Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (10 page)

We sail for a long while. The children and the two youths sink to the deck in a pile. Brigid sinks with them. Soon the weeping woman follows. But the crazy woman and I stay standing.

Ahead all I see is water. I look back. Water. Oh. There’s nothing but water in any direction. An eerie feeling creeps through me. In all the ships I’ve been on, I’ve never traveled beyond the sight of land. I feel lost. No one can rescue us now. And escape is an illusion.

Oh, Lord. I sink to the deck with the others, unmindful of the pain such careless movement causes. The crazy woman stays standing. I close my eyes. We are in the middle of the sea. We could die. Brigid and I could die on this voyage. I cannot force away the thought: Death could be preferable to the fate ahead. It would be easy to jump overboard and drown.

We Irish are no strangers to drowning. Each settlement knits sweaters in its own unique pattern, so that if a fisherman drowns, when his body washes up on shore he can be returned home. We should be returned home, Brigid and me. It’s only right. We should be returned for burial in consecrated ground. This is a degradation a princess must not bear. But if we drowned by our own doing, we wouldn’t deserve a Christian burial. We’re trapped.

The only consolation is that we’re together.
Immalle.

The wind whistles, and I shiver so hard it makes me tired. I drift in a half sleep.

The crew cheers. I jerk to attention and manage to get to my feet.

There’s land to starboard again. That must be why the crew cheered. They’ve been anxious too. They slap one another on the back and laugh and drink from a beer jug, which almost makes them seem human.

Almost.

The one with a mustache comes around and takes off our gags. He pours beer down our throats. He does this to everyone except the crazy woman. When he turns finally to her, he says something in his incomprehensible language.

She stands there, unblinking.

He takes off her gag.

She shouts, “I will bite. Never fear: I will bite off any part of you that comes near me.”

The mustache man steps back, holding the jug. His brow furrows.

The child who fed the woman parsnip before moves in front of her. “I’ll give it to her. Just untie my hands.” He turns around and extends his hands toward the mustache man. He looks over his shoulder at him. “Please, sir.”

The mustache man steps farther back, but his face shows he’s trying to understand.

“Please, sir,” says the child. “A dead woman is no use to anyone”

I cannot understand how these children speak so sensibly. Such maturity can come only from experience.

“Please,” says the weeping woman. “Untie the boy. Let him give her the beer. Please”

The mustache man unties the child’s hands. If it had been Clay Man or Leering Man or Club Fist or Scar Face, this wouldn’t have happened. I don’t know about the rest of the crew, but there’s no reason to think they’re any better. The crazy woman is lucky today.

The boy holds the jug to the crazy woman’s mouth. She drinks as though her thirst will never be slaked. I cannot understand that boy, taking risks like that. For what?

Mustache Man goes toward the bow of the ship, but Clay Man yells at him. He hesitates, then comes back and gags us again.

But he leaves that child’s hands untied.

We sail a long while more, always heading north. We skirt along the western coast of some country that can only be described as godforsaken. It’s sparsely populated, at least from what can be seen out here on the water. The
dwellings are of sod, twigs, clay, and driftwood, and every one of them is small and low. Not a single noble manor house. Not a single church.

We pass a boy leading a cow. Alone. Clay Man shouts something to the crew. My hands clutch at the cloth behind my back.

Moments later our boat drops anchor off a little beach. I pray, despite the fact that I am certain of what is coming.

Scar Face and another crew member—a tall, muscular one with a thick neck that pulses visibly—lower themselves over the side with a splash. The water is so shallow they slog through it to the shore easily.

Clay Man is smart to have made Mustache Man gag us again. I’ve looked into the eyes of the others by now. They might very well shout warning to that boy and cow if they could. There’s a recklessness in them I cannot fathom. But it’s not contagious; I will exercise caution to the end. I will take care of Brigid.

The crew members pick animal hide blankets off a pile and throw them around their shoulders. I thought before that the cold came mainly because we were moving. But even now, anchored here, I shiver. We’ve much farther north than we were this dawn. Shivering makes my rib ache even more deeply. I long to huddle with Brigid under
a blanket. Such a small thing, a thing I took for granted only days ago—it’s become an unattainable dream.

