Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (25 page)

A spray shoots up not a body’s length away from me. It’s a narwhal. It surfaces with its tusk pointed straight to the glorious sky. It expels the air from its lungs in great spouts.

Men with those double-pronged spears have come to the ship side. They hold them at the ready. A whale would come a long way toward making us feel better about that storm.

Then a much smaller whale surfaces beside this first one. It’s a cow and her calf. They must have gotten separated from the rest of the pod in the storm. And now I don’t want them to kill her.

I look around for Hoskuld. But the free men are already talking it over.

Snorri says, “If we kill the mother, the calf will surely die.”

Ingvar says, “If we kill the calf, the mother will grieve, and some say whales can die of grief.”

“Either way,” says Asgör, “it’s bad policy.”

They let the whales go by.

For the first time I am grateful to Vikings. Whatever the reasons for it, it was the right decision.

Three women are cutting the skins off the two dead sheep and preparing the meat. I join them, watching carefully to make sure I do this chore the way they think
is right. I want to fit in. I want to be one of them, even if it’s just for a moment.

The rest of the people are cleaning up the mess left by the storm. Women mend ripped tunics and cloaks. Men repair broken oars. Children gather things that have been tossed helter-skelter.

We eat our fill of mutton stew. The
þræll
called Deirdre complains that we have no way to salt the rest of it. Our barrel of salt was swept overboard in the storm. We have to soak the rest in seawater in one of the bailing barrels that used to hold who knows what.

The day goes on in slow, deliberate work. The people pull together, letting go of their grief. Either these are callous folk or they know a bottomless well of courage.

That evening the storytelling goes on longer than usual. Snorri has the honor tonight, and he’s one of the best, so everyone comes close. I understand almost every word—about brave men slaying dragons and roasting their hearts.

When it ends, Hoskuld says, “Listen, everyone. Listen hard.” He cups a hand behind his ear and stretches that ear toward the sky. “Can you hear it?”

Everyone mimics him.

“I hear nothing,” says Ingvar.

“Exactly.” Hoskuld looks around at us solemnly.
“That’s the sound of Thor sleeping. There will be no thunder tonight. Odin has encouraged his son to rest.” Hoskuld lifts his chin. “We thank you, powerful Odin,” he calls loudly. “Thank you for this rest.”

Everyone repeats his words exactly.

Hoskuld looks around at us again. “There will be much frolicking in Valhalla tonight, for my lost companions took every single
þræll
whisked away by the storm with them, even the woman and child. So all of us can be placid tonight, like the sea, like Thor. Sleep in peace.”

Everyone repeats, “Sleep in peace.” They wander off and nestle together in little sleeping groups.

Hoskuld takes my hand and pulls me down on the deck with him, near the rear mast. He curls on his side and sleeps. Our blanket was among the losses of the storm, so he’s wrapped himself in a cloak, like everyone else. I’m glad for the loss of blankets. It means we cannot wrap the raven cage to make us silent for a raid.

I sit beside Hoskuld with an odd sense of contentment. He’s been a good chieftain through this crisis, and the way he put us all to sleep tonight felt like a benevolent father. I remember his request this morning, his plea for a kiss. I lean and brush my lips softly over his cheek. He gives a small moan that makes me straighten up quickly. I look around.

There is only one man tending the rudder tonight; it’s Göte. Everyone else is too exhausted, and the sea is soft, anyway, so one is enough. Göte sees me look at him, and he nods. It’s a tiny thing—a simple nod. But it feels so familiar, like he knows me, like he’s acknowledging that the shared misery of the storm has bound us together. My hand rises of its own accord in a small, responding wave. But Göte has already turned his face to the stars for direction.

That’s when it happens: I see the bird again. At first I think it’s a vision. The spirit of Brigid, come to bring me a message. But Göte calls out to me, “Look.” His voice is astonished. “Look, a honey buzzard. A female.” So I know she’s real. And now I know what kind of bird she is. A honey buzzard. I’m so happy to know that, I’m so thankful to Göte, this man who nods and knows the names of birds, this Viking.

