Hidden

by Donna Jo Napoli

  We’ve got the sail down and are rowing back, and Grima and Unn and I stand with our arrows aimed at the slave ship. But the ship is rowing away.

  Thyra shouts from the water. “I can’t see her!” And we’re all scanning the water.

  “There!” Jofrid dives in. She comes up with an arm around Ragnhild’s chest.

  We manage to get us all onboard again. Sopping and injured.

  “We were lucky,” says Jofrid.

  “I don’t count on luck,” says Ingun. “I told you. Luck can’t hold. We need to think it through ahead of time. We need a plan for every contingency.”

  “Right,” says Thyra. “But we did good today, thanks to you. We’re on our way to making the reputation we want.”

  “And what reputation is that?” I ask.

  “Terrors,” says Thyra.

  “Anything less and they will, indeed, come after us,” says Ingun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I’m rolling the last of the boiled goose eggs between my palms and sitting on the deck with my back against the mast. The ship is anchored in a sheltered lagoon between the shore and a belt of enormous rocks that rise from the water like gigantic gray whales. The rocks make the ship invisible from the sea. That means, for the moment, we do not have to stay alert. The feeling is rare. And somehow empty. I’m at a loss.

  My crewmates, all but Unn, have gone off to accompany Tofa home, on foot. Tofa is the woman the Russian slave dealers stole. She lives in a small settlement not far to the south of Birka, which will be our next stop.

  Unn is in the forest hunting. She knows little about archery. So standing with the arrow fitted into the bowstring and pretending to have her sights on the captain of the slave ship unnerved her. When we finally left without her having been called upon to shoot, she collapsed in a weak heap of gratitude. She has decided to become an expert marksman. I gave her a lesson this morning, and then she took off on her own to practice, swearing to bring back the evening meal. It will be a feat if she accomplishes it, for the forest to our south and west is nearly impenetrable—unlike the airy open woods of Jutland. She’d have to be very close to a target to have a clean shot.

  The children, Bolli and Sigurd, are gone. Tofa turned out not to be related to the boys, nor did she know them in the least. But she had been captured by the slave ship first, and so she saw where they were taken from. We returned them to their families yesterday and stayed for a feast that lasted far into the night.

  Their settlement consisted of nothing more than a hall plus perhaps ten small dwellings for families, and huts and pit houses for metalworking. And wells, so many wells you’d think they were afraid of dying of thirst. Maybe it doesn’t rain here the way it does in Jutland. The important point, though, is that they were self-sufficient. They had skis to cross snow, they had sledges to carry goods, they had horses for long-distance travel. But they could survive just fine all on their own if they needed to. Trading wasn’t necessary.

  That’s where the boiled goose eggs came from—that settlement. Bolli’s mother gave us a satchel of them and flat breads for travel. I peel and eat the egg slowly. The yolk is sunshine itself, but it cannot cheer me. I close my eyes.

  A man lost his hand, just like my brother Nuada lost his hand: an ax swung by a Norse person chopped it off. This is something about the Norse that I will never understand, this chopping off of hands and feet. It is a common punishment leveled at outlaws, particularly slaves. Though I had never seen it done before, I have seen more than one slave with a missing hand. Ingun dealt with that slave dealer just as an owner would deal with a wayward slave. She said it served him right; it was just.

  Logically, I see the justice. But I hate it. Especially since it was my fault. I let myself respond to the children’s plight in a wrong way. I was caught in the quicksand of their misery. Because I thought of Alof. And, I have to admit, because for that moment, their misery became mine. I was eight. I was terrified.

  I remember the training sessions that Earl gave little Hakon on military practice. Never think about things that make you frightened or sad—think only about things that make you angry and fierce. Those are rules of battle. They’re as important as the rule: Go easy at the start of the battle to see how bad it will be, then use everything you’ve got only if you need to. They’re as important as the rule: Spare the enemy’s ship, because it’s valuable to acquire—just like their weapons—so make them jump overboard rather than burn it. Burn their land if you have to, but not their ship.

