We sleep on the deck under countless stars, a fiery inscription on the sky. And I know others cry too. I can’t not know that.
In the morning I wake to raven caws. Someone removed the blankets from the cage, so their noises come loud and clear. They’re frantic again.
I stand and find our three ships hugging a new shore, this time on the port side. But the men are not forming groups—there seems to be no plan to raid, thank heavens. From the path of the sun, I realize we’re heading south. As the day passes, I stand at the prow and actually enjoy the spray of the water. There was a sun shower around noon, but it cleared quickly and the air has warmed up nicely. Everyone’s taken off their cloaks and folded them into a pile.
Hoskuld comes up beside me. He hands me a tiny spoon. “Clean my ears”
I remove his earwax. I did this the night before we first set sail, too. That time I wondered how much pressure it would take to shove this little wooden spoon into his brain. I wondered if it would break, and I feared that only that possibility stopped me. But this time I clean him without mental flights of violence. I am cleaning him, nothing more, nothing less. No moment seems more or less than it is.
Now he hands me tweezers. I remove stray hairs above his beard, long hairs from his nose and ears.
“Don’t you want to know why you’re making me handsome? Tonight we attack Inis Eoghain.”
My breath catches. Inis Eoghain is the peninsula on the very northern tip of Eire. I had thought we were far from my home.
“Wish me luck?” Hoskuld laughs. “Look.” He points to the red flag with a black raven in the center. He attached it to the mast a little while ago. “The raven is Thor’s holy bird. See how it flutters? That means we’ll have victory.” He chucks me under the neck. “I’m cautious. I never attack when the flag droops. And I’ve never yet faced defeat.”
He unties the flag and puts it away in the box he took it from before. I catch a glimpse of feathers. He keeps the three stork feathers he got from Clay Man with that flag! I would want to know why but right now my head swirls. We’re going to Inis Eoghain. I had given up all hope of escape long ago. But now …
The next instant everything changes. Hoskuld orders the men to lower the sail. What’s going on?
The three ships bob about on the open water. We eat flat bread while the sails flap loudly and the masts creak. It will be time to open our cache of dried and pickled foods soon. This bread finishes off everything fresh that we brought with us.
A man goes to the side of the boat and stares into the water. He holds a long spear with three prongs ending in barbs and a rope attached to the handle. I walk over beside him and look down at a thick, shimmering school of anchovies. What good would a spear be on such small fish?
The geese in the first boat set up a clatter.
From nowhere vast flocks of cormorants fill the air. The noisy birds dive for the fish. The geese seem to be egging them on.
When the cormorants leave, schools of herring come. They pass in and out of the ships, as though curious about who we might be. They are so many that the waters look silver.
Suddenly they race off. A huge tuna chases them. The man shouts and throws the spear. Four more men rush up, and they tug on the rope attached to the spear. They haul the heavy fish onto the deck.
Why, they knew that tuna was coming. These people know more about the sea than even the Irish. They may be brutish, but they are also clever.
We tie the three ships together, side by side, and feast on stewed tuna, everyone eating the same—even the þrælar. I haven’t yet figured out what rules distinguish þrælar from free men and free men from the leaders. But in this moment, I hardly care; the tuna is rich and dark and meaty. The smell is so clean, my nostrils flare. People talk in little groups, happy to be filling their bellies.
As am I. A full belly encourages a heart that had too quickly accepted a horrible fate. I must be strong and alert. If any opportunity for escape presents itself, I must act swiftly.
Dusk finally oozes over the surface of the water. We set sail. Of course: We’ll attack under the cover of night. That’s in my favor. It is easier to disappear in the dark, especially in a blue dress.
Men stand on the deck and hold the round shields. They make a wall in front of them by overlapping the edges. Other men try to kick through. Oh, they’re practicing—a dry run. When the wall withstands the affront, they clap each other on the back in congratulations. Then they take down the sails and we row.
Rowing is much slower than sailing. But I understand: a ship is easier to spot with the sail up.
