Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (11 page)

Crazy Woman is eating now. But when it comes time to regag her, she snaps her head around and spits and hisses like a mad thing. She pushes her way into the center of the prisoners. “Come listen,” she calls. “Story time. Picture two men. No, no, they aren’t your father. They aren’t your big brother or your husband or any one of these devil crew members. These are men you’ve never seen before.

“Let your eyes follow my words and paint them. They are very much alike in body. Almost twins. Strong, with arms that can haul in nets so teeming with fish that but five loads would fill this ship. And backs and legs so powerful that they can run through forests carrying whole felled trees on their shoulders. The one goes by The name Aedan, the other by the name Calhoun.”

I don’t recognize the names. Crazy Woman is making up this story. But what does it matter? We circle her, moving in close. The boy who led the cow appears rapt—though his language is anyone’s guess. Even the Saxon youths listen, and I’m sure they don’t understand Gaelic.

To my surprise, Clay Man allows it. Maybe he even thinks it’s a good thing—it will keep us occupied as we travel this river with sleepers out there in the dark on both sides.

“But though they look like twins outside,” says Crazy Woman, “inside they are completely different. The one called Aedan has always been a servant. He takes orders from the chief, the chief’s wife, the chief’s son, the chief’s daughter, even the chiefs baby. He jumps when the chief’s dog barks. He walks and eats with his eyes cast down. He wears white.

“Calhoun, though, he’s always lived on his own. He
has his own plot of land. He tills and sows and reaps it himself. He bows to no one. If a dog barks at him, he strangles it,” Crazy Woman lets her words hang in the air. Snows begins. It’s so light, it floats down rather than falling.

“Calhoun wears a red tunic. red, you’re thinking. What good Irish man wears red? A man who isn’t afraid of spirits, that’s who. A man who is afraid of nothing. Not even devils. Calhoun tramps everywhere he goes.

“Now one day, Aedan is sent to the forest to fell a tree, and he meets Calhoun.”

A single hoot threads through the air.

“Brid,”
says one of the British youths, tapping the shoulder of the other.

What? Is he mispronouncing Brigid’s name? How did he learn her name?

But now the other youth lifts his head and cocks an ear toward where the hoot came from. He murmurs,
“Brid”
It must be their word for bird.

“Aedan draws back, of course, yielding the narrow forest path to Calhoun.”

The snow softly whitens the youths’ hair. It’s as though they are fading away. Everything is fading.

Except Crazy Woman. Her voice jumps out from the delicate sweetness of the new snow, all robust and hearty.
She’s good at this. I think of my dear Nuada and I have to swallow and swallow, so I won’t cry.

“Calhoun sizes up this humble man, who is, in fact, exactly his own size. He points to a giant pine and says, ‘I can chop down that tree in the time it takes you to count to ten and carry it on the back of my neck to the river before you can reach twenty-five.’

“Aedan believes him, of course, because Aedan could do the same. Aedan nods.

“Are you saying you’re not surprised?’ asks Calhoun. ‘You should be so surprised, you soil your small-clothes.’”

A child laughs, muffled in his gag.

“‘Why should I be surprised?’ says Aedan in a gentle voice. ‘I could do the same.’

“‘You? You’re too tiny,’ says Calhoun.

“Aedan does not take offense at being called tiny. He doesn’t realize his own strength and size.

“‘You’re a liar,’ adds Calhoun.

“Being called a liar, well, that’s another thing entirely. Aedan never lies. He shakes his head.

“‘Is that denial?’ asks Calhoun.‘That mincy, girly little nod? Are you going to do a curtsy, too?’”

Now all the children laugh. All but Brigid and the boy who led the cow.

“Calhoun shakes his head in disgust. ‘I suppose we’ll have to battle over that.’

“For four days, the two men battle. Imagine it. Ah, but you’re imagining wrong. Calhoun may be as fierce as an animal, but still he is a man. He has honor. So they fight fairly, both of them.

“They alternate who picks the weapons. The first day Calhoun chooses darts. He is superb at darts. He wins.

“The second day Aedan chooses stabbing spears. He is superb at stabbing spears. He wins. But each day,” says Crazy Woman, “one wins by only a tiny bit, because they are equal in abilities. They are almost twins. Like I said. It’s just that Calhoun knows who he is and Aedan doesn’t. Calhoun has always had his freedom, but Aedan needs to learn to seize his.

“At the end of that day they hug and kiss, as warriors should do. Are you surprised I called them warriors? This peasant and this servant? That’s what they are. That’s what we all are. Warriors in life.

“The third day they duel with broadswords. That’s Calhoun’s choice, for it’s his turn again. Do you know who wins?” asks Crazy Woman.

The child who laughed earlier nods. Another child nods too. And Patrick nods.

“Calhoun has to win,” says Crazy Woman. “Right?”

All four Irish children nod. Brigid nods.

“He’s superb at broadswords. That’s why he chose them.”

Darts, stabbing spears, broadswords … Oh, I recognize this series. Warriors, indeed.

“On the fourth day Aedan chooses …”

Ford combat, I say inside my head.

“… ford combat,” says Crazy Woman.

This is a well-known tale, after all; it’s Cúchulainn and Ferdia’s battle. Aedan will win. And he will kill Calhoun. Why is Crazy Woman disguising the tale?

“Strong arms count in the water,” says Crazy Woman. “Strong, strong arms.”

I feel eyes on me. I look around.

It’s Brigid. Her eyes are bright. She jerks her head once, then runs and jumps up and over the side of the ship. Before I can react, one of the youths jumps after her.

