We eat in the market. Strange food that makes my stomach churn. We return to the ship to sleep. I lie in the open and look up at stars.
The Norse girl comes and lies beside me. “Himni” she says. “Fóru lausar undir himni”
I don’t know what that means. But I know she’s talking about the sky.
I close my eyes. I don’t sleep.
In the morning we file out again. Eight of us. Our eyes shine. We jump at every touch. Inside my head is a continual scream. The day is long and painful. At night we return to the ship, only four left: Gormlaith, Maeve, the Norse girl, and me.
The Norse girl lies beside me on the deck again. And she talks of himni once more. And of máni and stjörnur. She points at the moon and the stars. She cried when the Norse women were sold, but I’m pretty sure that neither was her mother. They looked very little alike. She cries again now.
Gormlaith cried when Markus and William were sold. She couldn’t even speak with them, but she cried. Maybe because she felt they deserved it; everyone deserves to be cried for. I cannot hear if she’s crying now, though. She’s lying on the far side of Maeve, who has said nothing since the children left.
I stare at the heavens, my eyes so dry they burn. Gormlaith, Maeve, the Norse girl, and me. We are next.
I close my eyes. We are all the same now, the four of us. One future. No past.
Sleep comes instantly.
Someone jerks me awake, pulling on my elbow. I sit up. It’s Clay Man. He pulls me over to his lit lamp. On the deck he has spread out coins. He shows them to me, talking in a gruff whisper.
I don’t care to look. What does it matter?
Clay Man shakes his head. He goes over and wakes up Maeve. She stumbles to the lamp with him. Clay Man talks again. Then he pokes Maeve. And she talks.
She explains the coins to me. On one side are numbers: the year the coins were struck according to the Islamic calendar. On the other side are the places they were struck: Baghdad, Cairo, Damascus, Isfahan, Tashkent. Some coins have words—quotations from the Koran, the Islamic holy book.
Clay Man is animated. His hands fly. He pokes Maeve hard. She talks more. I don’t really think she’s translating, though. I don’t think she speaks his language. She just knows what the coins are all about. Maybe she tells me more than Clay Man even says. She’s smarter than him.
Finally she says to me, “Humor him or we will never sleep. Act impressed at how much he knows. Smile.”
I widen my eyes at Clay Man.
It’s enough. He puts out the lamp. We all sleep.
In the morning we assume our usual post in the market. A Russian man comes up and points to the stork feathers in Clay Man’s hair and talks excitedly. Clay Man steps back, touching the feathers protectively. The man holds out a coin. Money for stork feathers? Clay Man looks at me and says, “Aist.” The Russian man stares at me. Clay Man adds, “Charodeitsa.”
The Russian man immediately averts his eyes. “Charodeitsa,” he repeats in a hushed voice. He hurries away.
Maeve looks at me and raises an eyebrow. Does she know what that word means?
A fat Arab approaches gingerly. He touches Gormlaith on the shoulder. She shrinks away. He draws back timidly. He touches Maeve. She jerks her head around and glares at him. The Norse girl and I move together. But the fat Arab doesn’t look at us. He’s intent on Gormlaith. His mouth hangs opens, he’s so excited. He negotiates with Clay Man. Coins change hands. He leads Gormlaith away. My cheeks are so heavy, I think they will fall away from my skull.
Maeve’s arms circle me from behind. She rests on my back and whispers in my ear. “He can’t be any worse than what she’s had so far.”
Clay Man passes the rest of the day trading coins for reams of silk, boxes of pearls, satchels of spices. We eat and return to the ship.
In the night someone rolls against me as we lie sleeping. I open my eyes to see Maeve’s eyes shining at me in the moonlight. “He’s convinced you are an aist—a stork, she whispers. “A stork who has the power to change form into a woman. He thinks you may be a charodeitsa—an enchantress, but unlike our Irish piseogat, he fears you could be evil. It’s only how clean and pretty you are that keeps him from quaking.”
I’m stunned, both because it’s clear she does know Russian, or at least some words of it, and because of what she has said.
Once I am gone …”
I open my mouth to protest and wish just this once that I could speak.
