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.
We all eat well.
The crew sing after dinner. They join us around Maeve when she tells stories. I’ve seen them listening before. But this is the first time they’ve actually come to sit among us.
Clay Man sits beside me.
I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. This way I feel impenetrable.
The wind never stops.
Two days later we portage again. It’s a shorter distance this time. We are now on the third river. And the current of this one is different. We’re still going south, but now we’re going with the current, so even though the flow is slow and gentle, we’re moving faster. This river is wider, too, with more settlements along it. But we don’t stop.
The right bank is still rolling hills with groves of trees and quiet lakes that give themselves away by how they reflect the sunlight. Any native of Eire can spot a lake from far, even small ones. But the left bank is flat land as far as I can see. Just grass and swamp.
Something is different about today. The crew are more alert. And Scar Face said something that made the other crew members laugh. Plus Leering Man’s arm is fine now and Wounded Man’s leg seems to be hurting him less. In all, they’re as close to happy as I’ve seen them.
I sight the city in late afternoon, and I know immediately that this is what the crew have been looking forward to. It’s enormous, spreading out on both sides of the river, with a low, thatched-roof fortress near the water.
The crew scurry around, dealing with the details of landing and securing the sails and oars. They push us prisoners together and Mustache Man comes around tying our hands.
“Kiev,” says Maeve in my ear.
I don’t know what that means. I cock my head at her.
“It’s an even bigger city than Smolensk,” she says.
How does she know the names of these places? I want to ask her. How do you know what the crew members say? Do you really understand Russian? Who are you, Maeve?
“You give yourself away in too many ways,” says Maeve. “I know who you are.”
My mouth now drops fully open.
Maeve shakes her head. “No, no, of course I don’t know your name. To me you are only dear Aist. But I know you are royalty. The way you turned under Gormlaith’s and my hands as we washed you—that told me you were used to being served. And, of course, I knew it from the ring that now hangs from the captain’s neck. Don’t give anything else away, Aist.”
Her speech ends as she is gagged. Everyone is gagged.
The crew wash their faces. Clean shirts come out of the chests. They smooth their hair in place with river water. And they go ashore. Only Clay Man and Club Fist stay behind to guard us.
The day drags into evening. I stand by the rail and look out at the water. A wind rises and whips my hair across my eyes and I’m reminded of the night I climbed to the top of the fort wall in Downpatrick, the night before Brigid and I left home. A shiver shoots up my spine. The Norse child comes to stand beside me. The child is as tall as me, though very thin, and as I look at those fine cheekbones I realize with surprise that this is a girl, probably just about my age. She turns, and her eyes take me in kindly. Lord, how I wish she was Brigid.
The water is growing white and frothy. I can hear cascades beyond.
Our ship goes to shore and we prepare to portage.
The Norse girl comes up beside me, a habit she’s formed lately but what’s new is that she chatters happily. She’s talked to me a few times since that day in Kiev. But never so vigorously. And never in a way I could understand. This time, though, I know she’s talking about the white water. She circles my waist with her arm and draws me to her side and keeps chattering and pointing with the other hand. I don’t pull away.
Once all the cargo is out on shore, we take our usual positions, and Leering Man stays behind with the extra cargo like usual.
But there are two differences. Wounded Man isn’t with us. He never returned to the ship after his night in Kiev. So now the crew number only seven.
The second difference is that Scar Face and Club Fist don’t help carry the ship. Instead they stand ready with spears. They run back and forth beside the ship as we carry it. They look in all directions.
Clay Man leads the way, and he’s carrying a spear too.
They’re afraid of attack. But who would be out here to attack us? There’s no town nearby. Could there be raiding nomads?
We move faster than normal, even though we are short two people on carrying the ship’s weight. Fear speeds us.
I’m lucky I’m on the side of the ship near the river so I can see it as we walk. There are no waterfalls, but there are raging rapids.
The Norse girl is on the far side of the ship. I wish she was over here. I wish I could tell her what I’m seeing.
We ride in the ship again, only to have to get out and portage once more. Then another time. And another.
In all, we pass seven sets of rapids. And the Norse girl and I trade positions deliberately each time, in silent agreement, so that both of us get to see them.
When we’re all finally back in the ship for good again, we have a treat of bread and honey. That’s something the crew brought back from their night in Kiev. We each get a single piece, but it feels like a feast.
Clay Man watches me eat my last bite. He comes over and gives me a second piece of bread with more honey. There’s a curve to his shoulder, a slackness to his cheek. He says something short. Just a word or two. I fear it’s an endearment.
The bread sits in my hand heavy as gold. The honey smells so sweet I could swoon.
The prisoners’ eyes are immediately on me. I want this bread and honey. I want it. But the cost may be too high.
