The girl pulls up on the bull’s horns, bringing the animal to a halt. “Get off,” she says, swinging down. I try to copy her, but my descent is, at best, a controlled fall.
“Where are we?” I ask, massaging my thumbs into my lower back.
The girl ignores me.
Agatha plops down beside me.
“That was — the best!” she says. “I hope we can do that again.” She pats her bull on its head, and it licks her hand with a thick, slobbery tongue.
People start moving toward us from all directions, with spears in their hands. Agatha is too distracted to notice. Within moments, we’re surrounded.
“Wait. What’s going on?” I say.
The spears rise as one, cutting off any chance of escape.
“You need to come with me. Try to flee and we will kill you,” says a gruff older man. He grips my shoulder and shoves me in the direction of one of the tents. Agatha shouts in protest as I am led away. I struggle, looking around for the boy and girl who brought us here. They can explain. Surely this is some kind of mistake? I catch a glimpse of the boy. He raises his eyebrows and says nothing. The hand guiding me lowers my head through a tent flap and pushes me inside. The flap closes and I am on my own.
There is nothing in the tent except for spindling shadows cast from a lantern high above my head. Wooden poles run up the tent sides, meeting in a crisscross at its peak. The walls are a patchwork of material, sewn together with thick stitching. I reach out and run my fingertips down the side nearest to me. It is coarse and smells of sour meat. I pull my hand away. It’s skin. The walls are made of skin. I swallow. Is that what they plan to do to us — use our skin to make their tents?
The entrance flaps in the wind like a caught bird trying to escape. Through the gap, I can see the boots of two guards. I have to get out of here. My clan needs me — Aileen needs me — and we’re wasting time. I run my hands along the base of the tent, trying to find a loose peg that I can dislodge, but from inside it’s impossible to get the right angle. I scratch at the skin walls, trying to make a tear. One of my nails snags on the stitching, and the top of the nail rips off. I shout through gritted teeth and start kicking the walls. The kicks rebound off the taut skin, barely even causing a shudder. It’s hopeless. I’m never going to get out of here. I can’t do anything. I sit down on the ground. Its dampness bleeds into me.
The entranceway opens and a tall woman enters. She stares down at me over an angular nose. “Don’t stand up,” she says. Something tells me it would be wise to obey her.
“Why are you here?” she says. Her dark hair is shot with a streak of gray.
“I was brought here. There was a boy and a girl. They made us come.”
“But why are you this far north? Where have you come from? What do you want?”
For every question I answer, she asks me three more. I explain as best as I can about the wedding, the attack, our journey to Scotia, the fight with Knútr. When it comes to recounting what happened to Lileas, my body starts to shake. Tears leak out of my eyes and run down my face. I wipe them away, but more replace them. I can’t. I mustn’t. Stop it. Stop crying. Stop crying! I press the palms of my hands into my eyes, willing the tears to stop, but still they spill out. My chest cramps, and my shoulders start to tremble. My body is no longer under my control. Something opens up inside me, and I’m wailing and gasping and these sounds are coming out of me and I know she’s watching, but I can’t stop any of it. I can’t.
We have to protect each other. That is what Lileas said to me. I was supposed to protect her and I failed.
The woman does not try to comfort me. She stands looking at me for a few moments, then leaves. I lie on the floor with my arms wrapped around my sides and sob myself to sleep.
WHEN I WAKE UP, THE AIR IN THE TENT TASTES STALE. I stretch my arms and rub my jaw, which aches from sleeping on it at an awkward angle. The lantern has gone out, but sunlight shines through the translucent skin walls. Someone has left a bowl of oats by my feet. I spoon some into my mouth without tasting anything. Just as I am finishing, a girl walks in. It is the one who brought me here yesterday.
“Good, you’re awake. The contest is about to start,” she says.
“What contest?” I ask.
“He thought you might like to watch.”
“Who? Watch what?”
“Cray. He wants to show off, I expect.”
She turns and exits the tent. I step out after her and notice there is no longer anyone guarding the entrance. Am I a prisoner here or not? Why is no one telling me what’s going on?
I follow the girl to a large, open space a short walk from the tents. The grassy area is cordoned off with ropes and wooden poles to form a huge rectangular arena. People are standing all the way around — the whole clan by the looks of it. I search among their faces for Agatha, but there’s no sign of her.
Six highland bulls stomp into the arena, each with a rider sitting upon its back. The crowd cheers as they circle the space.
“There’s Cray,” says the girl with a yawn, pointing to the boy who rode with Agatha yesterday.
“And what’s your name?” I ask.
“Mór,” she tells me, as if insulted. That’s the end of that conversation.
Each of the riders is holding a different weapon. Cray has a short wooden pole that he spins above his head as he smiles at the spectators. His top is sleeveless, showing off his toned arms. After a short parade, the riders settle their bulls around the edges of the arena, so they are an equal distance apart. A hush settles over the crowd. The bulls’ feet shuffle in anticipation, and a lone fly buzzes around our heads. Then a horn blast breaks the stillness and all six riders kick their bulls into action. Three of them run headlong into a collision at the center, while the other three play it safe on the outskirts.
