Hidden

by Donna Jo Napoli

  The next four days were a flurry of gathering provisions and checking rigging. Then we set sail. Ten days later—only two weeks after we’d made the new plan—we arrived in Ísland.

  After all my fruitless searching, suddenly everything became easy. Everyone knew of Hoskuld, the Viking chieftain; everyone knew of Melkorka, his mysterious concubine. She lives on land south of Salmon River, in a rolling dale called Melkorka-stead—named for her, despite the fact that she’s a slave. Her wonderful son abides with her, while Hoskuld lives separately, with his wife and their children. She is still beautiful. Though the label of “slave” has worn on her, she is still strong. That’s what they say.

  I am walking across grasses now toward Melkorka’s home. Alf walks behind, at a distance, as I’ve asked him to. Mel’s home is made of wood, not stones with a turf roof, like the houses in the village on the coast where we landed. We’ve been told about that wood; everyone talks about it. It’s from logs brought all the way across the ocean from Nóreg, for the trees here are few and small, and nothing is as strong as Norse trees anyway.

  There is no one outside the house. No activity. I see not a single window, so I have no idea whether the house is empty or not. But it’s the middle of the day; maybe they are resting inside. Let that be so. Please, Mel, please be home.

  But I can wait. I can circle this house. I can run around it so many times my feet dig a moat even in this rocky land. Seven and a half years I’ve been yearning for this moment. I can wait a little longer.

  I am but five boat lengths from the front door when a woman comes outside. She squints into the sun. I walk faster. I lope. We stare at each other. She drops the basket in her arms.

  “Mel,” I call.

  She’s shaking her head. Her brown hair catches the light, dark and bright and mixed, like the hawk-plumage of Queen Tove’s cloak.

  “Mel,” I cry.

  And we’re hugging. “Brigid,” she says hoarsely into my hair. “Oh, Brigid.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The sight of those river rapids makes my heart pump extra hard; they are fast and ferocious. I remember the night I jumped off the Russian slave ship into icy water. This water can hardly be warmer. The combination of speed and cold terrifies me—my skin grows taut. The boy Óláf, my nephew—my nephew!—is six, two years younger and weaker than I was that night, and he has promised me I’ll love his swimming hole. Are they crazy? My fingers close in fear around Melkorka’s hand—my Mel—my sister. The three of us, together.

  “I’m happy too,” she says, squeezing back in her misunderstanding, and nearly shouting to be heard above the noise of the rushing water we walk alongside of. “My little sister, alive, alive—especially that—but also all grown up. After the wild child you were, to see you now . . . it makes me very happy.”

  “I wasn’t wild.”

  “You were. You ran through mud and got your clothes filthy—but mostly it was how you thought. Do you remember, can you possibly remember, how when Nuada’s hand was cut off and Mother explained that he couldn’t become king then, how you said, ‘Melkorka can become queen.’ Do you remember? A woman alone, unmarried, queen! That’s how you were. Wild. Thank heavens, or you wouldn’t have survived.”

  “We’re almost there!” shouts Óláf, who runs ahead with my goat Cadla at his heels.

  They call him Óláf pái. Lots of people here have little extras added to their names. One man has rauði—red. Another has djúpauðga—deep-minded. Another has magri—lean. And, oh, another has tordýfill—dung beetle—the poor thing. The extra on Óláf’s name is because when Mel was at the gigantic trading market in Miklagard with the Russian slave dealer Gilli, she saw a strange bird called a pái. He had long tail feathers that dragged on the ground behind him, until he got excited and held them up in a huge arc behind him, all blue-green with eyes painted on in beautiful patterns, the most exquisite animal Mel had ever seen. She’d forgotten that one instance of beauty in the long horror of those days, until Óláf was born, and he seemed more exquisite than any other human being could be.

  “I’m jumping in!” Óláf pulls his tunic over his head. He disappears around a hillock.

  “No!” I scream, and run for him.

  Mel grabs my arm. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

  “He could drown, Mel!”

