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“All right.” But I'm not thinking toward the afternoon. The moment holds me fast.

Egill lopes off, and I notice how long his legs are these days, how big his feet are. For an instant, I'm afraid of him.

I walk around to the other side of the cage and sit in front of the monk.

He looks at me, but stupidly, as though he's the one who spent last night drinking instead of Arne and all the others. Maybe that's what happens to a man when he's caged. I saw a caged wolf once when I was small, and it looked all listless like this monk does now. The monk's clothes are loose, but I can see how skinny he is. Not just
his back, but his arms, his legs. He appears shrunken, like a wizened child. His eyes have sunk into their sockets. How long has he been wandering? And how did he get here?

He makes the sign of the cross. “
Pater noster
,” he whispers.

That means “our father” in Latin. I wish he was speaking my language—the language of my lost childhood. But Latin is good enough. Latin is what I heard in church, what I use in some of my prayers at night; it's what my memory grasps at. I move closer to his cage.

“
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum
.”

Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.
This is what I mumble at night in the hermit's hut. Or try to. I need to hear what the monk says. I need to be reminded of the right way to say it. I lean forward to catch the holy sounds.

“Is he bothering you?” Arne stands behind me. I don't know what woke him. The monk was whispering, and I didn't say a thing. We're just unlucky. He jabs a finger toward the monk's face. “Shut up, Ansgar! My head is hurting from last night's drink, and the last thing I want to hear is your babbling.”

“Is that his name?” I say softly. That's not an Irish name I've ever heard.

“Who knows?
He speaks nonsense.”

“So why do you call him that?”

“Ah, you haven't heard about Ansgar yet? How many years have you lived here? You know the black earth, on the south side of the river, across from the marketplace?”

It isn't black earth at all. It's just open land. But everyone calls it the black earth and they skirt around it, as though it's filthy. Or cursed. I nod.

“Ansgar was a missionary monk from somewhere south. He built a church there.” He picks meat from his teeth. “Do you know what a church is? A Christian church?”

I nod.

“Always with their crazy languages and incomprehensible rituals. They talk about drinking their god's blood and eating his flesh. Did you know that?”

Holy Communion. That sacrament is not at all how he describes it. But I nod.

“After Ansgar, there was another monk. When he died, no more came. So we burned the church. That's what made the earth black. It's scorched. Hideous people, monks.”

“Did you know Ansgar?”

“Me? Of course not. Ansgar came forty years ago.”

“Then how do you know monks are hideous?”

“My grandfather knew Ansgar. And he hated those bells. They scared away the land sprites. There was no one to guard the flowers and the trees. And the next monk did the same. I knew that one. I was thirteen when he died. I helped burn the church.” Arne brushes his hands together as if cleaning them off. “You won't find any more monks coming here.”

I look at the monk. He's watching the two of us, and energy has come to his eyes.

“We just did,” I say.

“Well, he won't be here for long.”

“Are you going to send him on his way?”

Arne shakes his head and looks at me reprovingly. “It's a mistake to pass your problems to others. No, the only thing to do with a monk is make him a slave or kill him.”

Arne already said the monk won't be here for long. Knowledge is heavy as an ax head. I stand, holding on to a cage pole because my knees wobble. “He'd be a good slave.”

“That mess? He's skin and bones, child. You're stronger than he is.”

“But he's a holy man.”

“So what?”

“It's wrong to harm a holy man, no matter whether he has your beliefs or not.”

“Who told you that? He's a scourge.”

I won't win this battle. “What if someone wanted to take him as a slave?” I say.

“He's useless. I told you.”

“But what if someone did?”

“No one does. So the
þing
has decided to hang him.”

A ball of pain forms between my eyes. But it's not too late. It's not like with kings in Eire; Irish kings can make decisions and stand firm no matter what the others think. These people, the Dan, they come together in an open-air assembly—the
þing
—and talk it over. They vote. “What if someone spoke up now?”

Arne looks at me with bleary-eyed interest. “You know someone who'd be willing to take him as a slave?”

“I do.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

Arne laughs. “Go home, Alfhild.”

I shake my head and back away, moving my steadying hand to another pole. “What if Beorn comes and asks for him? The
þing
would let Beorn have him as a slave, right?”

Arne puts a hand to his forehead. “You're making my head hurt worse, child.”

“But they might, right?”

“You talk as though Beorn has an interest in a Christian monk.”

The tone of his words scares me. “I'm not sure what Beorn will say.” I use my most childlike voice. “I haven't asked him.”

Arne shakes his head like a giant dog. “Good. For a moment you had me worried. Don't bother asking. Beorn is sensible. I'll see you at the hanging. Before nightfall.”

I turn and run. The sky is far too dark for morning. Snow comes, light at first, then faster. It gathers on my eyelashes.
Pater noster
. The only noise is the jangling iron fastenings on the collar of a horse pulling a wagon along the lane.
Qui es in caelis.
I run as fast as I can, slipping and sliding in the new snow.
Sanctificetur nomen tuum.

They are all home, seated around the hearth.

“Alfhild!” Ástríd smiles at me with relief. “You went out early. I checked your stone hut, but you weren't there.”

“Ástríd, Beorn, help me.”

Beorn's eyes widen. “How?”

“We have to save the monk.”

“The monk?” Ástríd sets Alof on her knees and bounces her. “Why would we care about that monk?”

So she knows. Everyone must know. Of course. Maybe she even went to the
þing
when they met—women don't have a duty to go, but they're allowed. “Let's buy him.”

“I hate slavery.” The words burst from Ástríd like a cough.

“He doesn't have to be a real slave. He can be like a family member.”

“A family member?” Beorn throws up his hands. “I can't afford to feed another mouth. Besides, he's weak. Useless.”

