Thorkild gives me a light tap on the back of the head and laughs. “You’re just trying to divert me because you can’t see anything and you hate to admit it. I know you.”
“If we get stuck, we’ll be late. Thora will be mad.”
Thorkild makes a groan of exasperation. “I liked you better all those months when you were silent. Ever since you started talking, all you do is annoy folks.”
“It’s shallow here. Take a look.”
“Swing that oar in, no no, this way, Alf. Good.”
The boat rocks.
I twist my neck to see what’s going on, and there’s Thorkild standing right behind me. I’m about to warn him it’s not safe standing like that, but he lifts me up under the arms and tosses me overboard.
Splash!
I’m underwater, and panic seizes me. All at once it’s night on the river, freezing, and I’m alone, lost, without Mel. I scream, and the brackish water rushes into my mouth. It brings me back to the present, and I break the surface of the water and gasp at the air. This isn’t a river—it was never a river. It’s an enormous fjord with water that’s not quite sweet, only I didn’t notice the salt that first night because the gag over my mouth kept the water out. And it’s morning now. The water is cold, bracing, but nothing like that night. And the fishing boat is much, much smaller than that hateful boat that night. This is now. Everything has changed. This is now, now, now.
I swim to the edge of the boat and throw a hand up over the gunwale and hang there, panting, trying to calm myself.
Thorkild smiles down at me. “What? You too much of an elf to pull yourself up?”
I wipe my eyes and nose and mouth with my free hand. “Why did you do that?”
“It was easier than having a debate with you over the depth of the water.”
It is deep here—he’s right. But that’s no excuse. “I almost drowned.”
“You swam like a fish.”
“What if I didn’t know how to swim?”
“I’d have reached over and plucked you out.”
What if he hadn’t been able to pluck me out? What if the current had carried me off? Or some Fomoiri water monsters had held me down low out of his reach? And here I forced myself to overcome my loathing of boats in order to go with him, because last week he took me to cut peat and it was fun. It was like an adventure. Staying home has no adventures. It’s nothing but boring spinning and weaving and sewing and cooking and brewing, the same thing all the time. Girls have no fun here. But despite his talk, Thorkild’s just as dumb as the rest of them.
“Help me,” I say in a weak voice.
He stands—good—and leans over, stretching out a hand for my free hand.
I plant my feet against the side of the boat, catch his hand in both mine, and throw myself backward, pushing off as hard as I can with my feet.
The big man falls into the water beside me. He comes up, spluttering and red-nosed. I make a fake laugh, but he doesn’t join in. He climbs into the boat by rocking it hard and then heaving himself over the side. He stands and shakes off like a dog, then he sits on the rear bench and rakes his fingers through that long beard, without looking at me.
“Don’t be mad, Thorkild. You threw me in first.”
Thorkild twists his beard into two tips that strike me as demonic. Water drips from his bushy eyebrows. “I don’t know what Thora sees in you, you little ruffian. She thinks you’re special because Åse named you Alf. You’re stubborn as an elf, I’ll give you that, but you’re no more a real elf than I am a real giant. And that boy Øg of yours is no more a terror than any other baby.”
“You’re right.”
He widens his eyes in surprise. “You admit it, then?”
I want to get out of the water too much to fight. “You’re always right.”
If Thorkild realizes I can’t possibly mean that, he doesn’t show it. “You’re a true human child. That’s what you’re saying?”
“It’s what you’re saying. And you’re always right.”
He rests his forearms on his knees and leans toward me. “So what’s your real name?”
“I’m cold, Thorkild. You felt the water. You know how it is.”
“I won’t lift you in till you tell me.”
“We’re drifting backward. And after all that rowing.”
“Who cares? We’re already there really, even though it’s clear you didn’t detect a thing.”
“Right again. I saw nothing.”
“Don’t think you’ll trick me by agreeing with me. Hmmm. You might be deceitful as an elf too. But I still know you’re not a real one.” He points at my nose. “What’s your true name? Tell me.”