  Mel gawks at me. Then she laughs. “We’re not swimming in the river. That would be fatal at this time of year. No, no. No one could get hurt where we’re going.” She lets loose my arm, and we run together to Óláf.

  The boy sits in a small pool of water in the middle of ferns and grasses. Steam rises around him. His face is flushed and content. Mel undresses and joins him.

  I dip in a hand. “It’s hot! I’ve heard of warm springs—in Eire there are warm springs—but this is positively hot.” And now I wish Alf had come along. Foolish me, I asked him to give us some time alone.

  “The whole of Ísland is speckled with hot springs. Or all of this huge country that I’ve seen is. Some are large enough to swim in, milky-blue with white mud. Others are just overgrown puddles—like this, which is better, because then no one else comes to use them.” She pats one of the black rocks that edge the spring. “Our private soaking puddle.”

  “It’s not a puddle,” says Óláf. He leans back, yields himself to the water, and floats.

  “What better proof?” I say. And I grin. This boy is quietly clever. He reminds me of Hakon, my dear adopted brother back in Heiðabý. I have suppressed thoughts of Hakon, but now I miss him strongly. And I miss my queen mother, and Beorn and Ástríd and Búri and Alof. And Alf, though he’s only back at Mel’s home. But what a fool I am. I am here, soaking with my sister and my nephew—I must think about them, and this place and this time.

  We have been speaking Norse, but I switch to Gaelic now. “Please change your mind. Please. Come back with me, Mel.”

  “And do what?” she answers in Norse.

  “Immalle,” I say. “Remember how Mother told us to stay together? Remember?”

  “We were children then,” she says steadfastly in Norse. “We spoke Gaelic, like I do with Óláf. My life is here now. And I speak Norse with adults.”

  “You’re a slave,” I say, surrendering to Norse. She’s right. This is the language of our adulthood.

  “I am also the mother of a boy who will grow into a powerful man. He will be important, I promise you that.”

  I check to see the effect of these words on Óláf. But the boy still floats, his ears underwater. He shows no sign of listening. He looks as though he’s comfortable enough to fall asleep and keep floating. “He could be important in Jutland, too.”

  “Jutland? Don’t be silly, Brigid. He will be a king in Eire as soon as he’s old enough to sail there and claim his birthright.”

  “A king in Eire! Will he want to live in Downpatrick? Really?”

  “Of course he will. And until then, I’ll keep him safe here, so he can grow strong and wise and tough—tough enough for whatever lies ahead.”

  “But, Mel, if he lives here until he’s adult, he’ll be totally Norse. He won’t be Irish at all. Even I don’t feel Irish anymore, and I lived there till I was eight.”

  “He will rule in Eire. He will not be the son of a slave there. He will satisfy his ambitions.”

  “Or do you mean yours?”

  “Dear Brigid, you are still so very honest and direct.” She hesitates. “I have lived with humiliation a long time. I want vindication. This is true. But I am sure, absolutely sure, Óláf pái will have his own ambitions too. He’s bright. He’s perfect. He will stay here and grow. You can tell Mother and Father why.” She rests her head on an edge stone and closes her eyes. The goat Cadla comes and nibbles at her hair, but she swats her away.

  I sidle over next to her and whisper in her ear, “Let Alf buy your freedom, at least.”

  She smiles without opening her eyes. “He can save his money. Hoskuld doesn’t deserve any of it. Someday I w
ill marry, and my husband will buy my freedom. I am waiting only until Óláf pái is old enough to leave me.”

  “Leave you? You mean you won’t return to Eire with him?”

  “I’ll never set foot on a boat again.”

  “Oh, Mel. You’ll be alone here.”