I take a bite, then I go from prisoner to prisoner, giving each a bite. Lips and teeth, they are reduced to lips and teeth and an occasional tongue. And, oh, yes, eyes that register at once incomprehension and gratitude. We are careful to make it stretch to the very last one.
I don’t look at Clay Man. But later, when I hear him talking to someone and I am sure he is not looking at me, I lick the last of the honey from my fingers.
I see the Norse girl glance at me. She gives a quick smile and looks away.
The ship goes rapidly for the rest of the day. The land is forested now, though the trees are mostly low, like in Eire. The river is in a valley, and there are fewer tributaries than before. We pass through one very narrow rocky spot and skirt around a big island of pitch-black soil and then it’s just smooth sailing,
with almost no turns anymore, all the way to a giant sea.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE SLAVE MARKET
“This city is Miklagard,” says Maeve to the Irish children. But, really, all of us are listening to hen Even the ones who don’t speak Gaelic. It’s habit by now.
When we moored our boat at dawn, Maeve told us that sea inlet forms the most perfect harbor in the world, called the Golden Horn. Ever since then she’s been spouting facts, educating us. Three parallel stone and rubble walls surround this enormous city. The outermost one is dotted with giant towers. Maeve says there are one hundred towers in all, and I believe she does not exaggerate, for the wall stretches far beyond the eye’s ability to see. The innermost wall is as high as the foothills of Ulster.
“Miklagard is the second largest city in the world, after Särkland,” booms Maeve’s voice. “It’s the capital of Byzans and the center of Christianity.”
Byzans? We have gone around to the far side of the world, then. In just three months. My body keeps track of the months all on its own. I turn in a circle and stare. Everywhere I look there are hills with giant churches topped by enormous domes. Ahead of us is a red cathedral that seems more a fortress than a church.
“And those,” says Gormlaith, “are Arabs, right?” She points.
“Exactly,” says Maeve. “They’re Muslim. It’s a religion that isn’t Christian and isn’t heathen.”
We stare at men with white cloth on their heads and flowing tunics that cover their arms and go all the way to the ground. It must be hard living here dressed like that. It’s stunningly hot.
I’ve heard of heat like this. Foreign travelers passing through Eire sometimes talked of deserts. But nothing they said could have prepared me. The sun beats like a slave master. The air shimmers, making colors—red, yellow, green. We’ve been off the ship only since dawn and already my tongue is so dry, it threatens to turn to dust. Breathing is a chore.
“And what are those?” More points to tall brown animals with long curvy necks and humps on their backs.
“Camels,” says Maeve. “Arabs ride them like horses”
I look at her with gratitude. Without Maeve, I sometimes think I might go mad. How she came to know so much of the world I cannot guess. If I could talk now, though, I wouldn’t ask her. My silence may be the source of my power in an obvious, if inexplicable, way, but all of us draw something from what we do not tell.
Clay Man gives orders, and Wolf Hound and Mustache Man tie us together with ropes around our waists. But our hands are free and our mouths are not gagged. We’ve been expecting something like this, of course. It’s time to sell us.
Clay Man ties my rope to a rope around his waist. We are one long line now with Clay Man at the head.
Maeve is right behind me. “You’re his prized possession,” she says in my ear. “He’s taken a fancy to you.”
My mind shuts tight, so that for a brief while I cannot see or hear or smell or feel anything. But then, like hot rain, the thought falls: You knew this. This is not new terrible information. You knew this. Maeve has just confirmed it. That’s all.
Clay Man looks at me with concern. I must have paled. I’m me again. Alive. And the last thing I want is Clay Man’s concern. I will myself to raise my head.
Clay Man has cleaned himself up for today. His hair is combed. But my three stork feathers still stick up from the top of his head. He pats them now. A leather bag hangs from his waist. It’s wet. He holds a second leather bag in his hand. It’s dry. Now he tucks the dry bag under one arm and we’re off.
We walk in silence, going wherever Clay Man leads us. Wolf Hound and Mustache Man walk on either side. Club Fist walks behind us. The other three—Scar Face, Leering Man, and the remaining silent man who never interacts with us—go off on their own. We take the main road, which, judging by the sun, runs west from the harbor. It’s decorated with statues of lions and columns that mark the entrances to fancy shops for copperware and glass and leather goods. I remember how impressed I was with the main streets of Dublin, but those Viking shops were shadows compared to Miklagard’s grand stores.
The road opens into a market square now. Vendors hawk plants, birds, clothes, all packed together in a tight, continuous flow of colors. One boy runs up to me holding out a straw box so loosely woven that I can see the small creature inside. Maeve shooes him away and tells us that with one sting, that creature—a scorpion—can kill us. We close ranks.
Clay Man talks to a man who is dressed just like he is. A Russian. The man moves his wares aside to make room for us. Clay Man has us sit on the ground in a circle, with him kneeling, still attached to me by that rope.