The two Saxon youths, the ones who wear only trousers, sit hunched over themselves, knees to chest, and visibly shake. One of them eyes that pile of blankets. I watch him. I see the children watching him too.

The child who helped the crazy woman looks at the other children. I thought he helped the crazy woman because she was special to him. His mother, maybe. He ran to her once, after all. But the way he’s looking at those youths, I see he wants to help them, too. His eyes shine. The poor thing—why, he’s so daft, he would help a total stranger.

I wonder if anyone realized who Saint Patrick truly was while he was still a slave? Are we born to be good or evil? Does daftness help us do the Lord’s work?

The boy dashes over and grabs the top hide blanket.

Club Fist lunges. He snatches away the hide and punches the boy on the shoulder. The boy goes flying into the side of the ship. He falls in a crumpled heap.

Weeping Woman screams inside her gag. She sobs so hard, she chokes. Her face turns red. She doubles over.

I look at Brigid. She stares coldly at me. There’s nothing we can do.

And for the sake of whatever plan we are to come up
with, we must blend in. This will be our ultimate salvation. If we are to have one.

Mustache Man walks across the deck. He lifts the small, limp child, who in my head I hereby dub Patrick after our patron saint, and lays him on a blanket. We stare as he folds the sides onto the boy’s chest.

One of the Saxon youths gets stiffly to his feet. He goes to stand in front of Mustache Man. His whole body trembles with cold. His torso has a slight blue-gray tinge.

Mustache Man just looks at him.

The other Saxon youth comes forward too. A pitiful pair.

Mustache Man opens a chest and takes out a shirt. He goes to another chest and takes out a second shirt. He unties the youths’ hands and gives them the shirts.

We stare and stare, caught in the spell of inexplicable kindness.

Clay Man comes suddenly alive. He barks something at Club Fist. Club Fist rushes over and snatches the shirts back from the youths. He reties their hands tight at their backs. Clay Man stomps to the boy Patrick and rips the blanket away. The boy slides off, a clutter of limbs.

Clay Man glares at Mustache Man, who now sits on his chest without a word.

Two of the children go kneel by the limp child, my sweet Patrick. Patrick opens his eyes and stares at the sky.

The rest of us mill around now. The show is over, and it helps to move; it stirs our innards to fan whatever embers might still glow.

I think about home; that helps me to stay warm too. Mother, Father, Nuada. But my mind has less urgency now. The cold dampers everything except the need to get warm.

And maybe it isn’t just the cold that dampers me. A terrible and unavoidable thought slows my brain. Brigid and I are farther away with each passing moment. Even if we do manage to escape, we might never make it back to Eire. We may never know what happened at Downpatrick the night Bjarni came. This thought is almost unbearable. I want to slam my head against the mast and make it go away. I will not let our lives be truncated. I will not allow that first part to be lost. All the people, all the places we ever loved.

My belly twists inside with a dull heavy hurt that presses down. Nausea rises. My head spins. I recognize this feeling. My monthly blood is coming.

Club Fist calls something. Someone answers from beyond the ship. A boy falls onto the deck with a wet thud. He scrambles to his feet as Scar Face and the other crew
member climb in behind him. Scar Face knocks the boy down. The poor boy with the cow. The poor lost child.

We leave, sailing fast into the ice air. We’ve far from land in no time at all. After a while Clay Man shouts. The crew lower the sails, then herd us prisoners toward the aft of the ship, even little Patrick, who has to be half carried, and hem us in. Their bodies form 7 fence. All except Weeping Woman. She’s left out.

What’s going on? I look back at her. Her eyes grow frantic. She runs to join us, but crew members block her way.

The Saxon youths exchange glances, then throw themselves as one against the crew. They are beaten down. Rolled onto their sides. Kicked.

Of course. Their arms are bound. What could they do but throw themselves like sacks of dirt?

Clay Man grabs Weeping Woman. He pushes her to the deck. He tugs up her tunic.

I fight back tears and take small steps and try to cluster the children together with little bumps of my knees. Crazy Woman and Brigid do the same. We huddle together and move the children to the very tip of the boat so that we three and the battered youths form a layer between the children and the fence of crew members.

