I don’t know what wakes me. It isn’t morning yet. Everyone is asleep except the men watching the sails.
There. A flapping noise. Not the flap of a sail. The sails are tight and full. And their flap is loud anyway. This is something small.
I ease out from under Hoskuld’s heavy arm and sit up, pulling the edge of the blanket to my chin. The moon is bright tonight. It glows off the blond and red hair of the sleepers. It plays on the pinkish skin of the almost bald sheep.
What is that noise?
A bird bounces from the back of one sheep to another. A bird. What’s it doing out here, in the middle of the sea?
I get up and pad quietly to the edge of the sheep pit.
The bird pecks at the back of the sheep. It’s eating. Frantically. It’s eating like something that has been starving. Like me, when I had those apples last night.
I look out over the ship sides. To the aft the outline of land still shows. But on all other sides, there’s just sea. A person could never swim that distance, but for the bird it’s manageable. The bird should head back to land now, before we get too far.
I rub my hands together lightly and rapidly, giving off a sound loud enough for a bird’s ears, but too soft to wake a person.
It swivels its head to face me, eyes forward. It’s about double the size of a pigeon, and its head is decidedly pigeonlike. But those eyes leave no room for confusion: This is a bird of prey.
There’s no potential prey for a bird like that on this ship. I look at the raven cage. The three black birds ignore this visitor. I’m surprised at that, too.
I lower myself gingerly into the sheep pit and push aside the stinking, sleeping bodies to get closer.
The bird watches me and jumps to the back of a sheep farther away. It really must be very hungry, to let me get this close without flying off.
I move both arms in a sudden, abrupt sweep through the air over my head.
The bird hops away one more sheep.
From so close I got a good view of its feet. Talons. Five on each foot. Like scaly hands. Powerful. This is not a sea bird. It belongs in a forest, high in the tree canopy. This bird is in danger out here. And I bet it doesn’t even drink salt water. So what will it drink? How often do birds need to drink?
I’m not sure how long I stand there motionless, but the sky grows gray with the slightest tinge of pink. I like being here amid the hot bodies of sheep. I like the roll of the sea. It induces a trancelike state.
A sheep makes droppings in her sleep. I didn’t know animals could defecate asleep.
The bird jumps quickly to the floor and pecks around in the dung. It eats. I wrinkle my nose in distaste. But then I see it crack something in the side of that curved, pointed beak. Dung beetles, of course. Somehow that seems much more acceptable than eating the dung itself.
The bird eats and eats and eats. Then it hops over to the long trough of dirty water that the sheep drink from and slakes its thirst.
This bird knows the ship. I’m sure of it. It acts totally familiar with everything.
But then, what do I know about how a bird acts when it’s in an unfamiliar place? I don’t really know anything about animals other than the most obvious things that everyone knows.
Brigid could tell me what kind of bird this is. Brigid followed Father’s falconer around when she was smaller. Her incessant questions gave her an education about all kinds of living creatures.
Lord, how I miss my sister.
Voices. People are waking with the sun.
The bird flies in alarm. It circles slowly in the air above the ship. Its tail is long with broad brown and white bands. No, the last band at the tip is so dark, it must be black. The plumage is deep brown, lighter on the tummy. The wings are slender. Looking at it from below, it seems small and vulnerable. Nothing like those hawks that swoop down on the rats in the Downpatrick fort. This is a delicate bird. A beautiful bird.
And one I recognize. Yes, I remember now. I remember the brown bird that chased away a seagull back before this journey began. This couldn’t be the same one. That doesn’t make sense. Yet I feel almost certain it is. My brave companion. How delightful!
In a flash of brown and white, the bird dips in front of the ship. Out of sight now.
I climb from the sheep pit onto the front deck and look ahead for the bird. But it’s gone. Disappeared. The only thing in sight is the first ship. And these ships are narrow. Plus the sea is placid—so the bird isn’t hidden by waves. I have a clear view.
Did it change direction without me seeing? I turn in a circle, looking everywhere.
The bird has simply vanished.
How could that be?
An irrational sense of loss weakens me. I’m a fool. This is probably not the same bird I saw back in the north country. And even if it is, I didn’t know it was here until just now. I have no right to think of it as a companion—I have not just lost a companion.
I remember the Saxon youths the night Brigid disappeared. They said, “Brid,”—bird. The word is Brigid’s name with a small chunk taken out of the middle.
A wash of sadness slackens my cheeks.
Wherever you’ve gone, Brid, be safe. Don’t be swallowed by the water. Live.