Hush

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Hoskuld’s wife will know this dress was supposed to have been hers. She’ll know immediately from the patterns. They are the same as on the other dresses in the chest—the ones he’ll give to her, I’m sure.

  On my shoulders is a woolly mantle lined with very fine squirrel fur that peeks out around the edge of the hood. Hoskuld placed it on me. There is no other mantle with a hood in the chest—no other mantle meant for a woman.

  His wife will have so many reasons for hating me. I am going on a journey to Iceland, where I will be hated.

  We’ve been preparing for the journey all along. Hoskuld spends his days ordering his other þrælar around. He has accumulated many recently. A few children. Several young, strong people.

  I wanted to lead him back to Clay Man’s tent to buy Thora. Our fates may be awful, but at least there would be comfort in sharing them. I couldn’t get him to go that way, though. When I tugged on his arm, he said, “You’ll have to speak if you want me to go somewhere.” He touched my lips. “Speak, Beauty, and I’ll go wherever you say.” But I will not speak. Maybe I no longer even know how to.

  So Thora is gone from me forever. All her energy and enthusiasm, gone.

  Hoskuld also bought an older woman—a hunched-over soul with a lazy eye, who claims to have particular skills with medicinal herbs.

  He tells his new þrælar to buy salted and smoked meats, dried cod and vegetables and fruits, crushed grain, juniper berries, and any other herbs Lazy Eye wants in case someone gets sick. These things are packed into wooden barrels and boxes and stacked inside his tent.

  All Hoskuld’s þrælar work. All but me. I simply adorn his arm. And fill his bed.

  He gathers not just food, but tools. Forge tongs, pincers, adzes, awls, hammers. Oh, yes, hammers. He picked up one of them, pinned me against a stone wall, and slammed the hammer on the stone beside my cheek. It gave off a spark. “Almost as good as Mjollnir,” he said with a smile. Mjollnir is the name of Thor’s magic hammer that he uses to fight the frost giants.

  I don’t know if Hoskuld realizes the full effect of his threats. He wants me to fear him, but I doubt he wants me to hate him. He kissed me before he let me go, and his kiss seemed happy. He adores good tools. Yesterday we stood by an iron smith, watching while the man hardened ax heads over a fire. Hoskuld bought ten regular axes, ten two-headed ones, and ten broad-blade ones.

  And a sword with a hilt of walrus ivory decorated in geometric designs of gold, copper, and black niello. Hoskuld handled it with reverence.

  After he bought it, he told me, “This never should have been for sale in the first place. Swords like this get passed down through families. Respect for families is second only to respect for the gods.” He put his finger on the center of my cheek when he said “respect for families.” That was the first time he did that, but he’s done it many times since.

  And he bought a dozen simpler swords with wood grips covered in leather. And some two-edged swords. And bows and arrows. And metal helmets.

  He’s going to turn his crew into an army at this rate.

  The battle scenes in the tapestries that covered Clay Man’s tent come back to me. Wolves chewing on men’s thighs; eagles pecking out entrails.

  But other things he buys are harmless, clearly gifts. Bearskin hats. Skates of cow bones to tie to shoes, for gliding over ice in the winter. Toy axes of bronze and toy wooden swords and shields. And a cowhide ball for kicking on the ice. He told me there’s a midwinter feast called Yule, in honor of Frey. The adults pray to the god for a good harvest the next year, while the children kick balls on the ice.

  Somewhere in Iceland children wait for him. Young children, because Thora told me that by the time a child is twelve he uses a real sword.

  Hoskuld buys gifts for his wife, too. Pottery and fine silver jewelry and a tortoiseshell brooch.

  They will all hate me. The wife, especially. How could she not? A household of hate.

  And he’s been gathering men for the trip. He interrogates each one. Many have come from huge distances, catching rides on fishing boats, boats shuttling wood, boats collecting eggs or down feathers for quilts from birds that nest on deserted islands. Difficult passages. It took some of them weeks to travel here.

