Hidden

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Búri stands at the open central door. The rain has turned hard already; it thuds on the thatched roof. The wind howls. “Where’s Mother?” Búri pulls on his fingers and turns in a circle on the packed dirt floor. Each stamp makes a small cloud of ash rise around him, for we scatter hearth ash on the floor to help keep it dry. He’s over three and a half now—old enough to worry. I notice that he doesn’t ask where Alof, his little sister, is. I’d smile at the sweetness of jealousy, except I’m as worried as Búri is.

  But, thank everything good, I don’t have to answer, for the animal room door bangs open and noise enlivens our entire home. Búri laughs and races into that room. Horses and cows, pigs and goats, sheep—and best of all, Ástríd with Alof in a sling at her chest, shooing the animals inside with nervous words of comfort. I’m the one who knows how to bring the animals in right. It’s just accident that our roles were reversed today, and I wound up bringing in Búri while Ástríd wound up fetching the animals. But I shouldn’t criticize her in my thoughts; she got them in, after all, even the ornery pigs. She did well.

  Búri runs to Ástríd and throws his arms around her legs. I move from animal to animal, a scratch behind the ear, a pat on the rump, a rub between the eyes, until they’re all quiet. They huddle close, as though they, too, realize this is not a normal rainfall. By the time I return to the hearth, Ástríd’s got stew going in the iron cauldron over the fire. She and Búri sing loud, and little Alof crows along. It’s as good a response to fear as any, for I know that Ástríd’s mind is where mine is: Beorn went out on the boat this morning.

  Beorn has turned out to be a rather poor farmer. Try as he does, he can’t quite deal with farm rhythms—the way one season is all planting and the next is all tending and the next is all harvesting and the next is all preserving. It bores him. He likes variety in his day—that’s what he had when he was a wandering skald. So now he leaves the farming to Ástríd and me, and he spends his day in a boat. He fishes some. And he trades along the west coast of Jutland, going by boat because it’s faster. He sings and tells stories everywhere he goes. Lucky for him, small farmsteads keep popping up; it’s easy to find people who want a skald’s services. And he always comes home with something useful or beautiful.

  Today he went fishing.

  I try not to picture him in his boat. I still hate boats. No Irish girl should hate boats. No Norse girl should hate boats. But I loathe them. They make me think of Mel, lost somewhere across some sea, in who knows what country. I feel stricken.

  But Beorn is not lost. He’s just fishing. Close by.

  We smell the ocean from our farm, but we can’t see it. The town is a good ways up the river from the sea. I’m sure the sea is wild, though. It has to be with a wind like this.

  The house shudders. Now I can see why the farm up north had a pit house; they’re sturdy. The homes down here are aboveground. But the roof is held up by posts, not just walls. So it shouldn’t come apart. And Beorn is a good builder. We’re safe.

  Where is he? Please, whatever god or gods there may be, please, don’t let Beorn be lost at sea. We need him. We love him.

  Muffled crashes puncture the air. I imagine flying debris. Uprooted trees.

  We sit with the firelight flickering on our faces, and I hug myself tight. Ástríd speaks very softly, so we have to strain to hear. I recognize the trick—that’s how Beorn gets everyone to listen close. She tells the story of when the god Thor visited the giant Hymir and ate so much the giant got mad at him. So when they went fishing and Thor asked for bait, the giant told him to take care of himself. Furious, Thor ripped off the head of one of Hymir’s oxen. So Hymir got scared and they rowed fast, but they were rowing so hard, Hymir feared they’d disturb the horrible serpent that lived there. And they did! That was Thor’s plan—to make the serpent take the bait so he could smash his skull. But when the giant saw the serpent floundering there, he quick cut the line. The monster serpent sank back to the murky depths, defiant as ever.

  Ástríd gives a triumphant laugh, and I know she’s trying to soothe us. I know she’s telling stories because if Beorn were here, that’s what he’d be doing. But I don’t see the comfort in this story.

  As though she reads my face, Ástríd goes quiet. She nurses Alof while I measure out stew for Búri and me. The handle of the ladle is a carved bird head—Egill, a boy in town, made it for me. We eat greedily. Ástríd sings with her bird lilt. Finally Búri plants a kiss on his mother’s cheek, on my cheek, and, honorable boy, on his sleeping sister’s cheek. He curls up in his berth. I recognize the method: Sleep is a good escape.