The bird goes sheep-hopping, of course. I could laugh, she’s such a pleasure to watch. But it looks like the pickings are slim. The storm must have washed away insects. It washed away dung heaps, too. And the trough holds nothing but seawater. We had little enough fresh water as it was—only enough for the smallest children and the animals. But that barrel got knocked over in the storm.

Alas, poor Brid. My throat hurts for her. The crazy thing is doomed.

Nothing about this new land we’re approaching looks welcoming. The sky is overcast. The coastline is fogged in. The winds are high. The air is cool and wet, even at midday. It sits on my cheeks like a dead thing. The place is a cluster of so many islands and they all look rugged and rocky. I see no forests. Nothing that makes these Faeroe Islands appear inhabitable. Torild says this will be our last stop before the final long sea days to Iceland.

We skirt past the coastal cliffs and steer toward one of the larger islands. As we row into a harbor sheltered by a smaller island, Deirdre and Torild and Gunnhild talk beside me in happy tones. I know the names of all the women
þrælar
on my ship now, of course. They’ve wrapped themselves up tight in their cloaks and are shivering in the fog just as hard as anyone, so I don’t understand their excitement. They seem as foolish as the ravens, who set up their customary cawing as we neared land.

Asgör is the first to see. Again. Even though he’s gray-haired, he must have the best eyes. He shouts and points.

I can just make out a town near the shore. The people are turning out to greet us. They’re cheering. In Norse.

We disembark, stumbling on dry ground as though we’re drunk. I didn’t know we were getting off. I’m grateful for this respite from the sea but worried at the prospect of staying in such a dismal place.

The people from all three ships are led into a giant town hall. Women and þrælar spring into action, while men talk and drink beer. The island
þrælar
are mostly dark-haired, with hooked noses and red cheeks. I wonder if they were all stolen from the same place. The traditional description of the legendary Finn comes to mind: hair like a raven, cheeks like blood, body like snow. But the Irish say this with appreciation; they find Finn handsome. I bet none of the free people here finds these
þrælar
handsome. They treat them roughly, shouting orders and pushing them about.

We cook the rest of the mutton from the sheep that died in the storm. The townsfolk contribute roast pig and goat as well. I go with one of the women to dig up a barrel of butter, buried in the earth to keep it from going rancid. We bring it inside and make hot cakes for dessert. The children from our ships play with the town children. They kick balls off the walls and no one shouts at them to go outside; they’d get lost in the fog, after all.

By evening it’s one enormous party with singing, dancing, storytelling. One man plays a harp of carved willow wood that looks so much like a harp Father’s manservant played that I gasp.

All my old curiosity about what happens in these halls is finally satisfied. It’s like an Irish party just louder, drunker, rowdier. And just as infectious; I find myself moving in time to the music.

News of Torild’s skills at healing has gotten around. A woman pulls her by the hand through the hall. But first Torild grabs me with her other hand. She tells everyone I’m her assistant. I feel strangely flattered. Torild lances boils, administers angelica for ailing digestive systems, smears herbal ointments on skin disorders, and I mimic her as exactly as I can. People thank us profusely.

The evening wears on, and some of the men stagger outdoors in a sodden stupor. Other men and women pair off and disappear.

Hoskuld finds me and drags me to a corner. We haven’t talked since he asked me to give him a kiss of my own accord. He’s drunk now, and he lavishes kisses on me just as he used to—without a hint of hesitation. “You’re better than I ever dreamed a woman could be,” he says, slurring his words. “You can do anything. Anything and everything.” His eyes are full of wonder. At me. And
though he’s far from lucid, I can’t help but repeat his words in my head.

I close my eyes, and he does what he wants. The music and drink plus the healing work with Torild have combined to make me mellow. And Hoskuld’s praise lingers. There is no pain tonight, for the first time. I feel nothing but gentle warmth.

Hoskuld falls asleep at last. I’m tired too. And dizzy. I drift off slowly into water-logged dreams.

The women wake first. We drank less than the men, after all. I go outside to an outhouse. Men sleep here and there, wherever they dropped last night. I wander past them all, down to the harbor. The three ships rock slowly on a sea that looks harmless.

A bird flies from somewhere inland out to the boats. It circles overhead. It’s the honey buzzard. My honey buzzard. I’m sure of it. My clasped hands press under my chin in joy. I have to remind myself this bird is real, not Brigid in disguise. But she moves me just as strongly as if she were. And what harm is there in feeling sisterly toward her? In some sense, I’m still aist myself—we are both birds.

