He looks up at me, and his eyes are fully open now. Maybe the dark of the hut hasn’t bothered his vision, after all. “Pater noster,” he says.
“You can’t use prayers as an excuse to do nothing. You’re coming with me.” I grab his arm and pull. He’s heavier than he looks. I yank. “Come on! We’re going together. Immalle.” The Gaelic word bursts from me without thought.
“Immalle?” Papi takes my hand in both of his. “What do you want of me, child of Eire?” he says in the language my father used, the language my mother used.
I am transfixed. I haven’t spoken my old language for so long, I don’t know how to begin. My throat has grown all thick. But I remember basic things. “Tar—come,” I say.
Papi stands. We walk to the cart. He wobbles; there’s no chance he can make it to the bog. So I urge him into the back of the cart, then push him up when he can’t do it alone.
“Thank you, child.”
I take the cart reins.
Papi sings as I lead Capall. His songs are unfamiliar to me, but at least they are in Gaelic, not Latin. Clean, clear Gaelic. The songs run through me like water.
Though the horse is surefooted, I still choose the driest path. Beorn has taught me never to court disaster with the wagon. We stop at the bog edge. It spreads out vast and beautiful, all orange and green. I help Papi out and show him how to slip on the straps of the basket. When it’s secure on his back, I give him a knife. I put on the other basket.
Papi sucks in a huge breath and heaves a sigh. Then he sets out, slow and plodding, leaving foot impressions in the spongy peat that quickly fill with water. I step to the side of his path, for fear of sinking so much I get stuck. I call out for him to stop. He’s so weak, I expect him to fall any moment, and then I’ll have to lug him out of that muck. If I’m strong enough. I call out again. Even if he manages to cut peat from the middle of the bog, that’s too far to carry it back to the cart. But Papi slogs on, mindlessly.
All right. Let him wander. The man spoke my childhood language; I can forgive him anything now. Besides, I’ll probably work faster alone. And now I bet Beorn knew I’d have to work alone. He didn’t think I could even get Papi out of the hut. He hasn’t been able to, after all. So he’s teaching me a lesson—reminding me it was my idea to take the monk in.
I stop and cut into the turf, grabbing the two ends of the handle that go perpendicular to the blade with both hands and pushing that blade straight down. I slice out neat bricks. It was Thorkild who taught me how, back up north, near the Limfjord. I remember how impressed Beorn was with my skill the first time I did it with him. That was gratifying. It’s backbreaking work, but it’s necessary. I make a stack of ten turf bricks. Then I stop and load half of them into the basket and carry them back to the cart and return for the next half and carry them to the cart, and then go to work cutting ten more. I let the rhythm of the motions fill me. There’s a chill in the air. Good—without it I’d be far too hot.
When I’m just coming back into the bog after putting my fifth set of ten into the cart, Papi shouts. I don’t recognize the words he says, but he repeats them with urgency, so I hurry to him. He’s standing in water that fully covers his feet, and the surface of it changes from blue to purple as I approach. I touch it; it films my fingers, like oil.
Papi smiles with teeth that are gray and pitted. It is a horrible smile. But I try not to show that on my face. He stabs down into the soggy mess so inexpertly, I’m afraid he’ll cut his feet. But then he sets the knife aside and peels back a layer of peat. He kneels on it and digs into the orange mud with both arms and comes up with handfuls of rocks.
I smack two together. They’re solid! I smile wide. This is bog iron. It’s the only metal that Jutland doesn’t have to buy from foreigners, but it’s still hard to find. “Go maith—good!” I’m so glad I remembered how to say that.
Together we feel around in the mush for hard lumps. We fill the baskets, but then Papi is too weak to carry his, so it’s up to me. That’s all right, though. I’d be willing to carry bog iron all day. We gather another three baskets of iron. We have to stop because we’re down to clay now; it would take a shovel to dig through. But what we have is plenty. Beorn will be able to sell it to the smith for smelting, and who knows how many ax heads he’ll make from it? Axes are prized; some men insist on being buried with theirs, and hundreds are lost in battles. There’s always a market for axes. This iron will more than pay for Papi’s keep, even if he stayed another year.
