Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (7 page)

It’s a sunny afternoon. It has no right being so clear and lovely when anything could happen, anything terrible. The ground is dry and easy underfoot. The mare goes quickly. This part of Ulster is hardly populated. Once we pass the convent, there won’t be any settlements before Carlingford Lough. So we have to make it there. Did Mother judge the distance right?

But she must have, for it seems like hardly any time at all has passed when we’re already circling the east side of the Mourne Mountains. The lough is just beyond them. Downpatrick has mountains around it, with good pastures in the middle. Father says it’s like a miniature version of all Eire, which is ringed by mountains, with a bowl-shaped plain in the center. I like that idea. That means the people of our kingdom are as Irish as Irish get.

“I’m hungry,” says Brigid.

I don’t want to stop yet. There isn’t that much day-light left. “Don’t you think we should go a while more?”

“No.” Her voice is like a rod striking metal. I can hear the worry.

Night will make everything so much more difficult. But we can’t be that far from the lough now. And Brigid is eight. “You’re right,” I say reasonably. “We’ll be able to ride faster once our stomachs are full. Let’s find a place among the trees to picnic.”

We slide off the horse before I realize that I don’t know how we’ll climb back up again. My heart skips a beat. But I’ll figure it out. Like Mother said. Later.

I look through the trees and choose an oak to tie the mare to. In the food pouch is cloth filled with
millsén,
a cooked cheese made of sweet sheep curds. It’s flavored with honey.

Brigid purses her lips and points. “What’s this?”

A large hunk of rye bread is folded in another swath of cloth.

I see my chance to redeem myself for all the complaining I did to Mother. “Don’t be a brat. It’s better than most peasants get. I like the taste.” I take a giant bite.

Brigid grabs the bread from me and tears into it. She chews big. “We’re peasant boys.”

“For a while at least.”

She grins.

That’s when we hear it, both of us at the same moment.

Brigid’s grin disappears.

I rush to the mare and pull her body radial to the tree trunk and behind it, so that no one in the ship that’s passing can see her. I lace my fingers like Mother did and give Brigid a boost onto the mare’s back.

“If they see us,” I say, “if it looks like they’re stopping, I’ll hand you the reins and you ride inland as fast as you can to the first ringfort you come to.”

“I won’t go without you. Mother said
immalle—
together.”

“Don’t be stupid, Brigid. I don’t know how to get back up.”

“Don’t you be stupid, Mel. Climb the bloody tree.”

There’s a branch at just about the right level. “And I thought big sisters take care of little ones,” I say with false lightness.

“Sisters take care of each other.”

We peek out from behind the tree, Brigid on the horse and me in front of them, and watch the Viking ship pass in the placid waters. They’re singing. They’ll be at Downpatrick before dark, the rate they’re going. But they’re singing. Maybe the very thought of the women
ahead made them start the festivities early. Maybe they’re already drunk. Oh, Lord, let them be drunk.

I feel something light on my head, and I realize it’s Brigid’s palm. I put my own hand up on top of hers, and I swallow.

The ship passes without noticing us. Thank the Lord for the good forests of Eire.

Brigid slips to the ground again and I divide up the sweet-curd cheese.

Brigid puts her left hand on the dirt and lets a beetle crawl over it, while she chews lazily.

The bread smells so pleasant, and Brigid looks so peaceful, I want to stay a while. But dusk is upon us.

“We should hurry if we want to get there before nightfall”

I untie the horse and give Brigid a boost up. Then I hand her the reins.

I climb the tree, careful not to break branches. Between Brigid’s good maneuvering of the mare and the cooperation of the branches, I manage to wind up behind her.

Dusk brings a chill. I wrap my arms tighter around Brigid’s waist.

The forest recedes a little from the coast. We trot through brambles and ferns and burdock and thistles.
They give way now to evergreens that sigh in the light wind. The tangy smell prickles my nose. The earth is hard-packed here, not soft, like in Downpatrick. The path is windswept. We can go a little faster. We travel in silence, each sealed inside our heads.

But it isn’t silent really. The noise of the horse’s hooves covers any noise we might have heard from the sea. So when the boat appears beside us, I’m so shocked, I clamp my teeth down and bite my tongue.

A man on the deck waves to us. He waves and waves as they pass.

“What should we do?” asks Brigid in horror.

“Nothing. It’s too late to hide.”

The boat came from behind; it travels from the north. So it was already almost past when we saw it.

This is a different kind of boat, though. Like the first ship, it’s long and narrow, with oar holes down both sides. But there are two masts for the square sails. And there’s a half deck with a cabin on it. Plus there’s no dragon head on the prow.

“It’s all right,” I say. “They’re not Vikings. Look how different the boat is. It’s all right.”

“But we didn’t see them,” says Brigid. “They saw us first, Mel.”

“I know.”

Brigid’s middle expands within my arms. She’s breathing extra deep. “We’ve not good at this.”

“We’ll get better,” I say. “I’ll look back over my shoulder. You look forward. We won’t be taken by surprise next time.”

“I don’t want a next time.” Her voice rises in a whine.

“Calm down, Brigid.”

“No. I want to stop.”

“What do you mean? Where?”

“Anywhere. I don’t want to stay on this path.”

She’s right. The path is too visible from the sea. It’s far more dangerous than I had realized. The alternatives are dangerous too, though.

“If we leave the path, we risk getting lost. We might not find Carlingford Lough. We might not find the ringfort Mother told us to go to.”

“I don’t want to go the ringfort,” says Brigid. “I want us to stop now and sleep in the forest. You and me, together.
Immalle.
And go back home in the morning.”

We can’t go back till it’s safe, I am thinking. But better not to say that. “We don’t have blankets, Brigid. Night is still cold.”

“We have each other.” Her voice screeches almost out of control.

