Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (21 page)

I blink. Is everyone outside of Eire insane when it comes to birds? Do they all see them as something else in disguise?

“But if you want a bird, we can do a cock,” says Hoskuld. “It won’t be enough, though. Not for this long a voyage. So we’ll do an ox as well. I like watching them bury ox bones after a feast. It makes the earth strong.”

He walks away. He expects me to follow, I know.

A seagull shrieks. A brown bird chases it. It’s smaller than the seagull, with white and brown bands across its tail. How does a smaller bird get up the gumption to chase a seagull?

Hoskuld stops and looks back over his shoulder.

I glance again at that determined brown bird. Brigid and Maeve and Thora—three small birds who never quit. And here I am, a stork, a giant of birds. I must not quit. Deep inside, I must keep my spirit alive and fighting. No matter what the nights are like. Quitting would be disloyal to their memories.

I follow Hoskuld.

We’ve onboard the middle ship of three. I’m excited to be on a ship again. It’s strange, but somehow just being onboard makes me feel like I know what I’m doing.

I still don’t have any idea where Iceland is, but I don’t care. We’re going to a new world.

All three ships are knorrs, the largest ships I’ve ever seen. They had this one out of the water to check it over before the journey. I walked the length of its shadow. Ninety steps. And twenty steps across. A long, slender ship, indeed.

Hoskuld walked around the beached ship as well. He gave final whacks to nails here and there. He used his favorite hammer. He checked rivets. “The metal for these nails and rivets was smelted from bog iron,” he said. He’s taken to explaining things to me, like Thora used to.

When he said that, I thought of Irish bogs. Of that crazy mare that got stuck. Of how Brigid lured her out. I went blind. But Hoskuld was too busy to notice. In the last few days before they pushed the ship over rolling
logs out into the water, he rushed constantly, so much so that he ignored me. Except at night.

He oversaw every detail. He had tar-dipped wool jammed between boards to keep out water and add flexibility. The ribs and twisted bands in the frame are naturally shaped roots and branches of spruce and pine; they, too, are known for flex. He said, “No storm can destroy a ship that gives with the force of the waves.”

I don’t want to think about storms. Right now the water is calm. The sun shines fantastically bright. The wind is steady but soft. It fills the gigantic, square, woolen sail that protrudes over the ship sides and reaches three-quarters of the way up the towering mast. Ropes from its corners attach to the prow and sides.

The mast is in the center. There’s no deck around it. The deep bottom of the boat is open to the air there. A layer of fodder covers it, and a lone cow stands immobilized by the swell and fall of the sea. The smells of fodder and sea mix in a funny, pleasant way.

The decks at the front and the back of the ship are of oak planks wider than my foot is long. Pine planks make up the hull. All the planks were split from the center of a trunk, so each has the same grain and reacts the same at sea. They’re made from green wood with no knots, no gnarly points that resist. Every measurement was taken by eye.

Hoskuld’s voice rang with pride as he pointed out these things before we set sail. His eyes searched my face as he told me that last fact. He wanted to see if I showed the surprise of a foreigner. He wants to know where I come from. I feel his eyes on me always; he’s fascinated.

But I deny him any satisfaction I can. I work hard to make my face less loquacious. I think of other things when he questions me. Thora. Two days ago I saw Clay Man pass with only four virgins at his heels. Someone bought Thora. In my head I become a stork. I glide to Thora and she climbs on my back. We rise on warm winds. No harm can come to her.

And Hoskuld is determined that no harm will come to his ships. Fifteen sea chests line the length of each side. When the wind lulls, men with arms nearly the size of my waist sit on the chests and row. Now, though, with the sail billowing, the men have pulled in the oars and closed the wooden flaps over the holes to seal out the sea. They are busy bailing water, bucket after bucket, muscles flexing. A shield is mounted above every oarlock.

More shields are mounted starboard. And a large sack of stones sits near the rudder. As we sail, it’s moved around for balance. Hoskuld says the cargo under the front and rear decks can be moved around too, if necessary.

