Hush

by Donna Jo Napoli

I don’t understand anything that’s happening.

  Onion,” declares Torild. “The wound stinks of onion. His bowels are perforated”

  The man stares at me with the bluest eyes. I take his hand. If Torild is going to sew his bowels, I’ll help.

  Torild turns her head to Hoskuld, who’s been watching from the side, along with several other free men. Hoskuld comes over and goes down on one knee beside her. “A wound like this poisons from within,” says Torild.

  “Ragnar is a good man, a good companion,” says Hoskuld.

  The man called Ragnar squeezes my hand.

  “He will suffer unrelenting pain,” says Torild.

  Hoskuld drops his head. His chin falls on his chest. His eyes close.

  “His screams will shake the faith of everyone who hears them,” says Torild. “And then he will die anyway.”

  Hoskuld stands and walks to his companions. They move as a unit to the other side of the deck.

  Torild takes out a pair of gold earrings from a chest. She slaps my hand away from Ragnar’s with a tsk. She puts the earrings on him and bows her head. “Accept this payment for his entrance to the afterlife,” she mutters. “Please.”

  “Please,” echoes Ragnar, but those eyes are on me, blue ice in his sweaty face.

  Two þrælar lift him with one swift motion and swing him over the side. I clap my hand over my mouth to hold in the scream.

  That’s what he meant.

  Now he’s gone, drowned at sea.

  And after I promised.

  How many people have I failed? This will be the last time, I swear to myself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: RANSOM

  The sails are lowered and all three ships are tied together again. We’ve near a small, rocky beach. It’s late afternoon. The raven cage is uncovered, so I know we’re not raiding. The birds screamed for a while, then finally calmed down.

  The three þrælar closest to me talk in hushed tones. They disagree over what the burial of my patient would have been like if we’d been back in the north country.

  “He would have been placed in the stern of a boat loaded with food, drink, his horse, his dog, his most prized possessions.” The man looks around, then whispers, “Even þræll or two. The ship would have been set afire and let loose to sail down a river out to sea.”

  “Never,” says another. “He wasn’t rich and important enough for that.”

  “Right,” says a third. “If he was that rich, he’d never have agreed to go to such an isolated and distant settlement as Iceland.”

  “Hoskuld is going to Iceland,” says the first, “and he’s both rich and important.” He rubs his chest in satisfaction at his argument.

  The other two go quiet and look distant for a moment.

  “Well, he wouldn’t be burned, anyway,” says the second man finally. “He’d have been buried in blue clay, covered with stones.”

  “And perhaps,” adds the third man, “perhaps inside that grave he’d be in a small boat with some jewelry.”

  I’m fascinated. The rites of these people are so strange. And I’m surprised that a burial at sea should be so different from their normal burials. But this wasn’t a burial: Ragnar wasn’t dead yet; he was disposed of, as though he didn’t exist. Hoskuld was trying to protect morale, but how can a secret do that when everyone knows it and everyone pretends not to?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hoskuld and his companions—the other free men on this journey—gathering at the prow of our ship. Something’s about to happen.

  I leave the þrælar and move as close to those men as I can without making it obvious that I’m eavesdropping.

  The priest’s hands are tied behind his back. I learn they’re going to exchange him for the ransom on this isolated beach. Apparently a Viking arranged this with another priest, who is to bring lots of silver. All this negotiation in the middle of a raid.

  Two weeks ago I would have shaken my head in disbelief at such action. But I know a little bit about Hoskuld by this point. If I assume all Vikings are like Hoskuld, then I can understand what this other man did now. Vikings may act like they’ve lost their minds, but it’s false. They’ve always got an eye on business, even when they’re attacking like maniacs.

  “Take me, too,” screams the Irish woman. She’s still in the sheep pit, tied to the mast, but she’s standing tall and her voice is strong. “I’m rich. I’m the niece of a king. I’m worth a ransom.” She can’t have heard what they’re saying from where she is. And she doesn’t understand Norse anyway, I’m sure. But she’s figured out what’s going on.

  She’s smart.

  Hoskuld looks at her. Does he understand Gaelic? He walks over and questions her in Norse.

  “You stupid Viking!” screams the woman. “Don’t you even know the Gaelic word for ransom? What about rí tuaithe—tribal king—do you know that? What words do you know? Dàn—gift—you idiot. My father will give you a gift for me. Dàn dàn dàn.”

  Hoskuld hits her in the side of the head so hard, I wonder if she’ll go deaf. I jerk back and choke in a yelp.

  “Don’t you go feeling pity again,” he says, looking at me. “She’s a vixen. Vicious.”

  He didn’t understand her words. He doesn’t speak Gaelic But he understood her tone. He knew he was being insulted. Maybe she’s not that smart.

  Hoskuld climbs out of the sheep pit and produces a thin rope. “I’m going ashore again.” He comes at me, then he stops, and with his eyes fastened on mine, he drops the rope. “You can do more good with your hands free, Beauty. Besides, you’ll be under watchful eyes.” He jerks his head toward a man who’s clearly standing guard. “I won’t be long.” He leaves me with a kiss.

