This one isn’t on stilts, though. A woman opens the door and calls to a child playing with a goat.
I lag behind to look through the open door. There’s only one room. Tapestries cover the walls, straw covers the floor. The ceiling is painted in rose patterns. Beds are built into the two corners I can see, and there’s a long table with two benches down each side and a butter churn on the floor nearby. Chickens peck here and there. A raised fireplace sits right in the center with a smoke hole above it. An iron pot hangs from a rafter over the fire and gives off the sweetest aroma.
I breathe deep and linger. Real families still exist in the world.
“Get on with you, nasty thing!” shouts the woman.
Her tone breaks the spell. My eyes dart to her face, but any trace of motherliness that might usually be there has been masked by her hatred of þrælar. I hurry to catch up with Thora.
“That’s cowberries with honey and pears boiled together,” she says, knowing immediately why I lingered. “It’s one of the best smells ever”
It’s a good smell, but there are much better ones. I remember Brigid and me trying to stave off hunger our second day away from home. We stood by the stork mustering and I talked of bread dipped in hot sheep milk. Brigid talked of cakes fried in pig fat. Both smell better than this cowberry mess. I blink back tears.
I bet everyone in town knows what that family’s eating today. They can’t help but know. The houses cluster with small gardens between—herbs, leeks, beans, peas. Outside town lie fields of barley for beer, rye for bread, flax for cloth. On hills overlooking the bay livestock graze. But all is close. No one’s ever out of shouting distance, of course. In Eire a person can survive alone. They can’t here, not if the winters are as savage as Thora says.
We catch up with the rest of the slave girls and devote the rest of the day to our assigned chores near the tent Clay Man has erected for us. It’s pitched on the gravelly shore within sight of the boat; Clay Man trusts no one.
I do these chores carefully. Clay Man orders me, of course, just as he orders the others. But we both know that if I were to stop, he wouldn’t do anything about it. I do them of my own free will, because they help me.
We walk up the shore past the last home of this town to where black and gray rocks jut out into the sea. Many are white washed with the excrement of seagulls. The spots capped with tufts of grass and weeds are above the high-water mark, and that’s where the gulls make their nests. As seagulls swirl overhead, we collect the warm eggs, dark green with black speckles. The nests hold one or two or even three eggs. And now and then there’s an egg just lying out on the bare rock, in the middle of dried-out barnacles and crushed shells. In the scoop of my tunic I hold twenty eggs and carry them all back to our tent without cracking any.
We walk out to the farms where people raise cattle and sheep and goats. The farmers catch the animals and tie them up for us, but we have to do the rest. We break into pairs. Thora and I are a team, of course. I hold the animal’s head as still as I can while she milks it. It’s hard, milking. Thora tried to teach me on a goat, because she says goats are the easiest. You put four fingers around a teat and close the thumb on the front. Then you press from the index finger down, each finger squeezing in turn, and rotating as you go down. I wasn’t good at it. But I carry milk buckets on a yoke across my neck and shoulders, filled to the brim, all the way back to our tent without spilling a drop.
Precision is a goal that takes attention. I lose myself in precision—that’s the gift of chores, the gift I need.
Industry becomes a friend too. I work swiftly. We gather shellfish for fish bait. We grind rye into flour. We boil herring and seal blubber for lamp oil.
Clay Man lets us save some of the herring, though. It’s important to him that we stay healthy, and, according to Thora, nothing brings a heartier look to the face than herring. We eat it with dill And a soup of nettle, goat milk, pepper, and seagull eggs, all swimming in a wooden bowl.
The girls talk, and I listen to their quick, lively voices. One got pecked by a seagull protecting her eggs. Now everyone talks about when they got harassed by goats, cattle, hogs, chickens. Commiseration binds them.
Late in the afternoon Thora and I are doing the laundry in a big bucket set outside the tent when she hisses, “See?”
I look up.
A man comes down the road we walked earlier as we came in from the hills. I can’t see his face at this distance. But I see the shovels in each hand. The man from this morning. He’s alone now. He turns onto a side street.
