Finally Randolf stays my arm and pushes me gently aside. She reaches one hand inside a hole to steady a honeycomb, and with the knife in her other hand, she cuts off a slice and places it in the empty pot at her feet. The bees hardly react. There are five hives in all, and Randolf cuts a piece off the honeycomb in each one. I watch because I want to understand. It seems she’s avoiding the parts of the honeycomb that contain larvae. This way the hive will have a next generation. And taking only part of the honeycomb means the bees will still have plenty to eat through the winter. How smart this is. I wonder if this is her own method—if she figured it out herself.
A bee crawls on Randolf’s hand. She stops moving. But I can tell from the sudden stiffness in her shoulders that the bee stung her anyway. She doesn’t jerk away, though. She just waits. Then she carefully slices off a part of the honeycomb she’s holding.
Randolf finishes and backs away slowly. I go with her.
Some bees follow the honey pot, but few. And they move lethargically, as though they’re heavy, satiated with their own honey. It’s still the middle of morning, and we’ve finished our work. Randolf is efficient, and I’m duly impressed. And the fact that she hasn’t complained at all about that sting forces respect.
A shriek comes! It’s Øg. The screams sound as if he’s dying!
I run to him. The poor babe has somehow managed to get from the spot I planted him into a dense growth of stinging nettles.
Randolf runs to him too. And that sends what bees remain in pursuit into a frenzy. They go for her bare hands.
Randolf’s shouting and slapping at her hands, and Øg’s sobbing and pressing his already reddened hands into his mouth, and I’m the only one not burning with stings. I pick up Øg and yell, “The water,” and we’re running for the fjord as fast as we can go.
We splash down among the tall grasses at the edge, and I rub Øg all over with soothing mud, while Randolf dives underwater and swims and swims. Then I lie in the shallows with Øg.
When we’re finally all three together again, Randolf laughs. Øg looks at her in surprise and then he laughs, though big tears still cling to his cheeks. What can I do but laugh?
We climb out of the shivery water, and I strip Øg and hang his clothes to dry from a tree branch. I do the same for myself. Then I turn to Randolf. “You might as well. I already know you’re a woman.”
So Randolf strips and hangs her clothes to dry. It’s funny to see how thin she is without all those clothes. I bet she’s only fifteen—Mel’s age.
We lie in the sun, protected from the wind by low bushes. Øg crawls back and forth over me, as though I’m his warming rock. At last he tires and falls asleep, half on my belly, half in the grass. Randolf is asleep too. I blow thick kisses into the soft part of Øg’s arm, up near the shoulder, then close my eyes. Time is passing. I feel half-grown already.
“A dream come true.”
The voice startles me.
“Don’t be afraid. I thought a swim would refresh me.” Beorn stands there, wearing only a cloth wrapped around his waist. His chest and arms glisten with water. His hair drips on his shoulders. The dog Vigi noses his way around us. “Slaughtering always makes me feel like I need to do something . . . different . . . afterward, you know? Something to remind me I’m still alive.”
We just look at him.
Beorn shrugs and walks over. “Maybe I’m not making much sense. I feel like I’m dreaming.” He sits at Randolf’s feet.
Her knees are pulled tight to her chest. Her arms encircle them. A visible tremor goes through her.
“I watched you last night. I was drawn to you in a way that confused me. I tossed and turned all night long, wanting . . . I couldn’t fathom what. Now I know why.”
Randolf’s eyes are wide with fear.
“Don’t tell,” I say.
Beorn looks at Randolf, not me. “Why the secret?”
Randolf shakes her head.
“If you expect me to keep a confidence, then you have to give the confidence.”
Randolf sucks her top lip inside her bottom teeth. I know she’s trying to keep from crying.
“Being a girl isn’t a crime.” Beorn wipes the water off his nose with the back of his hand. “So are you hiding from someone? Is that why you’re playing a boy? Is that it?”
Randolf gives a single nod.
“Tell me. I want to know the whole thing. Breathe deep, then talk.”
“I was taken, as a girl.”
