Hidden by Donna Jo Napoli

to paint it clearly enough to stand firm as reality. All of it—fact and mystery—must be committed to memory. Beorn is adamant that I do this.
    I have a good memory. And my arms and legs are strong from farming. Between memory and strength, I take to boating as though born to it, which in a sense I suppose any child of Eire is, since it’s easier to get from one town to another by water than by land. This country is the same. All the settlements of any size are on the coasts, and even isolated farms are always near rivers, so boats can arrive much faster than walking or going by horseback.
    Reciting the rules in my head helps me to quell the initial abhorrence. And gaining skills with the sails actually makes me feel proud of myself. Who knows, maybe being able to handle a boat will help me rescue Mel. Now that I think of it that way, I can look forward to each thing I learn.
    Soon I enjoy looking around as we glide through the water. We’re just moving into winter, though the air is yet mild, and sunrise and sunset are filled with cluttersof skylarks, their forked tails well defined against the red to yellow to white backdrop of sun glow. I laugh. In just a couple of weeks, I’ve come to savor the spray of salt water on my cheeks. Something about this is so very right. I’m coming, Mel. I’m coming to get you as soon as I can.
    I am sitting now in the calm of a bay created by a barrier island just a little out from a curved rocky shore thick with oak and beech. We were on our way home when we stopped here. A large beaver came out of the forest and swam across the salty water right in our path and disappeared on this island—which means there’s a dam in there. Armed with his ax, Beorn went over the side of the boat in pursuit of what he claims is the darkest, moistest, tenderest meat on earth. So I am entirely alone—a rare experience.
    I scan the bay simply out of habit, when I see the ship. It enters the bay on the north side of this island. And it has two sails. Norse ships have only one. The slave ship that stole Mel and me had two. It’s going slowly, as though trawling.
    Sweat beads across my brow and stings my eyes. Maybe they haven’t seen me. Our sail is down, of course. I pull up the anchor. I can’t paddle the boat around the south point of the island to the far side before they see me. So I hoist the sail. What else can I do?
    They have seen me now, definitely. No one could fail to see a boat with its sail up at this distance. I gasp for breath; I feel smothered. I go south. But they are coming south. So I head out, away, into the sea. The wind is at my back. The boat flies over the waves, faster and faster as though it will take flight. The world blurs and I’m shaking, but it doesn’t matter because nothing about me can affect the motion of this ship; it moves on its own now, as though at one with the changing shape of the water. We go, go, go, the ship and me.
    When I finally dare to look behind, there is nothing but sea. Blue-green everywhere.
    I loosen the sail so it luffs, then lower it. Within just a moment, the ship bobs on the sea like a dead body. My hands are numb. I look at them, at the indentation from the rope I held on to so tightly, but I can’t feel them in the least. I sit in the middle of the bottom of the boat and hold my face in my hands.
    But what am I doing? I jump to my feet. I’ve lost sight of land! There are no markers in the sea, nothing to give me a sense of direction. I no longer know which way the boat faces, which way is home.
    The sun blazes distantly. And it’s setting! It’s like the single eye of Óðinn. The god traded his other eye for a drink from the well of wisdom. He knows almost everything, andhe’s counseling me now. I hoist the sail, but the wind is small. So I reef it, folding up the bottom part and lashing it to make the right size for this weak wind. I turn so the sun is to my back,