“Listen to me. It’s easy to get lost. We have to stay near the coast. Do you agree?”

“I want to stop.”

“Listen to me. Do you agree?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then. I agree with you, too. Together we can figure anything out.”

“Immalle”
says Brigid.

“Yes,
immalle.
Well leave the path.”

“And well stop.”

Once we leave the path, we’ll be so slowed down, we’ll never get all the way to Carlingford Lough tonight anyway. “All right.”

“Du-mem-se—
protect me.” It’s a whisper, from Brigid. Is she awake or talking in her sleep? And to whom? But I’m the only one to hear. I sit up and lean over her to listen closely. Her breath is regular; she’s asleep.

I climb out of the corn kiln. It’s full night. The sudden chill sends a shiver down my spine. I realize this kiln has been offering us a fair shelter. No wind comes through at all. I had no idea the temperature had dropped this much in the little while that we’ve been inside.

Every corn farmer has a kiln, of course. Eire’s rain would cause mold and ruin a corn harvest if the farmers didn’t dry it in a kiln before milling. So kilns dot the countryside. But this kiln was abandoned long ago, from the looks of it. And whatever farmstead it served is likewise gone. We’re lucky, I suppose, that it’s still tight, though I can’t wait till this is all over so I can get back home to comfortable sleeping quarters instead of dirty old kilns.

I give the mare a pat. She’s awake, grazing in the black
of night. Brigid insisted we weight down her reins with a large rock, so that she’d have almost the full length of the reins to graze. If we’d tied her to a tree, she couldn’t eat as much as she wanted. Especially since the nearest trees are pine with essentially no undergrowth.

I walk to the sea. It’s not more than two hundred paces. I look up the coast. All I see is land and water meeting stars.

What is happening in Downpatrick now? If there’s fire, I can’t see it from here, no matter how hot it burns, no matter how much smoke it makes; we’re too far.

Dear Lord in heaven, keep my family safe.

When I wake again, I climb out of the dim kiln and lean my forehead against the stone side. I’m weary still, for my sleep was shallow and disturbed.

What happened in Downpatrick last night? Did Father’s plan work? How many died? And who?

The stone digs into my skin. I step away and turn around to look at the world about us.

Early morning dances in a haze over the small lake in front of me. I didn’t even realize there was a lake here last night.

A speckled fish jumps. A lark sings. A wind comes up from the south, soft, with welcome warmth. I feel charmed.

The urge to run grabs me. I want to go fast. But a few steps teach me the nasty fact: I’m sore from yesterday’s ride. Really sore.

I look around for the mare and notice the big rock that held down her reins is turned on its side. Prickles of panic sting my temples.

A cuckoo calls. I swirl around and see on the other side of the lake a peat bog that comes practically clear to the shore. And there’s the mare. Standing at least a foot deep in the bog. The stupid thing wandered in and can’t get out.

I’ve walked in a bog before—I know that awful feeling. You fear you’ll sink forever. Gone, with a mouth full of mud. The mare’s probably as panicked as I was just a moment ago. She doesn’t dare take a step.

The walk around the end of the lake should be quick, but the way I have to walk, legs spread, makes it longer. The mare holds her eyes on me as I approach. I click with the side of my tongue. Men in liveries do that, so it must work.

It doesn’t.

I call to her. I sing. I shout.

I pick up a stone and throw it as hard as I can. It lands beside her with a soft plop. I throw another and another and another. The dumb thing is still too scared to move.

“Hold on, will you?” whispers Brigid, appearing at my side like a fairy child materializing out of the air. She’s rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Go on back to the kiln. I’ll get her”

I walk backward, watching what she does.

She does nothing. She stands and looks at the mare. Then she takes a step along the lake shore. One step. She waits, never taking her eyes off the mare.

And the mare actually takes a step.

Brigid takes another step. She waits.

The mare takes another step.

They continue like that till the mare finally slogs out of the bog onto the shore. Brigid picks up the muddy reins and leads her into the shallows. She washes off the mare’s legs. Then she brings her around to me.

“How do you do that?” I ask.

Brigid shrugs.

“Really. I want to know. How do you get animals to trust you?”

“You don’t do it by throwing things at them.” She smiles.

I laugh in spite of myself. “I didn’t start out throwing. I clicked to her. And called. And sang.”

“There’s your error. A horse doesn’t click or call or sing. Animals don’t talk. So you don’t talk to animals. You keep your mouth shut and watch them.”

“Silence with the animals,” I say. Brigid hands me the reins. “Is there any food left?”

“No.”

“You were right,” says Brigid. “You said last night we should save some of it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. We can’t be far from that ringfort now.”

“No.” Brigid shakes her head in that stubborn way I know too well. “I don’t want to go to a settlement. I want to go home.” Her voice gets sharp. Her eyes are already liquid. It always takes me by surprise, the way she can be so grown-up one second and such a baby the next.

I don’t know what makes me look at the sky right then, but I do. I grab Brigid’s arm and spin her to face south.

Her mouth drops open, her eyes widen in wonder. “How many do you guess there are?”

The storks stretch back as far as I can see. Father says that in spring and summer there are more white storks in Eire than there are people. They spend the winter in hot Africa. But they come home to breed and roost. I love to see them. They say storks are the best parents; they’ll be
consumed in a fire rather than abandon a nest. If it’s true, it’s a piercing truth.

“How many?” asks Brigid. “Hundreds?” She bounces her finger on the air as she points at them in an attempt to count.

This one mustering is thick and wide, covering the wetlands like a feather blanket, so many it’s dizzying. “Thousands,” I breathe.

They land with loud flapping, hopping from trees to the ground, then walking around us on pink-orange legs with their straight, red-orange bills pointed down. Many of them tower over us. We’re enveloped.