“Come with me. Hurry. We have to get there and back here before Gilli looks for us.” Thora grabs me by the hand and we run up the road in the direction the man came from.
It takes only moments to find them. Two þrælar, in the ditch. Their throats have been cut. A rat already races greedily up and down the torso of one. I stare till my eyes burn. I shake my head stupidly. How did Thora know they’d be here?
“That’s how he keeps the secret of where he buried his treasure. Only those þrælar knew. Now no one does,” Thora squeezes my arm till it hurts. “He won’t get in trouble, either. Because we’re worth nothing.”
I shut my eyes against her words. These men were alive not long ago. I see them in my head. I am in the ditch with them. The rat runs on me. Small, scrabbling feet.
We are all the same—every slave is the same. I am those bodies. I am dead.
Thora takes my hands in hers. “Do what Gilli tells you. Don’t wind up in a ditch. Don’t leave me.”
I can’t open my eyes. Thora pulls me.
We return and finish the laundry and do other things. I do whatever Thora does without thought until the day finally ends and I lie on the tent floor beside Thora and will myself to sleep.
Someone walks across the floor. It’s Leering Man. I can tell from his gait. He grabs one of the þrælar.
I knew this would happen sooner or later. These þrælar are all girls. Young. And pretty. And even though the crew is all new now except for Leering Man and Club Fist and Clay Man, I expected assaults long ago.
The girl screams.
Clay Man jumps up and shouts at Leering Man. They argue in Russian, but I catch a few words—important ones. They are fighting about money.
Leering Man lets the girl go. He goes out through the tent flaps, leaving one up. Lord help the women of Hyllestad tonight.
And Lord help these new þrælar. Clay Man is protecting them for a reason. He gathered these particular þrælar—young and pretty and female—for a purpose. And that purpose can’t be good.
When I am sure everyone else is asleep, I sit up. Something glints in the light that seems always to be with us. Clay Man has left a knife with the cooking utensils. A large one, far too heavy and long to hide within my clothing. I pick it up and cut a thin line in my forearm. Blood runs out immediately.
I must still be alive. But the vipers circle.
Thora is right: They hate us. These people hate þrælar, whether foreigners, like me, or their own stock, like Thora.
I grit my teeth. I wish I were my father. I would free every slave in the kingdom of Downpatrick.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: PRICES
Clay Man drops the comb in my lap. “Your turn,” he says in Norse.
The other eleven of his young, pretty þrælar have already used it willingly. I’ve hung back. I ceased combing my hair and cleaning my face and washing my clothes back in Hyllestad, when Clay Man stopped Leering Man from assaulting one of us.
Young and pretty. These are key facts. I can’t do anything about being young. But I can make myself as far from pretty as possible. I will not be part of Clay Man’s plan for us, whatever it is.
I look at Clay Man and toss my clumpy hair defiantly.
His jaw bone moves from side to side. His eyes register fear. That’s the effect my filth has on him. I should have done this earlier. Maeve said it was only my cleanliness that kept Clay Man from quaking. Russians believe the worst kind of
witches are filthy. Well, now I look like his most beastly nightmare.
I wish Thora would follow my lead. Whenever she cleans herself, I pull away the rag. She mustn’t be pretty—she mustn’t be part of Clay Man’s scheme. But she simply yanks the rag back.
I stare at Clay Man now, the vision of the evil enchantress he believes I am. Slovenly to the point of despising myself. I will stay like this until I understand what his plan is.
He gives a humph. “Come on, everyone, let’s go.”
We leave the tent Clay Man set up for us last night and follow him, tied together by ropes at the waist, like in the slave market in Miklagard, back in Byzans. But this place is very different.
We are on Brännö Island, still in the land of the Norsemen. Ironically, these criminal northerners have multiple laws. One is that every third summer the local chieftains from all the Norse-speaking countries must make an excursion here. They report in and pay their respects to the king. They discuss legal issues and pass judgments in difficult cases. Sometimes they elect a new king. It’s the most important meeting of all.
