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So Papi is to do the worst job of all: cutting peat. It makes sense. There have to be some advantages to having one more mouth to feed.

I walk to Papi's hut—because that's what it is now, his—and stand outside with his bowl. I call, “Good morning.”

He doesn't answer, though you'd have to be an idiot not to know what those Norse words mean after all winter long of hearing them every day. He never answers. The man is as stubborn as the stupidest beast I've ever known. Well then, I'll treat him like one.

I put the bowl down outside the opening of the hut, but far enough away that his arm can't reach it. Then I wave my hand over the bowl, so the smell wafts into Papi's hut.

Within minutes his head appears. I gasp. He's become a matted hairball. He stretches his nose toward the bowl, eyelids fluttering. It's been so long since he's been out in the light, I wonder if the sun hurts his eyes. He reaches toward the bowl with one hand.

I move it farther away.

He tilts his head at me, like a curious beast. But not even a smart one—a sheep perhaps. He doesn't appear to suspect anything. He crawls forward.

I move the bowl away more.

He stays on all fours, still as stone. Then he lunges at the bowl.

And I lunge for the doorway. I sit there, blocking his way.

Papi holds the bowl to his chest and sits on his heels. He eats with the spoon. When he finishes, he rests the spoon in the bowl and sets it on the ground and waits.

“You're working today,” I say in Norse. “And that's that.” My tone is forceful, and I'm hoping that carries enough of a message to make him behave. “Stand up.” I stand as I say it.

Papi still sits on his heels.

I walk toward him.

He tries to crawl around me, but I jump back and block the hut entrance. “Stand!”

Papi sits back on his heels and drops his head. He prays out loud.

“Stop that with the
pater noster
,” I say. And I pound him on top of the head with a fist. Just one pound.

He looks up at me, and his eyes are fully open now.
Maybe the dark of the hut hasn't bothered his vision, after all. “
Pater noster
,” he says.

“You can't use prayers as an excuse to do nothing. You're coming with me.” I grab his arm and pull. He's heavier than he looks. I yank. “Come on! We're going together.
Immalle
.” The Gaelic word bursts from me without thought.

“
Immalle
?” Papi takes my hand in both of his. “What do you want of me, child of Eire?” he says in the language my father used, the language my mother used.

I am transfixed. I haven't spoken my old language for so long, I don't know how to begin. My throat has grown all thick. But I remember basic things. “
Tar
—come,” I say.

Papi stands. We walk to the cart. He wobbles; there's no chance he can make it to the bog. So I urge him into the back of the cart, then push him up when he can't do it alone.

“Thank you, child.”

I take the cart reins.

Papi sings as I lead Capall. His songs are unfamiliar to me, but at least they are in Gaelic, not Latin. Clean, clear Gaelic. The songs run through me like water.

Though the horse is surefooted, I still choose the driest path. Beorn has taught me never to court disaster with the wagon. We stop at the bog edge. It spreads out vast and beautiful, all orange and green. I help Papi out and
show him how to slip on the straps of the basket. When it's secure on his back, I give him a knife. I put on the other basket.

Papi sucks in a huge breath and heaves a sigh. Then he sets out, slow and plodding, leaving foot impressions in the spongy peat that quickly fill with water. I step to the side of his path, for fear of sinking so much I get stuck. I call out for him to stop. He's so weak, I expect him to fall any moment, and then I'll have to lug him out of that muck. If I'm strong enough. I call out again. Even if he manages to cut peat from the middle of the bog, that's too far to carry it back to the cart. But Papi slogs on, mindlessly.

All right. Let him wander. The man spoke my childhood language; I can forgive him anything now. Besides, I'll probably work faster alone. And now I bet Beorn knew I'd have to work alone. He didn't think I could even get Papi out of the hut. He hasn't been able to, after all. So he's teaching me a lesson—reminding me it was my idea to take the monk in.

