Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (20 page)

Choice is an illusion.

As is cleanliness. I grow filthy both inside and out now. And none of that filth bothers him. All my efforts to appear witchy, all to no end. He actually smoothed my hair after the evening meal. Smoothed it, as though he were kind and not the beast he is. And he promised to buy me beautiful gems to adorn my hair. He called me exquisite. He said I deserved the best.

Does he think he’s the best?

He moans. His hands squeeze. His mouth demands.

It wasn’t all that long ago that I was home. Less than a half year, I would guess, though I have no real sense of time anymore. The seasons here are so different. The light goes on so long. I’m always disoriented.

My tunic comes off easily. I am totally without defense. Unsafe.

Safety is another illusion. I should have given it up long ago. When Brigid and I were taken. When she jumped into the freezing river. An eight-year-old, alone. Safety. Am I a fool, that I didn’t surrender such childish ideas then?

He breathes on me. Heavy, wet breath. He drank enough to be dead drunk, but he seems far from that. His eyes are clear, despite that opaque breath.

If I had a knife like the one he tucks in his belt, I could cut his breath into blocks and beat him over the head with them. But my hands are empty. And his knife is in the corner of the tent, on the pile of his clothes.

He leaves the knife there as though I will not think of stabbing him. He walked beside me all afternoon, all evening, with the knife at his side, so close to my hand. Can he be so naive as to believe that I do not harbor him ill will in this act? Can his thoughts be as thick as his breath?

But I won’t pick up the knife. I won’t lose my soul to hatred.

All I can do is breathe deeply of him. Breathe and hope that his vapors will poison me. He is venomous, after all Let the poison enter my lungs, seal away all my words, all my songs, forever,

I never was good at singing. My voice couldn’t hold a tune right. It was Nuada, my brother, who could make even the birds stop their trilling to listen to him. But I had songs in my heart, I did. Once I did.

His hands are calloused. They hurt the tender parts of me. Has he done hard labor himself? But I know already that he is wealthy. I’ve seen the men who work in his service. He’s respected, and in this country it’s riches that make people respect you. And he’s feared. Clay Man didn’t dare go against him. He bought me just like that. Without a second thought. So I know he’s done it before. He probably has many
þrælar.
And he probably doesn’t recognize that any of them are human. Maybe he’s like the man who led the two
þrælar
up into the hills outside Hyllestad to bury his treasure. Maybe this Hoskuld has murdered
þrælar,
like you might kill a rat. No, not a rat. A rat marauds in your grains. But
þrælar
only work. They work and work and work. So it would be like killing a dog—a loyal dog, who has stood by you all his life.

Maybe I’ll be lucky and he’ll kill me. Death is the only possible escape for me now.

His hair leaps from his head in flames. To think, I once looked at red hair as lucky. My skin blisters.

He’s on me, pressing down so hard, I’ll break. If only I would break. He’s splitting me in two. But I don’t want to be two pieces. I want to shatter. Thousands of little pieces of me. They could blow away in the wind. Gone.

Because I am gone. This isn’t me. This can’t be me.
Athir—
Father—where are you?
Du-mem-se—
protect me. Like Brigid whispered, maybe in her sleep.

But there is no me to protect.

I am no more.

I’ve been eradicated
tri drochgnimu—
through evil deeds.

But at least they’re not my own deeds. I didn’t cause this. I couldn’t have caused this. Nothing I’ve ever done merits this. Not even failing to hold on to Brigid, that most terrible thing.

Oh, Lord. You’ve shown me
dered m-betho—
the end of the world.

Whatever became of mercy?

We’re standing in a grove under evening sun. The grove is far enough away from the marketplace that we cannot hear its music and confusion. Out here quiet reigns. A circle of huge stones encompasses the grove. People have gathered here to worship, invited by a small group of free men, the most important being the great chieftain Hoskuld. My master. It’s a sacrifice ceremony, to ensure the success of the journey ahead for Hoskuld and his companions. We are to return to the land he and his companions came from, with all
þrælar
and supplies they have bought.