We can hear the scuffle behind us. The boy with the cow turns to look, but I knock him hard with one knee and he quickly faces the tip of the boat again. I will let none of them see this.

For the first time I’m grateful for these gags. The woman must be screaming inside her head, but the sound doesn’t reach us. The children don’t know.

And I won’t look at Brigid. I won’t let her read in my eyes what she might not be sure of on her own.

But my eyes meet Crazy Woman’s eyes. And I see an iron will. No, she’s not crazy at all. She bit Club Fist for precisely this reason. To let them all know she’ll fight like a wildcat. To make them decide she’s more trouble than she’s worth. A lost parsnip was a simple price to pay to save her from this.

If I were thrown to the floor like Weeping Woman, my cracked rib could snap and pierce my heart.

I’d want it to.

Clay Man says something. I look over my shoulder. He’s changing places with Leering Man. They’re taking turns. One offense after the other.

Something inside me breaks. I twist my torso to face them and shake my head no.

Clay Man stares at me with surprise on his face.

I’m surprised too. I recognize the futility, but I
cannot stop. My head shakes so hard, I think it will fly off. Shame on you, I scream inside my head. Shame!

Someone nearby kicks me. It could only be Crazy Woman. She’s right; sense returns.

I face aft again and huddle over the children. The crew are still at it. Will there be anything left of Weeping Woman? I squeeze my eyes hard against tears. My nose flares with pent-up misery. But I will not shed a single drop. Boys don’t cry.

Night finally comes. It’s freezing. Spring was easing into Eire, but here, as we head north, it’s like we’re going backward in time. It’s cold as winter. The wind cuts my face.

After the assault on Weeping Woman, the crew members went to the oars and rowed, even though the sails were up once more. They rowed as though there was no time to waste, without even feeding us. The prisoners have fallen asleep in little clusters. Including Brigid. I look at her with dismay; we’re becoming one with the rest of them—all equally pathetic.

Well, I will not sleep, not me. I watch everything. I will learn the crew’s habits. I will pick out their weaknesses. I will find a way to get Brigid and me free.

Clay Man lights an oil lamp and sets it on the deck. I’m surprised. They didn’t use a lamp last night. It gives off a rancid smoke, nothing like the sweet burn of fat-dipped
reeds and rushes back home, and a world different from the clean burn of wax candles at a holiday meal.

Thick Neck comes around waking us and untying our hands. It looks like we’re going to eat, after all. Three men stand with spears at the ready—Club Fist and Leering Man and a third, darker-skinned and gray-haired, with the regal bearing of our great Irish hounds used in hunting elk and wolves. I dub him Wolf Hound. They guard us particularly well right now.

And they’re feeding us differently. Mustache Man unties the gag of one child, hands him a lump of dried bread and a piece of salted fish, and waits till he finishes eating. Then he regags the child and ungags the next one, but only for as long as it takes that child to eat. Now he’s ungagging the third child.

I see why. The boat has turned. We’re going up a river. Four of the crew are at the oars and one is at the tiller. The river is wide and we stay in the center. But there must be scattered settlements on either side. If we shouted together now, all of us prisoners, we might have a chance at waking the people out there. But if only one of us is ungagged at a time, if only one of us shouts, who can hear? Especially since we’ll be beaten into submission immediately.

We could untie our own gags. Our hands are free.
But would it really do any good? If I lifted my hands to untie my gag, Club Fist would surely strike me down.

After all, they must defend their cargo.

We’ve their cargo.

I hang my hands dead at my sides.

In the glow of the lamp, they are colorless. I wiggle the fingers. That hurts.

And my lips are chapped.

When I was standing by the ropes before, my head hung to one side, I was so tired. Frost formed on the shoulder of my tunic where my breath hit it. We need blankets or we’re all going to get sick. And these children are skin and bones. Underfed to start with. They’ll die. But what can I do? What can any of us do?

When it’s finally my turn to eat and they ungag me, I wolf down my fish and gnaw greedily at my bread. I am as useless as everyone else here. The fine Princess Melkorka. What a joke. My colorless hands shake.