The rocky shores loom close in the weak moonlight. This is my country. Eire. Dearest Eire, asleep and unsuspecting.
We anchor in a small cove and the ravens scream. A man quickly blankets their cage again, until no sound is heard. The three ships come together so close that men jump easily from one to the other, as they gather their gear and discuss plans for the raid. Some of the men will be ready for a fight; others will have their arms free to carry the loot.
I stay out of the way. Let them leave. Hurry. Go. Then I’ll jump over the side: Brigid’s lesson.
Hoskuld and his companions are going on this attack. They lay out all the contingencies together.
“But remember,” says one of the men, “react to the moment. If things go wrong, forget the plans, and just do what’s best at the moment.”
“Right,” says another. “No one is in charge.”
“Or everyone is,” says a third.
Hoskuld beams. “That’s how it’s done in Iceland—so that’s how it’s done on a ship headed for Iceland.”
The men embrace.
Hoskuld told me it would be this way. He said a chief is more a mediator than a ruler. But I didn’t believe him. I thought he wouldn’t be able to put aside his need to dominate. I see now that I was wrong. Hoskuld does what needs to be done. He is versatile and agile—physically, mentally, emotionally.
There are things about Vikings I could come to admire, if only their strengths weren’t used to bully the whole rest of the world.
The men put on suits of chain mail. Hoskuld comes over to me. “Lift an arm. Go ahead.”
I lift one arm of the chain mail. It’s remarkably heavy. I can’t understand how anyone can move inside it.
“Wrought-iron links. Don’t you worry about me, Beauty. It took a master smith a year to make this suit. I won’t get cut, no matter what.” He opens a wooden box and takes out an ax that’s larger than the others I’ve seen. He smiles. “It takes two hands to wield this. If anyone gets in my way, he won’t be there for long.”
I step back.
“Wait.” Hoskuld puts down the ax. “Come here.” He lifts me off my feet and carries me like a small child, draped across his arms. He reeks of sweat. He practiced in the shield drill as hard as anyone. “Did you really think I’d leave you untied without me here? You’re too beautiful to risk losing. And too mysterious.” He jumps with me down into the bottom of the ship and ties me to the base of the mast.
I don’t kick or thrash. What’s the point? He’d only beat me down. I sink into the soft fodder up to my ankles. And just as quickly as defeat came, hope rises again: I will act sweet, for if he thinks I’m docile, he might get sloppy on his return and untie me before we are too far from shore for me to jump overboard.
“Listen, þrælar,” Hoskuld shouts. “That land out there is full of madmen. They’ll kill you as soon as look at you. They hate you. They hate everyone who isn’t one of them. So forget thoughts of escape.” He holds his arm out straight and points his finger, for all the world as threatening as a sword. “And if this þræll is gone when I come back, all of you die.” He looks at me, then he looks back at them. “If anyone hurts her, all of you will wish you’d died.”
They are þrælar themselves. They believe him. I believe him.
CHAPTER TWENTY: ONION
A sheep bleats in my ear. I must have fallen asleep, they were gone so long.
How stupid of me. Now I struggle to my feet, working the rope up the mast as I stand. Sheep are tumbling into the fodder. The startled cow lows piteously. From down in the basin of the boat its hard to see much, but through the fuzzy dawn I make out men climbing into the ship with sheep draped across their shoulders. They plop them into this area, sometimes on top of one another. From their pungent odor I can tell these creatures just had their second shearing of the season.
A man jumps in and pushes me down out of the way, and three together pull on the ropes to raise the sail. No one’s untying me. I’m stuck. We’ve moving already. Leaving Eire.
A girl screams and screams. I can’t see her past the frantic sheep, but she’s got to be near. On this ship. The screams come closer, until she’s thrown down next to me.
“I’ll get free, you wretched Vikings!” Good Ulster Gaelic The sound reverberates inside my head. I am so glad to hear it. Tears blur my vision.
And an immediate question: Does she know what happened at Downpatrick that night? Can she tell me who lives still? Is my family safe? I smile at her.
