Chapter 7
The sun beats down on my neck, forcing sweat from every part of my body.
Every fold of skin is leaking. But I am not complaining.
I was allowed to sleep as long as I wanted.
The hammer’s bite drained me—on top of the long journey here.
Even so, waking so late left a sour knot of shame in my belly.
They had eaten, washed, and worked for several hours by the time I opened my eyes. Thralls get beaten for less.
A hearty meal had been shoved in my hands by the silent rotund woman from the day before.
Steaming porridge, speckled with tiny strawberries.
The smell had made my mouth water. Even though she still hasn’t spoken to me, her lip lifted slightly when she set a bowl of salt flakes in front of me.
I think she likes me. I will force her to, by charm alone.
A magpie swoops down and lands not far away, keeping a curious eye on me. I swing my arms at it, shooing it from the berry patches. Birds love to snatch the little rows of red berries, even when they are still sour.
The golden-haired woman I saw with the two girls yesterday has been assigned to show me around. I am to help her with her daily tasks—feeding animals, cleaning, and now weeding. Tossing her a glance, I hook my fingers around a shoot and wrench it free from the base of a redcurrant bush.
Her name is Eidunn, and though she isn’t openly hostile, she keeps a wide chasm between us.
A frigid mask to push me away. She greets other people the same way.
It’s just how she is. I sense she’s guarding something—a sadness she fears might escape if she starts sharing.
Her eyes give it away. It’s like they are hollow.
I hope she will open up to me eventually.
“Only two dozen left,” I joke, tossing a glance down the rows of berry bushes. We have only weeded four so far, and have to clear two entire rows. How long will I be hunched over like this?
“Right,” she answers. No fun.
She wears a dark brown dress, a loose fit that hides her figure. For being such a pretty girl, I’m surprised she doesn’t put more energy into her appearance. She could find a husband within the week.
“Thanks for the dress,” I say, trying to keep a light tone.
“It’s the finest one I’ve had.” It really is.
High-quality wool. Though it had no dyes, I was still given the choice between brown, dark gray, and light gray.
I went for light gray. Darker colors attract the sun’s heat, and besides, gray is Odin’s color.
“I’m not the one who made it,” she says without raising her gaze.
Eidunn’s mood is a rainy cloud, but I feel merry.
I can’t help it. I was even given linen undergarments, a shirt, and underskirt.
How silly am I—made a slave, yet happy for a new dress.
But how they treat me gives me hope. Good food, good clothes, my own bed.
Horror stories abound about how farmers mistreat slave girls.
Beatings, hard labor with little rest, nightly visits without the wife knowing.
I shiver at the thought. I would rather die, dragging an abusive farmer with me to the grave.
“How long have you been here?” I ask her.
Eidunn stands abruptly.
“You talk a lot for a thrall,” she snaps before stomping off to a bush farther off. Guess it’s best to back off, give her time to warm up to me. I stand to wipe my brow, watching Eidunn tear at the earth.
Two small shapes storm in our direction. Their loose hair glitters in the sun, bouncing with every step, bright like stars. A beautiful sight. I smile as they approach. I’m happy anyone wants to talk to me, even if they are children.
“Hello there,” I say.
“Greetings,” says the older one—maybe ten years old. “You’re the new slave.”
The word lands like a gut punch. I haven’t even been here a day, so slave is not how I would describe myself. I am a traveler. I will be a Volva. Still, I’d better lie low for the moment.
“Uh… right, my name’s Kilda,” I say.
“Mamma says you’re trouble,” says the younger girl, with the soft R of small children.
“Does she?” I ask, genuinely intrigued.
“A lying, sneaking thief,” expands the older one, pretending to sneak around me. I laugh at her display.
“You look rather sneaky yourself,” I say. The girl snickers. “Who is your mamma then?”
“Thyra,” answers the older girl. The younger one nods. “I’m Ragnhild. This is Gunnhild,” she says, pointing a thumb at her little sister. “The jarl is our grandpa.”
The thick blonde hair, the downward slope on the edge of their eyes—I should have guessed they were Thyra’s daughters.
“Who is your papa then?”
“He’s in Valhalla,” says Ragnhild. “He died in a great battle. But he killed many!”
That explains a lot. Thyra is grieving a dead lover. No wonder she’s so cold and unforgiving. Empathy blooms for the condescending jarl’s daughter.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be,” the older one says. “Mamma says he drinks with Odin.”
“Indeed, he does,” I reply.
Both girls smile at my response. I’d watched children when their parents were busy. It always fascinates me how they mimic adults—testing sentences and behaviors, satisfied when they are taken seriously.
A man’s voice behind me.
“What mysteries are such beautiful ladies talking about?”
“Uncle Vidar!” both the girls shout, running and colliding into his legs. He laughs, ruffling their hair. They love him. I can’t stop myself from smiling.
“I hope these little trolls aren’t bothering you, Kilda,” he says.
Our eyes meet. He seems sincere, boyish grin wide. Are all slaves treated this well on this farm?
“They are friendly little trolls,” I respond.
My pulse jumps. Even with his smile, he carries the same force that dragged me to my knees yesterday. Now, he looks harmless. Who is he behind that charm and muscle?
“Hey!” says Ragnhild. “We’re Aesir!”
“Yeah, Aesir!” confirms Gunnhild.