  The noise outside feels far away, because Beorn packed the spaces between the wall timbers so tightly. But we know the storm is right there, right outside. It screams.

  I bring Ástríd a bowl of stew. She shakes her head. “You’re nursing,” I say. Her lip quivers. I work to keep mine steady. “Don’t think the worst. It’ll only wear you out.”

  Ástríd takes the bowl and eats. “Thank you, Alfhild.”

  “You made the stew. Don’t thank me.”

  “I mean thank you for all of it. Thank you for saving Búri at his birth. Thank you for not telling Beorn what I did. Thank you for living with us and helping us.”

  “What else could I do?”

  “Any number of things. Don’t think I don’t know that. You’re the most unusual child I’ve ever known. I’m glad you chose to stay with us. You filled a hole.” She drops her head. Her braids flop on her chest. “The sea has stolen so much from me. I had a sister once.”

  I didn’t know that. When she says no more, I move closer so that our sides touch. “So did I.” I pray the sea steals nothing more from either of us.

  I undo her braids and comb her hair. Then she combs mine. And we rest once more side to side. We fall asleep that way.

  Then the door crashes open and the hearth fire is blown out, and Beorn stumbles in and drops Vigi on the floor. His wet clothes slap around him. He fights the wind to shut the door. He and Ástríd hug while I get the fire going again and Vigi whimper-barks.

  Beorn tells how he was fishing when he saw the clouds and knew it would get bad. He rowed toward shore, but the pitch of the ocean was too strong, and the boat flipped. The sea was totally crazy. It took all his strength to swim to the beach. He wanted to rest there, but it was clear the sea was rising, so he dragged himself to the closest home. By then the rain came down in torrents, and the man of the house begged for help getting his animals to safety. Beorn thought about us, but he knew we would have already done it—he knew we were strong. So he helped that family, and when he saw other families struggling, his energy came back and he helped another, with the winds furiously ripping at him. And all at once he panicked at the thought of us alone. He practically crawled his way home against the buffets, clutching Vigi in his arms so the wind wouldn’t steal the hound away.

  I give Vigi a bowl of stew. The dog eats it in three gulps. Beorn is almost as fast. He finishes the stew and drinks beer from his big wood cup and burps loudly. The room sighs with the smell of bog myrtle—the spice Ástríd adds with hops into the barley beer.

  “I’m glad the boat is gone,” says Ástríd. “Do you want my advice?”

  Beorn smiles. “Even the god Óðinn asks Frigg’s advice.”

  “Yes,” I say, boldly interrupting, “but he doesn’t listen to her.”

  Beorn hesitates briefly, then laughs. We all do.

  We are together, safe. That’s all any of us needs now. Tonight I am glad not to be sleeping in my hermit’s hut. Tonight I am very glad to have this family. I make a final prayer, the one I make every night—that my Irish family, far and scattered, should be well and safe—and I fall deep asleep.

  * * *

  In the morning the beach is a mess of broken branches and seaweed. Most of the townsfolk are back in Ribe, cleaning up there. The only ones out here on the shore besides Beorn and Vigi and me are the scavengers. We walk slowly, even Vigi, for the dog has aged
quickly. He moves like an old man now, his legs stiff.

  Fortunately, the scavengers have discovered the remains of an old ship washed up on the rocks at the far south end, so they’ve converged there in hopes of finding treasures in the wreckage. They’re stupid, it seems to me, since if the hapless sailors who sank with that boat had their wealth and jewels with them—an admitted likelihood—those coins and precious metals and stones would have been in their personal wooden chests. The chests would have sunk straight down; the ship, most likely, as well. Over time the ship was buffeted by the currents and busted apart—as the wreckage proves—but the chests simply sank deeper, as heavy things will. If there are treasures to find, it will take deep diving to do it, and I doubt anyone could dive that deep. Besides, who would know where to dive?

