Chapter 15
So many actions in a day. After breakfast, beating the pelts, after the pelts, cleaning the pots, after the pots, scrubbing the floor. My joints ache. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. Having scrubbed the floor, I am now heading out to weed the blackcurrant bushes. My last task before lunch.
As a traveler, my duties were my own. Other than supporting my father and some rare communal tasks, I was free to spend my time as I wished. Now, from dawn to dusk. Work. Just work.
The sun hides behind a layer of clouds, giving a moment of respite. White light shines everywhere, and there is power in the air, tension, a wind blowing in all directions. It can’t decide where it’s headed.
Runes are used to communicate language. Sounds.
But any Volva will tell you, when combined with intent, they can be a blessing or a curse.
It seems I’m not the only one with ill feelings for Ari.
Only Freya knows how many young girls he has left in his wake, brokenhearted and alone, used and abandoned. Round with child, most probably.
My heart jumps as two little shapes whoosh past me, one on each side. Their shrieks scatter my thoughts like startled crows. They turn, each face painted with a grin.
“Kilda!” they shout in unison.
“Good day, ladies.”
“Where are you going?” asks Ragnhild.
“Yeah, where?” demands the younger sister.
“The blackcurrant bushes,” I respond with a smile.
Such a vivid energy in these children. Their faces already exude power and confidence.
They truly take after their mother, from their lush hair to their darker voices.
Ragnhild has a flame in her eye that might end up burning down forests. Or hearts.
“Can we come? We’ve already done our chores today.”
“Of course,” I reply, happy to get some company.
They run ahead, carrying with them the eagerness of youth.
“Come on, Kilda!” shouts Ragnhild.
My grin grows. Fine. Like children, I also love using my body.
Raising the front of my dress, I sprint to catch up to the girls.
Snickering at the madness of it, I relish the wind buffeting my face.
Adults don’t run for no reason, yet it feels good.
When do we lose the spark of pleasure? The fascination of texture, of shape, of life.
Adults don’t run for no reason, but Ragnhild does. And now, Kilda does too.
I burst past the two of them, first Gunnhild, then Ragnhild.
“Wohooo!” shouts Ragnhild as I face them. She has her fists over her head, clearly impressed at my speed. I guess I am pretty fast, for wearing a dress, at least.
“Not fair!” shouts Gunnhild as she arrives last, pouting. The child doesn’t like to lose a race. Who does?
“Your legs will grow, my dear,” I say. “One day you will outrun me.”
Her face lights up, easy to convince. My knees hit the ground and I start ripping weeds from the earth around the bushes. Blackcurrants are notoriously tough—they can handle other plants in their space, but keeping the area clear allows for a greater harvest.
“Are you helping?” I ask the girls with a crooked smile.
“Fine,” says Ragnhild as she joins me. Gunnhild, as always, copies her sister. The three of us pant as we tend the berries.
“So,” I say. “What tasks did you complete today?”
“Mamma wasn’t feeling good,” says Ragnhild.
“Sick,” expands her little sister.
“Sick, yes. So, we brought her food and drink to the house.”
My fingers still in the dirt, soil clinging to my nails.
“Oh no, sick? What ails her?”
“Evil dreams,” says a serious Ragnhild. “Keeps her up. She says it makes her weak. We try to help.”
“Good girls,” I respond. “Sleep is very important. Your mamma is right. Well done in helping her.”
Thyra doesn’t like me, and I don’t like her much either. But I still respect her. I would never wish her ill—she has raised two beautiful girls, so polite and friendly, without a father. Though I don’t understand what problem she has with me, I see she is great. A mighty woman.
We sit in silence, picking unwanted plants out of the earth.
“You guys are helping a lot,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Oh, we will claim our payment,” says Ragnhild, making me turn to her.
“Payment?”
A look of insanity enters her eyes as a stoat’s grin spreads on her face. I sense mischief in the air. She resembles a little Loki, god of trickery, as she stretches her arm to pick blackcurrants.
“Just a little taste,” she says as she plucks the two plumpest berries on the bush. One for her and one for her sister. They pop them in their mouth and chew, turning to each other with a giggle.
“Girls!” I say with a false strictness. “Are they even ready yet?”
“Very sour, but very tasty!”
She picks another pair and passes one to Gunnhild.
“Aren’t you going to taste?” she asks in the naughtiest tone.
A few missing berries won’t bring about Ragnarok. But Ragnhild just might… In any case, if I have stolen Asbjorn’s seax, surely I can taste a couple blackcurrants.
“Okay, pass me a few,” I say with a grin, stretching out my hand.
“A few,” repeats Gunnhild as her big sister rips a bunch, counting them and spreading them equally between our hands.
“Thanks for sharing,” I say.
As I am about to place them on my tongue, a familiar voice rings out behind me.
“What are you doing, slave?”
My stomach hollows instantly, like a bowl scraped clean of yesterday’s porridge. I know who it is. Of all living people, this is the worst one who could possibly be standing behind me right now. I drop the berries as I turn, staying on my knees.
Thyra—arms folded, rigid, looking down her nose at me with disgust. I can tell what the girls told me was true.
Dark rings lie under her eyes. Disheveled hair shoots in all directions, like she hasn’t bothered with her appearance.
Still, her glare instantly reminds me of my place in the hierarchy. I’m at the bottom.
“A thrall girl eating berries?” she asks. Thrall. The word makes me want to stand and shout in her face. Rip at her dress, at her hair. But I have to control myself. I want to avoid punishment at all costs. To be freed.
“Forgive me, my lady,” I respond demurely, keeping my eyes on the ground.
“You know they are for all to share?”
“Yes, of cou—”
“Are they even ripe?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“And in front of my girls? Do you have any idea how hard I work to teach them honor?”
“Yes, my lady, forg—”
Thyra slaps me across the face. Not hard, not to cause pain, to humiliate. To degrade. My cheek barely stings, but my chest is aflame. All for some berries. If only I could bury my nails in her face, rip at her hair.
“No!” shouts Ragnhild. “It was us who—”
“Silence, child!” snaps Thyra. “To the house, both of you.”
The girls hesitate, stuck between protecting their friend and respecting their mother.
“Now!” shouts Thyra. “I wasn’t asking!”
They run off. Gunnhild is wailing. I raise my eyes to see their bouncing hair as they run up the hill. They pass a man, a man who is watching us. He doesn’t move. My breath catches. Of all people… him? I can tell who it is. The bastard. Ari.
“I am warning you,” shouts Thyra, making sure anyone around can hear. “Thievery may have been normal where you’re from, but here we have honor.”
I swallow my pride. I swallow my anger. I swallow my breath and heart. This is the life of a thrall. The alternative is a whip, a chain, to be sold. To be killed.
“Yes, my lady,” I say.
“Next time, I will not be so merciful,” she says as she stomps off. “Stay away from my girls!”
I raise my face. Ari is still there. Our eyes lock.
My cheeks flush. So embarrassed. Somebody kill me.
The bastard skald will probably write a poem about this.
He’ll make me step into the jarl’s hall while he gloats, reciting his words of insult.
Everyone will laugh. What a stupid slave.
A simple thrall. Stealing berries like a child.
He’s always there for my weakest moments, ready to point a finger. Maybe I should just keep my tongue about the curse on his house. Let him suffer the consequences. He will write a poem about this, I’m sure. What a piece of shit.
I stand, my head held high, a pitiful attempt at keeping my honor. The dark-haired skald smiles at me before turning away.
Ari? The wise eagle? More like Ari the mangy crow.