“What are they doing?” I ask Mór.
“Last one to fall,” she says, without taking her eyes off the action.
A bald man is the first to go down, taken off guard by an attack from a woman with studded gloves. Another woman tries to trap Cray with a net, but he ducks out of the way, flicking his stick into her chest. The impact sends her tumbling off her bull in a backward somersault. As she goes down, Cray snatches the net from her hands and tucks it into his trousers. One by one the other riders topple, until only Cray and the gloved woman remain. They separate to opposite sides of the arena, squaring up to each other. Silence unfurls across the field. Then both riders kick simultaneously, and the bulls hurtle forward. They are going to collide head-on. Surely that could kill them?
At the last moment, the bulls swerve, but their mighty horns still crack together as they pass. Cray strikes at the exact moment the horns hit. The woman predicts his move and beats his stick away with her fist. With her other hand, she pummels Cray on his jaw. In the time it takes him to regain his composure, the woman circles around so the two are side by side, both still galloping forward at top speed. The woman tries to push Cray off. He crouches low and holds on tight. Steering with just one hand, he stretches over and tickles the other bull’s nose with his stick. It shakes its head in agitation, and the movement reverberates through its entire body. The woman struggles to keep her balance. Cray is focusing all his attention on the bull, so he doesn’t notice that the woman is pulling one of her gloves off with her teeth. She flings it at Cray’s outstretched hand. It takes him by surprise, and he drops the stick. The woman smiles, sensing victory now that Cray’s lost his weapon. She rounds on him and punches him on the shoulder. He cannot dodge the strike. He loses his balance and falls. The competition is over.
The woman raises her arms in the air and calls out in victory. The crowd, however, does not join in, for they have seen something that she has not: Cray has slipped down to the underside of his bull, where he is clinging on with both hands. He only pretended to fall! His bull approaches the woman from behind, as if it knows where to go without being told. The woman realizes too late what is happening, turning to see
Cray swing up from beneath his animal, launching the net he picked up earlier. It sails over the woman’s head and ensnares her. Its ends are weighted and it falls around her body, holding her tight. Cray slips a corner of it over one of his bull’s horns. His bull breaks away and the net is pulled taut. The woman is dragged from her mount and crashes to the ground, taking the net with her.
She stands, still tangled in the net. Her defeat is not elegant, but she takes it graciously and acknowledges Cray as the victor. He, in turn, bows to the roaring crowd and takes his bull on a victory lap.
Two men jog into the arena, carrying something between them. Cray returns to the middle and they pass it up to him. It is a spear, the longest I have ever seen. Four interlocking triangles come together to make its point. The crowd rumbles. Something else is about to take place.
“What’s happening?” I ask Mór.
“He claims his prize for winning,” she replies.
“What’s the prize?”
“He gets to kill the prisoner.”
The prisoner? My heart misses a beat. Does she mean me? No, that can’t be right. No one is paying me any attention. Not Agatha?
A hooded body is dragged into the arena. The shape of it looks oddly familiar. Then they remove the hood. It can’t be — My knees buckle.
The prisoner is Knútr. And now Cray is going to kill him.
Where are all the horses
I know we used to have some
I helped look after them when I was a little girl
Big things they were with hairy nostrils and yellow spit
They should be in the stables but they’re not there
They’d better not have taken them
Perhaps they went for a walk or ate each other
No that’s not right
Horses don’t eat horses
We used to feed them carrots
There was a shadow in the stables with blood on its hands
It didn’t bring me food so it wasn’t from an animal
Someone must have come too close
It slipped away and I haven’t seen it since
Slippery slippery like soap and mud
I knew a song about that once
Mummy used to sing it to me
She’ll be coming home soon
Mummy and Daddy and Calum
They made a promise and promises can never be broken
You’ll be safe in here Daddy said
So where are the horses
I’m worried they’re lost
If they went for a walk they should be back by now
It’s past their bedtime and the bugs will bite
Stupid horses deserve what’s coming to them
Hope they die
Even if they do come back I won’t let them in
Or I’ll give them to the shadows
Ha ha ha
That’ll teach them a lesson
That will be the end of them
IT IS THE BEST THING I EVER SAW. THE BIG BULLS ALL running and crashing and the people pushing all the other ones off. And best of all is the man who is called Crayton which I know it is his name because I asked the woman and she told me. I don’t like that woman. I was in a tent that smelled all horrible and I didn’t like it so I shouted a lot and then the woman came who was tall. She kept asking me questions. Some were easy questions like what is your name and some were hard ones like why were you spying which I didn’t know why because we weren’t.
I asked her lots of questions too. She didn’t like it when I did that. She kept saying, “I’m asking the questions,” and I said, “Yes, you are. And so am I.” She wouldn’t answer them though. She said that I had to stay in the tent until they decided what to do with me. Then she told me the man’s name was Crayton because that’s the question I kept asking all the time because I wanted to know it because he is the most handsome one. I was holding on to him on the bull and I liked it.