“Brigid.”
“What?” He drops his hand and laughs. “Did they name you after a dog?”
“Well, what about you and your sister Thora and your little brother Thorsten? Thor, thor, thor. Whoever named you had a stump of a tongue—thor, thor, thor.”
His face shows instant alarm. “Don’t go getting so mad at your ugly name that you say bad things about the god Thor, child.”
Oh. Oh how stupid I am. I know about Thor. He’s their favorite god. They tell stories about Thor nearly every night, all full of thunder and lightning and a crushing hammer called Mjølnir. Only I never connected their names to his. I’m so dumb—and after being named myself after Saint Brigid, the healer. I should have realized. “I’m sorry.”
He looks at me as though assessing my face. “No more tricks?”
“No more tricks.” I try to look pathetic. It isn’t hard; I’m chilled deep.
Thorkild pulls me into the boat. “Listen, I won’t tell anyone about your ugly dog’s name. Parents shouldn’t do that to a child. Maybe that’s what made you naughty.”
Brigid is a beautiful name, the name of someone exalted, as a princess should be. And it sounds like “fiery arrow.” That’s what I love about it. I told Mother that once, and she laughed and said I was her arrow of inspiration.
Mother. I swallow. I used to sit on her lap and she would rest her cheek on the top of my head, all heavy and warm. She smelled of the oil she put on her wrists: vetiver. It was lovely. The last time I saw her, her hair made a yellow cloud around her pale, worried face. I want to bury my head in that hair. I want my mother. I want my sister. I want my home and my old life. When are they coming for me?
Longing makes me suddenly tired. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“You’re welcome.”
I slick the water from my arms and wring out the bottom of my wool shift.
Thorkild picks up his oar and rows us into the middle of the sea grasses. He ties our boat to a thick pole I hadn’t seen before. It sticks up from the water only a foot’s length and the grasses are taller than that, so it’s hidden unless you’re practically on top of it. I look around. Nothing seems special about this spot—no easy landmark. “How did you spy it?”
“Ah, so you’re ready to agree that I know some things you don’t, are you?”
“You know lots of things I don’t. That’s why I came with you. So you can teach me.”
Thorkild looks around. “Tell me what’s here.”
Flat land. Grasses. Bulrushes. “The same stuff as everywhere.”
“What about the different stuff?”
“What different stuff?”
“You want to learn from me? Really? Think about what I said, child. Don’t be lazy.”
Different stuff. I look around anew. A tall gray-and-white bird with a long neck and a narrow, pointed beak picks its way on orange legs and feet along the shore. I don’t know the name for this bird, not in any language. But I don’t see how it could help anyone find this particular spot. Seabirds come and go, after all.
Four birds I do know pass overhead, wide black wings, gray tummies. They fly so low I can even see the little hook at the end of their beaks. Frigate birds—though what Thorkild calls them, I can’t guess. They’re no use either.
A low clunking noise is followed by
a quack. Immediately offshore a male and female shoveler swim along. I shout, and they take to the air; hurrah, for now I can see that blue on the male’s forewing feathers that shows only in flight. I love shovelers. They’re all over Eire all year round. I love shouting at the males.
I shift on my bench seat. That’s when I see them: a family of swans. The parents are pure white, of course, but the young—four of them, all adult-size now that autumn is coming—are ashy gray. Swans nest in the same place every year, not like shovelers. They’re as regular as the cuckoo that used to call outside our bedroom window from midspring to early summer. Mother always trimmed our hair when the cuckoo returned each year. The swans are looking at me, and it seems they’re more annoyed at my shout than worried.
I turn to Thorkild in astonishment. “Can you really tell one swan from another?”
“Can’t you?”
“No!”
He laughs. “Neither can I. But I can judge time. I row till the right amount of time has passed, then I look for swans.” He reaches under the water and pulls up a rope. The mussel shells on it glisten blue-purple as he pulls the loaded strand into the boat.