That’s all it takes. She rushes me, ramming headfirst into my belly. Her fist comes up from below and slams me in the throat. I cough blood.
“A real minx, that’s what you are,” comes a man’s voice in Norse. I manage to turn my head and see he’s caught her from behind. He ties her hands.
We set sail, and here I am, still tied to the mast. Tocad—luck—where has luck gone? How could I be so unlucky as to be ripped from my homeland a second time?
Someone finally unties me and drags me up to the deck. I stand unsteadily, holding on to a tall coil of rope for support, and look out toward the land—my Eire. People crowd on the shore and shoot arrows at us. Not a single one hits, we’re already out of range. Too far to swim. I sink to the deck floor, dig my fingers into my hair, and rock back and forth. I am defeated, exhausted, undone.
Someone drops a flat bread on my lap. I thought they were all finished. I look up in confusion. It’s Lazy Eye. Before she was on the third ship, but somehow she’s been moved to this one.
“Help me,” she says in Norse. “And I’ll help you .”
How could þræll from the north country help me? And what does she want of me? I have no more power than she does. I gnaw on the bread and stare at her through the dim light.
Now I see them. Four. Four wounded men. Lazy Eye gives rapid orders. A woman þræll washes a wounded man with seawater. Another strikes the fire stones and starts a flame under a pot, feeding it excrement from our waste pots. Another sharpens a knife on a slipstone. And two children go from wounded man to wounded man, giving them beer.
Lazy Eye mixes herbs in a bowl, pounding them into a paste with whale oil. The sharp minty odor of betony reaches me. “Finish that bread, finish, finish,” she hisses over at me. “Then help with the beer. Hurry.”
Whether it is the bread or the surprise of being needed, I do not know, but from somewhere I find energy. I tuck the rest of the flatbread inside my smallclothes under this dress and fill a horn with beer.
“That one” Lazy Eye points to the man whose side gushes blood. “He’s first.”
The children have stayed away from him. So have the women. He hasn’t even been washed yet. That much blood frightens all of us. I try to get the man to drink, but he throws his head from side to side. I splash the beer over his open wound. He screams.
“Good,’ says Lazy Eye. “You know what cleans wounds. Good”
For a moment enough blood was washed away that I could see a white part of his insides. But now it gushes red again.
Lazy Eye holds the sharpened knife in the fire a moment. Then she has two men þrælar pin down the bleeding man while she presses the hot knife somewhere inside him. He screams. She cuts away the smallest amount of skin around the edges of his wound now. He’s still screaming. She nods to me and I pour more beer. She packs moss into the wound, then pulls a threaded needle from her bodice and sews his muscles together. He screams and screams and passes out. She sews while I drizzle beer over the wound.
“This is taking too long.” Lazy Eye looks over at another man, who’s sitting and moaning over a battered leg. “I have to set that bone before that one’s leg swells too much. You finish.” She gives me the needle and thread.
I will my trembling hands to be still. The blood has stopped gushing, but it still oozes. The sticky sweetness turns my innards. I stitch carefully.
By the time I finish, Lazy Eye is at my side again. The man with the broken leg has neat splints around it and is already asleep from so much been Another has a clean linen bandage around his arm and the third around the top of his head. I marvel at Lazy Eye’s efficiency.
She mumbles approval at my uneven stitching and smears the rest of her herbal paste over it all Then she bandages my patient. From around her neck she takes a leather pouch. She opens the drawstring and picks out a polished stone amulet. She lifts the man’s head and puts it on him. I know about protective amulets. People wear them to keep away harm. What good can they do after harm has already been inflicted? Norsemen must have different ideas. I hope she’s right.
He may have killed Irish men. But he’s hurt. So helpless. I say a prayer for him inside my head.
Lazy Eye whispers magic words over him. Then she turns to me. “I’m Torild.” She pats my hand approvingly.
It’s full morning now. And I’m more tired than I’ve ever been before. I rest my back against a wooden chest and sleep.