  All the rules matter. What goes on in your head is as important as what goes on with your weapons. Warriors win because they know they will.

  I didn’t act properly as a warrior, and it cost that man his hand. And it could have cost Ragnhild her life—for the crew might not have been so furious at us if we hadn’t mutilated one of them, so she might not have wound up in the water, only barely conscious.

  Ingun and I talked privately this morning. She said what matters with an enemy is acting decisive. She said I am the first in command and I must never forget it—because the rest of us depend on it. I promised never to hesitate again.

  How does one keep a promise like that?

  I am furious with myself. If someone else had displayed such weakness, I’d have wanted to send her home. I must keep my promise to Ingun. We have a mission. And to be successful, we must become the terrors of the Baltic, as Thyra said.

  Mel was not sold in Miklagard. Mel was sold somewhere up here, on this sea, if she’s the famous witch. And I’m almost sure she is. Why? I don’t know. Maybe just because I have to have something that keeps hope alive—and this is the only thing so far.

  So we’ll go to Birka and find out what we need to know. Then we’ll rescue Mel. I turn my face to the early evening sun and hope the warmth will heal whatever there is to heal within me. I am not eight anymore. I will never be powerless again.

  And Beorn and Ástríd will protect Alof. They will protect Búri. Queen Tove and King Hók will protect Hakon. The children I love are safe.

  A low sound comes to me. Regular. I sit up and open my eyes. Unmistakable. It’s the steady, vigorous pull of oars. I grab my bow and fit an arrow in the string. The sound comes from my left. It stops, and I hear the splash of an anchor. But the rocks block my view of the ship. Men talk. It isn’t Norse. Someone’s crying. I hear shuffling. Then a scream. A man yelling. Laughter.

  A memory is jogged—something hideous. I go hot. Sick. It’s all a confusion, but at the same time too familiar.

  I have to know.

  I could climb the mast, but I wouldn’t be able to find a good perch up there. And I doubt I can scale the rock beside me. Plus, from the top of that rock I’d be an easy target, nowhere to hide.

  A man grunts, and others grunt in encouragement. A woman weeps.

  I remember Mel and another woman herding the children away from a weeping woman while the men closed around her. Mel wouldn’t let our eyes meet. She didn’t want me to know. But I did. And I do now. I cannot simply do nothing.

  I take off my shoes. I’m more surefooted without them. I fill my quiver and sling it over my shoulder. I hang the bow across my chest. I carry one arrow in my teeth. I sit on the gunwale, swing my legs around, and jump from the boat to the side of the rock. I grab hold, but the side is steep and without crags; my feet find no purchase. I slide, face mashing against the rock, barnacles just below the surface scraping me bloody, down, down with a splash.

  Did they hear? But there’s no choice of action at this point anyway.

  The arrow is still firmly in my teeth.

  I swim soundlessly to the far side of the rock, away from the weeping woman and the grunting men. My hands and eyes search. The waves on this side sweep me against the rock and batter me against sharp edges. But there’s a little ledge here. I manage to climb onto it. Then from there to a spiny ridge. Finally to the top. I flatten myself onto my belly and shimmy to the edge closest to the boat.

  Two sails. At
one end of the ship, five men guard a group of women and children. At the other end, two men grunt appreciatively while a man savages a weeping woman.

  I take the arrow from my teeth. I fit it into the bowstring. No one would fault me for meting out justice to a villain in the act. Or they wouldn’t if the victim were a free woman. But I don’t have a clear shot of the man on top of the woman. It kills me to wait, but I must.

  Now the men laugh. The lout climbs off the woman and searches for his trousers. One of the two watching men drops his trousers and takes his place on top of the woman.

  I aim and shoot.

  The man reaching for his trousers screams and claws at the arrow stuck in his shoulder.

  The second watching man looks around and spies me and points with a shout, moving just enough to give a clear shot.

  I aim and shoot.

  The man on top of the woman now screams and pulls at the arrow stuck in his rear.

  A spear flies at me. I don’t bother to duck; it doesn’t even come close. Slave dealers are not warriors. I am learning that quickly.