“Very good,” says Vidar.
“You know Kilda?” asks Ragnhild, leaning against her uncle’s body like he’s a wall.
“Know her? I bought her!”
“Wow! Nice.”
“Indeed, do you know what I call her?”
I roll my eyes. Here comes some insult about my thrall status. Some dehumanizing joke.
“Tell us!” shouts little Gunnhild.
“Kilda the Bull!” he says laughing. I laugh myself. What a silly man. Kilda the Bull, I had completely forgotten. Not as bad as I had anticipated.
“Why? Why?” the children shout, stretching their arms up his giant frame. He cups a hand to his mouth, leaning close to his nieces.
“She has balls like a bull,” he says with a grin in his beard. The girls giggle.
“What? No way!” shouts Ragnhild. “Is it true, Kilda?”
I shake my head and roll my eyes again.
“Of course not, your uncle has his head in the clouds.”
He rubs the girls’ heads, disturbing their hair again.
“This one.” He points at Ragnhild. “Has powerful dreams. She will be a Volva like you. The other one, she has strong arms. She will be a warrior, like me.”
Both girls laugh and jump up and down at his feet.
“Lift me, uncle Vidar!” shouts Ragnhild.
“No, me!” shouts Gunnhild.
“Run off now, I need to talk to the Bull.”
“The Bull,” Gunnhild repeats before the two of them run off giggling, ready to terrorize the next innocent victim.
Vidar towers above me, easy smile, easy charm. He could pick any woman from a crowd. Probably has. Using them like I used Narve.
“You know how to make a lady feel welcome,” I joke.
“I won’t stop until it’s your official title.”
“I’ll have to invent one for you too.”
“Oh no need, folk already call me the Bull. For my balls, like you.”
We laugh together. For a moment, I forget my situation.
That I am property, that if I were to have children now, they would also be property.
Reality crashes over. Vidar yanking the chain around my neck.
My knees scraping the floor. The humiliation.
Thyra’s eyes. My smile evaporates. What a cold-hearted bastard.
He picks up on the shift in atmosphere—his own smile melts away. He scratches the back of his head.
“Look,” he says, “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“For what? For yanking my chain? Calling me a slave? Humiliating me in public?”
“All of it,” he says. “Your status is what it is. I had to keep up appearances, especially in front of Thyra.”
“My status?”
“You are a slave by law, Kilda. I’m sorry. I would have made you a free woman if it was up to me.”
My anger falters for a second. Is he serious? He just gave me to his father like a trinket, and now he pities me? My brow furrows as I scoff.
“But you didn’t.”
“Custom says I had to gift you to my jarl, my father.”
“Why not just let me go before we arrived?”
“I was with my warriors. They would have seen me as weak, even reported it to the jarl.”
I fold my arms and turn away. Part of me wants to believe him—the other part remembers the cold bite of the chain.
Tears well up in my eyes. I don’t want him to see me cry.
What to do with his excuses? He ‘had to’ mistreat me?
‘Had to’ force me to my knees? Ridiculous.
And yet, I am well treated here, so far. He is speaking to me with respect.
“I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me,” he says. “Or in your balls.”
I snort, quickly drying my eyes.
“We shall see,” I reply with a sniffle.
“I came to inform you—the jarl summons you.”
“Now?”
“No, he is at a meeting outside the farm. He should be back tomorrow morning.”
“Why didn’t you go with him?”
“Well, not that it’s any of your business, but he is meeting a Volva. A private meeting. He brought his retinue for protection.”
A torrent of thoughts. Meeting a Volva? To test me? Nerves knot in my stomach. To see if I am who I say I am? Could it be Groa?
“Why is he meeting a Volva?” I ask casually.
“As I said, it’s not your business, nor do I know, for it’s not my business either.”
“I will be ready tomorrow.”
“Before noon, perhaps?” he says with a broad smile.
“Stop it!” I snap. “I needed the rest. It’s exhausting being dragged by the neck after a brute all day.”
He roars with laughter as he begins walking away.
“You’re funny, for a thrall. I’ll see you soon, Kilda the Bull.”
“Hopefully later instead of sooner!” I shout after him.
I am a thrall. A slave girl. But I am also Kilda, the traveling enchantress. I will not let them own my life. My life, a gift from Odin. I am its owner. My destiny is not to serve.
My gaze sweeps over the valley that stretches downwards before sloping up to the peaks on the other side. Farms dominate the landscape. Civilization. Roads. Men. I cannot escape in that direction. Yet the valley stretches wide, daring me to try.
I turn, searching for a possible route. Dense forest, upward, toward the rounded mountain. I know Dovre Mountain is that way. The huge plateau—hard to hide there, but if I cross it, they won’t find me.
A mountain stream falls from the peak above, filling the entire valley with its thunderous noise. It’s the only way. Cross the stream, run for the forest, put as many miles as possible between myself and these people who would rob me of my freedom. Blood pounds in my ears as I consider the risk.
If I escape, Asbjorn and Vidar might punish my people. Find my father, drunk and defenseless, slay him and the others. But if I could just reach them first…
Soon. First, I must rest. I must eat, grow strong for the coming trials. For now, I am Kilda the Thrall. But soon, I will be Kilda the Enchantress—Kilda the Wild. The wind will carry me. I will be free again. Soon.