Beorn lowers his head toward her. “Taken?”
I’m straining forward too. My heart speeds. I was taken.
“I was pulling in crab traps by the water. And a ship came by and they took me. Just took me. Across the sea. And sold me to a family.”
“A slave ship.” Beorn’s lip curls. “You were a Norse girl?”
“Yes.”
“From Nóreg, like me?”
“No. I’m not sure where I came from, but I know it wasn’t that far north.”
“It doesn’t matter. You are good Norse stock.” He seems comforted by that thought.
I will never tell him where I came from.
All at once Beorn frowns. “And a Norse family bought you?”
“Yes.”
“Most Norse families don’t have the money to buy a slave.”
“The fully grown girls were the expensive ones—especially if they were pretty. I was little. I cost little. And the family needed extra hands.”
“Did . . .” Beorn clears his throat. “Did the family mistreat you?”
Randolf shuts her eyes. She buries her face in her knees.
“Tell me.”
“They were good to me. Until I grew up, and the father . . .” Randolf talks into her knees. “When I realized I was with child, I knew the mother would turn me out. It would break her heart. And ruin the family.” She’s whispering now. “So I ran away.”
“Disguised?”
“As a man, I could work in exchange for a home, and no one would expect . . . more.”
“So you came here, to these people.”
“It wasn’t far. The settlement the family lived in was just on the other side of the Limfjord. I walked for three days—that’s all—and I found this farm.”
“But then . . .” Beorn looks around and his eyes settle on Øg, who is doing that funny stretch-and-curl thing as he wakes up. “Then you had the child. So . . . didn’t they find out?”
Randolf shakes her head. The saddest look I’ve ever seen on anyone clouds her face. She opens her mouth.
“I pretended he was mine,” I say quickly. Beorn doesn’t need to know more than that. Randolf has a right to at least that most awful of secrets.
Beorn looks from me to Randolf and back again. “I’m bewildered. You’re a child. Who on earth would believe you had a baby?”
“They think I’m an elf. Don’t tell.”
“What? Where did you come from?”
I shrug.
Beorn slaps his forehead. “So they don’t know anything about you, either?” He looks at the sky. “How can that be?” He stands and picks up Øg, who rides in his arms, leaning away circumspectly. Beorn walks the shore, talking to the babe—my babe.
Randolf puts on her clothes, though they’re still mostly wet. I do too. My head swirls with thoughts I can’t catch long enough to make sense of them.
Beorn comes back. “I won’t tell. On either of you. But I have a proposition. For one or all of you. Secrecy is a bad life. There’s a better alternative.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I tie a knot in the end of the thread that attaches the sole to the top, and my new pair of shoes is finished. I put them on and draw the leather strings tight around the ankles. In Downpatrick my shoes were made of a single piece of hide, so they had wrinkles that got hard and rubbed when they were wet. The good part, though, was that you could always work them with a stone to reshape them as your foot grew. Norse shoes, instead, have two parts sewn together, which means you have to make
new ones as your feet grow. But it also means they’re smooth all over. And goat hide is lighter than cowhide, and tougher, too. My last pair is still in decent shape—and I’ve worn them since I got here. The only reason I made myself a new pair is that I want to start this journey with the best protection my feet can have. We’re walking, after all. And the scars on the bottom of my feet are a constant reminder of the importance of shoes.
I have a sack with apples—nothing else. I came to this farm with nothing—I have no right to leave it with more.
But, oh, what a stupid thought. I’m leaving with Øg—and he’s so much more. I get to carry him. I insisted. And Beorn agreed, even though Randolf wanted to carry him too.
I kissed little Gudrun good-bye, and Åse as well. I’ll miss them. They’re Øg’s and my sleeping buddies. I expect they’ll miss us, too. And I kissed Gunhild good-bye. She cried, which made me blink back tears. She’s always been kind to us. The rest of them just gave me a nod or a wave. And Thorkild didn’t even do that.