Why, I can ask Beorn to give me back my amber! Then I’ll have money when I leave to find Mel.
I lead Capall homeward, and Papi rides on her back because the cart is full. He talks the whole way. He tells how he grew up knowing he’d travel the world and devote his life to Christ. His sisters and brothers were rotten, disobedient, and lazier than sin. But he had a mission from the start. Then these Norsemen invaded his area and robbed the church and murdered innocents. That’s when he knew that his travels had to start immediately and in the land of the most vicious people of all. So he came here. He’d thought he had failed, but now he had me and I would help him. I would be his voice, since he never learned Norse. Together we could convert these people.
I listen, but only for the words, the plain old words. Máthir, athir, bráthir—mother, father, brother. I don’t care how holy he is. I don’t care that he’s crazy and thinks he can turn Norsemen into Christians. All I care is that he keeps speaking Gaelic. I laugh in joy.
Then, suddenly, I realize the opportunity. “Do you know of the town Downpatrick?”
“Everyone knows of Downpatrick.”
“Have you heard of King Myrkjartan?”
“The unfortunate? Of course.”
A chill seizes me. “Unfortunate?”
“His son was mutilated. His daughters were lost.”
Ah, that. I know all that. “Does he search for them?”
“For a whole year he sent out soldiers to scour the countryside. But no trace.”
“Did he look abroad?”
“Everywhere, they say. He’s posted a reward for anyone who can bring him news of them. And he’s promised a treasure to anyone who can return them.”
Faithful Father. Faithful Mother. A wound inside me that I hardly knew existed heals in a quiet instant. The Lord has not denied me love, after all. “Can you tell me about them—the king, the queen, the prince?”
“They say the king is a great strategist; he’s the leader of the most feared army in Eire. They say the queen was always beautiful, and tragedy has only enhanced that beauty.”
I’m breathing hard. “And the son?”
“His name is Nuada.”
I smile. “So his name has become known? He’s famous?”
“Of course. His hand was cut off, like the arm of the mythical King Nuada. The coincidence fascinates everyone. But unlike the mythical king, this Nuada refused to have a silver limb made. He wears a sleeve that ends empty but for ribbons. They say one of his sisters loved ribbons. He wears them for her memory. He strokes them as he tells stories.”
I knew it. I knew Nuada would become a seanchaí. “And I bet they say his stories are the best anywhere. I bet he tells about handsome Cúchulainn and his warriors.” And I’m so happy to remember that hero. His name just bubbled up in my head after all these years.
“No one hears Nuada’s stories. He tells them only to the queen and king. So maybe the bit about stroking the ribbons is fanciful. You know how the Irish like to embellish.”
But it’s not fanciful; I know it. I’m the one who tied ribbons around the piggies’ ears. Nuada wears ribbons for me. Far to the west I still have a family who loves me, who longs for me. They did come looking for me—they did! “I’ll make you strong, and then we can go back to Eire together.”
“I’ll never go back, child. I told you. This is my destiny.” Papi talks about how all these months of sitting on the frozen ground praying, all these bleak months, are now ended. The Lord answered his pr
ayers by bringing me to him.
It’s nothing but nonsense. Maddening nonsense. I could slap him silly for saying it. He believes it, though. This monk is completely beyond reasoning with. He’s never going back to my home. He’s not my answer.
Still, I vow to myself that before Papi leaves Ribe, I’ll get him to promise to find a way to send back a message to Father. That’s it! That’s the real answer. Then Father will come for me. And we’ll find Mel together. I laugh in happiness.
When we get home, Beorn is already there. As Papi and I enter, he’s telling Ástríd what a good worker Egill is and how the youth is coming for dinner. Beorn looks at us with amazement. I was right: He thought Papi was still sitting stubbornly in the hut and I had to do all the work alone. I’m prepared for this. I hold out both hands palm down, but cupped. Obligingly, Beorn looks at my hands. Good! I turn them over with a grin.
Beorn takes the iron rocks from me. “How did you find them?”