  “Stay with me.” She opens her eyes and sits tall. “This is a land of fire and ice—volcanoes and glaciers. In some places you can see volcanic tabletop mountains in the middle of ice all year round.” Her voice grows bright with enthusiasm. “There are vast meadowlands for grazing. There’s bog iron in bogs and heaths and marshes. We have high mountains and low river valleys, and on the south coast there are sandy beaches. You can have a farm on any coast, or in a river valley. It’s there for the taking. Just burn off the forest and plow the land. If you want forest, birch and willow and rowan all grow here—shorter than normal, it’s true, but strong. And driftwood litters the shores, so there’s never a lack of firewood even if you live far from forests. Streams and lakes burst with salmon and trout. The sea gives whales, walruses, seals. Imagine what it’s like to stand on a high spot in winter, the world white with snow, and look down on a deep canyon. It’s majestic. There’s no other word.”

  I laugh. “Catch your breath, Mel. I believe you.”

  “And, Brigid, there’s a waterfall so high, it kicks up a wall of spray. On a sunny day a rainbow arches over it. You can count on that.”

  I turn my head so I’m facing into the wind. “The wind has been blowing from the east ever since I got here.”

  “It’s always that way.”

  Always? And I think of the fjord up near the first Jutland home I lived in—the pit house. The wind there always blew from the west. Winds can be funny like that. They can characterize a place. I think of Jutland. I’ve lived in the north and the south, in the west and the east. I know that peninsula. Places can come to mean so much.

  “I don’t—”

  “Stop, Brigid. Don’t say it. Think about it. Talk with Alf. Spend the winter here together and see how you like it.”

  “I want to go back to Eire with him—and, we had hoped, with you—for the wedding. I want to be married in a church, even after all this time.”

  “Alf has agreed to that? Then he’s a better Norseman than any I know. We have no churches here. Lots of Irish people, but no churches; all the Irish are slaves. You can marry Alf here the Norse way. Then, if you still want, you can get remarried in Eire later.”

  Óláf splashes us. “Let’s go home and eat. And afterward I want to take you to see something. Just you.” He points at me. “Mother can’t come.”

  I look at Mel.

  She smiles and raises an eyebrow. “I think my son likes having an aunt.”

  “Can Alf come?” I ask Óláf.

  “Can he keep a secret?”

  “A secret?” says Mel. “Hmmm. Now I’m getting curious.”

  “You can’t know,” says Óláf. “But Aunt Brigid can. And maybe Alf.”

  “Definitely Alf,” I say. “I trust him.”

  “All right,” says Óláf solemnly. “Then I trust him too.”

  So after dinner we set out, Óláf and Alf and I. I have warned Alf that he must earn Óláf’s trust. He has vowed to do precisely that.

  It’s past dusk—the reds and yellows of the autumn leaves are neutralized to grays. The boy leads us through trees to a lagoon where icebergs float in gentle moonlight and colors can be seen again—stark white against the deep blue of the water. I graze Alf’s hand with my fingertips, and he moves closer to me till our arms touch through our sleeves.

  “It’s beautiful here, Óláf. Thank you.”

  “It’s better when the icebergs crash into each other.” He picks up a rock and throws it. A funny black-and-white bird with an orange bill and feet takes to the air. I hadn’t noticed it before. “Watch,” he says with urgency, pointing up. “Something good is about to happen.”

  And then the clear, dark northern skies dance with color. It’s a spectacle, a festival of the heavens.

  “It goes on all through winter, way till spring comes again.” Óláf laughs. “Mother told me you both watched the lights as girls, but then you disappeared. So, ha! Now you have the lights again.”

  “Enchanting,” I say. I don’t have the heart to tell him that the northern lights grace Jutland, too.

  Óláf takes my hand. “But there’s more. Come on.” He pulls me a bit, then walks ahead in his impatience.

  We follow. A brown-gray fox with a white tail and tummy and white on the insides of his ears appears from nowhere and walks along the rocks beside us. I hurry and catch Óláf’s arm. I point and whisper, “He seems to have no fear of us.”

  “Why should he?” Óláf says in a normal voice. “I’d never hurt him. Would you?”

  “No. But how can he know that?”

  “No one hurts him,” says Óláf.

  “What about predators?” asks Alf.

  “What are predators?”

  “He is, for one,” says Alf. “A predator is an animal that eats other animals.”

