Free Hidden by Donna Jo Napoli Page B

of the peninsula and more south.”
    Heiðabý. I remember Beorn singing that town’s praises. “Let’s go there.”
    â€œNo.”
    I think of kicking him, but I don’t know him well enough to predict his reaction. “How come you get to make the decision all by yourself?”
    Beorn leans toward me. “Heiðabý,” he says in a low voice, so I can hear but Ástríd can’t, “has the biggest slave market of the Norse world. Ástríd could never bear it.”
    His words crash around inside my chest.
    Soon enough we cross a wide ditch and enter the town of Ribe through a gate in a tall rampart. The houses all face the central street or the river. The people give a skald ’s welcome, and Beorn performs night after night in the big hall,with the chieftain presiding. Over the following weeks, I come to find his repetitions consoling; they can be counted on. I love especially the story of the world Ásgard, where Óðinn rules. It’s more fertile than anywhere else, with green glens and rivers and hills. It sounds like my Eire land.
    That’s what Beorn wants for us, a life that feels like Ásgard, and when he says it, Ástríd nods. She believes we can do it. Beorn can make anyone believe anything.
    We live with a family while we build our own home. That’s proper Norse hospitality. Ástríd wanted to build in town at first, but Beorn said no. If you live within the area marked off by the ditch, you have to follow all rules and perform all duties of the town. But if you live outside the ditch, you’re free of many of those rules. So we claim a plot inland and clear it of trees and dig up roots and move stones into a pile. We dig a well and make water troughs for the animals, which are many now, since the people of Ribe added generously to our motley crew. The weeks and months pass in hard work. When the rains of autumn and winter finally cease, we burn off brushwood and plow and plant.
    We are farmers. Ástríd busies herself, moving from one task to the next; contentment eases her quick eyes. If Beorn misses wandering, he doesn’t show it. He has a knack for building things. He’s going to be good at makingthings grow, too, I can tell. Búri learns to walk and say a few words, and his sweet nature deepens every day. They adapt to this new life. They belong here.
    One night in spring, I realize I’ve been gone from my home, from my life, for a whole year. I belong in that life. But there’s nothing I can do about it yet. I can’t go off alone. I know what can happen to women and children who get caught someplace all alone.
    The biggest slave market in the Norse world is in Heiðabý. And Heiðabý is east across the peninsula, then south. I never forget that. I never will.
    Mel’s birthday is well past. It was her birthday that started all this—her birthday, with our family trip to Dublin and everything that went wrong after that. I am nine now, and safe. Mel is sixteen, and I cannot know if she’s safe. Or even . . . no, I won’t think further.
    I sneak outside to the stone pile and arrange some in a circle, with an opening for a door. Then I pile another layer on top. I keep adding stones, building a circular wall that I can lie inside of if I curl on my side. It’s hard working in the dark, but the moon is bright and my hands feel every crevice. I jiggle and jiggle until one rock falls snug between two others. When a rock doesn’t fit, I choose another.
    I build through the night. When the wall’s high enough that a person could crawl through the opening andthe sides would be above her back, I try to make the rocks at the opening extend just a bit more on each new layer, so that they’ll come together and form a roof. But the rocks fall off when I try. I work and work. I smack rocks against each other hard so they split and fit better. But they never fit