  “Put your captives on the shore and leave,” I shout.

  Two spears fly at me. A man is pulling up the anchor.

  “Drop that anchor or I will shoot you.”

  He continues pulling.

  I aim and shoot. The arrow lodges in his arm, sticking out on both sides. The air is nothing but screams now.

  “Shut up!” I shriek. “Put the captives on the shore and leave!”

  “They’re our slaves,” shouts one of the uninjured men.

  “No longer.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “All your captives—on the shore—now!”

  “You’re alone!” A spear flies at me.

  I have to duck this one. I aim. “Time is up. If you don’t put those captives on the shore now, I’ll shoot you. All of you. It will be easy.”

  The five uninjured men toss slaves into the water. Gagged and bound!

  I aim and shoot. A man screams, with an arrow embedded in his ribs.

  “Jump in and save them,” I scream. “If any of them drown, we’ll hunt you down and kill you all!” And I drop my bow and dive into the water.

  The sea is clear and the sun comes brightly through the water, and I have my hands on a child in an instant. I swim with her to shore and drag her onto the pebbled beach and run back into the surf, expecting a spear to pierce me at any second.

  To my amazement, three men are dragging women onto the beach. I don’t understand. I am without a weapon now. I am in easy range. They could kill me and leave.

  “Fast!” comes the shout. It’s Unn, standing on the shore with her arrow aimed. “We will kill you—all of you—if a single captive dies!”

  The crew race back to the surf and jump in. We are all searching for the fifth one they threw in—a child.

  “You,” shouts Unn to the one man onboard who isn’t injured. “Jump in and help!”

  The man looks panicked. He mimes swimming and shakes his head.

  A man in the water shouts. He hauls the body of a child onto the shore.

  “Now the rest of the captives onboard,” shouts Unn to the nonswimmer. “Unbind and ungag them. Then get them to shore. If anyone drowns, you die.”

  The man unbinds and ungags women and children. One child climbs over the side, jumps in, and swims to shore. The man hands the others over the side of the ship to the men waiting in the water. They bring the slaves to shore.

  Unn stands with arrow ready while the slaves on the shore are caring for one another. One woman holds the body of a girl upside down while another slaps her on the back. It’s chaos, but no one cries or screams. No one but the wounded men onboard.

  “Leave,” I shout.

  The crew in the water climb the hanging rope into their ship and pull up the anchor.

  One of the crew members points at me. “You’re the women pirates!”

  And I realize my hat is gone; my braid hangs over my shoulder.

  “You cut off a man’s hand. The medicine woman in Birka talked of it. You stole that ship’s slaves too. But you don’t have red hair. You’re supposed to be the red maidens.”

  Red hair? How did that start? “I’m the exception,” I say.

  “The women pirates! You’re like the wild women, the valkyrja, who fly over battle scenes, choosing who will get to go up to Valhøll and who will die ingloriously.”

  Die? We’ve never killed anyone. But the more frightful our reputation is, the better off we’ll be. “The terrors,” I shout. “Get out of here. Give up the slave trade.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It’s late August, and we’ve been hunting for news of Mel constantly. The slave market at Birka closes this week. Already the days are colder than winter nights in Jutland. We have come to this market every two weeks all summer long. This is the last time.

  Birka feels funny to me, as though it should be familiar. The Christian monk Ansgar, the same one who came to Ribe years ago and whose church was eventually burned to the ground, also came to Birka. He lasted only six months there. Nevertheless, I feel I should sense his Christian steps in the earth under my feet. But I don’t. This is a totally Norse city.

  Thyra, Matilda, and Sibbe, our latest crew member, walk ahead of me. Whenever we come to Birka, four women go into town. Two vary. A third is always someone with a local accent, who can speak for the rest of us without drawing suspicion. The fourth is me, since I’m the only one who could recognize Mel or the Russian crew that stole us. Which is a fancy, no matter how much I wish it weren’t; I don’t know if I could recognize either. My sister could look more like my mother by now—and I haven’t been able to imagine my mother’s face for years. When I try, it merges with Queen Tove’s.