The yeoman farmers of this town on Brännö Island are participating. They have rights
þrælar
don’t have: They carry weapons, and can take part in the voting assembly, and now will be part of this ceremony. As far as I can tell, it’s opportunistic on their part. They don’t need to invoke the blessings of the gods; they aren’t the ones about to make the long sea journey. They aren’t even friends of Hoskuld or any of the other free men making the journey. They’ve lined up their wooden, carved wagons and they
wait for the feast that will follow the ceremony—that’s the reason they’re here. It’s their chance to be hosted for once, to eat at others’ expense. Their children play in scattered groups. The little ones make toy piggies by sticking wood legs on pinecones. The big ones jump hopscotch and chase one another on stilts.

“What animal do you think we should sacrifice? It’s your choice.” Hoskuld puts his finger on the center of my cheek.

I look away.

He runs it down my jaw, down my neck, down …

“Come on, Beauty. After these last few nights, we’re past that. Or we should be.”

He calls me Beauty. Mother said I had become a beauty. It was one of the last things she ever said to me. I wish I could strike his tongue mute.

“Tell me what to sacrifice,” he says. “A horse? An ox? A pig? We need some luck. Let’s get Njord on our side.”

Njord is the god of ships and of wealth. When Thora told me that, I wanted to laugh. The two are connected, of course. Vikings get so much of their wealth from jumping into ships and raiding the rest of the world.

Hoskuld kisses me on the cheek. His breath is mead gone sour. “It’s a long voyage to Iceland, after all.”

Iceland. The place we’re going to now has a name. Iceland. It means nothing to me. I will go to Iceland in the luxurious blue gown I’m now wearing.

The morning after our first night together, Hoskuld bathed me with his own hands. He washed my hair. He patted me dry. He did it all slowly, almost gingerly, as if I were a child that he must take care not to be rough with.

Then he opened a chest in his tent. It was full of beautiful smallclothes—underclothes—and dresses and cloaks. He told me to pick the ones I wanted. “These aren’t gifts,” he said. “You never give gifts to
þrælar,
because then the objects become cursèd trash. This is a necessity. Your other clothes were rags. But to be fair to Gilli, it’s easier for me to clothe one
þræll
than for him to clothe a dozen.”

Hoskuld’s companions say I look stunning in this dress. Irish women are as good at spinning as Norse women. Better maybe, because Irish women use spinning wheels, which assures uniformity of thickness, while Norse women spin by hand with a stick and spindle. They have to soak the wool in fermented urine and hot water to make it more workable.

But when it comes to weaving, Norse women are superior. Sometimes they stand at vertical looms. But often they use small tablets that allow them to make
more intricate designs, even with wool. Thora tried to teach me once; it’s hard. The linen of this dress is blue like the deepest sea. It falls to my feet in soft pleats, unhindered by a belt. Scarlet silk threads and brown horsehair threads pattern all the edges in swirls interlaced with knots. The woven hair band that goes with it is scarlet and brown with blue patterns. The tailor had a good eye. I’m impressed with heathen sensibility and skill at cloth. Norsemen obviously do not fear spirits in colors on their women.

Hoskuld’s wife will know this dress was supposed to have been hers. She’ll know immediately from the patterns. They are the same as on the other dresses in the chest—the ones he’ll give to her, I’m sure.

On my shoulders is a woolly mantle lined with very fine squirrel fur that peeks out around the edge of the hood. Hoskuld placed it on me. There is no other mantle with a hood in the chest—no other mantle meant for a woman.

His wife will have so many reasons for hating me. I am going on a journey to Iceland, where I will be hated.

We’ve been preparing for the journey all along. Hoskuld spends his days ordering his other
þrælar
around. He has accumulated many recently. A few children. Several young, strong people.

I wanted to lead him back to Clay Man’s tent to buy Thora. Our fates may be awful, but at least there would be comfort in sharing them. I couldn’t get him to go that way, though. When I tugged on his arm, he said, “You’ll have to speak if you want me to go somewhere.” He touched my lips. “Speak, Beauty, and I’ll go wherever you say.” But I will not speak. Maybe I no longer even know how to.

So Thora is gone from me forever. All her energy and enthusiasm, gone.

Hoskuld also bought an older woman—a hunched-over soul with a lazy eye, who claims to have particular skills with medicinal herbs.

