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gutters or scuppers to make the sea spray flow back into the sea, water gathered in
the ship’s bottom and had to be constantly bailed, even in relatively fine weather.
This duty was assigned to the newcomers, who took turns with the bailing buckets
and hemp line, to hoist the buckets up and over the side.
During the day they all sat above decks watching the horizon for sight of land. At
night, while the ship sailed steadily toward the northern pole star, the captives were
sent to the triangular-shaped space beneath the bow deck. In rough seas, the crew
not on duty went to their sleeping space on damp straw just below the stern deck.
Despite being dark and wet in unpleasant weather, sleeping below decks was usually
better than trying to sleep above.
Brother Rordan looked around for the boy slave who seemed to remain hidden
during most of the day on board. He came upon him squatting over the aft rail
where crew and thrall alike went to relieve themselves. When Rordan lifted his tunic
to piss, the other thrall turned his face away.
“Where have you been hiding? I still do not know your name. I’m Rordan.”
“I told you, my name’s my own. The Captain calls me Svend and I hate that
bloody name. You can call me Ul.” The boy turned his back as he jumped down from
the rail and straightened his tunic.
“Ul? That is almost a girl’s name, Ula.” Rordan immediately regretted his words.
Ul was gone.
On a clear and warm afternoon, three days since being taken prisoner, Finten
stood at the ship’s solid rail, gazing east toward his homeland. He was surprised
when one of the younger Norseman approached him and began speaking in Celtic.
“We are sailing against the warm ocean stream that flows up from the southwest. So
we are not really moving as fast as it might appear. We will reach the Sheep Islands
in two or three days, if the wind stays with us. Then we will be half way to Thulé.”
Finten ignored him and continued looking out to sea. The young man extended
both hands toward Finten as a sign of friendliness. The priest still ignored him, but
he continued anyway. “My name is Ari and my home is Thulé where we are heading.
I admire your courage. You were not afraid to fight back and speak your mind to our
captain. I think he liked that.”
“Well, if he did, he has a strange way of showing it.” Finten turned to face the
beardless youth. “You’re a young one. Where did you learn to speak the Celtic?”
“When I was a boy at home in Thulé, I knew Celtic priests. Our people called them
papers. My parents told me papers had been coming to the island during summer
months for many years, even before our people lived there. Several came from your
island as free men to work with the Celtic thralls. Others were thralls themselves,
brought to Thulé from the lands of Picts and Scots. Some of us even recited the Irish
prayers, though never in the Roman language of the priests.” Ari’s enthusiasm grew.
“From my Irish nurse and from my father’s thralls, I learned your language. It’s good
to speak the Celtic tongue once more.”
Finten listened as Ari chatted on enthusiastically. “My name means eagle. You will
grow to love our land of steam and hot baths where the sea is mostly ice-free and the
sun barely dips below the horizon, especially around summer solstice.”
Ari also described the Sheep Islands: eighteen islands with tall cliffs and mountains
with more birds to greet them than in the Western Isles …
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