I’m happy to be leaving this home where I didn’t fit and starting out on a journey. It’s a strange happy, like walking on a high log over a raging current in a fjord and being giddy with the joy of not falling. I’ve never walked on such a log, but I’m imagining what it would feel like. I sense my breath floating in front of me, as though my spirit leads me. I don’t know what will become of me in the next place we go to, but I have to believe I’ll find a home. After all, I found a home here at this farmstead when I was so wounded and could offer nothing. Now I’m strong; it will be easier this time. So when Beorn offered to take Randolf and Øg and me away, to a town farther south, I didn’t hesitate.
Randolf, likewise, is happy. Her feelings are a lot like mine. She owns nothing, just the new shoes I made her as well, and the outfit that she stole from the father of the family who owned her—the father of Øg. She’s still wearing it, cloak and all, still hidden. She doesn’t want this family to know a girl lived with them almost a year. She doesn’t want word of her to ever find its way back to that family she left. Legally, they own her.
But how can it be legal, really, if she was stolen in the first place? Still, I keep silent. Randolf needs protection—whether she should need it or not. I suspect the reason she accepted Beorn’s offer is to put more distance between herself and Øg’s father.
Beorn is standing beside Karl, hanging his head forward like dogs do. Randolf is half behind Beorn. Beorn and Karl stayed up late last night arguing—and it looks like the argument isn’t over yet, though we’re standing in the yard by the house, ready to leave. I hear the word fuðflogi. Fuð is the word for a girl’s private parts. Flogi is a man who flees something. What would it mean to be a man who flees a girl’s privates? I swing Øg onto my shoulders and come up behind Karl to listen.
“It’s a man’s duty to take a wife and have children, no matter what his pleasures are.” Karl’s voice shakes with anger. “You can do both—but you can’t ignore your duty.”
“I know my duty.” Beorn thumps his chest with his fist. “I plan on fulfilling it.”
“Then why steal Randolf? He’s better off here.”
“I’m going of my own will.” Randolf lifts her chin. She’s holding a small clay jug in each hand—she made them, so she’s allowed to take them—full of cow’s milk for Øg. Somehow knowing how small she is without all those clothes on makes her look pitiful to me now.
“We took you in. We treat you well. Like family.”
“And I worked hard for you. I earned my keep. I’m grateful, but now I’m leaving.”
“But you’re supposed to marry me.” It’s Åse. She’s inserted herself into the middle of the group. She grabs a corner of Randolf’s cloak and hangs from it, insistently.
I laugh at the idea of six-year-old Åse thinking about marriage, but no one else does.
“Who told you that?” says Randolf.
“Thora.” Åse looks at Karl. “That’s right, isn’t it? Randolf’s supposed to marry me.” Åse’s mother died in childbirth, and her father died of an ax wound that turned his leg black. Gunhild told me. So she’s under Karl and Thora’s care, even though they’re not blood relatives. Living together on this isolated farmstead made them family. Karl and Thora are the oldest couple; they’re the ones to arrange a marriage for her.
Karl puts his hand on Åse’s head. “It would be a good match someday,” he says to Randolf. “New blood. You’d have strong children.”
“And Alfhild shouldn’t go either,” says Åse, looking at me with accusation on her face. “She’s my sister now. And she’s supposed to marry Thorsten.”
I drop my jaw in astonishment. Thorsten’s eyes meet mine. His face changes from surprised to hurt. He’s never been nice to me, and now he’s hurt I won’t marry him? I make an ugly face. He raises a fist. I move closer to Beorn.
“You can pick up all your belongings and go north, across the fjord, to the settlement at Aggersborg,” says Beorn to Karl. “There are advantages to living with several families, all together. There you’ll easily make good matches for the children.”
“Don’t talk like you know things.” Karl folds his arms across his chest. “I bet you wander all year. I bet you don’t even have a home in the north. You never name the town—never. You don’t fit anywhere. You know nothing.”
I’m stunned. Beorn was treated like a king when he arrived. Or more—like an angel. I wonder if he feels like Lucifer now, fallen so far from grace.
