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Zarabeth saw the daughter bow to her mother’s command. She felt the rage flow out of her, leaving her limp and shaking.
Helgi led her to one of the wooden benches and pressed her down. Helgi studied her closely. “You truly do not blame Egill for Lotti’s death?”
Zarabeth shook her head. “He is a little boy. He was jealous of Lotti, for Magnus gave her a lot of his attention. I was wrong to believe he was truly hurting her, but something inside me simply—”
“I know,” Helgi said. She patted her daughter-in-law’s shoulder. “Why do you not go bathe now? It will make you feel better.”
But I was the one to blame, Zarabeth wanted to say. I was the one who carried her away, who put her in that boat. I am the one who killed her.
But she said nothing, for to say the words aloud would brand them forever in her soul, and she knew she wasn’t strong enough to suffer it.
When she was clean again, her hair brushed and braided, her gown fresh and unwrinkled, she found she couldn’t move, didn’t want to move. She stood there, seeing her little sister lying tangled in those water reeds, her hair floating out from her small head, and Lotti was so still, so still . . .
She didn’t realize she was crying until she tasted the salt from her tears. She turned quickly and ran into the longhouse, ran to Magnus’ chamber. She sat on the edge of the bed and cried. No one came to bother her.
She hadn’t realized there could be so many tears. They choked her, made her throat raw, burned her eyes. She whispered, “Lotti, I’m so sorry. My God forgive me, I failed you.”
The men didn’t return until nearly midnight. There was still the dim half-light of summer, giving the surrounding countryside an eerie glow that never failed to surprise Zarabeth. She was standing outside the palisade, looking over the water, knowing deep inside her that Lotti was there, gone from her forever. If only she could imagine her resting, at peace, sleeping, her small hands tucked beneath her cheek.
She rubbed her bare arms, for the night breeze had cooled and there was dampness in the air.
She saw the men in a long single line climbing up toward her. They hadn’t found Egill. She looked at Magnus, her new husband, and he looked defeated and exhausted. She felt pain twist deep within her. The two children, both gone, one because of the other and both because of her.
The tears started again.
Magnus saw her, standing there so quietly, looking toward him, her face wet with her crying. He merely shook his head and walked to her. He said nothing, merely looked down at her. He touched his fingertip to her wet cheek. Slowly he drew her into his arms and pressed her head against his shoulder.
“We did not find him, nor did we find any trace of him. He could still be alive.”
Zarabeth raised her face. “Then Lotti could also still be alive.”
Magnus realized the fallacy of his words, but they were all that had sustained him. They were all that kept his grief at bay.
He heard himself say, “Yes, that is true.” But he knew it wasn’t true. Lotti had drowned, her body either washed out by the current to the Oslo Fjord or still there, close by, strangled and trapped in the thick water reeds. Just as his son was dead. He didn’t know where he was, that was all. Why had the boy disappeared? Had he run away because he feared he would be blamed for Lo
tti’s death? Where could he be? The possibilities tortured him, for there were animals to kill a small child, animals to haul his body away and eat him. And there were men, outlaws, who would torture a child, and perhaps demand ransom for him, and then there could be . . . It went on and on and Magnus knew he must stop it.
He pulled back from his wife.
“We are together now as we should have been from the beginning. Whatever has happened cannot be changed. We must face what is and endure it.”
“It is difficult, Magnus.”
“Aye, I know.” He touched his fingertips to her cheeks, dry now, then glided them over her brows and her eyelids.
“I could not stop my crying.”
The men straggled around them, going into the longhouse to eat, others simply going in to fall into an exhausted sleep.
“Now that I am back, I will hold you when you cry.”
But who will hold you, she wondered, for no one sees you cry.
Magnus’ family remained two more days, the men searching for hours at a time for Egill. No one said anything about giving up the search, but there was no sign of the boy. It was as if he had vanished.
Within the longhouse, Helgi went about teaching Zarabeth those household tasks she’d had no opportunity to learn in York. She was brusque, always matter-of-fact, but never unfair or impatient.
“In York, your family was small and those things you didn’t have, you could buy or obtain in trade. But here, Zarabeth, you must know how to do everything, for the traveling merchants who visit come rarely and you cannot depend upon them. Now, to dye cloth . . . See this lovely soft reddish brown? It comes from the madder plant. Ferns and these small onions make a lighter brown. And this beautiful golden color, we make it from this lichen. You are Irish, Zarabeth, so you must have heard of the saffron dye made from bulbs of autumn crocus.”