  I listen as Hoskuld interviews them. And I listen later as they talk among themselves. They leave behind famine and poverty. Some leave behind extortion—either as victims or as perpetrators in fear of being caught. And some just leave behind personal pain, for these ones are misshapen or have a strange gait or peer out from haunted eyes, They are shunned at home as magicians or witches. They’re tired of being beggars and tramps. Hoskuld is building a crew of the miserable and the deviant, who will never see their homes again and never want to.

  Maybe that’s what it takes to emigrate. I would never have left my home by choice. Despair envelops me. Like them, I will never see my home again.

  I look at these unfortunates—these are the people who will wield the weapons Hoskuld has been accumulating. But at least the þrælar won’t be going into battle. I heard someone say it’s illegal þrælar to bear arms.

  “Are you listening to me?” Hoskuld puts his arm around my waist. I am jolted back to the present. I look around at all the people gathered for this sacrifice. “Don’t get lost inside that beautiful head.” Hoskuld puts his mouth to my ear. “I know you hear me. I watch your shoulders tighten as I come up from behind. Your hearing is perfect. And I know you understand. Your face speaks your reactions to my words. You can’t fool me.” His grip on my rib cage tightens. “Choose the animal for sacrifice, Beauty. You could even choose þræll.”

  A þræll?

  Me, I think. Please sacrifice me. I look up at the sky. Take me, Lord.

  An eagle soars overhead.

  “Are you crazy?” Hoskuld steps away from me. “We never sacrifice eagles. Odin can take on the guise of an eagle. His wife, Frigg, can appear as a falcon. They’re sacred.”

  I blink. Is everyone outside of Eire insane when it comes to birds? Do they all see them as something else in disguise?

  “But if you want a bird, we can do a cock,” says Hoskuld. “It won’t be enough, though. Not for this long a voyage. So we’ll do an ox as well. I like watching them bury ox bones after a feast. It makes the earth strong.”

  He walks away. He expects me to follow, I know.

  A seagull shrieks. A brown bird chases it. It’s smaller than the seagull, with white and brown bands across its tail. How does a smaller bird get up the gumption to chase a seagull?

  Hoskuld stops and looks back over his shoulder.

  I glance again at that determined brown bird. Brigid and Maeve and Thora—three small birds who never quit. And here I am, a stork, a giant of birds. I must not quit. Deep inside, I must keep my spirit alive and fighting. No matter what the nights are like. Quitting would be disloyal to their memories.

  I follow Hoskuld.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: ATTACK

  We’ve onboard the middle ship of three. I’m excited to be on a ship again. It’s strange, but somehow just being onboard makes me feel like I know what I’m doing.

  I still don’t have any idea where Iceland is, but I don’t care. We’re going to a new world.

  All three ships are knorrs, the largest ships I’ve ever seen. They had this one out of the water to check it over before the journey. I walked the length of its shadow. Ninety steps. And twenty steps across. A long, slender ship, indeed.

  Hoskuld walked around the beached ship as well. He gave final whacks to nails here and there. He used his favorite hammer. He checked rivets. “The metal for these nails and rivets was smelted from bog iron,” he said. He’s taken to explaining things to me, like Thora used to.

  When he said that, I thought of Irish bogs. Of that crazy mare that got stuck. Of how Brigid lured her out. I went blind. But Hoskuld was too busy to notice. In the last few days before they pushed the ship over rolling logs out into the water, he rushed constantly, so much so that he ign
ored me. Except at night.

  He oversaw every detail. He had tar-dipped wool jammed between boards to keep out water and add flexibility. The ribs and twisted bands in the frame are naturally shaped roots and branches of spruce and pine; they, too, are known for flex. He said, “No storm can destroy a ship that gives with the force of the waves.”

  I don’t want to think about storms. Right now the water is calm. The sun shines fantastically bright. The wind is steady but soft. It fills the gigantic, square, woolen sail that protrudes over the ship sides and reaches three-quarters of the way up the towering mast. Ropes from its corners attach to the prow and sides.

  The mast is in the center. There’s no deck around it. The deep bottom of the boat is open to the air there. A layer of fodder covers it, and a lone cow stands immobilized by the swell and fall of the sea. The smells of fodder and sea mix in a funny, pleasant way.