“…once I am gone, you must continue the ruse. You must never speak.”
I gulp down the searing fluid that has risen from my stomach and force myself to hold together and pay attention. This sounds like Gospel. I wait for more guidance, but Maeve seems to have lost energy. I reach for her hand and pull.
“He won’t sell you. And he dares not mistreat you.” Her voice catches. “Good-bye, dear Aist.” She rolls away again.
So many things make sense now. How he tried over and over to get me to speak. He tested me. And I passed, because of Maeve and a vow to Brigid to stay silent. Silent as a stork.
I want to sweep Maeve’s words away in helpless anger, but they won’t go. I get drunk on them. I am far from helpless, actually. I have as much power as if I really were an enchantress.
Maybe that’s how magic works. Maybe all you need is for someone to believe in you.
Morning comes. We go to the market. And it happens as she said: Clay Man sells Maeve. It takes all I have not to collapse.
The Norse girl drapes her arms over me lightly, as though mimicking the way Maeve behaved the day before. She blows cooling air on my temples. She murmurs in my ear. She says words I heard the Norse women say to her. And I know she’s telling me that I can make it through this. Without understanding the words, I understand the message.
I know the message is true. I wish it wasn’t. I wish I could just turn into vapor. Disappear.
The day passes.
The Norse girl holds up her hands and says a word. She points at her shoes and says a word. She touches her nose and says a word. Then she says the first word again and waits.
It takes a second before I understand. I point at her hands. She tells me how smart I am. Then she says another word. I point at her nose. She cheers and kisses my cheek.
She names the objects around us. Tunic, eyes, teeth, arms, hair. She teaches me her name—Thora—and she calls me Aist. I listen and learn. What else is there to do?
In the middle of our lessons, an old man comes to inspect Thora and me. It becomes clear that Clay Man’s going to sell Thora, but not me.
Clay Man takes coins and goes to untie Thora’s rope from mine.
Thora. She’s all I have left.
I step in the way. I lift my chin straight up to the sky and open my mouth wide in a silent scream. Then I look through him, as though I have the power to wither him to nothing.
Clay Man’s hands go to his chest. He walks a few steps backward. He gives the old man back the coins.
Clay Man ties me to him again, waist to waist, and we walk the market in a line: Clay Man, me, Thora. Defiance starts in my toes and rises to my ankles. It makes me walk slowly. So slowly, Clay Man has to match his pace to mine, or else face dragging me stumbling along. He says something to me—words I know mean to hurry. But I don’t.
And he slows down. I knew he would. Thora keeps her eyes on the ground through all this. I have no idea what she thinks.
Clay Man buys buttons, arm rings, neck rings. All of silver. He buys carnelian and rock crystal beads. He buys sword chapes with the shapes of falcons and hawks on them. He shows me everything. But defiance has now risen all the way to my eyes. I look away. I am not a magic being. But I am my parents’ daughter. I am Brigid’s sister. I am a princess. I walk tall like a stork.
I belong to no one. Like a stork.
Thora’s eyes go from Clay Man to me and back. Then she stares at the ground again.
Clay Man gives up on trying to impress me with jewels. He b
uys me strange food. He’s not stupid; he knows how hungry I’ve been. It dawns on me that he’s been hungry before. Savagely so. He understands the need. Underneath everything, he understands.
We eat.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: ÞRÆLAR
Thora and I walk the hills outside the town of Hyllestad, up in the southwestern part of the north country. We’re collecting wild herbs and legumes to dry and put into boxes—a typical morning chore. The rest of the slave girls who live with us aren’t far off. We can see them in the distance picking plants, just like us. It’s a rule that we all have to stay within sight of one another.
Thora nudges me.
I look where she’s pointing.
Two þrælar—slaves—are carrying a small wooden chest, following their master off into the hills. The master carries two shovels.
“That chest holds the master’s silver hoard,” says Thora. “Jewelry, buckles, coins. They’re going to bury it someplace secret in case there’s a retaliatory attack from the south. Remember them,” she says. “Later, when they return, watch what happens. You’ll see I’m right.”
