Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (24 page)

But of course I’m crying. The sail is up. We’re moving fast. Away from Eire. And I did nothing to escape. I didn’t see an opportunity, it’s true. But the fact is, I’m not sure I would have taken one. I’m not sure where I belong. I don’t know anything for sure anymore. All I know is that I’m sad to put Eire behind forever. I cry for all that will never be.

My chest aches so.

Hoskuld throws a blanket over me and crawls in under. He holds me close. “Hush now. She’s gone. I had to let her leave alive, for the sake of our reputations. Besides, I know you wouldn’t have wanted me to kill her. But she’ll never hurt you again. No one will ever hurt you again, Beauty. You are mine. My joy.”

He couldn’t be more wrong. I am no one’s.

I don’t know what wakes me. It isn’t morning yet. Everyone is asleep except the men watching the sails.

There. A flapping noise. Not the flap of a sail. The sails are tight and full. And their flap is loud anyway. This is something small.

I ease out from under Hoskuld’s heavy arm and sit up, pulling the edge of the blanket to my chin. The moon is bright tonight. It glows off the blond and red hair of the sleepers. It plays on the pinkish skin of the almost bald sheep.

What is that noise?

A bird bounces from the back of one sheep to another. A bird. What’s it doing out here, in the middle of the sea?

I get up and pad quietly to the edge of the sheep pit.

The bird pecks at the back of the sheep. It’s eating. Frantically. It’s eating like something that has been starving. Like me, when I had those apples last night.

I look out over the ship sides. To the aft the outline
of land still shows. But on all other sides, there’s just sea. A person could never swim that distance, but for the bird it’s manageable. The bird should head back to land now, before we get too far.

I rub my hands together lightly and rapidly, giving off a sound loud enough for a bird’s ears, but too soft to wake a person.

It swivels its head to face me, eyes forward. It’s about double the size of a pigeon, and its head is decidedly pigeonlike. But those eyes leave no room for confusion: This is a bird of prey.

There’s no potential prey for a bird like that on this ship. I look at the raven cage. The three black birds ignore this visitor. I’m surprised at that, too.

I lower myself gingerly into the sheep pit and push aside the stinking, sleeping bodies to get closer.

The bird watches me and jumps to the back of a sheep farther away. It really must be very hungry, to let me get this close without flying off.

I move both arms in a sudden, abrupt sweep through the air over my head.

The bird hops away one more sheep.

From so close I got a good view of its feet. Talons. Five on each foot. Like scaly hands. Powerful. This is not a sea bird. It belongs in a forest, high in the tree canopy.
This bird is in danger out here. And I bet it doesn’t even drink salt water. So what will it drink? How often do birds need to drink?

I’m not sure how long I stand there motionless, but the sky grows gray with the slightest tinge of pink. I like being here amid the hot bodies of sheep. I like the roll of the sea. It induces a trancelike state.

A sheep makes droppings in her sleep. I didn’t know animals could defecate asleep.

The bird jumps quickly to the floor and pecks around in the dung. It eats. I wrinkle my nose in distaste. But then I see it crack something in the side of that curved, pointed beak. Dung beetles, of course. Somehow that seems much more acceptable than eating the dung itself.

The bird eats and eats and eats. Then it hops over to the long trough of dirty water that the sheep drink from and slakes its thirst.

This bird knows the ship. I’m sure of it. It acts totally familiar with everything.

But then, what do I know about how a bird acts when it’s in an unfamiliar place? I don’t really know anything about animals other than the most obvious things that everyone knows.

Brigid could tell me what kind of bird this is. Brigid
followed Father’s falconer around when she was smaller. Her incessant questions gave her an education about all kinds of living creatures.

Lord, how I miss my sister.

Voices. People are waking with the sun.

The bird flies in alarm. It circles slowly in the air above the ship. Its tail is long with broad brown and white bands. No, the last band at the tip is so dark, it must be black. The plumage is deep brown, lighter on the tummy. The wings are slender. Looking at it from below, it seems small and vulnerable. Nothing like those hawks that swoop down on the rats in the Downpatrick fort. This is a delicate bird. A beautiful bird.

And one I recognize. Yes, I remember now. I remember the brown bird that chased away a seagull back before this journey began. This couldn’t be the same one. That doesn’t make sense. Yet I feel almost certain it is. My brave companion. How delightful!

In a flash of brown and white, the bird dips in front of the ship. Out of sight now.

I climb from the sheep pit onto the front deck and look ahead for the bird. But it’s gone. Disappeared. The only thing in sight is the first ship. And these ships are narrow. Plus the sea is placid—so the bird isn’t hidden by waves. I have a clear view.

Did it change direction without me seeing? I turn in a circle, looking everywhere.

The bird has simply vanished.

How could that be?

An irrational sense of loss weakens me. I’m a fool. This is probably not the same bird I saw back in the north country. And even if it is, I didn’t know it was here until just now. I have no right to think of it as a companion—I have not just lost a companion.

I remember the Saxon youths the night Brigid disappeared. They said, “Brid,”—bird. The word is Brigid’s name with a small chunk taken out of the middle.

A wash of sadness slackens my cheeks.

Wherever you’ve gone, Brid, be safe. Don’t be swallowed by the water. Live.

“Storm!” It’s Asgör who makes the sighting. I’ve been learning the names of some of the free men now, for their names are always bandied about: Asgör, Snorri, Thorgrid, Ingvar, Göte.

I look where he points. It’s easy to see it coming from far away. Black clouds on the horizon. They grow big fast.

It’s going to be a powerful one, I know, because suddenly everyone rushes around tying down the chests and barrels and anything that moves. We even spread out a fishing net over the sheep and cow and tack it down at the corners. These nets are strong, made of waxed walrushide rope. Ingvar assures me they can hold a tremendous weight without breaking.