Onion fills the air. My eyes open. A child holds a bowl of onion porridge under my nose. “Feed this to the sick man. The witch says.”
I take the porridge and kneel beside the man from last night. His eyes are glassy bright and his cheeks are flushed. I put a small spoonful in his mouth. He looks at me vaguely and swallows. I feed him slowly. I’m afraid to touch his skin; I’m afraid it’s hot.
After a few mouthfuls, he blinks. His eyes grow sharp. “Onion? This is onion.” A muscle in his cheek twitches. “Tell her I smell like sweat.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. He doesn’t seem delirious, though. But he’s clearly upset. I nod.
“Promise. I don’t want to drown. I’d rather die on the deck where the Valkyriers can find me and bring me to Valhalla. Or Freya. I’d go with Freya to Folkvang, too. Anything but drowning. Have pity. It’s a simple lie. Promise.”
I’m confused, but I nod again. What else can I do?
He lets me feed him the rest of the porridge. Then he falls into a feverish sleep.
Hoskuld comes up to me as I make the man more comfortable. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the raid. “I missed you last night” he says loudly. “Your sweet taste. I’ve grown accustomed to you, Beauty.”
Anyone can hear. I feel myself blushing even as I try to make my face stone.
“Want to see what we got? A casket of precious metals and reliquaries. The Irish are dumb and predictable. Every monastery is the same. It’s as though they package up gifts for us. The jewels are spectacular”
Ill-gotten riches. They should bring a curse down on his head.
“I’ll let you choose something beautiful,” he says warmly. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
A gift for a þræll? Something has changed.
He takes my hand and pulls me over to the casket. I stare down at the loot. Delicate gold chains and bracelets. Engraved silver cups and bowls. Dazzling jeweled books. Anyone could recognize the superior Irish craftsmanship. I don’t want stolen jewelry. I turn away.
Hoskuld catches my elbow and swings me back around. “Is my bold Beauty actually being shy?” He holds up a brooch of twisting gold threads. “This would be a fine choice.” He goes to pin it to the shoulder of my dress. I wrench myself free and back away. Hoskuld’s eyes cloud with confusion. But he doesn’t press me further.
“Come take care of these,” he calls to a woman þræll “Separate out the jewelry.”
She carefully wraps the trea
sures in softened leather, packing the jewelry back in the casket and everything else away in a barrel.
Hoskuld puts his arm around my waist. “Your dress is bloody from that Irish whore. I heard how she hit you. And then you went right on and helped take care of the injured. You surprise me. You’re a strong one. A worthy one.” He looks down at me with pride in the set of his jaw.
I want not to care. But it feels so strange to be praised, so strange and good, even if the words are Hoskuld’s.
“Don’t you worry about her.” Hoskuld brushes his lips over my ear. “I’ll sell her to the biggest lout in Iceland. She’ll pay for what she did to you.”
The poor Irish woman. I look toward the mast. She’s still tied there. And a man stands beside her, talking. He’s a priest! My hand reaches toward him involuntarily.
“Surprised, are you?” Hoskuld pulls back and smiles. “Ransom for holy men is the highest. I hope this cleric is an important one, my Beauty, my worthy þræll.”
I walk away from him and stand at port side, staring at the distant coast of Eire. My mind plays over the brooch I refused. That’s how this all began—with my looking at a brooch in a silversmith’s while my poor brother Nuada became a Viking’s victim. A circle closes around me, locking me in place. I feel like I cannot move. What’s happening to me?
I’m so tired. It’s as though I haven’t slept ó Samhain co Imbolc—from the beginning of fall to the beginning of spring. I hold on to the rail for support.
We sail the rest of the day and I nap on and off. At one point I wake to see Torild kneeling over my patient. She unwinds his bandage. I go kneel beside her.
“You do it,” says the sick man in a feeble whisper. He flicks a finger toward me. “Please. You”
Torild pays him no attention. She leans over his wound and sniffs loudly.
“You,” manages the sick man. “You promised.” A tear rolls down the crease across his temple into his hair.
Hush Page 16
