Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (14 page)

And I do feel it. I snuggle closer to her.

“I’ve seen it before. Slavery has a way of foiling itself.” She picks a string of venison from between her teeth. “Temporarily, at least.”

Yesterday my blood came again. I stopped counting the days, but my body does a count of its own. Maeve bleeds too. She started a day before me. There is little privacy on this ship.

I lie awake in the predawn and know I should get
up and clean myself, but I want to sleep a few moments more.

I hear a soft movement and look around.

Gormlaith is on her knees. She presses her head on the deck.

I get up quietly and kneel beside her. I put my hand on the middle of her back and lean close.

“My blood came,” she whispers. “My blood came too. Thanks be to our merciful Lord.”

As long as her blood flows, no men will pull her away from under our blanket at night. As long as her blood returns every month, there is no child within her. She’s crying.

Women must have been the first makers of calendars.

I get up and stand at the side of the ship when Clay Man calls, “Aist?”

I turn around.

Splash. A bucket of frigid water hits me in the chest.

I almost scream. Almost.

I wrap myself in a blanket and lean against a mast.

Clay Man puts his fists on his hips.

I shut my eyes.

I have very little power. But I have no doubt anymore: What power I have comes from my silence.

I wake alone. During the night I rolled out from under the blanket. So did others. It’s cool, but definitely not cold any longer.

A city appears ahead. Not just a little gathering of houses. We have passed several little gatherings of houses. This is a real city. A pulse comes alive in my neck. For the first time since Brigid left, hope stirs: A big city means a chance for escape. And the odds are favorable: thirteen to eight.

I walk to Maeve. Gormlaith comes up on my other side. The ship anchors.

We eat.

Clay Man shouts orders. Club Fist and Leering Man tie all our hands behind our backs. The man is not as stupid as I wish he was. We will not escape here.

Clay Man leaves. All seven of the rest of the crew stay behind. I don’t understand. It doesn’t take seven to guard us, especially with our hands tied.

In late morning Scar Face gives a cry. We look to our
rear. Another boat approaches, hugging the shoreline. It’s much smaller than ours. Immediately the crew members rush around gagging us, while Wolf Hound and Scar Face keep us silent with the threat of their spears. We are herded together to the center of the deck and forced to sit. They spread blankets over us, covering our heads. We are a mountain of secret cargo.

Calls come, muffled by our blankets. Someone from our ship exchanges greetings with someone in the smaller boat. It must be alongside us now.

I hear a scream. It sounds distant. People run across the deck. There’s the sound of splashing. Soon there are thumps on the deck. Three of them. And the sound of people climbing back on the ship.

When they finally take the blankets off us, we don’t see the smaller boat. But there are more prisoners. Two women and a child. They are gagged. Their hands are tied behind their backs. But they aren’t blindfolded. Clay Man always blindfolds new prisoners. And there’s something else different about these prisoners too. They don’t thrash or kick. They look resigned, even the child, who seems to methodically take us all in, one by one, without a blink of horror or even fear.

I walk up beside one of the women. She turns her back on me and looks out to sea.

I glance down at her tied hands. The knot on it is different from the knot our crew use. She was already a prisoner. She’s been a prisoner for who knows how long. And she was probably taken from the other side of this sea—from the direction she keeps looking toward.

And that must be why Clay Man left all the crew behind when he went into the city—not to guard us, but so that our ship wouldn’t be plundered by another.

Our crew are all here, but not entirely intact. One of the silent men who never interacts with us has a puncture wound on his leg. And Scar Face has a gash across his forehead—parallel to the scar. I wonder how many scars he has under his clothes. Neither of them makes any noise about it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the new child prisoner watching me. That child followed my eyes as they assessed the crew. The knowledge creeps around my ears, making them tingle. I move to the side of the ship and stand alone, wary.

Clay Man returns near dusk with another man who has a very long mustache. They come in a small boat and tie it up alongside ours. This man is dressed well: tall boots, skin trousers and tunic, and a fur hat.

Maybe he is a man of learning. A man of honor. I hold my head higher and try to meet his eyes.

Clay Man gives a surprised glance at the two new women and the new child. He takes in the blood on Wounded Man’s leg and the gash on Scar Face’s forehead. But he quickly recovers himself and says something to the well-dressed man.

The man looks us over appraisingly. His eyes linger on the children. He and Clay Man talk, getting louder, with gestures that make it clear they’re bargaining. This well-dressed man has come to buy slaves.

The man strokes the tips of his mustache. He gives Clay Man a small sack.

Clay Man tosses the sack in his hand and looks satisfied. He says something to the Slav children. They go to the well-dressed man, who lifts each one over the side into his boat. And they’re gone. Sold. A huge sense of loss flattens me.

But I cannot just stand here, staring after them. Everyone’s sitting now. It’s mealtime. We eat bread. City bread. Clay Man has brought other city food too—a stew that boasts the aroma of strange spices. But only the crew get it, not the prisoners. Is this because it’s a limited treat? Or is it because he’s going to sell all the rest of us off now too, so the fattening-up period is over?

I walk to the large cooking pot and look within. There’s plenty for everyone. I ladle some into a bowl and hand it
to Maeve, who passes it to a child. I fill another bowl and another and another, until Maeve has served us all.

As I lift a spoon to my mouth, I also lift my chin and eyes to Clay Man. He blinks, then shakes his head ruefully.

