Chapter 58
The skin under my eyes is cracked, dried out by tears. Working allows little time to wallow in my problems. I blow a lock of hair away from my face, failing miserably as it lands where it had been.
“Rowdy bastard,” I mutter, grabbing the rebellious goat’s horns.
Sifrid is trying to milk the goat. She laughs at my struggles, making me giggle with her. A bunch of thrall girls stand by the fence, taking a short break. They cheer us on, chortling at our tussle with the powerful animal.
This is the last one for the day. The other goats are much tamer, but this old hag won’t stand still to let her udders be worked.
The sharp odor of goat blends with the smell of wet grass the wind carries.
It makes me feel alive again. A good idea to join the girls in their daily tasks.
It returns me to my body, and perhaps, solidifies their support.
“Fulla here will never bend the knee,” says Sifrid. “She’ll never surrender.”
“Fulla? As in Frigga’s handmaiden?” I say with a grin.
“She’s stubborn like a goddess, though far from divine,” laughs Sifrid.
Cheeky girls, naming a stubborn goat after a goddess of plenty. I know Groa would not approve of such disrespect. Me, I think the gods can tolerate a joke or two.
“You’d think she’d like losing some of that milk,” I say. “She looks ready to burst.”
“She’s like you,” says Sifrid, stopping and fixing her sharp blue eyes on me.
For a second I’m unsure if Sifrid is calling me an old goat or a powerful woman, so I play on both.
“Let them come try to milk me,” I say, readjusting my grip on the animal’s horns.
“I mean it, Kilda, since you came there’s been—”
Fulla shakes her head violently, forcing me to release her lest my wrist gets caught between her horns and snapped in two.
“What the fu—”
The goat bolts off at an impressive speed.
“Thor’s beard,” shouts Sifrid.
My feet take off automatically. I don’t even think about it. Lifting my dress over my knees, I run after the escapist, dodging holes and dung.
Sifrid appears beside me, dress raised, having caught up in seconds.
“You’re fast!” I shout.
She laughs, and I laugh with her. The wind in my hair, the sensation of speed, the madness of chasing a goat. It reignites me. For a second, I forget Sigurd’s fury. I forget Eidunn’s assault. Even Njord’s innocence slips from my mind.
Two girls, chasing a goat under the fog-covered mountains. As it has been and as it will be. The animal is doing me a favor.
Fulla arrives at the fence, decides against jumping it, turns and gives us a mean eye. She charges.
“Watch it!” shouts Sifrid as Fulla barrels between us. A good dodge, otherwise we would have tasted those horns for a year or more.
The goat returns to the milk bucket, slowing to a walk. It’s hard to understand the logic this animal lives by. Now Fulla just stands there, munching grass while waiting for us to complete the routine she loves to hate.
The thrall girls howl in laughter, rhythmically pounding the fence.
“She is such a fool,” says Sifrid with a laugh.
“And you said I was like her,” I joke, giving her a playful slap on the shoulder.
“Some may call you a fool,” says Sifrid. “But me, I thought you did right.”
“You do?” I ask. A pit forms in my stomach as the girl expresses her trust.
If only she knew. If she knew what Eidunn had told me, she would hate me. We pant as we walk back. I can’t share Eidunn’s truth. Hopefully she won’t either. I would be hated. I’m forced to hold my tongue. Deceive them all.
“I do,” says Sifrid. “What I was saying was—since you came, it’s been better here, for us girls.”
The opposite of what Eidunn said. If only she had told me the truth instead of pointing a finger at another. Maybe her actual abuser would be dead instead.
“Okay, let’s do this slowly,” says Sifrid.
I’m mentally preparing for the next round with Fulla. Heeding Sifrid’s advice, I creep closer to the feisty goat, ready to grab its horns if it bolts.
“Calm,” whispers Sifrid, either to the goat or to me, I’m not sure. “Calm.”
The goat accepts us, apparently worn out by its sudden escape. I don’t even need to hold it as Sifrid begins milking. Fulla stretches her neck to nibble at my robe. I respond by scratching her chin, right under the beard.
Giggles and salutations rise from the girls by the fence. I spot the cause for commotion. His hair glows dark in the white light. His size next to the ladies reminds me of how large he is. Only when compared to giants like Vidar, Sigurd or Asbjorn can he be called smaller.
Giants. The irony strikes me. Ari is the giant, not Vidar or Asbjorn.
He jumps the fence in one elegant motion, no doubt to impress the hungry-eyed thrall girls. Let them have him, the lying bastard. The deceiver. Let them—
“Kilda,” he shouts across the field.
I don’t reply, turning my back and leaning my hip against the now calm Fulla. Her flank warms my blood, or maybe it’s Ari’s arrival. I hear his footsteps behind me.
“Kilda,” he says again, “may we—”
“Busy,” I snap at him without turning.
In the corner of my eye, I see Sifrid raise her gaze at me then Ari. She continues her work without speaking.
“I just wanted to—”
“Are you deaf, skald?” I bark over my shoulder. My face heats up.
He says nothing, but I know he is still standing there. A thrall talking to a free man like this is unacceptable, but I know Ari won’t punish me. I even know he won’t be rude like I am. A part of me wants to turn and speak to him, tell him everything about Njord, get it off my chest.
But I can’t. It’s a whole different story. He might have me killed. Hanged or drowned—sacrificed to the gods. The foul-tempered goat shakes its hide. I grab its horns rougher than intended. It stays surprisingly calm.
If I am honest, I want to know more about his Jotnar blood.
The magic that courses through his veins.
My instinct tells me to forgive his deception, like I hope he will forgive mine, if it ever comes out.
Even if I wanted to, I can’t be seen talking to him.
Everyone already thinks I have whored myself to make him murder a man.
“Just go,” I shout, fighting back tears.
His footsteps grow fainter, until he is gone. My chest is hollow, a dead tree standing alone in the forest. I didn’t even turn to him. I didn’t even look him in his eyes. How could I?
I am lying to him. Lying to everybody. If they knew, my life would be over. Sigurd has spared me. His reasons are his own. My head is his to take.
I toss Sifrid a quick glance. She hums some children’s tune, pretending like nothing has happened.
Bless her. For if she knew the truth, she would spit on my grave.