Thora speaks Norse to me. And I understand her. Not always entirely, but most of the time well enough. We’ve been together for only a few months. But she’s my constant companion, and she chatters nonstop.
“Here, eat this” Thora rips me a long blade of grass and sticks one into her own mouth.
I chew on it and shiver from the sour taste.
“Isn’t it great?” Suddenly she furrows her brow. “Don’t chew grasses at random, though. Some can be poisonous. You know what that means, right?” She narrows her eyes at me, as though she’s trying to figure out if I’m a half-wit or not. “Listen, just eat what I eat, and you’ll be all right.” Thora knows all these plants, for this is her homeland. Not this very town, but somewhere north of here. Thora’s been all over this land in her short life.
The þræll girls we live with now come from the north shores along the East Sea. Clay Man either stole them or bought them for practically nothing on his way across from Russia. As each one joined us, Thora greeted her and asked all about her. I listened, but my Norse wasn’t so good then, not nearly as good as it is now, and I didn’t catch details. Some of them have been bought and sold over and over. Thora has. She’s been a þræll since she was six, in three different countries already. And she pays attention. By this point, she knows a lot about the world.
I wonder if Maeve had been a þræll before.
Up ahead I see a tall stone cross. I stop and look from it to Thora.
“It’s a quarry,” says Thora. She’s gotten very good at answering my eyes. “Hyllestad is famous for its stone. And there are lots of carvers here. That cross has been set near the road, ready to be fetched by the buyer.”
I’m confused. A cross? This town isn’t Christian, I know that very well. It’s heathen, like most Norse towns. In fact, last week a boatload of townsmen set off south toward a Norse settlement to burn a church. That’s why people here are preparing in case of retaliation; that’s why that man and his þrælar went off to bury his treasures.
I’ve eavesdropped as men from the town explained all this to Clay Man. They said Christianity is creeping up through the countryside like a disease, threatening their gods: Odin and his son Thor, and Vanir, who is really a group of gods in one—including the fertility god and goddess, Frey and Freya. There are other gods too. Lots of them. So many I can’t keep them straight, no matter how many times Thora tells me about them. The heathen church-burners are warriors for their religion, the poor fools. They don’t know anything about salvation. I heard a man say they are determined to stomp out Christianity before it reaches the Viking stronghold at the mouth of the River Nidelva, to the north.
Those words made my throat close. The River Nidelva is where Bjarni came from, the Viking who wanted to marry me. The Viking who either is now at the bottom of the harbor in Downpatrick or who killed my family.
I face Thora and put my hands on her shoulders and furrow my forehead and raise my brows. I need for her to understand, to answer me: What are these heathens doing, making stone crosses?
She tilts her head. “Want to go see it? Don’t worry. A Christian cross can’t hurt you. Come on.” She walks off.
I’m beside her in an instant. And I realize I can answer my own question: These people are practical. I’ve been watching them interact with Clay Man long enough to know that. Their dislike for him shows in their faces, but they trade with him anyway. So why should they hesitate to fill an order for a cross that will sit in a church or in a Christian graveyard? Business is business, after all. I remember the Christians in Miklagard who watched the slave trade in their own market and didn’t say a word. Heathens or Christians, it doesn’t matter—business is business.
Thora and I walk solemnly toward the stone cross. The closer we get, the more I realize that it’s unusually large. It towers above us. It might be double our height. I walk around to the front, look up, and both hands fly to my mouth, I’m so startled.
“What is it?” Thora smoothes my hair. It’s such a natural act, but so unexpected that I cling to her. “What happened?” she says tenderly. I lead Thora with my eyes to the image.
Carved into the stone right where the two parts of the cross come together is an animal, a darling four-footed animal. I recognize it. It’s the same creature I saw on the silver brooch in Dublin. But while the silver brooch was deceptively delicate in its charm, here the things that curl around the animal are not vines, but vipers. They circle, ready for the kill. Their fascination is deviant, and fatal. Nothing can save the animal now.
I couldn’t save Brigid.