These three ships are of equal size. The front one
carries fifty people. The rear one holds fewer because it also carries timber. Our ship holds only thirty, since the open area around the mast is much larger on ours. But ours has the most terrifying prow: a dragon head with a gaping mouth—a firedrake. The gold paint glints menacingly in the sun. I can see that only if I lean out near the front. But I know, because I stood in awe beneath it the day before we launched. I noticed everything and committed it all to memory.

That’s when Hoskuld went to King Hakon to pay his respects. I walked behind him into the king’s tent.

“And, so, Hoskuld, you wait till you are about to sail before you visit me?”

Hoskuld squirmed and I was glad: Someone had power over him, after all. “I had to oversee everything. You know how the success of a voyage depends on the details.”

“That can be true,” said the king. He looked at me. “And who is this?”

“My Beauty.”

“I’d like to come home to a woman that fine”

Hoskuld’s neck turned the color of his hair. “When you come to Iceland, I will host you grandly.”

My stomach became a ball of ice. Did Hoskuld intend me to be a part of such hosting?

“Indeed? Then I might come soon.”

“Not too soon,” said Hoskuld. “Iceland has few trees, so my farmhouse is made of sod and turf and whatever driftwood I came across. I’d like to build a better one before you come.”

“Timber, is that what you’re after? I’ll have a ship loaded with building timber for a new house, one good enough to host a king.”

Hoskuld grinned. “An exceptional gift. Thank you, my king.”

“And here.” King Hakon went to a chest. He gave Hoskuld a heavy gold ring and an ornate sword.

“Your generosity astounds me. I am humbled with the honor of carrying this sword.” Hoskuld didn’t tell the king that he’d already bought a sword even more highly decorated than this one. And I was glad, so very glad, to see Hoskuld lying because another had such power over him.

But then, later that night, Hoskuld whispered to me in bed. “Kings are expected to be generous. That’s how they lead. That’s how they inspire and buoy up the spirits of their men.” He kissed my throat. “And that’s how their men wind up richer and richer. We now have a third ship, and it’s full of timber.” So Hoskuld had had the better of King Hakon, after all.

We started out this first day hugging the shore, passing much smaller fishing vessels and levy ships and coastal boats of various sorts with only a few men on them. So many boats. Every Norseman must own at least one.

As evening comes, we anchor the ships together near a beach. A clamorous noise comes from the prow of the ship I’m on. Everyone laughs. I see now a cage with three large ravens inside, cawing and jumping about frenetically. No one raises ravens. Are they here for ceremonial purposes?

But my curiosity disappears as the excitement of land hits me. All the people rush off the ships. The children run. The adults chatter in relief to be on land again. Someone talks about what an easy day it was, and how very different it will be when we go days at sea without seeing land on any side.

At those words, a
þræll
cries out his terror of dying at sea.

Instantly Hoskuld’s arm swings and catches the man on the back of the head with a dull thud.

The
þræll
goes flying. He’s caught by two others. All the
þrælar
huddle together and stare at the ground.

“No complaints,” booms Hoskuld. “Not a one. Look at me.” The men look up. Hoskuld shakes his hammer fist in the air. “Not a one.”

Everyone goes about their business.

But I grab Hoskuld by the arm and glare at him.

“What? You object?” The corner of his mouth twitches, as though he finds me amusing. He puts his face to mine. “It’s a question of morale. Don’t worry yourself about things you don’t understand”

Oh, I understand. I’ve had too many lessons in brutality. I do not lower my gaze.

He runs a finger along my jawline. “Clenched teeth? What have we here? A rebellion? Do not cross me, Beauty.” He puts his mouth to my ear. “Especially when others are watching,” he growls. He pulls free and walks away.

When my heart stops banging, I walk to join two women
þrælar,
but they quickly move away. No one wants to be aligned with someone who crossed Hoskuld. I stand alone and look around.

A tripod of overlapping iron poles, collapsed for transport, now appears, with a big black pot hanging from it. It reminds me of Clay Man’s scales. The simple cleverness of the design impresses me against my will. We cook a fish stew and eat hearty.

One of Hoskuld’s men tells the saga of Sigurd Fafnesbane. There are a few parts I don’t understand, because Thora never told me this tale. But I gather that it’s about a gold treasure that once belonged to a dwarf. Everyone is mesmerized.