“Papi did. He stood in this oily stuff.”
“A járnbrák—iron slick,” says Beorn.
“A járnbrák,” I say, happy to learn the new word. Norse is a good language, too. “He found it and dug out rocks and showed me. We got baskets and baskets full.”
Beorn looks at Papi.
But Papi’s leaning against the door frame, muttering in Gaelic, “Cotlud.” Sleep.
“He’s weak, Beorn. Can he rest here?”
Egill arrives right then. His face is flushed. “I see the cart is full. I’ll help unload it.”
“We can stack the peat together,” I say.
Egill doesn’t answer. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t look at me. He’s been moody all winter. Probably he hates being close to Papi. He hates foreigners, like most people here.
“Leave the iron in the cart,” says Beorn. “I’ll bring it to the smithy tomorrow.” He turns to the monk. “Papi, will you eat inside with us tonight?”
I feel all warm at the unexpected invitation.
Papi seems to recognize the name we call him. He looks at me, as if asking me to translate. Oh no! I spin on my heel and go out the door before he can start spouting Gaelic to me.
Egill follows me. We stack the peat under the awning that Ástríd has strung up along the side of the house for this purpose. We make tripods of peat bricks, so they’ll dry faster and be ready to use in the fireplace sooner.
We’re finishing and Egill still hasn’t said a word to me. “Papi’s not awful,” I say at last. “And he’s not useless. He discovered the járnbrák.”
“Wrong. He is awful, Alfhild, or whatever your real name is.”
I fall back a step, but I keep my mouth shut, eyes down. I won’t ask what he means.
He steps toward me. “I heard you. I heard you speaking that foreign language.”
I shake my head. “Papi spoke. Not me.”
“You understood him. I know. I was following the cart, because I was going to surprise you, and then I saw. I saw you laugh.”
“I laughed at the sounds of the words.”
“You laughed at the meaning. Will you deny it? Will you lie?”
I stare at the ground.
“I know you’re not Beorn and Ástríd’s child. And I know you’re not her sister—you couldn’t look less alike. But no one says where you come from.”
If I run into the house, Egill will follow, and who knows what he’ll say to them all. There is nothing to do but let him finish. I lift my chin. He’s gotten much taller this winter.
“You’re a slave, aren’t you?”
“No!”
“You are. Look how short you are. I’ll buy you. I’ll buy you from Beorn. You’ll be my slave. And then you’ll have to kiss me. Whenever I want.”
I force myself to put my hand on Egill’s arm. He jerks to his full height. It is all I can do to keep from shuddering. “We can talk. We must talk. But not now. I have a secret, Egill, but it’s not what you think. And neither Ástríd nor Beorn knows it.”
“Tell me.”
“Not now. The telling will be long. They’re waiting.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“I’m exhausted, Egill. I cut peat all day. I’ll need to rest tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, or I will tell Beorn my suspicions tonight.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I disentangle myself from sleeping Búri’s arms, gather my clothes and pouch, and creep to the door. Vigi stirs. I exhale onto the dog’s eyes. He gives a humph and lets his head fall back onto the floor. But now I realize I can’t leave the others without a farewell too.
Alof has thrown off the covers in her sleep, and her clothing has bunched around her chest. I rub my nose along the soft skin of her back. Then I bend over Búri and flutter my eyelashes against his cheek. I blow kisses to Ástríd and Beorn, across the room.
I grab my cloak off the hook and open the heavy door just enough to slide out, so the whipping wind won’t enter. There’s no moon, the clouds are so dense. I move as quickly as I can without stumbling and go all the way to the river before I stop to dress. I’m thoroughly chilled. It was stupid not to dress before going outside, but I feared disturbing their sleep; if they woke, they’d try to follow. They’d want to protect me.
I want to protect them, too. So I’m leaving. This way they don’t have to face people’s condemnation for harboring a foreigner who isn’t their slave. And I don’t have to put them through the agony of figuring out how they feel about having an Irish girl in their home.
