He hasn’t threatened me like this before.
“Listen,” he says in Norse. “You’ll ruin my business looking like that. I won’t allow it.”
Thora stands behind Clay Man and gives me a pleading look. She’s so upset, I think maybe she’ll be sick.
Clay Man glares at me. His fist is an empty threat. This is a test of wills. I lift my chin and glare back at him.
Suddenly Clay Man blinks, smiles almost imperceptibly. He swirls around and whacks Thora across the chest so hard, she flies backward and slams on the hard earth. It takes several seconds before she sucks in air again and lets out a whimper.
And I know now: Clay Man was the one who slammed me like that on the ship, when I’d first been stolen—blindfolded and gagged. He was the one who broke my rib. He wouldn’t dare slam me now. But he slammed Thora.
I crawl over to the comb and rake slowly at my messy locks. The comb is made of reindeer antler, so it’s strong enough to rip open the knots. I don’t care if it rips open my scalp.
I swallow and swallow to keep my face from squinching in pain. Thora slowly gets to her feet. She doesn’t look at me. We leave the tent.
Overnight many more people have come. A giant market has assembled. Cocks scream in cages under a cloudless, pale blue sky. Thora moves stiffly, wincing. How many ribs did Clay Man crack?
We stop at a tapestry vendor’s. The vendor stretches out samples of linen and wool, and women explain the scenes of doomsday tales presided over by gods in radiant blues, greens, yellows. The women wove those tapestries themselves. Clay Man buys a pile and tells the vendor to deliver it to our tent.
When he decides he’s paraded us long enough to ensure good business, he brings us back to the tent. It’s set up near a field of purple phlox and the tapestries are waiting for us.
Following Clay Man’s orders, we drape the largest tapestries over the outside of the tent. Soon ours is the most decorated tent at the festival. Then we go inside. Clay Man uses the remaining tapestries to make a divider within the tent. He tells us to sit behind it, in a line.
I stare through the dim light inside the tent at the reverse side of those tapestries. One has men on horseback with shields in one hand and spears in the other. Eagles fly ahead of them and ravens fly behind them. The other has eagles and wolves feeding on corpses strewn across a battlefield.
It isn’t long before we hear footsteps.
“I am Hoskuld.” His language tells me he’s native Norse for sure.
“Welcome to my tent. I am Gilli.”
“Gilli? I’ve heard of you. They say you’re the richest merchant trading here. I suppose you can provide me with anything I might want to buy.”
“That depends. What do you want to buy?”
“A þræll. A woman. The right kind of woman, that is. If you should happen to have one you can spare.”
Clay Man laughs. “You appear to think you’ve put me on the spot.” He laughs again. “Don’t be so certain of that.” Clay Man lifts the curtain of tapestries. “Take a look.”
We twelve sit in a row across the width of the tent. I refuse to look up. I’m seated near the outer side, almost as far from this Viking as I can get.
“That one. She’s poorly dressed, but good-looking all the same. Say I wanted to buy her, how much would she cost?”
“Her?” Clay Man’s voice is a screech of surprise. He clears his throat. “Three marks of silver.”
“Three.” The man called Hoskuld sounds taken aback.
“Far too much,” says a third voice. One of Hoskuld’s companions.
Hoskuld’s footsteps come closer. Lord, he stops in front of me. “Three marks of silver is the price of three such þrælar. You value this slave-woman rather highly, it seems.”
“You’re right. Choose one of the others. For one mark of silver. I’ll keep this one.”
Hoskuld doesn’t move.
“Do you know who he is?” comes the voice of Hoskuld’s companion again.
“He gets what he wants,” comes the voice of another companion.
“Indeed I do,” says Hoskuld.
His tone is deadly. My spine freezes. Who is he, anyway? I look up and meet his eyes. Blue as the hottest flames, with a shock of red hair tumbling down to his shoulders. Everyone knows people with red hair have otherworldly abilities. They say it’s lucky to rub the hair of a redheaded child. Hoskuld is no child, though. He’s massive and certainly twice my age.