  The decks at the front and the back of the ship are of oak planks wider than my foot is long. Pine planks make up the hull. All the planks were split from the center of a trunk, so each has the same grain and reacts the same at sea. They’re made from green wood with no knots, no gnarly points that resist. Every measurement was taken by eye.

  Hoskuld’s voice rang with pride as he pointed out these things before we set sail. His eyes searched my face as he told me that last fact. He wanted to see if I showed the surprise of a foreigner. He wants to know where I come from. I feel his eyes on me always; he’s fascinated.

  But I deny him any satisfaction I can. I work hard to make my face less loquacious. I think of other things when he questions me. Thora. Two days ago I saw Clay Man pass with only four virgins at his heels. Someone bought Thora. In my head I become a stork. I glide to Thora and she climbs on my back. We rise on warm winds. No harm can come to her.

  And Hoskuld is determined that no harm will come to his ships. Fifteen sea chests line the length of each side. When the wind lulls, men with arms nearly the size of my waist sit on the chests and row. Now, though, with the sail billowing, the men have pulled in the oars and closed the wooden flaps over the holes to seal out the sea. They are busy bailing water, bucket after bucket, muscles flexing. A shield is mounted above every oarlock.

  More shields are mounted starboard. And a large sack of stones sits near the rudder. As we sail, it’s moved around for balance. Hoskuld says the cargo under the front and rear decks can be moved around too, if necessary.

  These three ships are of equal size. The front one carries fifty people. The rear one holds fewer because it also carries timber. Our ship holds only thirty, since the open area around the mast is much larger on ours. But ours has the most terrifying prow: a dragon head with a gaping mouth—a firedrake. The gold paint glints menacingly in the sun. I can see that only if I lean out near the front. But I know, because I stood in awe beneath it the day before we launched. I noticed everything and committed it all to memory.

  That’s when Hoskuld went to King Hakon to pay his respects. I walked behind him into the king’s tent.

  “And, so, Hoskuld, you wait till you are about to sail before you visit me?”

  Hoskuld squirmed and I was glad: Someone had power over him, after all. “I had to oversee everything. You know how the success of a voyage depends on the details.”

  “That can be true,” said the king. He looked at me. “And who is this?”

  “My Beauty.”

  “I’d like to come home to a woman that fine”

  Hoskuld’s neck turned the color of his hair. “When you come to Iceland, I will host you grandly.”

  My stomach became a ball of ice. Did Hoskuld intend me to be a part of such hosting?

  “Indeed? Then I might come soon.”

  “Not too soon,” said Hoskuld. “Iceland has few trees, so my farmhouse is made of sod and turf and whatever driftwood I came across. I’d like to build a better one before you come.”

  “Timber, is that what you’re after? I’ll have a ship loaded with building timber for a new house, one good enough to host a king.”

  Hoskuld grinned. “An exceptional gift. Thank you, my king.”

  “And here.” King Hakon went to a chest. He gave Hoskuld a heavy gold ring and an ornate sword.

  “Your generosity astounds me. I am humbled with the honor of carrying this sword.” Hoskuld didn’t tell the king that he’d already bought a sword even more highly decorated than this one. And I was glad, so very glad, to see Hoskuld lying because another had such power over him.

  But then, later that night, Hoskuld whispered to me in bed. “Kings are expected to be generous. That’s how they lead. That’s how they inspire and buoy up the spirits of their men.” He kissed my throat. “And that’s how their men wind up richer and richer. We now have a third ship, and it’s full of timber.” So Hoskuld had had the better of King Hakon, after all.

  We started out this first day hugging the shore, passing much smaller fishing vessels and levy ships and coastal boats of various sorts with only a few men on them. So many boats. Every Norseman must own at least one.

  As evening comes, we anchor the ships together near a beach. A clamorous noise comes from the prow of the ship I’m on. Everyone laughs. I see now a cage with three large ravens inside, cawing and jumping about frenetically. No one raises ravens. Are they here for ceremonial purposes?