I move close to Hoskuld to listen. Maybe he’ll say something to help me understand better. But he takes my nearness the wrong way. He throws his arm around me and pulls me tight to him. He strokes my cheek and rests his own on the top of my head. “It’s okay, Beauty. I forgive you.” I stiffen, but he gives no sign of noticing.

Toward noon of the second day we leave the shore behind and head southwest through open water. I can’t help but swallow worries. Without natural landmarks to guide us, how can we not get lost? But we soon reach islands. It’s early evening.

Hoskuld says to a man, “The ravens.” That’s all. But the man runs and wraps the cage of ravens with several blankets. I watch, uncomprehending.

We anchor offshore, as close as possible to the easternmost island. The free men gather in small groups. Something’s up. I listen; someone will surely say where we are. But no one’s speaking. It’s as though they’ve all decided everything ahead of time. Men from the first ship grab spears and brightly painted shields with metal domes in the center. They go on land.

The rest of us wait, watching the shore. I hear no sounds of battle. Nothing. Except now the honking of geese. And high-pitched screams. The men appear on the shore, running, behind a group of children, chasing
a flock of domesticated geese. They throw the children and birds into the first boat. Each boat rotates the sail and sets the rudder and we’re off again immediately. With a slew of new
þrælar.
What do parents do when their children simply disappear? How do they go on living?

That night I cry. Hoskuld says in bewilderment, “You cry now? After being with me for nearly three weeks? Now?” It doesn’t occur to the man that someone could cry for another’s pain. Or maybe he truly doesn’t understand that
þrælar
have pain.

Thora told me that in the north country
skarls—
farmhands, who are free men but hardly better off than
þrælar—
sometimes give up their children willingly to slave traders because they don’t have enough food to go around. Some even leave their newborns out in the snow when they can’t feed them. So maybe Hoskuld doesn’t understand anything. Maybe he sees that and cannot guess the way those sacrifices slice through a parent’s innards. Maybe he is hopelessly stupid rather than brutally cruel. But does the difference matter?

As if to answer my thoughts, he holds my face in the cup of his palms and croons to me. His lips soften. His limpid eyes turn gentle. In this moment he seems like a man who could have been good if he’d lived in another
world—in a world with angels. I could almost be comforted by those eyes, I could almost stop crying.

We sleep on the deck under countless stars, a fiery inscription on the sky. And I know others cry too. I can’t not know that.

In the morning I wake to raven caws. Someone removed the blankets from the cage, so their noises come loud and clear. They’re frantic again.

I stand and find our three ships hugging a new shore, this time on the port side. But the men are not forming groups—there seems to be no plan to raid, thank heavens. From the path of the sun, I realize we’re heading south. As the day passes, I stand at the prow and actually enjoy the spray of the water. There was a sun shower around noon, but it cleared quickly and the air has warmed up nicely. Everyone’s taken off their cloaks and folded them into a pile.

Hoskuld comes up beside me. He hands me a tiny spoon. “Clean my ears”

I remove his earwax. I did this the night before we first set sail, too. That time I wondered how much pressure it would take to shove this little wooden spoon into his brain. I wondered if it would break, and I feared that only that possibility stopped me. But this time I clean him without mental flights of violence. I am cleaning him,
nothing more, nothing less. No moment seems more or less than it is.

Now he hands me tweezers. I remove stray hairs above his beard, long hairs from his nose and ears.

“Don’t you want to know why you’re making me handsome? Tonight we attack Inis Eoghain.”

My breath catches. Inis Eoghain is the peninsula on the very northern tip of Eire. I had thought we were far from my home.

“Wish me luck?” Hoskuld laughs. “Look.” He points to the red flag with a black raven in the center. He attached it to the mast a little while ago. “The raven is Thor’s holy bird. See how it flutters? That means we’ll have victory.” He chucks me under the neck. “I’m cautious. I never attack when the flag droops. And I’ve never yet faced defeat.”

He unties the flag and puts it away in the box he took it from before. I catch a glimpse of feathers. He keeps the three stork feathers he got from Clay Man with that flag! I would want to know why but right now my head swirls. We’re going to Inis Eoghain. I had given up all hope of escape long ago. But now …