Of course. Our arms are free still. We can swim. Like ford combat. I run, but too late. Clay Man grabs me around the waist. He shouts. Crew members surround the rest of the prisoners. Club Fist holds a spear and throws it into the night, into the void that swallowed Brigid and the youth. He picks up another spear. Can he see in this darkness?

I desperately tug on the string that hangs around my
neck. Stork feathers fly from my bodice along with the pouch, and I’m shaking that pouch insistently in front of Clay Man’s eyes and biting down so hard on the gag that I think my teeth will tear through it and break on each other.

Clay Man grabs the pouch, drops me, and yanks it off over my head. I turn to run again but instantly Clay Man shouts, and Club Fist puts down the spear and pushes me into the circle of prisoners.

Clay Man squats by the lamp and rolls the precious ring over and over in his hand. My gold teething ring that Father gave me at my birth, that Mother so sagely tucked in that pouch. He picks up the three stork feathers and holds them to his lips.
“Aist,”
he says, beating out two syllables loudly: a-ist. He looks up at me with wonder on his face. Snowflakes sit on his eyebrows.

Brigid is gone.

Clay Man stares at me.
“Aist”

I am alone. And Brigid is out there in the freezing water.

I fall on my knees and press my forehead against the deck.

A hide blanket comes down over my back. I look up at Clay Man. He’s a watery blur through my misery.

Brigid is gone.

Clay Man says something in a quiet voice. I jump away.

He jumps too, as though for an instant he thought I might attack him. He speaks again. An ugly, stupid language. An ugly stupid man.

He backs away from me slowly rolling the ring in one hand, clutching the three stork feathers in the other. He says something to the crew members.

They return to their posts. Rowing, rowing. All but Thick Neck. He picks up the oil lamp and comes over near me, lamp on high. I am illuminated in the silent snow that keeps falling, soft as mouse breath.

I move out of the glow.

Clay Man says something.

Thick Neck backs away.

Every few moments Clay Man looks at me. His eyes
glisten, but his face is too much in the dark and too far away to be readable.

The children look at me too. From close by. And their faces speak clearly: envy.

I take the blanket from my shoulders and drape it over the children. They lie down and squirm together like the piglets Brigid put ribbons on her last day in Downpatrick. Four Irish babes and one boy who led a cow. The blanket is big, and they are little. There’s enough to tuck them in at the edges.

And what do I care about being warm? Brigid is gone.

I look back at Clay Man. He frowns. Even from here distress is unmistakable. He walks over to the blanket pile and goes to put a second one on me.

But I grab it from his hand before he can touch me. I shake with fear.

He makes a quick intake of breath. Then he backs away again. The three stork feathers are still in one hand. I don’t see where he put the ring.

I give the blanket to Crazy Woman. She doesn’t hesitate. She beckons over Weeping Woman and the still bare-chested Saxon youth who stayed behind. The three of them immediately lie close together under the second blanket.

Clay Man stares at me.

I stare back. Brigid is gone. Nothing matters. I shiver. My teeth chatter.

Crazy Woman lifts the edge of the blanket. Her eyes are barely visible in the lamplight. Still, they command. And I know I should obey, though I’ve forgotten why. I wiggle myself in beside her. We are not small, so the blanket is hardly adequate for four. Crazy Woman should have left me standing. I close my eyes.

I wake. I eat. I use the pot. I sleep.

Days go by. I’m not sure how many.

I go long stretches without thinking. But when I do think, it feels unreal. Brigid cannot have jumped overboard. I cannot still be on this ship.

I sit by the mast and bleed onto my tunic. I don’t care what a mess I make of myself. I wish all my blood would come out and drown Clay Man. And Leering Man. And Club Fist. And all of them. All of them are complicit.

None of them comes near me except at mealtimes.

Our gags come off to eat. The others talk. I don’t. And I don’t listen, either.

Life is a blur.

One morning I wake and look around and my eyes actually function. The boat is not moving. We must be anchored.

Clay Man wears my teething ring on a leather strap around his neck. The three stork feathers are jammed in his hair at odd angles.

I had forgotten all about those feathers. They were supposed to be a surprise for Brigid, to lift her spirits when times got hard. How naive I was—I never imagined anything as hard as what has happened.

Crazy Woman’s eyes meet mine. Hers light up. She comes over and sits beside me and whispers in my ear, “I’m Maeve.”

I cannot respond. She’s the only one not wearing a gag. Did Clay Man never have it put back on her after the night she told stories? The night Brigid left. My own gag is gummy in my mouth. And it stinks.

Maeve kisses my cheek. “That’s Gormlaith.” She tilts her head toward Weeping Woman. “She gave me her name last night. At the evening meal.”

Maeve and Gormlaith. Good Gaelic names. I look at the youth from Saxon Britain.

Maeve’s eyes follow mine. “He’s William. He doesn’t speak Gaelic. But he can say his name, at least.”

William is sitting with one of the children on his lap. He’s playing some sort of hand-clapping game. His breath makes smoke in the air. The child’s head bends toward that smoke.

“The boy we picked up in Saxland is called Markus. The Irish boys are Morc and Nyle. The girls are Kacey and Riley.”

Markus I can pick out—he’s the one who led the cow. But for the Irish children, I wonder which ones go with which names. I will continue to call the child who helps everyone Patrick, even if he turns out to be a girl.

“We have a name for you,” says Maeve.

I already have a name. But that doesn’t matter so much. I move my face toward her curiously.

“Aist.”

I flinch. I remember Clay Man repeating that word the night Brigid left.