“Is it the runes that frighten you?” Thora stands and touches the linear letters beneath the figure. “Some people think letters are wicked magic. But they’re ignorant. I saw an ordinary boy learn to read and write them. He said the runes on stone tablets usually just tell the tales we all know from sitting around the campfire at night. Don’t be afraid.” She pulls me to my feet. “There’s enough real stuff to be afraid of without letting stupidities terrorize us. Come on. We’d better hurry. Gilli’s waiting”
Clay Man’s name to everyone else is Gilli. And Thora’s right; he has stopped out on the road with the rest of his þrælar. He’s looking back at us with annoyance.
I turn sideways and lift my chin, offering Clay Man my profile, I am as haughty as a princess-made-slave can be—a thought that makes me almost laugh in its pitifulness.
“Don’t act stupid, Aist. One of these days, Gilli is going to whip you for not jumping at his orders. Get up.”
I count inside my head. It’s important to keep Clay Man waiting long enough for him to remember his fears.
“I don’t understand why he doesn’t beat you, but he’ll beat me, I’m going.” Thora runs ahead, “Your next owner won’t be so daft,” she calls back. “He’ll whip you blind. Or worse. You’d better learn fast what it means to be a þræll. Come on. Please.”
Clay Man will never sell me. But Thora’s right; he might beat her. I get up and rush after her to catch up with the others.
Still, Thora takes the time to rip out a snatch of grass. She rubs the roots between her hands, holds them to her nose, then to mine. I know this smell; it’s vetiver, the aromatic oil Mother puts on her wrists. Her wrists, arms, neck. Her voice. She exists somewhere. Or I hope she does. Mathir—Mother. Oh, Lord, what I would give just to see my mother.
Thora takes me by the hand and pulls me. Somehow she knows that’s exactly what I need now. Friendship is a blessing.
We walk along the plank road. Pigs cavort in the side ditches. I pinch my nose closed to keep out the stench. A woman coming from the other direction runs up to me and knocks my hand away from my nose. “Filthy þræll. Don’t act like that smell bothers you. You ugly thing. Can’t even keep your shoes tied.”
I look down, curl my shoulders, and walk faster. I am no filthier than she is. And my shoes are tied perfect
ly.
“Ugly,” says Thora in a quiet, low voice, “stupid, clumsy, fool, coward, thief.” She says the words in a dull singsong. “Get used to it. Like I told you. They’ll say anything, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. You’ll see I’m right. Tonight, when that man with the treasure box and the two þrælar returns home—you’ll see then. Ugly, stupid, clumsy, fool, coward, thief. Everyone hates þrælar. You’ll see.”
Hating þrælar makes no sense. People work hard here. We’ve been here a couple of weeks and Thora explains everything. But I’ve been watching too, so I know this for myself. Hands are red and rough. Arms and legs are strong as tree trunks from all the physical labor of just plain old daily living. And þrælar help at everything. They do the worst jobs. It makes no sense to hate them—to hate us.
We pass the central longhouse, with its high doorsill that Thora told me keeps out the winter snow, and the curving walls and roof, where men attach fresh shingles that reek of pine resin. In the time we’ve been here, I’ve never entered the longhouse. Town meetings take place there. And banquets. I wish the muscovite in the window frames allowed a better view inside. Thora says the banquets are a spectacle, with sagas, songs, dancing to harp and pipes. It sounds almost like an Irish celebration.
A man repairs the sides of a boathouse, working cow droppings into the holes between the logs left after the spring thaw. A boy with dark hair, a þræll obviously—since most free northerners here have blond hair and blue eyes—sits on the ground nearby. He repairs a net.
Thora follows my eyes. “That’s a linen net. For catching salmon and trout in the streams. They get salted or smoked for winter. You can’t fish when the streams freeze.” Salmon. I love good Irish salmon.
It seems the entire town is remaking itself. Good weather means the workload increases.
The next building we pass is a mystery to me—a Norse home. Every home has thin skin over the windows, like our manor house back in Downpatrick. All I can see from the outside is shadows. And they’re mostly up on high stilts anyway. I’d have to go up the ladders to get a really good look—and no one would let me do that.
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