She disappears into the dragon’s mouth carved on the prow of my ship. Ah!

There’s no one about at the harbor. I strip down to
my smallclothes and wade out to the ship. I climb aboard with the help of a rope. Then I walk along the wide ledge on the top of the side. I’m high above the water level. A wave of nausea hits me. I swallow over and over and concentrate on being still, inside and out. It eases off and I risk moving again.

When the side curves up toward the dragon head, I have to stop. I hug the edge and peer up. From this angle all I can see is the very edge of the mouth: Stray twigs lie there. I knew it. I’m grinning. I knew.

The honey buzzard peeks out at me just at that moment. Her vulnerability opens like an offering. I respond with equal vulnerability; I whisper, “Your rún—secret—is safe with me, Brid. We both have secrets.” I’m astonished to hear my voice, even muted like this. Oh, Lord, how I miss talking. For an instant I feel as though I’ve risen from the dead, as though I’m the me who had a family, who whispered to a sister.

On a sudden whim, I let go and fall backward into the water. It’s shallow, but not so shallow that I hurt myself. I swim all around the ship. I’m happy. I’m happy that Brid isn’t crazy.

Or maybe she is. Clearly she made that nest when the boat was on land, back before we started this journey. That’s why she chased away the seagull. She was
protecting her nest. When the ships set sail, though, she should have deserted her eggs and flown back to the life she knew.

But here she is. She’s suffered hunger and thirst. She’s been battered by a storm. And now we’re at an island where she could stay in the blessèd trees and be safe. But she’s back on her nest.

She’s a fine parent. As good a parent as a stork.

I’m deliriously happy. I swim and swim and swim, until I’m so tired, all I can do is float.

A shout comes from the shore. A woman stands there waving to me, calling me in. I get out and pull my dress on over my dripping smallclothes.

I follow the woman back to the town hall. We spend the morning refilling barrels with fresh water and loading up on vegetables and dried meats, since so much of our larder was lost in the storm. I work as hard as anyone, merging with the group of women.

Hoskuld gives the villagers sheep and some of our remaining silver, and takes, in return, several goats and a pregnant sow.

Everyone hugs, and the women give us bundles of flatbreads. I’m particularly grateful to see them. Flatbread seems to be the only food that makes me feel good these days. They calm my queasy stomach. I’m getting sicker,
it’s clear. I don’t have fever or chills. But my energy lags. Swimming around the ship this morning just about undid me.

Before we get on the ship, a woman with a child clinging to her skirts gives me a small pouch. “These are just for you,” she says. Surprised, I go to open it, but her hand stays mine. “Wait till the others are asleep.” I hug her especially hard. Then I climb aboard with everyone else.

Except Göte. He stands on the shore.

“Come along,” calls Hoskuld. “Hurry.”

“I’m staying here,” calls back Göte.

“Weren’t you the one who complained about hunger back on Brännö Island?” Hoskuld’s voice cajoles, but there’s a threat behind it. “The life of a free man in Iceland can be very good, indeed. Didn’t you beg me to let you come work so you could earn enough to buy your own land, have your own homestead?”

It’s true; I remember. Göte begged fervently.

“After that storm, well …,” calls Göte, shaking his head. “I hate the open seas now.”

Hoskuld’s eyes flash anger. His hands close into fists.

I grab Hoskuld’s arm, to stop him from jumping out and bashing the man in the name of morale, as he did the
þræll
who talked of fearing the sea early in our journey—the
þræll
whose name I now know is Hlif.

Hoskuld looks at me with an open mouth, ready to protest. Then his eyes change. He folds his big hand over mine.

I move close to him, and we watch as the townspeople take Göte in gladly. I imagine this is the only way they ever get anyone new to come live in this dismal land. I will miss Göte. He’s the one who nodded to me the night we both saw Brid. He’s the one who told me Brid is a honey buzzard.

We set out, our bellies full from the midday meal. I wave to the women on shore. They’ve set fires and boil seawater to get salt, because they gave us most of their own supply. They wave back. I wonder if they’re wistful.