Free Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale by Donna Jo Napoli Page B

deception, because our language would give us away as being from the same place.
    I won’t speak either.
    A crew member comes around holding a beer jug. It’sthe leering one again. He puts it up to the lips of the child near me. My own thirst now scrapes my throat raw. It’s absurd to be this thirsty in just one day. But I am Melkorka. I am a princess. I will not beg with any gesture of face or body. I try to sit tall, but even that small movement causes me to flinch. The skin over my ribs has swollen; I sense the puffiness.
    At last the jug comes to my lips. I drink as deeply as I can before the leering man takes it away. Blessed beer; it slakes the thirst, and, once it gets deep within, it will dull the pain in my chest.
    When the leering man comes to the crazy woman, he hesitates and says something in that infernal language.
    “I’ll bite you, too.” She bares her teeth. “Devils, all of you! You’ll all roast in hell.”
    The other crew member, the wide one that the crazy woman bit, the one who uses his fist as a club, says something to the leering man with the beer jug, who moves on to the next prisoner.
    That woman is insane. No parsnip, no beer. You’d think she was a deranged princess, the way she’s so haughty. Except for her peasant talk.
    Now the wide man—who I think of as Club Fist—unties our hands. All of us except the crazy woman.
    I have neither blindfold nor gag now. And my handsare free. Brigid’s are too. I look toward the land. I can only gaze upward, because the side of the ship comes higher than my level line of vision. But I can still see that, though the white cliffs are past, the coast remains steep and very far. Even if we made it there, where would we climb ashore?
    I eat my parsnip. It’s salty.
    The child beside the crazy woman looks around. His eyes take in my face but don’t linger. He’s already eaten one parsnip. He holds the other in his hand. Now he jerks that hand quickly toward the crazy woman.
    She takes a big bite of parsnip.
    The child’s hand is back in his lap in a flash. It happened fast.
    I wait to see if a crew member will punish the boy. A child that size couldn’t take a blow like the one I received.
    But nothing happens.
    The boy’s eyes are scanning everyone again. I cannot believe this; he saw Club Fist hit the woman. He knows what can happen.
    His arm jerks out again. And again the crazy woman takes a big bite. That child is as crazy as the woman.
    Another crew member, one with a long mustache, shouts at the boy and comes lumbering over.
    The mustache man grabs the rest of the parsnip and eats it himself.
    And that’s the end of it. Crazy woman, crazy child. My breath comes back.
    A man calls out. I look. It’s the man who captured me, the one who stinks of clay. The crew gather at the rear, near the tiller. They eat. I can’t see the food, but I smell it. Cold roasted goat. I salivate again.
    When they finish, Clay Man says something to the group of three children and points to the waste pot. One of the boys obediently uses it. Then the other children do. Even Brigid. She acts just like the others—a perfect little peasant. The small boy who fed the crazy woman lifts her tunic for her as she sits on the pot, because her hands are still tied.
    And now it’s my turn. My cheeks flame, but I follow Brigid’s example, meeting no one’s eyes. Deception is far more important than this disgrace. And such a minor thing cannot truly sully the soul of a princess. At least our tunics rest on our thighs and offer a vestige of privacy.
    As each of us get off the pot, the mustache man ties our hands again. And now the leering man and Club Fist gag us. But they leave us without blindfolds.
    Clay Man shouts to the crew. He’s definitely in charge.
    The crew members go to their stations. Some work the sails. But some row now too. Sails and oars together. Clay Man must be in a sudden hurry. Why?
    I look around. But the sea is empty; the shore is empty. He’s not