He opens his leather bag and takes out a metal contraption and sets it up and attaches measuring pans. It’s a scale, cleverly designed. The hinged arms collapse inward, folding into a line with the hanger ban The measuring pans nest within each other, so that all parts fit neatly in that trim bag.
Now he takes out his weights. They’re made of clay. He sets them on the ground beside the scale, but one drops and breaks. I watch as he opens the wet leather bag and takes out a small pot of clay. He has a few long fingernails—the ones I felt dig into me when he first captured me—and he uses them now to shave off small amounts of clay. Quickly he fashions a new weight, holds it on his fingertips, then adds a bit more clay. The speed of work, the sureness of his actions, fascinate me.
Clay Man looks sideways at me and catches me watching him. He lifts an eyebrow and takes a silver coin out of a pouch inside his shirt. He puts the coin in one measuring pan and the new weight in the other pan. The new weight is heavier than the coin.
Now Clay Man takes out his oil lamp and lights it. He holds the new clay weight in metal tongs above the small flame, turning it over and over, till it dries. Then he snuffs out the lamp and puts the new weight back in the pan. It’s exactly equal to the silver coin. Exactly. He knew that when it was dry, that clay weight would be the precise weight of that silver coin.
Clay Man grins at me in pride. Then he busies himself putting away his clay.
“A dirham,” whispers Maeve. “That’s the standard coin from here east and south, across the Arab empires. Everything is sold for dirhams.”
Such tiny coins. In Eire we measure prices in heifers, hogs, sheep—whatever we have. But here they use coins. They’re shiny and beautiful, yes. But flimsy. They weigh practically nothing—the weight of a pinch of clay. It would take two thousand of them at least to weigh as much as the Irish stone.
Clay Man checks to see if I’m still watching him. When he sees I am, he grins again.
And now I understand his odor—his defining odor. Clay Man smells of the clay he uses for his weights. I wonder if he knows that. I wonder if he realizes he is always a slave dealer. He can never be a confiding friend, a tender father, a passionate lover without that fact intruding. He reeks of his profession. And now I realize that the reason we are tied is not to keep us from escaping—no, no, there’s nowhere to escape to in this slave market. We are tied to keep us together so no one can steal any of us.
I knew this was coming. It’s all been leading here. I knew it.
An Arab walks up and talks with Clay Man. Wolf Hound comes forward and helps in the negotiations; why, he speaks Arabic.
The Arab man is small and thin. His face is lined and leathery. And closed. From it I read nothing about the kind of man he is, the kind of master he will be.
A man and woman stand by the side and watch the exchange. They are dressed in tunics, not Arab garb. And their skin and hair reveal them as northerners. Christians. I interlace my fingers and press my hands together hard. Those Christians know better. Their priests must preach it to them, just as the priests in Eire do. They should protest—object that slavery is a blot on mankind. They should not just watch!
The Arab now gives a quick bob of the head and walks past Clay Man. He looks into the Irish children’s mouths and into their eyes, which have now become wild. He examines their feet.
He pulls up their tunics and checks their bottoms.
I glare at him. Blood pumps in the sides of my neck.
Riley sobs. Kacey lets out a series of little yelps. More and Patrick-Nyle squirm and kick frantically. Maeve squeezes my arm so hard, it takes all my efforts not to scream.
Club Fist comes around and sits in front of Maeve, facing her. He is the brute. His very presence is a threat. Maeve’s hand falls away from my arm. I sense her whole body sag.
The Arab pays for the children in silver dirhams and leads them away. The children don’t look back.
And it all happened with those good Christians looking on. My stomach turns. I am woozy.
Maeve turns her head away. Gormlaith puts her hands on Maeve’s shoulders and pulls her in, folding her arms around her. But Gormlaith doesn’t cry. Her eyes rage. The greater surprise is that Maeve now does, for the first time. I never heard any of the children call her mother. But they did other things. They were hers, of course—all but Riley.
The two Norse women and the Norse girl hold on to one another.
Markus and William huddle together.
All of us knew this was coming. But nothing could have prepared us. Maeve even said the children were next—she said those very words when we cooked the venison the night after the Slav children were sold. But even she wasn’t prepared. We look at Maeve and our hearts break for her.
Lord, I miss Brigid.
Clay Man goes about his business as though nothing of import has happened. He uses the weights to assure himself again of the proper value of the silver. Some of the coins go safely in a pouch inside his shirt. Others he quickly slips into another pouch hanging from his belt.
He urges us to our feet and we follow him through the market, while he uses those coins to buy things. Wolf Hound and Mustache Man and Club Fist carry everything he buys.
We are like useless beasts. We do not even look at what Clay Man buys. We keep our eyes on the ground and do nothing but let ourselves be herded.
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