long stretches without thinking. But when I do think, it feels unreal. Brigid cannot have jumped overboard. I cannot still be on this ship.
I sit by the mast and bleed onto my tunic. I don’t care what a mess I make of myself. I wish all my blood would come out and drown Clay Man. And Leering Man. And Club Fist. And all of them. All of them are complicit.
None of them comes near me except at mealtimes.
Our gags come off to eat. The others talk. I don’t. And I don’t listen, either.
Life is a blur.
One morning I wake and look around and my eyes actually function. The boat is not moving. We must be anchored.
Clay Man wears my teething ring on a leather strap around his neck. The three stork feathers are jammed in his hair at odd angles.
I had forgotten all about those feathers. They were supposed to be a surprise for Brigid, to lift her spirits when times got hard. How naive I was—I never imagined anything as hard as what has happened.
Crazy Woman’s eyes meet mine. Hers light up. She comes over and sits beside me and whispers in my ear, “I’m Maeve.”
I cannot respond. She’s the only one not wearing a gag. Did Clay Man never have it put back on her after the night she told stories? The night Brigid left. My own gag is gummy in my mouth. And it stinks.
Maeve kisses my cheek. “That’s Gormlaith.” She tilts her head toward Weeping Woman. “She gave me her name last night. At the evening meal.”
Maeve and Gormlaith. Good Gaelic names. I look at the youth from Saxon Britain.
Maeve’s eyes follow mine. “He’s William. He doesn’t speak Gaelic. But he can say his name, at least.”
William is sitting with one of the children on his lap. He’s playing some sort of hand-clapping game. His breath makes smoke in the air. The child’s head bends toward that smoke.
“The boy we picked up in Saxland is called Markus. The Irish boys are Morc and Nyle. The girls are Kacey and Riley.”
Markus I can pick out—he’s the one who led the cow. But for the Irish children, I wonder which ones go with which names. I will continue to call the child who helps everyone Patrick, even if he turns out to be a girl.
“We have a name for you,” says Maeve.
I already have a name. But that doesn’t matter so much. I move my face toward her curiously.
“Aist.”
I flinch. I remember Clay Man repeating that word the night Brigid left.
“Ah, so you recognize it,” says Maeve. “It’s Russian. Adopt it and you’ll be saved.” She stands up. “Now, shall we clean you?”
Saved? The word has little meaning.
Maeve pulls me up by the hand. Our hands are free. Have they been since the night Brigid left?
She leads me to a wide bucket of water. It’s iced over on top. I realize I’m shivering.
I look over the ship’s side.
We’re near a shore to our right. A sandy beach stretches far inland toward towering trees. Sunlight shimmers on the frost in the highest needles of the evergreens. A small cove lies ahead. The little lagoon within it is ice-covered. Ice on salt water. We must be very far north if there’s ice in the sea so late as March.
“Don’t look too long,” says Maeve. “It will discourage you. The Russians call this the Baltic. It’s the East Sea. A strange sea. Here” She breaks the ice in the bucket with her fist. It doesn’t crack; it slushes apart. She scoops with a cupped hand and brings water to my mouth. “Taste. Put your head back and I’ll dribble it over your gag.”
Maybe she is crazy.
But I do as she says. The water soaks through and around my gag. It is foul, but that may be my own sour tastes.
“See? It’s hardly salty.”
That’s true. The Irish Sea is much stronger.
Some of the crew are watching now. Leering Man, Club Fist, Thick Neck, and, of course, Clay Man. He’s always watching me. Two others, the ones who seem to have nothing to do with us prisoners, are playing a game with what look like colored pebbles. And some crew members are missing.
I sit by the mast and bleed onto my tunic. I don’t care what a mess I make of myself. I wish all my blood would come out and drown Clay Man. And Leering Man. And Club Fist. And all of them. All of them are complicit.
None of them comes near me except at mealtimes.
Our gags come off to eat. The others talk. I don’t. And I don’t listen, either.
Life is a blur.
One morning I wake and look around and my eyes actually function. The boat is not moving. We must be anchored.
Clay Man wears my teething ring on a leather strap around his neck. The three stork feathers are jammed in his hair at odd angles.
I had forgotten all about those feathers. They were supposed to be a surprise for Brigid, to lift her spirits when times got hard. How naive I was—I never imagined anything as hard as what has happened.
Crazy Woman’s eyes meet mine. Hers light up. She comes over and sits beside me and whispers in my ear, “I’m Maeve.”
I cannot respond. She’s the only one not wearing a gag. Did Clay Man never have it put back on her after the night she told stories? The night Brigid left. My own gag is gummy in my mouth. And it stinks.
Maeve kisses my cheek. “That’s Gormlaith.” She tilts her head toward Weeping Woman. “She gave me her name last night. At the evening meal.”
Maeve and Gormlaith. Good Gaelic names. I look at the youth from Saxon Britain.
Maeve’s eyes follow mine. “He’s William. He doesn’t speak Gaelic. But he can say his name, at least.”
William is sitting with one of the children on his lap. He’s playing some sort of hand-clapping game. His breath makes smoke in the air. The child’s head bends toward that smoke.
“The boy we picked up in Saxland is called Markus. The Irish boys are Morc and Nyle. The girls are Kacey and Riley.”
Markus I can pick out—he’s the one who led the cow. But for the Irish children, I wonder which ones go with which names. I will continue to call the child who helps everyone Patrick, even if he turns out to be a girl.
“We have a name for you,” says Maeve.
I already have a name. But that doesn’t matter so much. I move my face toward her curiously.
“Aist.”
I flinch. I remember Clay Man repeating that word the night Brigid left.
“Ah, so you recognize it,” says Maeve. “It’s Russian. Adopt it and you’ll be saved.” She stands up. “Now, shall we clean you?”
Saved? The word has little meaning.
Maeve pulls me up by the hand. Our hands are free. Have they been since the night Brigid left?
She leads me to a wide bucket of water. It’s iced over on top. I realize I’m shivering.
I look over the ship’s side.
We’re near a shore to our right. A sandy beach stretches far inland toward towering trees. Sunlight shimmers on the frost in the highest needles of the evergreens. A small cove lies ahead. The little lagoon within it is ice-covered. Ice on salt water. We must be very far north if there’s ice in the sea so late as March.
“Don’t look too long,” says Maeve. “It will discourage you. The Russians call this the Baltic. It’s the East Sea. A strange sea. Here” She breaks the ice in the bucket with her fist. It doesn’t crack; it slushes apart. She scoops with a cupped hand and brings water to my mouth. “Taste. Put your head back and I’ll dribble it over your gag.”
Maybe she is crazy.
But I do as she says. The water soaks through and around my gag. It is foul, but that may be my own sour tastes.
“See? It’s hardly salty.”
That’s true. The Irish Sea is much stronger.
Some of the crew are watching now. Leering Man, Club Fist, Thick Neck, and, of course, Clay Man. He’s always watching me. Two others, the ones who seem to have nothing to do with us prisoners, are playing a game with what look like colored pebbles. And some crew members are missing.
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