“Here’s my purse.” Hoskuld keeps his eyes on mine as he talks. “Weigh out the silver in it.”
Clay Man lumbers across the tent. He brings out his scales and I hear him unfolding them slowly. Hoskuld finally takes his eyes off me and walks over to Clay Man.
Clay Man sets the measuring pans in place, then he stops abruptly. “Hoskuld, I am an honest man. I don’t want to cheat you in this transaction. The woman has a flaw.”
“What flaw?”
“She cannot speak.”
“Is she deaf?”
“No. She understands—she follows orders. But she’s mute. Silent as the stork these feathers came from.” He touches the feathers stuck in his hair. “I’ve tried to get her to speak, but not a word comes from her.”
“Finish setting up your scales,” says Hoskuld. “Let’s see how much my money here weighs.”
Clay Man looks at me. In the dark of the tent his eyes glitter like a cat’s. His face has gone flaccid. He looks much older—ancient. He puts Hoskuld’s silver in one pan. He searches through his clay weights and makes a big show of choosing three. He puts them in the other pan of the scale. “Exactly three marks.”
It’s more than three marks. Clay Man has chosen some of his heavier weights—the ones he uses when he thinks people are too stupid to know better. But the Viking must have heard what happened yesterday. Surely he wouldn’t come into this tent without having asked around first. He must know Clay Man has a reputation for being a cheater. And Clay Man must know that Hoskuld knows.
Of course. Clay Man wants Hoskuld to realize the weights are unfair. That’s why he fussed so over choosing the weights. It’s his only chance of getting out of the deal. Of keeping me.
Hoskuld touches his fingertips to the clay weights. But he doesn’t pick them up. “The bargain is sealed, then,” he says at last. “You take the silver and I will take the woman.”
The men shake hands. Clay Man doesn’t look at me.
Hoskuld rubs his hands together and gives a satisfied smile. “You surprise me, Gilli. I must say you acted uncommonly fairly in not trying to trick me into a purchase.”
“I’m an honest man.”
Hoskuld grins and his ruddy cheeks appear monsterlike. “And those are correct weights, I suppose?”
“For this þræll, yes.”
One of Hoskuld’s companions harrumphs.
Clay Man turns his back on them and moves closer to Hoskuld. “You paid the just price for this one. She’s special.”
Hoskuld laughs now. “I suppose Russia must produce some honest folk. After all, our own god Odin came from Russia. From Asgard, on the River Tanais.”
“Not far from my home,” says Clay Man.
“Those stork feathers in your hair, do they come with the woman?”
Clay Man steps back. He hesitates.
“Our god Hoenir is long-legged.” Hoskuld pushes his hair back and looks penetratingly at Clay Man. “Some say he’s a stork. He gave man memory. Throw in those feathers, and I’ll remember yo
u. Don’t throw them in, and I’ll still remember you. Differently.”
The threat hangs in the air. Clay Man pulls the feathers out and thrusts them at the Viking. Hoskuld goes over to one of his companions and hands him the feathers.
While his back is turned, Clay Man reaches inside his shirt and pulls out the leather strap from which my gold teething ring hangs. He quickly tosses it onto my lap. I immediately tuck it into one of the pockets I’ve sewn inside my tunic. My heart races. I can’t fathom why Clay Man would give me this parting gift, and I don’t care why—I’m just glad to have it.
Hoskuld comes near and leans over me. He is tall and his tunic leaves one arm free, giving me the strange sense that he is off balance.
He reaches out his hand and closes it around mine. He pulls me to my feet and leads me away.
PART THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: DERED M-BETHO
This is a tent. There’s a world outside it. But I’m inside.
The body near me, this man Hoskuld, smells of apple. He ate meat and minced onion porridge for dinner, followed by apple tarts and a cake with cloves and raisins. All of that was after he had already partaken of the pig roasted on a spit outside. He has a formidable appetite.
He talks. He keeps asking me if I’m really mute, or just playing a game. He asked me this as he led me from Clay Man’s tent. He asked me this several times during the evening meal. In quiet tones. He has faith in persistence.