When Egill returns in the morning and sees I’m gone, he may keep his mouth shut. After all, there’s nothing to gain from exposing me now. But if he should talk, it won’t matter, because I’ll be gone and people will think that Beorn and Ástríd cast me out when they discovered the truth. They will be exonerated in the eyes of Ribe folk.
Egill always said I’d regret taking in the monk. He’s doing his best to make it so. I don’t like the idea of regret. It’s stupid to wish you’d done otherwise. You can’t change the past. All you can do is learn from your actions, so you make good decisions in the future.
Besides, who can regret saving a life?
I find a small boat, and I paddle across the river. I wish I could leave the boat in the open on the far shore, so that the owner will see it and get someone to ferry him across to fetch it. But then he’d figure out it was me who did it, and they’d know which way I’d gone. So I hide it in the scrub. It might not be found for days.
I know exactly where I’m going. I’ve known it since Beorn first talked about the big slave market: I’m going to Heiðabý. South and east of here, over the ridge. If Mel was sold as a slave, there’s a good chance it happened in that town.
I don’t know how far it is—several days at least. There’s a path along the river that goes east, and if I walked on it, the going would be easier. But I’d risk meeting travelers who would know I came from Ribe; there’s no other town around. And they would talk of me when they got to town. A girl alone is a phenomenon. People in Ribe would realize it was me. No one must know where I’ve gone—neither enemy nor friend.
So I note the wind direction. As the rising sun warms the land, winds go any direction. But at night, winds blow toward the sea, which is due west. Sailing with Beorn taught me that. Since it’s night, I assume this wind is going west, and I head southeast across meadows, through beech forests.
If somehow the winds change course before sunrise, I can still know which way is east by following the slope of the land. Uphill means I’m moving away from the sea—eastward. It’s only a slight incline right now, because I’m traveling on a diagonal, but it’s there. The road we took from the north ran along a high ridge. If I keep going uphill, I’ll find that road eventually.
I am aware that by listing all these cautions and all the things I know, I am trying to calm myself. I hate being vulnerable again. And I’m furious at Egill. And more furious at myself. How on earth could he have followed the cart close
enough to hear Papi’s words and my laughter without my sensing he was there? Inexcusable. The only way to be safe is to be constantly vigilant. I learned that at eight. Here I am, twelve. I have no excuse.
And I’m crazy at the fact that I’m leaving the four people I have come to love so tenderly. Grief hammers inside my head. But I knew I’d leave them in a few years. My mission nags at me. I must find Mel. We will go back to Eire, to the family that still aches for us. We’ll go together. Immalle.
Still, I’m too young to be on my own yet. That means I have to find another family to worm my way into for a few years. With Beorn and Ástríd it happened by accident; I didn’t design it. I don’t know how to design such a thing. But I can learn. And I’ll be in Heiðabý, at least; the right place to start looking for her once I’m old enough.
I took nothing with me but a pouch of food. I thought of taking the amber in Beorn’s personal chest. I gave it to him as payment for Papi’s upkeep, but now that Papi found bog iron, he has paid his own upkeep. So the amber should be mine again. But I couldn’t talk with Beorn about that without him sensing that I needed the amber, and then he might have guessed I was planning on leaving. And I couldn’t simply take it; that might have left him feeling robbed. I want him to feel he gained from having me. I want the loss of me to sear him.
What a proud and an unchristian thought.
Papi didn’t feel he had to justify his upkeep. He was prepared to be fed forever and do nothing in return. Before, I saw that as selfishness, but now I think it’s humility.
I could never be that humble. That’s why the only thing in my pouch is food. Cod: I caught it and preserved it with salt from seaweed I gathered. Cabbage: I planted, tended, and harvested it, then I rolled the leaves tight and buried them in sand for keeping. Onions: I stored them in hay in the animal room. I didn’t take cheese, because Ástríd makes the cheese all by herself. I didn’t take smoked ham, because Beorn does the smoking all by himself.
I should have. It would have been a gift to them to let them know they were taking care of me even far away. I cheated them of that small consolation. I’m mad at myself for being so stingy with them, so mean-spirited.
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