Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (13 page)

The crew members crawl out from under their own blankets. They hoist the sails again and man the oars. Mustache Man and Thick Neck hang the crew’s blankets from the lower parts of the masts to dry.

William carries our blankets over to hang them, too. Thick Neck yells at him. But our blankets have to dry. Otherwise we’ll freeze tonight.

William attaches one blanket to the mast.

Thick Neck punches him in the back, knocking him to the deck.

I race over and pull him up by the elbow.

Thick Neck yells at me and the vessels in his neck stand out like ropes.

Clay Man comes barreling over, shouting. I close my eyes and brace for a blow. But he’s shouting at Thick Neck, not at me.

And somehow I’m not really surprised. Somehow I knew that blow wouldn’t come.

I let go of William and attach our second blanket. And then the third blanket. I feel Clay Man’s eyes on me. I don’t look at him.

I walk over to one of the new children. Clay Man’s eyes bore through me. I untie his gag. It’s slow, because the knot is truly complicated. And it’s damp. But I get it off and I throw it over the side of the boat.

Many eyes are on me now. I see them peripherally.

I walk to another of the new children and untie his, too. And throw it away.

Leering Man pulls in his oar and shouts. Club Fist shouts as well. Then Leering Man gets up and comes toward me, screaming.

Clay Man moves between Leering Man and me. They argue. Clay Man puffs out his chest. His hands close into
rocks. And I remember what Maeve said when she was trying to get me to take off my tunic so she could wash me. This crew won’t dare touch me with Clay Man looking on.

He protects me. How far, I wonder. I’m already untying the gag of the third new child. Then the fourth.

Now I turn to the Irish children. Patrick-Nyle first. But his gag is much harder to undo, because it’s much filthier. I don’t see how the crew can undo it so quickly at meal times. They should thank me for getting rid of these gags; it’s one less chore for them.

And, really, who are we going to shout to out here? Even if we saw people, how could they help us? It would take a dozen men to overcome this ship. A small army. It doesn’t matter if we wear these gags or not. It matters only to us. Perhaps they will see this reason. Perhaps I will not pay for my actions.

I untie Morc’s gag, and Patrick-Nyle unties Kacey’s gag.

Club Fist runs at Patrick-Nyle. He’s the one who hurt Patrick-Nyle before.

I fly between them.

And Club Fist winds up sending me careening across the slippery deck—
crack—
into the corner of a chest. My tunic goes instantly red at the shoulder. The dull ache of my broken rib now turns to a knife stab again. Even the slight movement of breath hurts.

All I can think is that I was wrong; every action costs.

Clay Man and Club Fist shout at each other. I watch them from the floor of the deck. My powerlessness over what is to happen next gives me a heady clarity. We are flimsy people compared to this crew. But they are remarkably stupid. They go through all this trouble to steal us and fatten us up, but they can’t sell us if we’re dead. That’s what Patrick-Nyle tried to point out to Mustache Man back when they were starving Maeve. How is it that dunces become masters and children as bright as Patrick-Nyle become slaves?

Clay Man shakes my gold teething ring at Club Fist. He touches the feathers on his head. The word “aist” comes up often in his shouts.

Club Fist looks at me suspiciously and backs off.

Clay Man picks up Morc’s gag where I dropped it and dips it into the bucket of seawater we always have available. He comes toward me.

I raise my hand to stop him. A pathetic gesture, hardly more than the breath before a prayer.

And he stops. That huge man stops.

Clay Man holds out the wet rag to Patrick-Nyle and says something.

“What do I do?” sobs Patrick-Nyle.

“Come to me,” says Maeve.

He runs and buries his head in her belly.

Clay Man calls over one of the new children. He says something.

The child comes to me and bathes my bleeding shoulder with the wet gag.

Clay Man admonishes, and the child touches me more gently.

Clay Man’s face softens. He comes toward me slowly, walking as if balancing on the top of a narrow wall.

I try to get to my feet, but pain stops me.

He gets on one knee and turns my head toward him. He whispers something. It feels like a question. He wants an answer.

Many tongues are free now. These children control so little, but they are the masters of what they say, at least. And that’s my doing. I restored that right.

And I am the master of what I say. Clay Man can ask whatever he wants, however many times he wants. But all I listen to is the hush, from deep inside me.

I hold my tongue.

A few days later the landscape changes. Low hills roll as far as I can see. They make it seem as though the ground
is waking up. The air loses its sharp edge. It feels and looks more like my own Eire. Spring is coming, even to this north place.

And, ironically, Thick Neck coughs, deep and phlegmy. He started two nights ago and it’s clear that he has caught a sickness. But we prisoners breathe freely.

Our ship sails farther from shore than before. I believe this is Clay Man’s way of controlling the crew’s anxiety over the fact that all of us are ungagged now. When we woke up the morning after I had untied so many gags, all the rest were gone. The crew had a little meeting, then the ship veered out into the water more. Irish words speckle the air all day long now, and it hardly matters that no one on shore hears them, for we hear them. Blessèd Irish words.