  I look at Beorn, and he looks back with eyes that tell me he also finds the scavengers foolish, but he enjoys that about them. I like living with Beorn. I like the way he uses his eyes. I like that he’s not as critical as I am. And I’m grateful that he is not lamenting the loss of his fishing boat. He’s lucky to be alive; that fact stays his tongue.

  The sea is still high, with perfect waves that crest, linger an instant, then crash silver white. I love the sound, even though I know what destruction they brought. But there’s a quiet sound now too. A little pop. Pop, pop, pop. I look at Beorn quizzically.

  He’s already smiling and kneeling. With both hands he digs through the sand. I help. And we’re scooping up scallops by the tens. They’ve been washed out of their grassy beds somewhere in the shallows north of here. I set one on the surface of the wet sand, and it opens and shuts its shell in a quick flap, making a soft pop as it disappears under sand.

  Beorn works at filling our bucket.

  But I’m walking past sponges and shells and seaweed to a large, golden hunk, about the size of Alof’s head. I hold it up to the sun. It glows, almost translucent. I know amber. Everyone here prizes it for making beads, amulets, and delicate carvings of animals. It’s soft, easily scratched. And sometimes it has parts of creatures inside—a bee wing, a spider leg—which makes it more valuable.

  Inside this piece are three ants, whole and perfect. I turn it over. Not a scratch.

  I am the daughter of a king. I knew gold, silver, all precious stones, when I was still small enough to sit on people’s laps. And Ribe is a trading town. So I’ve seen the finely worked jewelry that traders bring. This is by far the most precious object I’ve ever seen.

  I look back at Beorn, piling scallops up past the bucket brim. I open my cloak and ease my treasure into the pouch that hangs from my shoulder strap, attached by a brooch.

  Then I gather the smaller pieces of amber scattered across the sand. There are many. A forest of submerged pine trees must have been washed loose by the violence of that storm. Some pieces are dark reddish brown, some straw yellow. Resin is a marvel that way. I set aside the darkest one for Alof, the lightest one for Búri. I’ll let Ástríd choose the pieces she wants. The rest are for Beorn. For I know he’ll build himself another boat. He has to travel, he has to tell stories. He can trade these amber pieces away.

  All but one.

  When Mother put Mel and me on the horse’s back and told us to ride away from Downpatrick and not come back till after the Vikings had been killed, she gave Mel a pouch. Inside it was Mel’s gold teething ring from when she was a baby. Mother said anyone would recognize it was worth lots of money, so anyone would know we were the children of royalty, and they’d take us in. Mel never showed it to anyone, though. Or not while I was still with her. She was saving it.

  It’s good to have something valuable. You never know when you’ll need it.

  I pat my pouch.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “What will you do with a boat that size?” Ástríd’s voice is an accusation.

  Beorn ushers her off to the side where Knud, the boat’s owner, can’t overhear them. “The same thing I did with my smaller boat.”

  “You can’t manage that big boat alone. It could hold six people!”

  “Not six. It’s built to be managed by three.”

  “You’re but one.”

  “I’ll hire help.”

  “And pay them with what?”

  “I won’t need more than one. I’m not crossing the ocean. I’ll simply skim along the coast. With one strong boy—who will be grateful for the opportunity to travel and learn a skill and earn his keep on the boat as we trade. I even have a boy in mind.”

  Ástríd walks in a tight, angry circle with Alof on her hip. “Maybe this boy, whoever he is, would be willing to work in exchange for experience on a trading trip—but never for just daily fishing off the coast right here in Ribe. And we can’t afford to share your meager fishing catch with anyone. So tell me, are you going to give up fishing altogether? Will you make your living entirely by trading? Will you leave me for weeks on end while you go on those infernal trading trips?” Her voice gets higher pitched with every question.

  “Of course not! I’ll fish. Even more than I did before, because now I’ll be able to go after bigger fish. I’ll sell to everyone in town, not just our neighbors.” He looks around in desperation and his eyes light on me and Búri, who are watching tensely. “And I don’t need to hire a boy for daily fishing, because I have Alfhild.”

  I flinch.

  “Alfhild?” Ástríd looks at me, her eyes wounded. “Did you agree to this?”

  I shake my head. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “But you’ll do it, won’t you, Alfhild?” Beorn’s voice is raspy. “I’ll teach you.”