I stop and cut into the turf, grabbing the two ends of the handle that go perpendicular to the blade with both hands and pushing that blade straight down. I slice out neat bricks. It was Thorkild who taught me how, back up north, near the Limfjord. I remember how impressed Beorn was with my skill the first time I did it with him.
That was gratifying. It's backbreaking work, but it's necessary. I make a stack of ten turf bricks. Then I stop and load half of them into the basket and carry them back to the cart and return for the next half and carry them to the cart, and then go to work cutting ten more. I let the rhythm of the motions fill me. There's a chill in the air. Good—without it I'd be far too hot.

When I'm just coming back into the bog after putting my fifth set of ten into the cart, Papi shouts. I don't recognize the words he says, but he repeats them with urgency, so I hurry to him. He's standing in water that fully covers his feet, and the surface of it changes from blue to purple as I approach. I touch it; it films my fingers, like oil.

Papi smiles with teeth that are gray and pitted. It is a horrible smile. But I try not to show that on my face. He stabs down into the soggy mess so inexpertly, I'm afraid he'll cut his feet. But then he sets the knife aside and peels back a layer of peat. He kneels on it and digs into the orange mud with both arms and comes up with handfuls of rocks.

I smack two together. They're solid! I smile wide. This is bog iron. It's the only metal that Jutland doesn't have to buy from foreigners, but it's still hard to find. “
Go maith
—good!” I'm so glad I remembered how to say that.

Together we feel around in the mush for hard lumps.
We fill the baskets, but then Papi is too weak to carry his, so it's up to me. That's all right, though. I'd be willing to carry bog iron all day. We gather another three baskets of iron. We have to stop because we're down to clay now; it would take a shovel to dig through. But what we have is plenty. Beorn will be able to sell it to the smith for smelting, and who knows how many ax heads he'll make from it? Axes are prized; some men insist on being buried with theirs, and hundreds are lost in battles. There's always a market for axes. This iron will more than pay for Papi's keep, even if he stayed another year.

Why, I can ask Beorn to give me back my amber! Then I'll have money when I leave to find Mel.

I lead Capall homeward, and Papi rides on her back because the cart is full. He talks the whole way. He tells how he grew up knowing he'd travel the world and devote his life to Christ. His sisters and brothers were rotten, disobedient, and lazier than sin. But he had a mission from the start. Then these Norsemen invaded his area and robbed the church and murdered innocents. That's when he knew that his travels had to start immediately and in the land of the most vicious people of all. So he came here. He'd thought he had failed, but now he had me and I would help him. I would be his voice, since he never learned Norse. Together we could convert these people.

I listen, but only for the words, the plain old words.
Máthir, athir, bráthir
—mother, father, brother. I don't care how holy he is. I don't care that he's crazy and thinks he can turn Norsemen into Christians. All I care is that he keeps speaking Gaelic. I laugh in joy.

Then, suddenly, I realize the opportunity. “Do you know of the town Downpatrick?”

“Everyone knows of Downpatrick.”

“Have you heard of King Myrkjartan?”

“The unfortunate? Of course.”

A chill seizes me. “Unfortunate?”

“His son was mutilated. His daughters were lost.”

Ah, that. I know all that. “Does he search for them?”

“For a whole year he sent out soldiers to scour the countryside. But no trace.”

“Did he look abroad?”

“Everywhere, they say. He's posted a reward for anyone who can bring him news of them. And he's promised a treasure to anyone who can return them.”

Faithful Father. Faithful Mother. A wound inside me that I hardly knew existed heals in a quiet instant. The Lord has not denied me love, after all. “Can you tell me about them—the king, the queen, the prince?”

“They say the king is a great strategist; he's the leader of the most feared army in Eire. They say the queen was
always beautiful, and tragedy has only enhanced that beauty.”

I'm breathing hard. “And the son?”

“His name is Nuada.”

I smile. “So his name has become known? He's famous?”

“Of course. His hand was cut off, like the arm of the mythical King Nuada. The coincidence fascinates everyone. But unlike the mythical king, this Nuada refused to have a silver limb made. He wears a sleeve that ends empty but for ribbons. They say one of his sisters loved ribbons. He wears them for her memory. He strokes them as he tells stories.”