  But my curiosity disappears as the excitement of land hits me. All the people rush off the ships. The children run. The adults chatter in relief to be on land again. Someone talks about what an easy day it was, and how very different it will be when we go days at sea without seeing land on any side.

  At those words, a þræll cries out his terror of dying at sea.

  Instantly Hoskuld’s arm swings and catches the man on the back of the head with a dull thud.

  The þræll goes flying. He’s caught by two others. All the þrælar huddle together and stare at the ground.

  “No complaints,” booms Hoskuld. “Not a one. Look at me.” The men look up. Hoskuld shakes his hammer fist in the air. “Not a one.”

  Everyone goes about their business.

  But I grab Hoskuld by the arm and glare at him.

  “What? You object?” The corner of his mouth twitches, as though he finds me amusing. He puts his face to mine. “It’s a question of morale. Don’t worry yourself about things you don’t understand”

  Oh, I understand. I’ve had too many lessons in brutality. I do not lower my gaze.

  He runs a finger along my jawline. “Clenched teeth? What have we here? A rebellion? Do not cross me, Beauty.” He puts his mouth to my ear. “Especially when others are watching,” he growls. He pulls free and walks away.

  When my heart stops banging, I walk to join two women þrælar, but they quickly move away. No one wants to be aligned with someone who crossed Hoskuld. I stand alone and look around.

  A tripod of overlapping iron poles, collapsed for transport, now appears, with a big black pot hanging from it. It reminds me of Clay Man’s scales. The simple cleverness of the design impresses me against my will. We cook a fish stew and eat hearty.

  One of Hoskuld’s men tells the saga of Sigurd Fafnesbane. There are a few parts I don’t understand, because Thora never told me this tale. But I gather that it’s about a gold treasure that once belonged to a dwarf. Everyone is mesmerized.

  I move close to Hoskuld to listen. Maybe he’ll say something to help me understand better. But he takes my nearness the wrong way. He throws his arm around me and pulls me tight to him. He strokes my cheek and rests his own on the top of my head. “It’s okay, Beauty. I forgive you.” I stiffen, but he gives no sign of noticing.

  Toward noon of the second day we leave the shore behind and head southwest through open water. I can’t help but swallow worries. Without natural landmarks to guide us, how can we not get lost? But we soon reach islands. It’s early evening.

  Hoskuld says to a man, “The ravens.” That’s all. But the man runs and wraps the cage of ravens with several bla
nkets. I watch, uncomprehending.

  We anchor offshore, as close as possible to the easternmost island. The free men gather in small groups. Something’s up. I listen; someone will surely say where we are. But no one’s speaking. It’s as though they’ve all decided everything ahead of time. Men from the first ship grab spears and brightly painted shields with metal domes in the center. They go on land.

  The rest of us wait, watching the shore. I hear no sounds of battle. Nothing. Except now the honking of geese. And high-pitched screams. The men appear on the shore, running, behind a group of children, chasing a flock of domesticated geese. They throw the children and birds into the first boat. Each boat rotates the sail and sets the rudder and we’re off again immediately. With a slew of new þrælar. What do parents do when their children simply disappear? How do they go on living?

  That night I cry. Hoskuld says in bewilderment, “You cry now? After being with me for nearly three weeks? Now?” It doesn’t occur to the man that someone could cry for another’s pain. Or maybe he truly doesn’t understand that þrælar have pain.

  Thora told me that in the north country skarls—farmhands, who are free men but hardly better off than þrælar—sometimes give up their children willingly to slave traders because they don’t have enough food to go around. Some even leave their newborns out in the snow when they can’t feed them. So maybe Hoskuld doesn’t understand anything. Maybe he sees that and cannot guess the way those sacrifices slice through a parent’s innards. Maybe he is hopelessly stupid rather than brutally cruel. But does the difference matter?

  As if to answer my thoughts, he holds my face in the cup of his palms and croons to me. His lips soften. His limpid eyes turn gentle. In this moment he seems like a man who could have been good if he’d lived in another world—in a world with angels. I could almost be comforted by those eyes, I could almost stop crying.