When the woman left I tried to go out too but the rude man wouldn’t let me. He’s the one that stood outside. He told me I had to stay inside. I told him I was not a prisoner and I can do what I want. I tried to push past but he stopped me and called me a “good-for-nothing menace” so I spat in his face hard. Then he was really mad. Other people came in and tied up my arms and I shouted more so they tied up my mouth as well so I couldn’t do it. I was kicking and kicking because they were holding me and I hated it so I was more angry. Then I thought about Maistreas Eilionoir. She would be cross if she knew I got angry and tried to hurt the man. Also, I was worried they might hurt Milkwort, who was in my pocket. I stopped kicking. The hot inside went away and then the people let me go and they left. They should not do that holding me and tying up.
I checked on Milkwort when they were gone and lucky he wasn’t hurt.
Then I had a clever plan which was for Milkwort to chew through the rope on my wrists and the cloth in my mouth. It was easy for him and we were both happier after that. I stroked him behind his ears to say thank you and he liked it.
I wanted to sleep then because I was so tired from so much walking, but my head was all whirring and thinking and I couldn’t stop it. I was thinking all about the rude man and about Crayton and about our clan and how we have to rescue them, but the most I was thinking about was Lileas. I liked her so much because she was my friend and now she is dead. It’s not fair that she is dead. Jaime says it wasn’t my fault and I know that it wasn’t my fault but also I keep thinking that maybe it was my fault.
This morning the rude man came back in and he was surprised I wasn’t tied up anymore. He gave me food that wasn’t nice. After I ate it, he tied my wrists and my mouth again and I couldn’t stop it.
He took me outside to the place I am now which is where all the people are. I like being here because Crayton is here on his bull and he is so handsome and strong. It is so nice to look at him. And he was so clever to trick the woman with the gloves and he won and I knew he would.
Now he is holding up a spear and he spins it above his head so fast.
“Bring out the prisoner!” someone shouts.
Two men with spears drag in a body and then pull it to its feet. That is who is the prisoner. Oh, good. I was worried it might be me. They take the hood off the prisoner but he has his back to me so I cannot see him. Then he turns around and I know him.
It is the deamhan who is Knútr.
Why is he here? All I can think in my head is Lileas and the knife and her eyes and the blood, and my legs do not keep straight and I think I will fall over.
“That spear is going right through his heart. Which is what will happen to you if you spit at me again,” says the rude man.
The nasty deamhan is going to be killed. That is what is right. But if he is dead we don’t have a plan for when we get to Norveg or know how to get there. Jaime pretends we have a plan but we don’t have a good one. The nasty deamhan has to be our plan. The men push him on his knees. Crayton goes on the bull to the faraway side of the field. He holds up the spear and starts the bull running. The bull will run past and he will stab the deamhan, I know it.
I do not think. I go under the rope and run for the deamhan. It is hard because my hands are tied and so is my mouth. The rude man shouts behind me but I do not listen. Crayton and the bull are running straight at me. He has not seen me and I will be trampled. I cannot shout because the cloth is in my mouth. There is only one choice I make.
I throw myself into the deamhan which knocks him over. Crayton on the bull is raising the spear and it is coming toward me and it will kill me. I shut my eyes and wait for it to happen. It doesn’t happen. The bull runs past me. A different person grabs my arm and I open my eyes. It is a man I don’t know. I shrug him so he isn’t holding me because I don’t like it.
“What on earth?” he says.
Crayton has gone to the side. He did not kill me because he likes me. He is off the bull and is running over now.
“What are you playing at? You could have been killed,” he s
ays.
I try to speak to tell him, but I cannot do it with the cloth in my mouth.
“Come here.” It is the rude man who has come to get me and grabs my arm too hard. I try to shake him off too but he squeezes more.
“She’s trying to tell us something,” says Crayton. He reaches out and pulls the cloth from my mouth and I am happy.
“You can’t — k-kill him,” I say.
“Why not?” he asks.
“We need — we need — for the plan. C-clan for our clan — with the N-Norveg.” It’s not coming out right.
More people have run in. The nasty deamhan looks at me and grins. I kick him hard on his leg. The rude man pulls me more tight.
“Take her away,” says a fat man with a gray beard. “Let’s get this over with, Cray.”
Crayton walks toward his bull.
“No, wait. You can’t.” My head is going fast for a clever plan and then I think of one. “I — ch-challenge you,” I say.
Crayton stops. The man pulling me stops as well. Crayton looks at me. His face is puzzle and a little smile.
“You challenge me?” he says.
“I want to do the — the competition on the bull and push you off.”
Crayton laughs. “Why?”
“I want to be the one to — to kill him.”
“I thought you just said you needed him alive?”
That is true so I don’t know what to say to that.
“No, this is ridiculous.” The rude man starts to pull me away again.
The crowd is shouting something. It gets louder and it is “Do it! Do it! Do it!”
Crayton walks over to me until he is close. He is a nice smell. “Now you’ve put me in a very difficult position,” he says. He is smiling and I like it. “It’s not in our custom to turn down a challenge. Besides, I’ve got to give the crowd what they want.”
This means he says yes.
“We have a new challenger,” shouts the man with the gray beard. He is scratching his head when he says it. “Remove the prisoner and prepare the battlefield. Untie this girl and fetch her a bó.”
The Good Hawk Page 10