Everyone talks now. Even the two new women and the new child. They speak among themselves in yet another language—not Gaelic, not William’s, not Markus’s, and not Russian. But this other language feels familiar. I am almost sure it is Norse. I am on this ship because of an offense a criminal Norseman gave my brother—because my father needed to avenge that offense.

But at least the odds are improving. We are only twelve to the crew’s eight, but more of us are adults now.

After the meal, we are gagged and our hands are tied behind our backs again. We pull up anchor and sail. Soon the men take up the oars as well. We turn up a river. Progress is slow because we’re going against the current. But the wind is with us. The water ruffles. We travel the rest of the day on this narrow river.

Dark comes late. It’s balmy tonight. We anchor in a small, swampy inlet. This is only the second river we have been on, and this one couldn’t be more different from that first one.

My eyes glaze over with unshed tears. Inside my head,
I am back on the first river. The night was cold. She had only her tunic. My sister, my little friend. I know now that we were in the land of the
Dubhgall—
the darker Vikings. Maeve told me. So the people along that river speak Norse. Brigid knew no Norse.

The youth from Saxon Britain might have stayed with her. He was a quick thinker, a quick doer. He proved that when he jumped over the side of the ship. And I know there was a core of decency in him, for he and William had tried to fight the crew when they first assaulted Gormlaith. He would have known that Brigid needed his help. But he was even more inadequately dressed than she was. And how would a British peasant come to speak any Norse?

Even if they stayed together, they were lost children in a hostile land.

I should have held Brigid’s hand, held on to her tight, kept her with me, sides touching.
Immalle,
like Mother said. I should have clutched her to me—that’s what I should have done.

A long brown lock hangs down my breast. It curls just like Brigid’s. I look down at myself. I’m taller than her, of course; and bigger all over. But we’re both thin, really—as alike as two bean pods, just in different sizes.

She’s smarter than me, though. I counted on that intelligence far too much—it was unfair of me to depend
on it like that. She’s only eight. An eight-year-old has poor judgment. An eight-year-old jumps into a freezing river I should have clutched her to me.

I pray for her safety.

And for my own.

I turn and see More peeking out from the pile of Irish children sleeping near the forward mast. He seems pleased when our eyes meet. He rolls onto his side and his eyelids drift shut.

I can do more than pray. And I have. I failed to help Brigid back then, but I am not failing to help the others now. It’s because of me they got blankets in the frigid weather. It’s because of me they got stew tonight. I don’t know the limits of what Clay Man will allow, but I will protect all of us as best I can.

This morning we land on a lakeside. Last night we passed a town without stopping; Clay Man clearly wanted to push us on to enter this large green lake before nightfall. Our hands are free as we climb over the side of the ship, but the crew have gagged us again. This is my first time on land since I was captured. The mucky ground comes at me too firm and too still. I stumble on stumpy feet.
Everyone else stumbles around me. I’d like to lie down and roll Just roll and roll and roll, feeling the earth immobile under me.

The crew take barrels and chests out of the ship and put them on the ground. But they leave the oars and ropes and blankets on board.

All help but Wounded Man. He limps. Every step brings a wince. The hole in his leg must be festering.

The crew pull the shallow ship onto the swampy grasses and lift it. Clay Man carries a whip. He says something to William and points to a spot on the side of the ship. William runs to that spot and helps lift the ship.

Maeve and Gormlaith and the two Norse women and I help carry that ship too. The Norse child and Markus carry a chest between them. The four Irish children manage a chest among them. Leering Man stays behind with the extra cargo. Clay Man leads the way. Wounded Man hobbles behind.

We portage the ship and those chests through the grasses and over a little hillock to another river. Then we put it into the water. Scar Face and Club Fist lift us prisoners into the ship. They lift in Wounded Man, too. He flinches when they touch him.

Scar Face and Club Fist stand guard over us while the rest of the crew goes back and forth with William
and Markus until all the cargo is here. They load it and we’re off again.

The whole thing takes most of the day. It’s exhausting. And Leering Man got bitten by some sort of insect. His arm is swollen and red.

Mustache Man is lucky enough to take down a buck with an arrow. He skins it in the middle of the deck. When he finishes, I push him aside with a warning glance at Clay Man. Then Maeve and Gormlaith and I prepare the meat.

“We could poison them,” says Gormlaith almost casually. Maeve doesn’t answer; her face barely changes. But it’s the truth; this is the first time we’ve been the ones to cook. I watch Gormlaith’s every move breathlessly. If she produces a vial of toxins from the folds of her shift, what will I do? Killing is a mortal sin.

Gormlaith simply stirs the meat in the pot and gazes off somewhere. And I realize poison is but her dream. She has so much to hate them for.

“Here.” Maeve fishes the liver and the heart from the bubbling stew and drops them into a bowl. “These are for the children. They’re next, of course.” I stare at her. Next for what? For being sold? “You give it to them, Aist.”

Me, the captive, I am to walk past the captors with something they want in my hands. I rise to the challenge
and accept the bowl as though it’s sacred. The crew lift their noses to the wonderful smell as I carry it across the deck. I grow almost giddy with audacity. But Clay Man doesn’t even blanch when I set the bowl down in the center of the circle of children. Maybe Maeve’s right and he knows they need it most. Or maybe he merely senses I’d fight him hard.