My job is to lean over the other side of the boat and scoop up armloads of kelp. Then, as Thorkild pulls up a rope of mussels, I push the mess into the center of the boat, to clear the way for the next ropeful, and I cover them with kelp to keep them wet on the journey home.
We don’t talk as we work, but it feels good to be doing it so smoothly. I manage to get each load of mussels covered properly before the next load comes. I like working together. It would be nice, if only it didn’t involve a boat.
When the fifteenth rope comes up—I was counting them—Thorkild announces that’s the last. I can’t guess how many mussels we have. Tons! It’ll be a feast.
Then he attaches fifteen new ropes to the pole, and we push off.
The boat is heavy now, but we’re going with the wind and the current, so it’s still easier than it was coming here.
“Hey.” I point up ahead. “A baby seal.” He’s lolling on the shore. There are lots of seals in the fjord, but this is the first one I’ve seen today. The water is clear here, so I should be able to spot his mother swimming around, but I don’t. “He’s all alone.”
“His mother’s off fishing somewhere.”
Or maybe she’s off someplace mysterious. She might be a selkie, who sheds her seal skin and becomes a maiden some of the time. “Can we pass close to him?”
Thorkild steers us closer.
I call out, “Hey, little seal.” And I sing a melody from my homeland, but without the words—just with la la la. None of them—not Thorkild nor anyone else—know I’m not a Norse girl, because I kept mute till I could speak properly. That’s what Mel did on the ship that stole us . . . so that’s what I did here. And I’m glad I did it. I’m not about to let them know I’m Irish. They don’t like foreigners. They say horrible things about a people they call the Franks.
The little seal humps to the water and slips in. He comes to our boat, crying. We keep rowing, and his cries turn to howls.
“He’s hungry, Thorkild. I bet something happened to his mother.”
The pup goes under our boat now. He comes up on the other side. I pull my oar in and kneel, looking over the side. “His eyes are sad, Thorkild. He’s asking us for help.”
“On second thought, pull him in.” Thorkild leans forward and smiles. “He’ll be delicious.”
“Delicious! No!” I grab my oar and shove the pup away from the side of the boat.
“What’s the matter with you!” Thorkild kneels and lunges toward the pup.
I bring my oar down hard between his shoulders.
Thorkild grabs the oar from me and shakes it in the air.
We stare at each other.
“I have a mind to leave you here,” he growls.
My insides go quivery. I can’t be left here. The boat is moving with the current, and the little seal has given up and gone back to his place on the shore. That’s where he belongs anyway. I know that really. If his mother’s alive, that’s where she expects to find him. I shouldn’t have lured him to us.
And I never should have hit Thorkild.
I’m doing everything wrong today.
I look at the rust-colored scar on my palm. I think of the scars on the bottom of my feet. This time if I die, it’s my own fault.
Thorkild blows through his lips in disgust. “I was wrong. Alf is your rightful name. Better yet, Alfhild. That’s who you really are. You’ve proven it. You’re nothing but trouble.”
I know that word: hild means “battle.” He’s dubbed me “the elf warrior.” I listen closely to the stories every night. So I know there are elves of light and elves of darkness. Only the darkness ones are warriors. “Even the elves of darkness are needed.” I try to keep my voice steady, but it wants to turn into a cry.
“How? What did they ever do of value?”
“Think of Fenrir, that vicious wolf. He grew so big the god Óðinn—Thor’s father—was afraid of him. He thought Fenrir would eat him. So the elves helped. They made the strongest chain and bound him up.”
Thorkild runs his tongue up inside his top lip. I watch the bulge of it move slowly. I can’t hold on to my strong face much longer. I will beg him if I have to. I will throw myself on his mercy.
He hands me the oar. “Row.”
I row hard.
For the moment, I’m safe. But it could change. At any time, it could all change. And I’m not strong enough to live on my own. Especially with Øg to take care of. I’d never leave him behind.