  Hoskuld and a group of three companions take up swords and shields. They disappear on the shore with the hostage priest. While they’re gone, a man tells stories—this time about Thor. But I’m too sleepy to listen. I sink to my haunches and doze off.

  “Sister.” The word is in Gaelic. I open my eyes to see a young man jump into the sheep pit. At first I’m so groggy from sleep, I think he’s talking to me. My Nuada. But then I see he has two hands.

  I stand and look around. The ships are sailing under first moonlight. I slept a long time.

  The Irish woman stares at the new man. “Findan! You didn’t let them take you captive, did you?”

  “They’re no better than savages. Father heard the priest was being ransomed here, so he sent me with a ransom for you. Instead, they took the money and me .”

  “Is every man on Earth a complete dunce?” The Irish woman curses, with words that I’ve never heard from a woman’s mouth before. “Rabbit eaters. You let rabbit eaters catch you.”

  “So did you,” says the man, Findan. But he sounds more frustrated than angry.

  We Irish don’t eat rabbit. But, like this woman, I’ve heard that Vikings do, though I haven’t seen it yet.

  Findan puts his head in his hands and sways on his feet. For a moment I think he’ll fall under the sheep and get stepped on. Instead he climbs out of the pit and sits on the deck not far from me.

  I wonder why his hands aren’t tied. Does Hoskuld think he’s such a fool he wouldn’t have the sense to try to escape? The man sighs loudly. I think he’s crying. Maybe Hoskuld is right that he’s worthless.

  Young þrælar hand out dinner. One of them gives me a slab of beef jerky and an apple. It’s late to be eating, and I find I’m ravenous. I seek out a second apple and eat it, core and all. I chew on the meat like a wild thing, and energy comes. I find I’m actually jumpy.

  Hoskuld squats in a circle with his companions. They’re arguing, I wander closer.

  “It was wrong to take that Irish man—that Findan—when he came only to bargain. We’ll regret it.”

  “That’s true. If word gets around, everyone will be afraid we Vikings won’t keep our part of deals. No one will pay us ransoms anymore”

  Hoskuld pounds his fist on the deck. Capturing Findan was his idea, clearly.
“That Findan has no brains. Who will care if he’s gone?” But, despite his fist-banging, his objection lacks force. He knows he’s made a mistake. And the others know he knows it. They’re quiet for a moment.

  Finally someone says, “Findan must be released. Where’s the best place to dump him?”

  “And not just him,” chimes in someone else, “the woman, too. She’ll never be of use to anyone.”

  “Tir Chonaill. It’s not far. We can get rid of the two of them easy. I’ll take care of everything.”

  I go back to sitting on the deck near the Irish man. Findan. I watch his sister. I won’t fall asleep now. I will fend off the weariness that waits beside me like a hungry dog.

  “Pull in near those rocks,” someone says. It’s darker now. It must be close to midnight.

  “Can you swim?” one of Hoskuld’s companions asks Findan. He’s the one who said he’d take care of everything.

  Findan doesn’t answer.

  “Irish don’t swim any better than Norse do,” says another man. “We have to set them on the shore.”

  All three ships lower their sail. Then ours rows ahead. I stand up so I can see. That’s my home out there, my Eire. Yet I have no plan. I feel suspended in time.

  And now we’re beside the rock. The ravens set up their clamor anew.

  “Get off,” shouts the man who spoke to Findan before.

  “Not without my sister,” shouts back Findan, in passable Norse.

  “She’s coming. And good riddance to her.”

  I watch as another man jumps into the sheep pit to untie the woman.

  Hoskuld comes to stand beside me. He puts an arm around my waist and says in my ear, “You’re worth ten Irish women, even royalty like her.”

  I look into his eyes. Hoskuld is the most powerful chieftain of Iceland—he could change the whole way people do things in the new settlement, the whole way they think about slavery. If he wanted to. He turns his back and looks out over the water. But I keep my eye on Findan’s sister.

  The woman is free. She races through the sheep, leaps onto the deck, and rams right into me. Again! Head first, smack in the middle of my chest. I’m flat on my back, breathless.

  Hoskuld swirls around. “You vile vixen!” He picks up the Irish woman from behind.

  “Did you think I didn’t see you?” she screams at me in Gaelic, kicking and thrashing. “You and your sneaky eyes. You were up to something. Well, you can’t hurt us now, filthy pig.” And Hoskuld hurls her over the side.

  I lie here looking up at stars, amazed at everything. And I sob, silently.

  What are all these tears about? I cried after we stole those children. Cried and cried. I’m on the verge of crying all the time these days. And I hate crying. I have no respect for adults who cry. I’m stronger than that. I’m the one who helped Torild.

  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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: BRID

  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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: SIGHTINGS

  “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.