He tells his new
þrælar
to buy salted and smoked meats, dried cod and vegetables and fruits, crushed grain, juniper berries, and any other herbs Lazy Eye wants in case someone gets sick. These things are packed into wooden barrels and boxes and stacked inside his tent.

All Hoskuld’s
þrælar
work. All but me. I simply adorn his arm. And fill his bed.

He gathers not just food, but tools. Forge tongs, pincers, adzes, awls, hammers. Oh, yes, hammers. He picked up one of them, pinned me against a stone wall, and slammed the hammer on the stone beside my cheek. It gave off a spark. “Almost as good as Mjollnir,” he said with a smile. Mjollnir is the name of Thor’s magic
hammer that he uses to fight the frost giants.

I don’t know if Hoskuld realizes the full effect of his threats. He wants me to fear him, but I doubt he wants me to hate him. He kissed me before he let me go, and his kiss seemed happy. He adores good tools. Yesterday we stood by an iron smith, watching while the man hardened ax heads over a fire. Hoskuld bought ten regular axes, ten two-headed ones, and ten broad-blade ones.

And a sword with a hilt of walrus ivory decorated in geometric designs of gold, copper, and black niello. Hoskuld handled it with reverence.

After he bought it, he told me, “This never should have been for sale in the first place. Swords like this get passed down through families. Respect for families is second only to respect for the gods.” He put his finger on the center of my cheek when he said “respect for families.” That was the first time he did that, but he’s done it many times since.

And he bought a dozen simpler swords with wood grips covered in leather. And some two-edged swords. And bows and arrows. And metal helmets.

He’s going to turn his crew into an army at this rate.

The battle scenes in the tapestries that covered Clay Man’s tent come back to me. Wolves chewing on men’s thighs; eagles pecking out entrails.

But other things he buys are harmless, clearly gifts.
Bearskin hats. Skates of cow bones to tie to shoes, for gliding over ice in the winter. Toy axes of bronze and toy wooden swords and shields. And a cowhide ball for kicking on the ice. He told me there’s a midwinter feast called Yule, in honor of Frey. The adults pray to the god for a good harvest the next year, while the children kick balls on the ice.

Somewhere in Iceland children wait for him. Young children, because Thora told me that by the time a child is twelve he uses a real sword.

Hoskuld buys gifts for his wife, too. Pottery and fine silver jewelry and a tortoiseshell brooch.

They will all hate me. The wife, especially. How could she not? A household of hate.

And he’s been gathering men for the trip. He interrogates each one. Many have come from huge distances, catching rides on fishing boats, boats shuttling wood, boats collecting eggs or down feathers for quilts from birds that nest on deserted islands. Difficult passages. It took some of them weeks to travel here.

I listen as Hoskuld interviews them. And I listen later as they talk among themselves. They leave behind famine and poverty. Some leave behind extortion—either as victims or as perpetrators in fear of being caught. And some just leave behind personal pain, for these ones are
misshapen or have a strange gait or peer out from haunted eyes, They are shunned at home as magicians or witches. They’re tired of being beggars and tramps. Hoskuld is building a crew of the miserable and the deviant, who will never see their homes again and never want to.

Maybe that’s what it takes to emigrate. I would never have left my home by choice. Despair envelops me. Like them, I will never see my home again.

I look at these unfortunates—these are the people who will wield the weapons Hoskuld has been accumulating. But at least the
þrælar
won’t be going into battle. I heard someone say it’s illegal
þrælar
to bear arms.

“Are you listening to me?” Hoskuld puts his arm around my waist. I am jolted back to the present. I look around at all the people gathered for this sacrifice. “Don’t get lost inside that beautiful head.” Hoskuld puts his mouth to my ear. “I know you hear me. I watch your shoulders tighten as I come up from behind. Your hearing is perfect. And I know you understand. Your face speaks your reactions to my words. You can’t fool me.” His grip on my rib cage tightens. “Choose the animal for sacrifice, Beauty. You could even choose
þræll.”

A
þræll?

Me, I think. Please sacrifice me. I look up at the sky. Take me, Lord.

An eagle soars overhead.

“Are you crazy?” Hoskuld steps away from me. “We never sacrifice eagles. Odin can take on the guise of an eagle. His wife, Frigg, can appear as a falcon. They’re sacred.”