Free Hidden by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

insisted we’d need.
    My birthday passed while we were there. I’m sure of it, because the days are getting shorter than the nights now, and that’s when my birthday comes—just a fortnight after that. No one knew, of course. But it felt like some of the presents were for me, too. I am nine now.
    We are back on the road again, with Jelling four days past, and rain our constant companion. The sound of rain on the surface of a pond is plunk . Heavy and deep. The sound of rain on a leather pack is thud . On a hazel leaf it’s smack . On grass it’s nearly silent. On a puddle it’s splash .On the cheeks of my upturned face it’s plink . Rain is all the good things of the land of my birth. Rain is why the earth of Eire has so many shades of green. Rain gives birth to rainbows. I love rain.
    But I am very sick of being wet.
    And today there’s a wind, so the rain drives at a slant. It’s behind us, at least, which means the rain hits our necks and ears, rather than our faces. But the north wind forces the rain down the back of our tunics and it chills—oh, how that rain chills. I look over at Ástríd’s ears, red as flowers. She should have a shawl over her head, but she wants her short hair out, because the rain curls it and she says it makes her pretty. After nearly a year of playing boy, she’s reveling in womanhood again. People in Viborg and Jelling marveled at her short hair. Married women grow their hair long and wear it in braids or a bun. I suppose that’s what Ástríd will do. But for now, her hair is free and curly. I don’t understand her not putting on a shawl, though. No one should suffer just for beauty.
    The road we took from Viborg runs down the center of this land, gradually veering east. Beorn explained that this land is a large peninsula jutting northward, hence the name Jutland. From what Ástríd has remembered of her childhood and her passage on the slave ship, Beorn pieced together that she probably lived in Skáney, across the seato the east. Since Ástríd knows as little as I do about where we are, Beorn gives us lessons as we go.
    The northwest of Jutland is a mess of islands, but fortunately, we started out south of there. The rest of the peninsula is vast areas of meadow and bog, crisscrossed by rivers, but most of them originate to one side or the other of this country road, which is why the road is located where it is. The traveler who sticks to the road can avoid marshes and wetlands. The one stream we had to cross was nothing but a narrow slop of mud at this time of year. Beorn said in a month, with all this rain, it will be impassable without a raft, but all we had to do was cut bunches of brushwood and throw them down ahead of us as we tramped over.
    Yesterday we left the big road, though, and headed west, walking beside a river. I’ve been watching the changing land, and I’m not happy.
    â€œBeorn,” I call. It isn’t easy being heard in the rain.
    Beorn waves me over to him. He’s leading the horse, and Ástríd is at his side, leading the cow with baby Búri secured on her back. I’m swatting the unruly pig with a hazel switch to keep her moving forward, and the goats are running free with Vigi yapping and nipping at them whenever they stray.
    I drive the pig toward Beorn and wait for a slowing ofthe rain so I can be heard. “Why are we going this way?”
    â€œI told you. I know people in the town ahead. We can have a farm.”
    â€œBut this land, have you looked at it? It’s sandy heathland. The land was more fertile up near Jelling and Viborg.”
    Beorn tilts his head. “You’re smart. But think about it. Viborg is too close to things Ástríd needs to get away from, and Jelling is too far from the water for me.”
    â€œIsn’t there a coastal town with better land than this?”
    â€œHeiðabý has good land. It’s on the east side