It’s mealtime. The prisoners move into a circle. I bend and put one hand on the deck and lower myself to sitting, careful not to jostle the scab covering the wound on my shoulder. It is impossible not to hurt my ribs, so I simply breathe deeply through every movement, bearing that pain as best I can.

The children who can speak with Clay Man—the ones Maeve calls Slavs—serve us our fish. Their names are Boleslaw, Tabor, Obdor, and Padnik. I believe they are all boys.

Everyone else is talking. Even William and Markus do a reasonable job of making themselves understood through gestures. More eagerly teaches them words. The simple act of gabbing unites us. My dead tongue twitches in a hint of longing.

As Obdor gets to me, he looks over his shoulder at Clay Man. Then he skips me. I stare at Clay Man. He regards me with a close-lipped smile. I would take a fish myself, but Obdor and his basket are already out of reach.

Everyone has been served. Everyone eats.

Padnik comes around with the beer jug. He skips me.

I don’t know why I’m being punished. Since the day I untied gags, I have done nothing but stay as immobile as possible. All I want to do is heal.

My stomach squeezes hard on its emptiness. I look down and clench my teeth. I hurt too much for any action.

Shoes appear before me. I look up at Clay Man. He holds a fish. He squats and dangles it in front of me.

I grab for it. He quickly pulls it back out of reach. He says something and points toward my mouth.

I am hungry. He knows that. I open my mouth to show him.

He dangles the fish again. And I realize what he
wants: for me to talk. That’s what this is all about. It bothers him that I don’t speak. That very fact alone is enough to make me hold my tongue.

I stare through him.

The day is long. I do not stand to watch the shore. I try to sleep.

Clay Man repeats the routine at the evening meal. This time the fish he dangles is bigger than the fish the others got. He is determined. His voice is actually sweet, sticky sweet. He holds the fish close enough for me to smell. But it’s the beer I want more than the fish. I’m so thirsty. I remember how Maeve didn’t eat and didn’t drink. I stare through him.

In the morning Boleslaw serves the fish. He skips me. And Padnik skips me on the beer.

I remember when Maeve whispered in my ear that a slave’s life counts for nothing without a trick. Silence was my trick. But this has gone way beyond a trick. My insides burn constantly. My vision blurs. I fear walking for dizziness. The trick is on me.

Clay Man talks to me. He eats a fish in front of me, chewing big. Revulsion makes me contract, my chest on my knees, my arms closed around my shins.

And this evening Tabor skips me on the fish, and Obdor skips me on the beer.

Clay Man talks to me. He eats slowly, his face close to mine. He looks at my face and he stares into my eyes.

I care very much about that food. But it is no longer hard to pretend I don’t, for now I’m very tired. I do not stare through him. Rather, I close my eyes. My thoughts move as slowly as my eyelids. I didn’t know I could be this stubborn. Brigid is the one Mother always called stubborn. Me she called rash.

I am doing this now in Brigid’s honor, I suppose. Yes, Brigid is the very definition of stubbornness. Indeed, my silence has now become a vow.

At least my mouth no longer fills with saliva at the sight of food. I am totally dry. And I can’t even smell the fish or beer anymore. The world closes itself off from me.

It seems I’m going deaf, too, deaf as well as mute. For the only thing I can hear is coughing. Thick Neck, undoubtedly. Coughing and gagging. I fall asleep to coughing.

In the morning I get no fish, no beer. I sleep poorly most of the day. Thick Neck sleeps near me. He shakes from fever. It takes all my energy to turn my head away from him. At night Obdor passes me by with the fish basket. I see him and I don’t care. I cough weakly.

Clay Man jumps at my cough and rushes to me. He talks quickly. He looks almost scared. He grabs a fish and
pinches off a tiny bit and puts it into my mouth. He slowly feeds me. I let him, though I feel distant, an observer of a scene that has nothing to do with me. He holds the beer jug to my lips as I drink. It sears my throat. My stomach clenches. I vomit. Clay Man moans and feeds me again, more slowly now. And I drink. He croons—that big beast croons. I am stunningly dizzy. But I am back.

It’s over. And I won. This time.

Thick Neck disappeared overnight. I stare at the spot he lay those many days. I see others look at it, then glance away. He must have died, and the crew must have thrown him to the fish. I slept too hard after last night’s meal to wake for anything.

The crew are jittery. But no one appears sad.

There are now eight of them and thirteen of us.

It is four days since Thick Neck disappeared. We are anchored in a cove. We’ve been here for three days. The crew have been taking turns guarding us and going ashore. Right now Wolf Hound and Mustache Man
climb on board. They haul the carcass of a deer they just roasted on the beach. The smell intoxicates me.

There is something wonderful about meat in the middle of the sea. This is the third day in a row we bite down into flesh. We eat with gusto. The atmosphere is almost festive.

Maeve kisses me on the cheek and speaks softly into my ear. “We all know.”

I pull back and blink my eyes questioningly at her.

She smiles and leans in. “For this one moment,” she whispers, “it doesn’t matter why they fatten us. Feel the magic, Aist? Right now, can you feel it? We are a family.”