He asks now.
He puts his hands on me.
I could cry out. I could beg for mercy. I have never spoken Norse out loud, but in my head there are so many things to say.
But I won’t speak. This man may never come to believe I’m an enchantress. He doesn’t ask anything of that sort. He gives no evidence of thinking my silence is anything but defect or determination. I don’t know what he did with the stork feathers. But I do know my silence intrigues him.
Besides, he is an animal Brigid taught me, you don’t talk to animals. You keep your mouth shut and watch them. That’s exactly what she said. Hush, hush. Then they know you’re not going to hurt them.
But they can still hurt you.
The vipers circle. They come in for the kill.
His hands find my roundness. Things that were mine, my personal treasures. Things that made me feel pretty. That amazed me when they grew. That made me glad to be a woman. These were part of a clean me, hidden in my tunic, waiting for me to share them with the one I would choose.
Choice is an illusion.
As is cleanliness. I grow filthy both inside and out now. And none of that filth bothers him. All my efforts to appear witchy, all to no end. He actually smoothed my hair after the evening meal. Smoothed it, as though he were kind and not the beast he is. And he promised to buy me beautiful gems to adorn my hair. He called me exquisite. He said I deserved the best.
Does he think he’s the best?
He moans. His hands squeeze. His mouth demands.
It wasn’t all that long ago that I was home. Less than a half year, I would guess, though I have no real sense of time anymore. The seasons here are so different. The light goes on so long. I’m always disoriented.
My tunic comes off easily. I am totally without defense. Unsafe.
Safety is another illusion. I should have given it up long ago. When Brigid and I were taken. When she jumped into the freezing river. An eight-year-old, alone. Safety. Am I a fool, that I didn’t surrender such childish ideas then?
He breathes on me. Heavy, wet breath. He drank enough to be dead drunk, but he seems far from that. His eyes are clear, despite that opaque breath.
If I had a knife like the one he tucks in his belt, I could cut his breath into blocks and beat him over the head with them. But my hands are empty. And his knife is in the corner of the tent, on the pile of his clothes.
He leaves the knife there as though I will not think of stabbing him. He walked beside me all afternoon, all evening, with the knife at his side, so close to my hand. Can he be so naive as to believe that I do not harbor him ill will in this act? Can his thoughts be as thick as his breath?
But I won’t pick up the knife. I won’t lose my soul to hatred.
All I can do is breathe deeply of him. Breathe and hope that his vapors will poison me. He is venomous, after all Let the poison enter my lungs, seal away all my words, all my songs, forever,
I never was good at singing. My voice couldn’t hold a tune right. It was Nuada, my brother, who could make even the birds stop their trilling to listen to him. But I had songs in my heart, I did. Once I did.
His hands are calloused. They hurt the tender parts of me. Has he done hard labor himself? But I know already that he is wealthy. I’ve seen the men who work in his service. He’s respected, and in this country it’s riches that make people respect you. And he’s feared. Clay Man didn’t dare go against him. He bought me just like that. Without a second thought. So I know he’s done it before. He probably has many þrælar. And he probably doesn’t recognize that any of them are human. Maybe he’s like the man who led the two þrælar up into the hills outside Hyllestad to bury his treasure. Maybe this Hoskuld has murdered þrælar, like you might kill a rat. No, not a rat. A rat marauds in your grains. But þrælar only work. They work and work and work. So it would be like killing a dog—a loyal dog, who has stood by you all his life.
Maybe I’ll be lucky and he’ll kill me. Death is the only possible escape for me now.
His hair leaps from his head in flames. To think, I once looked at red hair as lucky. My skin blisters.
He’s on me, pressing down so hard, I’ll break. If only I would break. He’s splitting me in two. But I don’t want to be two pieces. I want to shatter. Thousands of little pieces of me. They could blow away in the wind. Gone.
Because I am gone. This isn’t me. This can’t be me. Athir—Father—where are you? Du-mem-se—protect me. Like Brigid whispered, maybe in her sleep.