  The rest of the crew stay with the ship, which we harbor in an inlet to the north of town, so we can come into the market on foot, looking no different from the women in town or those who travel here from nearby settlements. Today I wear a long woolen shift that ties at the neck with a drawstring, and a shorter outer shift on top, dyed pine green. Huge cast-bronze and tortoiseshell buckles the size of my hand fasten my shoulder straps. Jet beads are strung between the two buckles, and they make a nice heavy thump against my chest as I stride along. Suspended from one buckle are a key and shears. They give me a domestic look that announce I belong to a family who might be near, so don’t disturb me. I don’t wear a cloak, because I always want to be ready to move fast. Thyra, Matilda, and Sibbe are dressed similarly, but in different colors with different beads. We resemble the leaves on the trees these days—a variegated flutter. Combs, knives, needles, keys dangle from them as well. These disguises have come to us as gifts from the families of the women and children we’ve rescued this summer. We also now have a goat, Cadla, who nibbles toes in a friendly way. It is marvelous to have a steady source of milk. Cadla is on the boat this morning, naturally.

  Our cheeks are ruddy and weathered from being in the wind on the water day after day—but that could as easily be taken as evidence of working the farm fields. Ástríd and I were ruddy in our life together back in Ribe, after all. Our gaze is steady and direct, though we try not to appear challenging. Given the rough nature of the Birka traders, a challenge from a female could incite lust, despite the fact that we wear our hair braided like married women. And a man’s lust is at best irrelevant to us and at worst an impediment.

  By staying close to shore, we have repeatedly come in contact with slave ships. We have become pirates, indeed, but the only cargo we steal are slaves. It wasn’t planned that way—it just happened. We wanted the safety of being close to shore, and slave ships trawl close to shore. They spy children or a woman alone on land, anchor at the next bend, and send back crew to capture them. Every time we meet one that already has captives, we take the slaves, warn the crew off the slave trade, and then cripple the ship. Usually by shredding their sails. We have two swords now, and Sibbe and Hrodny have become expert with them. Wh
en a crew has to row back to Birka with shredded sails, they become the target of jeers—beaten by women! It’s an extra humiliation for us to savor—an extra way of warding them off the slave trade. It’s as though we were fated to this work.

  But in fact, probably we have not diverted anyone from the trade. We learned that lesson the first time we met a slave ship with a crew we had already tangled with once before. They had more weapons and additional crew, but none of them were any better at wielding those weapons. After all, you don’t have to be good at fighting when your normal opponents are lone women or children. Slave ships don’t even have to protect against pirates; no pirates other than us would choose to deal with the complications of human cargo over ordinary goods. So somehow these crew members hadn’t realized it wasn’t just a matter of having weapons, but of knowing how to use them. I asked the captain why he didn’t take up another trade. He said the slave trade was all he knew. Inflexible moron.

  Last week, though, we met a ship that had hired two warriors to come along. Archers, both. If it weren’t for their haste in exposing their weapons, we might not have realized till too late. As it was, Unn and Hrodny and I made the others lie flat on the deck, and we shot the two warriors in the shoulder and threatened to make the rest of the crew jump overboard if they didn’t hand over the slaves with no more trouble.

  We haven’t met a ship since, but it’s clear that the easy days, such as they were, are past: Slave ships will have more and better protection from now on.

  But the slave season in the Baltic is nearly over anyway. Two nights ago we came across a little pond upstream from the shore that was icing up. Ships that trade only locally are disappearing into storage in the boathouses—they have winter boathouses here, unlike in Jutland, because the weather gets so harsh. Ships that trade over far distances are heading across the open water to Trusø now; the trade will migrate south for the winter.

  And I’m sick of this, truth be told. Every time we rescue slaves, we have to get them back home, and some of their homes are across the sea to the east. The Russians have no compunction about stealing and selling into slavery their own Slav women and children. We can spend a whole week returning them; once we even spent ten days. It is important work, but it’s not what I’m here to do. So I actually rejoice inside when a slave decides to join us rather than return home, even though that usually means her home life was an abomination.