  “Then he’s the only predator here, except for us,” says Óláf. “And, like I said, I’d never hurt him. He knows that. He was stalking the puffin, so I threw the rock to warn the bird. But he never would have got it, anyway. He’s foolish; that fox can’t catch birds.” Óláf turns away from the lagoon and walks through a rocky area and around trees. He stops.

  In front of us is a low hut made completely of stone. My breath is gone.

  “What is it?” asks Alf.

  “An Irish hermit’s hut,” I say.

  “Who built it?”

  “My friend,” says Óláf. “They’d kill him if they knew he was here. Not even Mother knows. I’m the only one. You must never tell. Want to meet him?”

  I can’t believe he says all that so casually. I nod.

  Alf nods.

  Óláf crawls into the hut. His high-pitched voice carries to us, speaking Gaelic. Mel was good to teach it to him. He comes out followed by a small man with long white hair. It’s so dark now, I cannot really see his eyes. Or maybe that’s because my own are blurred with tears. This man walks stooped like Papi did, back in Ribe. I wonder how he feeds himself, though I can see he survives on practically nothing. He’s skin and bones.

  “Good evening,” I say in Gaelic.

  “Good evening, aunt of Óláf.” He looks at Alf.

  “Say something to him,” I say to Alf in Norse.

  “Greetings, old man,” says Alf in Norse.

  “Do you live here all alone?” I ask.

  “The Lord is with us. We are never alone.”

  “Are there other monks here?”

  “Three of us came together. But we separated. I don’t know if they are still of this world.”

  “How? How did you come here?”

  “In a skin boat with a twig frame.”

  “I have just spent ten days in a ship on that raging ocean, and sometimes I feared for my life. How could a skin boat make the journey?”

  “How can a bird fly over the seas? We all have his help.”

  I feel at a loss. “Do you want to go home?”

  “I am home.”

  “Can I do anything to help you? Get anything for you?” But I know his answer before he says it.

  “The Lord gives me what I need.”

  “Thank you for talking,” I say.

  “Speaking Gaelic is always worth the effort.” The monk crawls back into the hut.

  “See?” says Óláf. “Mother was wrong. Not all the Irish here are slaves.”

  “What was that all about?” asks Alf.

  “Our future,” I say, keeping the tremble from my voice.

  “Explain, cryptic woman.”

  “Let’s leave for Eire tomorrow, if we can.”

  “Good. This is sounding good.” He puts his arm around me and pulls me to his chest. “I cannot wait to wed you.” His voice is gruff with desire.

  M
y eyes are on those lips, so close and delicious. “The boy,” I whisper.

  Alf releases me gently. “Would you like a ride on my shoulders, Óláf?” He goes to stoop, but Óláf climbs his back like a squirrel up a tree.

  “Immediately after the wedding,” I say, “we’ll go live in Jutland. Jelling if you want. Or Ribe. Or Heiðabý.”

  “I’m allowed the choice? Are you sure, imperious one?”

  I grin. “I don’t care, as long as I can visit the people I love in Ribe and Heiðabý.”

  “Then I choose Heiðabý. That’s where we met. And Hakon will be so glad to have you back for good, not just visiting.”

  “Have you talked to Hakon?”

  “It was his idea to light fires up and down the land as signals for having spotted the women pirates. He didn’t know you were their captain, of course. He just wanted to help strategize. He’s a natural at it.”

  And now I’m sure. I’m so completely sure. “You and Hakon together, you will help the kings of all the cities of the Dan people understand that Christians are no threat.”

  “Was that old man a Christian?”

  “An Irish monk.”

  “He’s no threat.”

  “Exactly. You’ll explain to everyone. Let’s go home, Alf. Let’s go home.”

  OLD NORSE GLOSSARY

  alf: elf

  bjór: fermented cider

  borg: height

  byrnja: shirt of mail

  Dan: Danish

  djúpauðga: deep-minded

  draug: ghost

  dreng: king’s aide, usually young

  dróttinn: military leader

  feræring: fishing boat

  fuðflogi: homosexual man

  Heiðabý: Hedeby

  hempægar: king’s personal fighting men