For the last few nights Clay Man has talked about all the chieftains he expects to see here. He made a fist of one hand and rubbed the other around it as he talked. The list seemed almost a chant. The crew members listened attentively.
They’ve gone off now, though. They left us last night after helping set up the tent. It’s just us and Clay Man this morning.
I look around, fearful at first, but quickly find that nothing seems terribly strange. This is an ordinary Norse settlement, rather small, in fact, though clearly richer than most. Some of the farmhouses have two stories, with huge chimneys. Several are made of stone. Herds of reindeer mingle in pens with goats and cows. But every third summer, when so many people come for these meetings, this little town explodes in size, because the extensive meadow at the edge of town turns into a giant marketplace ringed by tents the visitors have pitched.
There’s a festive feeling to everything out in this temporary marketplace. Honey-sweet smells come from a giant makeshift bake house the townsfolk have set up. The aroma of roast boar seeps out of huge eating tents. These summer meetings must play a big role in the island’s prosperity.
The townsfolk are not the only ones doing good business, though. Men play harps and lutes in little spots scattered all through the marketplace, while women dance—and passersby stop to watch and throw coins in a bowl. Visiting gamblers thrive, speaking Norse and Russian and other languages I can’t identify. Men sit at gaming tables and play chess with pieces made from horse teeth, or backgammon with pieces made from sea green or purple glass. And there’s one game I’ve never seen before that uses red pieces on a square board. The men have one finger hooked through a jug of mead—bog myrtle or hop honey. Strong brew; they grow more boisterous as the morning progresses.
Visiting traders are doing well too. We pass a group of blond and redheaded children with tired eyes, sitting behind a corpulent beast of a man wearing a mustache that drips down to his chest and the unmistakable Russian hat. A slave trader. I know those children are Irish. While he and Clay Man exchange quick greetings in their tongue, I search the faces of the children. No Brigid.
Not all the Russians here are slave traders, though. We walk by some with boxes full of belts. Garnets stud their bronze buckles in hearts or spiral designs. The horse harnesses are gilded. Other traders have sacks of aromatic spices. Money passes hands freely. Lots of it.
One Russian calls out in accented Norse, “Come see. Let your eyes do more than you ever imagined. I just traveled from way down on the Caspian Sea, up along the Volga River, all the way here.” He sweeps his arm across the sky as he speaks. “Cut crystals from the Persian town of Basra—that’s what I offer you. Splendidly useful. A man can look through them and everything he sees will be magnified many times.” He laughs. “You there.” He points to a well-dressed man who has stopped to listen. “Look through one of my crystals, and you can discern whether the gems you want to buy are truly flawless or not.”
The man shakes his head and moves on.
The vendor clears his throat and turns to another man. He calls, “Come see. Let your eyes do more than you ever imagined….”
But most of the traders we pass have only silk and pots and jewelry and coins—all from Asia. Why can’t I find someone with Irish goods? With wool and linen and spinning wheels and weaving looms. Or even with loot from the Irish monasteries. All I need is one trader who will head back to Eire after this meeting. One trader I can somehow get to take me along.
But no luck. Asia, Asia, Asia. Everything is made of Asian silver. Clay Man has a stash of Asian silver goods to trade too. He told me this northern land has no indigenous source of silver, and Vikings are hungry for what is hard to come by. So the Russians bring it to them, at a high price. The Vikings trade them iron, timber, walrus tusks, sable and fox and beaver furs, honey, amber, tar, sealskins, soapstone pots with flat stone covers—all useful things, in exchange for shiny Asian silver.
None of it makes sense to me. And I will always hate silver. All I care about is finding a trader in Irish goods.
“Look,” whispers Thora in my ear. She points, using just her eyes, at a passing man. “His shoes. See the high tops? They’re made of elk leather. He’s from Nidaros, way up north.”
Nidaros. Bjarni is from Nidaros.