That's what Arne called him. “No one's useless.”

“He can't plow the fields.”

“Neither can Búri or Alof.”

“Children are good for—”

“He's good too! He's done no crime. It's wrong to hang him.”

“He's a danger,” says Beorn.

“How can that be? You just said he's weak.”

“You don't understand, Alfhild.” Beorn slaps his thigh. “He's a dangerous influence.”

“He can't speak our language. How can he influence us?” I look at Ástríd. “Tell me.”

Ástríd's eyes are large with concern.

Beorn rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “We can't feed him.”

“Yes, we can.” I go to my personal chest and take out my amber.

Beorn holds it to the fire, staring at the ants within. It's even larger than I remembered it to be. It looks like a heavenly vision. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it on the beach.”

“Do you have others?”

“No. This was my treasure. In case I needed it. If you sell it, we'll have plenty of money. Especially if you sell it in Heiðabý. You said everyone pays top price there.”

“Alfhild.” Beorn looks quickly at Ástríd, then back at me. “I haven't been to Heiðabý since I married. I'll never go to Heiðabý again.”

“Then you can get someone else to go there and sell it for you.”

Beorn drops his head. “I won't keep a foreigner in this home.”

“He can sleep in my stone hut. I hardly ever sleep there these days anyway.”

“What work could he do?”

“I'd find chores for him, like I do for Búri.”

“I don't want him near the little ones.”

“He won't hurt them.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

Beorn shakes his head.

“Please.” I fall to my knees in front of him. I have to save the monk. I might never be able to really save Mel; I might never even be able to find her. But this monk is here, and I can save him. I have to. “Please, Beorn.” I'm wiping away tears. “When spring comes and people go off
to Heiðabý to trade, they can bring him along with them and send him on his way. But we have to feed him until then. We have to shelter him and make him strong. We have to keep him through the winter. Please.”

Ástríd comes to stand beside Beorn. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “I hate this idea—but I owe Alfhild heartily. It's only till spring. Please, husband, can we do this?”

“There's no owing within a family.”

“Then do it out of love. We all love each other. We want each other to be happy.”

Beorn puts his hand over Ástríd's and looks up at her. “I never go to the
þing
. I never vote. In this town, only the rich men go. What if they turn me down?”

“Then they turn you down.”

Beorn leans toward me. “I don't understand why you want this.”

“A good man cannot be hanged.”

Búri comes to stand at my side. He puts his hand on my shoulder, mimicking his mother. “A good man cannot be hanged,” he says.

“Alfhild.” Beorn stands over me. He's opened the door to a cool dawn breeze, much warmer than usual. The winter months have slipped away. “Things are going to change.”

I sit up and question him with my eyes, even as I wipe the sleep from them.

“Spring is here, and there's work to do. Papi's lived with us more than three months, and he's done no work. Well, that's ended, starting today. You're in charge of him. Understand?”

“Not really.”

“I'm going to the river to work on my boat with Egill. Got to repair winter's damage. So it's up to you to make that monk work.” Beorn stomps outside.

A sinking feeling weights me to the berth. I hate to admit it, but Arne and Beorn were right: Papi is useless. Egill's told me a thousand times that I'll regret taking in the monk. I hate hearing it. I stopped skating with him, his refrain got so grating.

When Beorn brought Papi home last December,
he stood outside our door, touching a red streak across his neck. I looked close and saw that it went all the way around; it was a burn mark—someone had already tightened a noose on him! I expected him to scream at the horror of the memory. But he just looked detached, tap, tap, tapping his fingers. I couldn't for the life of me understand why a person would do that to him. What's to be gained from scaring a man witless before hanging him? Unless someone considered it fun.

I took Papi gently by the hand and led him to my hut, feeling apologetic for the lack of a hearth fire, but at least I had put my blanket inside for him. And two goats I named Gabhar and Meigeall. One has a long beard that Alof likes to pull. Goats can be excellent company. Papi crawled inside. Then he pushed the goats out; he prefers to be alone.

He sits in the center, so there's no room for anyone else. I know because I tried to enter; he wouldn't move aside. He acts as though the hut was built expressly for him. It is a hermit hut, so I sort of understand. Some monks live in monasteries, others live in isolated huts.

But I don't understand how he can be satisfied sitting alone all day. Nothing can entice him to come out—no pleading or shouting. All he does is pray. Loudly. It would drive me to despair to act like that. I listened to his prayers
at first, but that got monotonous. He speaks only Latin. To tell the truth, by midwinter I was sick of him.

The months have passed with the only acknowledgment of his existence being the bowls of food I bring him and the empty bowls he passes back. Gradually I have come to understand that he enjoys a life of no communication other than with his God. This makes me wonder if he's done something terrible. Maybe he went on this mission of converting Norsemen as a penance, and he now accepts life in the hut as more penance. I even wonder sometimes if he feels cheated because he wasn't hanged. So much of my early religion has melded together with the religion surrounding me today that I'm not sure of much anymore, but I remember penance. If you do something wrong, you must repent. You must say prayers. And suffer somehow. And I think somehow that if you suffer enough, if you die, you become a saint.

I blink at the thought. Maybe Papi is trying for sainthood.

The whole idea is ugly. Like Beorn and Ástríd, I now resent feeding Papi while he does nothing. And since Beorn hasn't yet sold the amber, feeding Papi is a daily hardship.

Papi is a good-for-nothing.

I eat my porridge, kiss the children and Ástríd, and go
outside in search of Beorn. He has attached the wheeled cart to the back of Capall, as I call our horse, and he holds up two large knives, swinging them by their wide cross handles. It's a message—this is the task. He puts them in the back of the cart, which I can see already has two giant baskets, and turns and heads off on foot toward the river.