“Rubbish.” The word bursts from Thorkild. He’s been leaning over a shovel, looking at the ground through all this, but now he looks straight at me. “I knew you were rubbish. You’d be dead without us. And this is how you repay us. Leave this place. Now.”
“Farewell, Karl.” Beorn puts on his leather pack.
Karl turns to Randolf. “It’s going to rain.”
“It often rains,” says Randolf.
“Not like this. It’s going to pour. I can tell weather. This won’t be like usual. You have no idea what it means to travel by foot in a rain like the one that’s coming. Every day will turn a little colder till it’s sleet night and day. You’ll be so drenched, your bones will hurt.”
Randolf and Beorn walk away. I follow.
“Don’t think you can come crawling back to us when you’re sick and weak,” calls Karl. “You’ve never been strong anyway. Thorsten can do more work and harder work than you, and he’s younger. You think you earned your keep? Bah!”
But we’re walking. Vigi races around us, ecstatic at having so many companions to keep track of—and the sky is clear and our bellies are full. The world is wonderful.
We walk, keeping the fjord to our right. The general direction is southwest. We walk. And walk. Time passes slowly. We plod. I count steps. By midday, I think I’ll die. With every step, the pouch of apples bumps against my thigh. And Øg is heavy. He wanted down so many times and I couldn’t let him, and he pulled my hair and screamed and then fell asleep, his head on mine. Somehow asleep he’s even heavier. “Can we stop a bit?”
Beorn smiles. “Tired?”
“I’ve got apples. Don’t we want to eat them?”
Beorn tilts his head. “Can’t you eat and walk at the same time, Alfhild?”
“It’s better to eat sitting down.”
“You’re tired,” says Randolf. “Admit it. You’re tired from carrying Øg.”
“I didn’t say that. I’d never say that.”
Beorn laughs. He leads the way through the little stand of trees at the fjord’s edge and sheds his leather pack. Randolf puts down the jugs, then lifts Øg off my shoulders and sits with him sprawled across her lap. I feel instantly lighter—as though I weigh nothing—as though I could walk for days, weeks, without getting tired. I drop to the ground and stretch my legs out in front of me, enjoying the carefree flyaway feeling.
“Thorkild told me you were stubborn, Alfhild, but he didn’t tell me you were the most stubborn girl alive.” Beorn hands me a horn he
’s filled with water from the fjord.
I drink it down. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to pass Øg to someone else.”
I bite into an apple. The sharp sweetness soothes me. “I could allow you. If you really want.”
“Ah. These are not going to be easy days ahead, are they?”
“She can behave when she wants to,” says Randolf, shooting me a quick warning look. “Don’t regret taking us. Please.”
“I don’t.” Beorn hands an apple to Randolf and takes one for himself. “It’s autumn.” He jerks his chin toward Øg, who’s starting to squirm. “The boy’s waking.”
And Øg comes awake with a screech. He sits up on Randolf’s lap and screams.
“He’s starving!” I reach for a jug.
“Not that one.” Randolf quickly passes me the other jug.
I’m confused. I thought both held milk. I open the one she gave me and dip in a finger and stick it in Øg’s mouth. He pushes my hand away. He’s never eaten anything but milk from Gunhild’s breasts. I dip in my finger again and push it into his mouth again. He bites me. I yelp. He’s got two bottom teeth now. What am I to do? He’s got to eat. I dip again and make a quick jab at his mouth. He grabs my face and scratches in fury.
“You’re living up to your name,” I cry. “What will become of you? You’ll starve.”
Randolf puts her hands on Øg’s cheeks and turns his face to her firmly. She’s chewing apple, chewing and chewing, and now she puts her lips to Øg’s and I’m scared for a moment that he’ll bite, but he doesn’t, he just waits, and she spits. I smell the apple mash. It’s like a mother bird with her young. Øg’s eyes go wide. He splutters and pulls away. But then he opens his mouth and lunges for Randolf’s mouth again. She feeds him the whole apple that way.
And now Randolf takes a swig from the jug. She feeds Øg milk from her mouth.
It’s as natural as water sinking into the ground.
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