The clouds race toward us. The wind picks up. It’s gale force in no time. My hair band goes whipping away.

The sails come down on all three ships. And now the men are tying the children by a rope around their waists to hooks on the ship sides between the oarlocks. The oars are pulled in and strapped together and battened down.

The women put on shoulder brooches. The men put on gold earrings. Adorning themselves, like Torild did the sick man before they threw him overboard. Oh, Lord. Gold chains and bracelets from the monastery casket are passed around, until everyone’s wearing something. Even me—I allowed Torild to lock a bracelet on me because it seemed to matter to her so much. I allowed it, though my heart went crazy as the clasp snapped shut.

Hoskuld calls all the adults on our ship together. Everyone who isn’t tied down comes to the center of the forward or aft deck and huddles tight, arms around one another. Hoskuld leads us in prayers. Every face is turned to him, hanging on his words. When going into battle, all men may be consulted, but in this moment, there is only one chief; Hoskuld is like a father to us all.

“Odin, Father of the Gods, hear us,” he calls.

Everyone repeats his words exactly.

“Help us prevail on your son, Thor.”

And they repeat again.

“And Thor, great god of thunder, we see your glory. When we are in Iceland, when we are farming, we will worship you for rain so plentiful as this. We will thank you for this generosity. But at sea that generosity isn’t needed. Please, Thor, hear us. And Odin, great father, if we drown, please, Odin, send down the Valkyriers to take
us to Valhalla, so we can feast and drink for all eternity.”

Everyone repeats everything Hoskuld says.

Black blocks out the sun in an instant—as though we’ve entered a dark tent and dropped the flap.

And then it’s here. Loud and thrashing. Waves break over the ship. We’re tossed side to side for so long. Lightning flashes and thunder claps immediately after.

I hold tight to the
þræll
beside me, but a wave catches him wrong. He’s swept off his feet. I make my fingers like iron, grip as hard as I can. But his arm slips out of mine, out of the man’s on his other side. And he’s gone, washed away in a scream of terror.

Did I scream too?

The sheep are crying. I look. It’s hard to see because the raindrops come down fast and big as pebbles. The sheep whimper, like babies. I pull away from the huddle and crawl to the edge of the animal pit. So much water has come in that the sheep are knee-deep in it. Can the ship withstand the weight of all that extra water? Will it burst apart or merely sink?

I manage to stagger to one of the big wooden buckets we use for bailing and I lower myself into the pit and bail water.

Hoskuld and a handful of other men join me. We bail and bail, but we’re losing the battle.

Now most of the able-bodied people are dumping the contents of barrels and boxes, and bailing too.

The shriek of the wind deafens me. I’m inside my silent head now, alone with my terror. Nothing exists but the bucket in my hands and the water I keep filling it with. Bail, bail, bail. My arms ache so badly, but I cannot stop. Bail, bail, bail. Endlessly.

Till I realize we are gaining on it. The waves are less ferocious. No more water is coming in. The wind no longer beats us. Everything is slowing down. The rain slowly peters out. And I’m falling.

When I open my eyes, we’re sailing again. It’s late morning. The sun gleams through crystal-clear air. I slept all through the night. From the roll of the ship, I know the sea is calm again, beautifully calm.

Hoskuld sits up beside me. On seeing that I’m awake, he leans over and briefly touches his nose to mine. “You saw the sheep would drown. You bailed first. I’m lucky to own you.” His lips move toward mine, then he stops. “Give a kiss, won’t you? Don’t make me always steal.” His voice is light, almost teasing, but the small opening of his lips and the slight tilt to his head give
him away. Something humbles him. I blink and regard him, unmoving.

I’m saved by the intrusion of the world around us: A woman stumbles about crying loudly. A
þræll.
The man she loved was lost in the storm. They weren’t married;
þrælar
have no legal standing, so they can’t marry—they can’t buy or sell or inherit or anything. But she loved him. And he fathered her children. She says all this to anyone who cares to listen, and she cries.

When she reaches us, Hoskuld puts his arms around her. I pull myself up to sitting and stare. His face is sad; he’s sincere. And she isn’t even his
þræll.
She belongs to Ingvar.

Moaning comes from all sides. Other men went overboard too. Two free men, and two other men
þrælar.
And one woman
þræll.
And a child
þræll
was flung about so roughly that, even though he was tied to the ship, he died of his bruises. His broken body tears my heart. Women cry for the lost and the dead. I listen and watch, and I cry too.

The three ships lost seven people, in all. And two sheep. They probably died of fear. And who knows how much silver and how many tools went into the deep. Hoskuld assesses his belongings and adds his own lament, for the loss of his carpenter’s tool chest especially.
It would have helped in repairing the ships. The storm took a wicked toll.

But at least the sun is trying to make up with us now. Before long everyone is talking more optimistically. They’re saying the ones who went over the side have incurred no shame, for they didn’t die in a cowardly way or by their own sword. They died well. These words seem to console them.

I understand honor. But to me their words are inane. There is nothing either honorable or dishonorable about being swept away at sea. It is just sad. Terribly, terribly sad.

In a flash they become all business now, all working together, free men and
þrælar,
side by side.

I should help too. There’s so much to do. I reach a hand to the top edge of the ship side and pull myself to my feet. My legs are weak. And, oh! Without warning my stomach empties over the side into the sea. My forehead breaks out in sweat.

Torild is beside me with a horn of mead. I use it to wash my mouth out. I turn to nod thanks, but she’s gone, tending to those battered in the storm. I feel woozy. I look out over the water again. My hair band disappeared in the storm and my stringy hair falls in my face. I knot it at the nape of my neck.