I need help. Come for me, Mel. Come for me, Mother, Father. Come! I am so very weary of this prayer. Make it come true. Save me.
CHAPTER FIVE
The autumn days are short now, so we retreat to the pit house earlier than in summer. I don’t much like the pit house. It’s not unfit for humans, like I thought that first night when I saw it looming in the dark. No, the eight of them, plus me and Øg now, all live fine inside here. But there are no windows, so when the door is closed, the only source of light and air is the hole over the fireplace in the center of the single big room. And there’s the fire, if it’s lit. And now and then a lamp. But none of that is enough. Each night I fall asleep staring into the dying embers surrounded by total blackness. From our bedroom window back in Downpatrick, I could look out over the whole farmyard inside the fort walls and see people milling about, and I could look up at the never-ending sky. Here there are no people to watch mill about: This is an isolated farmstead. And if you want to see the stars at night, you have to go outside. I feel caged.
But tonight is better than most. By the time Thorkild and I came home with the mussels, his wife, Gunhild, and sister, Thora, had already piled the axes and tools and buckets into a corner and pushed the loom and the vats of pickled fish for this winter against the rear wall to make space. All because a stranger had arrived while we were out on the boat. It turns out that’s who the mussel feast tonight was for. We roasted so many, we’ll have mussels tomorrow, too. And still more wait in the current, the ends of their ropes tied to a tree that leans out over the water. They’ll stay fresh that way.
The stranger calls himself Beorn, and he says his father was a bear, some kind of huge, ferocious animal. Beorn is even taller than Thorkild, so I half believe him, though I can’t understand how his mother wasn’t killed by the bear that was his father. She was human, after all.
Where Beorn comes from, the bears have white fur. Like the fur of the white fox—the melrakki that Thora thought I was asking for that first night when I cried out Mel’s name. Beorn was the original source of those fox skins. He’s a traveler, by boat if he can catch a ride, or by land if he can’t. He carries things from one farm or settlement to the next, allowing trade all the way from the north country Nóreg, where his home is, to Heiðabý, a big city down south and the biggest port in all the lands around here. That’s where he’s heading when he leaves us. He
says it’s a wonderful place, with traders from all over the world who have the most beautiful wares he’s ever seen. He’ll board a ship there and go back home before winter sets in. Then he’ll start his journeys next spring again, arriving at this farm in autumn, like always.
Trading isn’t all he does, though; Beorn is a storyteller. All Norse people are storytellers, it seems. But Beorn’s special. Here the best kind of storyteller is called a skald. A skald goes from town to town, telling stories to the chieftains—just like seanchaís do in Eire. Beorn is a skald. Thora announced that proudly after dinner, for the benefit of Randolf and me. We’re the only ones who weren’t here in past years when Beorn has come through. And maybe for the orphan Åse’s benefit, too, since she’s young enough that her memory might not hold that well. Åse turns out to be only six—though I thought she was my age when I first saw her. They’re all so tall here.
I’m glad that these people love storytelling; at least they have that much in common with the people of Eire. My own brother Nuada can tell tales that make you fall on the floor laughing or huddle together terrified. Now that his hand is cut off and he’s no longer perfect, he can never become king. So I wonder if he’ll become a great storyteller instead—a seanchaí. If I could only see him again, I’d tell him he’d be the best seanchaí ever.
I press my fists against my cheeks and sit back on my heels and try not to think about Nuada. It only makes me sad. And angry. They should have come for me by now. But I won’t think about that. Tonight is a celebration, because Beorn’s visit is a treat.
I look at him now and wonder what it’s like to travel so much. I bet Beorn doesn’t have a home. Not really. Housing a skald would be like taming a wild bird; it makes no sense. When he gets on that boat and heads north for winter, I bet he doesn’t nestle in a house with ordinary people. I bet he does something extraordinary. Maybe he wanders with the bears till spring comes. Maybe he turns into a bear himself.
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