look around.
It’s Brigid. Her eyes are bright. She jerks her head once, then runs and jumps up and over the side of the ship. Before I can react, one of the youths jumps after her.
Of course. Our arms are free still. We can swim. Like ford combat. I run, but too late. Clay Man grabs me around the waist. He shouts. Crew members surround the rest of the prisoners. Club Fist holds a spear and throws it into the night, into the void that swallowed Brigid and the youth. He picks up another spear. Can he see in this darkness?
I desperately tug on the string that hangs around myneck. Stork feathers fly from my bodice along with the pouch, and I’m shaking that pouch insistently in front of Clay Man’s eyes and biting down so hard on the gag that I think my teeth will tear through it and break on each other.
Clay Man grabs the pouch, drops me, and yanks it off over my head. I turn to run again but instantly Clay Man shouts, and Club Fist puts down the spear and pushes me into the circle of prisoners.
Clay Man squats by the lamp and rolls the precious ring over and over in his hand. My gold teething ring that Father gave me at my birth, that Mother so sagely tucked in that pouch. He picks up the three stork feathers and holds them to his lips.
“Aist,”
he says, beating out two syllables loudly: a-ist. He looks up at me with wonder on his face. Snowflakes sit on his eyebrows.
Brigid is gone.
Clay Man stares at me.
“Aist”
I am alone. And Brigid is out there in the freezing water.
I fall on my knees and press my forehead against the deck.
CHAPTER ELEVEN H USH
A hide blanket comes down over my back. I look up at Clay Man. He’s a watery blur through my misery.
Brigid is gone.
Clay Man says something in a quiet voice. I jump away.
He jumps too, as though for an instant he thought I might attack him. He speaks again. An ugly, stupid language. An ugly stupid man.
He backs away from me slowly rolling the ring in one hand, clutching the three stork feathers in the other. He says something to the crew members.
They return to their posts. Rowing, rowing. All but Thick Neck. He picks up the oil lamp and comes over near me, lamp on high. I am illuminated in the silent snow that keeps falling, soft as mouse breath.
I move out of the glow.
Clay Man says something.
Thick Neck backs away.
Every few moments Clay Man looks at me. His eyesglisten, but his face is too much in the dark and too far away to be readable.
The children look at me too. From close by. And their faces speak clearly: envy.
I take the blanket from my shoulders and drape it over the children. They lie down and squirm together like the piglets Brigid put ribbons on her last day in Downpatrick. Four Irish babes and one boy who led a cow. The blanket is big, and they are little. There’s enough to tuck them in at the edges.
And what do I care about being warm? Brigid is gone.
I look back at Clay Man. He frowns. Even from here distress is unmistakable. He walks over to the blanket pile and goes to put a second one on me.
But I grab it from his hand before he can touch me. I shake with fear.
He makes a quick intake of breath. Then he backs away again. The three stork feathers are still in one hand. I don’t see where he put the ring.
I give the blanket to Crazy Woman. She doesn’t hesitate. She beckons over Weeping Woman and the still bare-chested Saxon youth who stayed behind. The three of them immediately lie close together under the second blanket.
Clay Man stares at me.
I stare back. Brigid is gone. Nothing matters. I shiver. My teeth chatter.
Crazy Woman lifts the edge of the blanket. Her eyes are barely visible in the lamplight. Still, they command. And I know I should obey, though I’ve forgotten why. I wiggle myself in beside her. We are not small, so the blanket is hardly adequate for four. Crazy Woman should have left me standing. I close my eyes.
I wake. I eat. I use the pot. I sleep.
Days go by. I’m not sure how many.
I go
It’s Brigid. Her eyes are bright. She jerks her head once, then runs and jumps up and over the side of the ship. Before I can react, one of the youths jumps after her.
Of course. Our arms are free still. We can swim. Like ford combat. I run, but too late. Clay Man grabs me around the waist. He shouts. Crew members surround the rest of the prisoners. Club Fist holds a spear and throws it into the night, into the void that swallowed Brigid and the youth. He picks up another spear. Can he see in this darkness?
I desperately tug on the string that hangs around myneck. Stork feathers fly from my bodice along with the pouch, and I’m shaking that pouch insistently in front of Clay Man’s eyes and biting down so hard on the gag that I think my teeth will tear through it and break on each other.
Clay Man grabs the pouch, drops me, and yanks it off over my head. I turn to run again but instantly Clay Man shouts, and Club Fist puts down the spear and pushes me into the circle of prisoners.
Clay Man squats by the lamp and rolls the precious ring over and over in his hand. My gold teething ring that Father gave me at my birth, that Mother so sagely tucked in that pouch. He picks up the three stork feathers and holds them to his lips.
“Aist,”
he says, beating out two syllables loudly: a-ist. He looks up at me with wonder on his face. Snowflakes sit on his eyebrows.
Brigid is gone.
Clay Man stares at me.
“Aist”
I am alone. And Brigid is out there in the freezing water.
I fall on my knees and press my forehead against the deck.
CHAPTER ELEVEN H USH
A hide blanket comes down over my back. I look up at Clay Man. He’s a watery blur through my misery.
Brigid is gone.
Clay Man says something in a quiet voice. I jump away.
He jumps too, as though for an instant he thought I might attack him. He speaks again. An ugly, stupid language. An ugly stupid man.
He backs away from me slowly rolling the ring in one hand, clutching the three stork feathers in the other. He says something to the crew members.
They return to their posts. Rowing, rowing. All but Thick Neck. He picks up the oil lamp and comes over near me, lamp on high. I am illuminated in the silent snow that keeps falling, soft as mouse breath.
I move out of the glow.
Clay Man says something.
Thick Neck backs away.
Every few moments Clay Man looks at me. His eyesglisten, but his face is too much in the dark and too far away to be readable.
The children look at me too. From close by. And their faces speak clearly: envy.
I take the blanket from my shoulders and drape it over the children. They lie down and squirm together like the piglets Brigid put ribbons on her last day in Downpatrick. Four Irish babes and one boy who led a cow. The blanket is big, and they are little. There’s enough to tuck them in at the edges.
And what do I care about being warm? Brigid is gone.
I look back at Clay Man. He frowns. Even from here distress is unmistakable. He walks over to the blanket pile and goes to put a second one on me.
But I grab it from his hand before he can touch me. I shake with fear.
He makes a quick intake of breath. Then he backs away again. The three stork feathers are still in one hand. I don’t see where he put the ring.
I give the blanket to Crazy Woman. She doesn’t hesitate. She beckons over Weeping Woman and the still bare-chested Saxon youth who stayed behind. The three of them immediately lie close together under the second blanket.
Clay Man stares at me.
I stare back. Brigid is gone. Nothing matters. I shiver. My teeth chatter.
Crazy Woman lifts the edge of the blanket. Her eyes are barely visible in the lamplight. Still, they command. And I know I should obey, though I’ve forgotten why. I wiggle myself in beside her. We are not small, so the blanket is hardly adequate for four. Crazy Woman should have left me standing. I close my eyes.
I wake. I eat. I use the pot. I sleep.
Days go by. I’m not sure how many.
I go
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