I knew it. I knew Nuada would become a
seanchaí
. “And I bet they say his stories are the best anywhere. I bet he tells about handsome Cúchulainn and his warriors.” And I'm so happy to remember that hero. His name just bubbled up in my head after all these years.

“No one hears Nuada's stories. He tells them only to the queen and king. So maybe the bit about stroking the ribbons is fanciful. You know how the Irish like to embellish.”

But it's not fanciful; I know it. I'm the one who tied ribbons around the piggies' ears. Nuada wears ribbons for me. Far to the west I still have a family who loves me,
who longs for me. They did come looking for me—they did! “I'll make you strong, and then we can go back to Eire together.”

“I'll never go back, child. I told you. This is my destiny.” Papi talks about how all these months of sitting on the frozen ground praying, all these bleak months, are now ended. The Lord answered his prayers by bringing me to him.

It's nothing but nonsense. Maddening nonsense. I could slap him silly for saying it. He believes it, though. This monk is completely beyond reasoning with. He's never going back to my home. He's not my answer.

Still, I vow to myself that before Papi leaves Ribe, I'll get him to promise to find a way to send back a message to Father. That's it! That's the real answer. Then Father will come for me. And we'll find Mel together. I laugh in happiness.

When we get home, Beorn is already there. As Papi and I enter, he's telling Ástríd what a good worker Egill is and how the youth is coming for dinner. Beorn looks at us with amazement. I was right: He thought Papi was still sitting stubbornly in the hut and I had to do all the work alone. I'm prepared for this. I hold out both hands palm down, but cupped. Obligingly, Beorn looks at my hands. Good! I turn them over with a grin.

Beorn takes the iron rocks from me. “How did you find them?”

“Papi did. He stood in this oily stuff.”

“A
járnbrák
—iron slick,” says Beorn.

“A
járnbrák,
” I say, happy to learn the new word. Norse is a good language, too. “He found it and dug out rocks and showed me. We got baskets and baskets full.”

Beorn looks at Papi.

But Papi's leaning against the door frame, muttering in Gaelic, “
Cotlud
.” Sleep.

“He's weak, Beorn. Can he rest here?”

Egill arrives right then. His face is flushed. “I see the cart is full. I'll help unload it.”

“We can stack the peat together,” I say.

Egill doesn't answer. He doesn't nod. He doesn't look at me. He's been moody all winter. Probably he hates being close to Papi. He hates foreigners, like most people here.

“Leave the iron in the cart,” says Beorn. “I'll bring it to the smithy tomorrow.” He turns to the monk. “Papi, will you eat inside with us tonight?”

I feel all warm at the unexpected invitation.

Papi seems to recognize the name we call him. He looks at me, as if asking me to translate. Oh no! I spin on my heel and go out the door before he can start spouting Gaelic to me.

Egill follows me. We stack the peat under the awning that Ástríd has strung up along the side of the house for this purpose. We make tripods of peat bricks, so they'll dry faster and be ready to use in the fireplace sooner.

We're finishing and Egill still hasn't said a word to me. “Papi's not awful,” I say at last. “And he's not useless. He discovered the
járnbrák
.”

“Wrong. He is awful, Alfhild, or whatever your real name is.”

I fall back a step, but I keep my mouth shut, eyes down. I won't ask what he means.

He steps toward me. “I heard you. I heard you speaking that foreign language.”

I shake my head. “Papi spoke. Not me.”

“You understood him. I know. I was following the cart, because I was going to surprise you, and then I saw. I saw you laugh.”

“I laughed at the sounds of the words.”

“You laughed at the meaning. Will you deny it? Will you lie?”

I stare at the ground.

“I know you're not Beorn and Ástríd's child. And I know you're not her sister—you couldn't look less alike. But no one says where you come from.”

If I run into the house, Egill will follow, and who
knows what he'll say to them all. There is nothing to do but let him finish. I lift my chin. He's gotten much taller this winter.

“You're a slave, aren't you?”

“No!”

“You are. Look how short you are. I'll buy you. I'll buy you from Beorn. You'll be my slave. And then you'll have to kiss me. Whenever I want.”