But there is no me to protect.
I am no more.
I’ve been eradicated tri drochgnimu—through evil deeds.
But at least they’re not my own deeds. I didn’t cause this. I couldn’t have caused this. Nothing I’ve ever done merits this. Not even failing to hold on to Brigid, that most terrible thing.
Oh, Lord. You’ve shown me dered m-betho—the end of the world.
Whatever became of mercy?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: SACRIFICE
We’re standing in a grove under evening sun. The grove is far enough away from the marketplace that we cannot hear its music and confusion. Out here quiet reigns. A circle of huge stones encompasses the grove. People have gathered here to worship, invited by a small group of free men, the most important being the great chieftain Hoskuld. My master. It’s a sacrifice ceremony, to ensure the success of the journey ahead for Hoskuld and his companions. We are to return to the land he and his companions came from, with all þrælar and supplies they have bought.
The yeoman farmers of this town on Brännö Island are participating. They have rights þrælar don’t have: They carry weapons, and can take part in the voting assembly, and now will be part of this ceremony. As far as I can tell, it’s opportunistic on their part. They don’t need to invoke the blessings of the gods; they aren’t the ones about to make the long sea journey. They aren’t even friends of Hoskuld or any of the other free men making the journey. They’ve lined up their wooden, carved wagons and they wait for the feast that will follow the ceremony—that’s the reason they’re here. It’s their chance to be hosted for once, to eat at others’ expense. Their children play in scattered groups. The little ones make toy piggies by sticking wood legs on pinecones. The big ones jump hopscotch and chase one another on stilts.
“What animal do you think we should sacrifice? It’s your choice.” Hoskuld puts his finger on the center of my cheek.
I look away.
He runs it down my jaw, down my neck, down …
“Come on, Beauty. After these
last few nights, we’re past that. Or we should be.”
He calls me Beauty. Mother said I had become a beauty. It was one of the last things she ever said to me. I wish I could strike his tongue mute.
“Tell me what to sacrifice,” he says. “A horse? An ox? A pig? We need some luck. Let’s get Njord on our side.”
Njord is the god of ships and of wealth. When Thora told me that, I wanted to laugh. The two are connected, of course. Vikings get so much of their wealth from jumping into ships and raiding the rest of the world.
Hoskuld kisses me on the cheek. His breath is mead gone sour. “It’s a long voyage to Iceland, after all.”
Iceland. The place we’re going to now has a name. Iceland. It means nothing to me. I will go to Iceland in the luxurious blue gown I’m now wearing.
The morning after our first night together, Hoskuld bathed me with his own hands. He washed my hair. He patted me dry. He did it all slowly, almost gingerly, as if I were a child that he must take care not to be rough with.
Then he opened a chest in his tent. It was full of beautiful smallclothes—underclothes—and dresses and cloaks. He told me to pick the ones I wanted. “These aren’t gifts,” he said. “You never give gifts to þrælar, because then the objects become cursèd trash. This is a necessity. Your other clothes were rags. But to be fair to Gilli, it’s easier for me to clothe one þræll than for him to clothe a dozen.”
Hoskuld’s companions say I look stunning in this dress. Irish women are as good at spinning as Norse women. Better maybe, because Irish women use spinning wheels, which assures uniformity of thickness, while Norse women spin by hand with a stick and spindle. They have to soak the wool in fermented urine and hot water to make it more workable.
But when it comes to weaving, Norse women are superior. Sometimes they stand at vertical looms. But often they use small tablets that allow them to make more intricate designs, even with wool. Thora tried to teach me once; it’s hard. The linen of this dress is blue like the deepest sea. It falls to my feet in soft pleats, unhindered by a belt. Scarlet silk threads and brown horsehair threads pattern all the edges in swirls interlaced with knots. The woven hair band that goes with it is scarlet and brown with blue patterns. The tailor had a good eye. I’m impressed with heathen sensibility and skill at cloth. Norsemen obviously do not fear spirits in colors on their women.
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