“Watch the shoes,” says Thora. “Each village has its own style. Some from even farther north are made of bear hide. With antler tines.”
I think of Irish sweaters—of knit patterns that identify villages, so the lost can be brought back where they belong. I clench my teeth. I’m going home, no matter what. I stare at the ground.
We walk along and Thora whispers now and then. “Deer. Elk. Cow. Moose.” And at one point she notes, “Polar bear fangs.”
That catches my attention. I look up. The fangs hang as an amulet around a man’s neck. We have bears in Eire, of course, but not the big white monsters that Thora has told me about here. Now I want to see polar bear shoes, too.
A man passes leading a reindeer by a rope. The reindeer pulls a sled with a girl sitting on it atop a pile of animal furs. She’s young and pretty. He calls out in Norse, “Virgin. Who wants a comely virgin?”
“How much?” asks Clay Man.
“One mark of silver.”
That’s double what regular slaves go for. I’ve seen slave trading in every Norse town we’ve traveled through, and never has a slave, virgin or no, fetched that much.
Clay Man smiles and leads us back to our tent. He had no intention of buying the girl.
And all of a sudden I know Clay Man’s plan. Young and pretty. And all of us are virgins. Vikings may despise þrælar and call us all sorts of names, but they obviously pay extra for virgins, especially pretty ones. Clay Man has come as a trader, in virgins.
It makes sense, for Thora has told me all about Norse beliefs. When a Viking warrior dies bravely in battle, if he’s lucky, one of Odin’s beautiful virgins—the Valkyriers—will bring him to the mansion of the gods, the splendid castle called Valhalla, full of shining shields and glittery swords. He’ll eat a banquet of boar and get drunk on mead brimming from horns the Valkyriers hold to his lips. He’ll enjoy music and dance and, when the evening ends, he’ll be enveloped in the women’s charms. The next day, the butchered boar will return to life and the Valkyriers will be virgins anew and the debauchery can begin again.
That last part about the boar and the virgins sounds very much like a miracle to me, but Thora doesn’t seem to feel any need to account for it. She tells me these things as we lie beside each other before sleep, never hesitating over sticky details like resurrection from death.
This island meeting offers everything Viking warriors hope for after death. They’re eating boar, listening to music, and buying virgins, all while still on this Earth, still in this life. Viking men who have enough wealth must figure waiting is pointless.
That’s why
Clay Man didn’t let his crew assault us. Business is business, after all.
We are almost back at the tent when Clay Man stops at a dice game. A Norse man rolls a bone die. When it settles, he curses and throws his hands up in anger. He grabs his die and stomps away.
“Sore loser?” says Clay Man to the other Norse gambler.
“We’ve been at it for a bit,” says the man. “And the stakes kept getting higher. He just lost an island to me. He can shout a while about that if he wants. I would too.”
“A whole island?” Clay Man rubs his hands together. “I wouldn’t mind wagering a bit.”
“And what have you got to offer?”
“Silver goods. Enough to win an island.”
“Is that so?”
Clay Man takes out a large clay die I watched him make last week. He tosses it in one hand.
“All right, let’s have a go.”
How foolhardy these northern men are, to gamble away whole islands. All at once I think about how Nuada lost his hand. I turn my eyes away.
Clay Man whoops. He won the first roll. Of course. But within a few rolls, the other man catches on: “That die is weighted.”
“Don’t be a sore loser,” says Clay Man.
“Then use my bone die.”
“This is my lucky die,” says Clay Man.
“You’re lucky, all right.” The man stomps over and bumps his chest against Clay Man’s. “You’re lucky my sword is at the smithy’s for repair or I’d challenge you to a holmganga.”
“A duel on an isolated island—is that what you want? On my island?”
“It’s my island, you dirty Russian cheater.” The man points both index fingers right in Clay Man’s face. “If you dare to gamble again at this festival, I’ll have you brought before the assembly of chieftains and demand you be castrated.”
Clay Man steps back. “Sore losers, all of you.” He pockets his die and leads us away.
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