  I look at the boat. It’s far smaller than the slave ship that stole me and Mel from Eire, but it’s still big—bigger than the little boat Thornkild had. How on earth could two people control such a boat? Beorn has a lot of experience . . . but so do I, more than I wish, and my experience with boats makes my stomach churn.

  “Farming is a good life,” says Ástríd, more softly now.

  “I know,” says Beorn. “But it’s not for me.” He touches my shoulder. “Alfhild?”

  I turn to him. Beorn’s face is rigid with need. He can’t possibly stay on the farm all the time—he wouldn’t survive. Where would I be without this man? I swallow down the sick that has risen in my throat. “All right.”

  Ástríd turns her back on me, while Beorn barters with Knud. From now on, one third of his catch will be Knud’s for as long as the man or his wife shall live. It’s not a bad arrangement, since the couple is old and not long for this life anyway. But I know that Ástríd is holding in a little scream of worry. I can hear it in the pulse in her neck. And it’s nothing compared to the wail I’m holding in. But she doesn’t know that.

  The very next day Beorn takes me out to the river. There’s hardly any farmwork this time of year, after all, and I’ve never shown aptitude for weaving or other home skills. So why delay? Nothing Ástríd says can dissuade him. I don’t even try.

  I follow his broad back, praying that cold weather will come early this year. Let it come now, in fact. Today. Allow me the winter to get used to this idea, please. Oh, please. I can face it in spring, not now. Let a storm come again. Please, something, anything.

  But the water stays calm, the skies stay clear, the wind is what Beorn calls auspicious. And so we sail, down the river, out to the sea. There are oars for use in dead air, of course, and chests to sit on if we need to row. But this boat was built for sailing.

  We start with lessons about wind. Wind can come from ahead, the side, behind—well, of course I knew that. So you have to wait for wind to come from the right direction in order to sail where you want to go. Either that, or use oars. Or, in a small boat, if you are strong and swift, you can learn tricks with moving the sail, but that risks capsizing the boat. All this means it is important to stay within sight of land, because wind can quickly change direction and confuse you. If the land gets suddenly cold, as when night approaches, wind will blow from the land. But when the land
warms up, it draws the air to it, making a sea breeze. And if you didn’t notice the shift, you’re lost. It’s all very tricky.

  We have a sunboard, which measures the sun’s height and lets us know whether we’re going south or north—but that’s only to use if we lose sight of land and, naturally, it can’t help in fog. We have a sunstone, too. It’s transparent and sparkles in the sun, and on foggy or cloudy days it shows the sun’s direction, but only if there’s at least a sliver of blue sky. It’s best not to count on the sunboard or the sunstone. Sailors know safety nets shred.

  So, basically, we are never to lose sight of land. That’s the first rule. Once on the open sea, it’s easy to get lost and not have any sense of where the closest land is. If all else fails, follow the birds. At this time of year, especially the pink-footed geese. Or seals. They have to rest on dry banks. But really, never let that happen. Never lose sight of land.

  This rule is fine with me. I’d rather be on land anyway.

  It isn’t just seeing the land that matters, though—because if you lose track and don’t notice for a while, when you look back at the land, you might be looking at something that isn’t the land you set out from. It can happen, even to seasoned sailors. You can think because the land is to your right, you’re heading north, when really, it’s land across the sea, and you’re turned around heading south. If the sun is out, that helps, but the sun is often hidden by clouds. So we have to memorize the landmarks. Islets. Little peninsulas. It’s important to distinguish between small inlets and bigger bays and which have undersea reefs; between soft ochre beaches and white silky beaches, and know which one is south of the other even though there are tens of them. It’s important to recognize the shape of hills, even low ones, and to know the areas where the red deer are most populous. At certain times of the day you can count on seeing them, and that can send you in the right direction—or not. Sand dunes characterize one stretch, gravel beaches characterize another. And if we see tall cliffs, white with black stripes, we know we’ve gone too far, all the way back to the Limfjord. This, too, must be memorized, although if we stick to plans, I’ll never see it—so my mind’s eye has to paint it clearly enough to stand firm as reality. All of it—fact and mystery—must be committed to memory. Beorn is adamant that I do this.