She points a gnarled finger at me, her expression hardening. "The good Lord made men an' women different fer good reason, ye see. 'Tis the duty of a wife to serve her husband, mind the household, an' raise up babies to carry on his line. An' the menfolk work themselves ragged in the fields an' forges to provide fer their families. So we women must repay their efforts by keepin' warm hearths, full bellies, an' showin' proper Christian obedience at all times."
Is she seriously lecturing me about some mythical bearded man in the sky dictating archaic gender roles and the "natural order"? I have to bite back a scathing remark, reminding myself to maintain my childish facade.
Instead, I scowl down at the weeds sprouting from the hard-packed soil, viciously ripping out a handful by their tangled roots. If this wretched existence is the "natural order" Aislin speaks of, then I want no part of it!
Aislin moves away from me, her bare feet shuffling through the dirt as she bends down to inspect the cabbage plants. I grasp another handful of weeds, the scratchy stems prickling my palms as I yank them free from the rocky soil. Despite the poor quality of this hardscrabble earth, I can't help but be impressed by the meager garden's bounty. Carrots and turnips thrive alongside potatoes and onions, their leafy greens swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.
I study the soil more closely, rubbing the gritty earth between my fingers. Dry and nutrient-poor, yet the plants seem to flourish regardless. Curious...perhaps the addition of those dried animal droppings I noticed Aislin working into the beds is the key? A rudimentary form of fertilizer, providing vital nitrogen to the struggling crops. Not bad for a bunch of illiterate peasant stock, I suppose.
"Lile!" Aislin calls over her shoulder, straightening from her inspection. "Put all them weeds ye pulled in the sack now, aye?"
I glance up at her sallow face, blinking owlishly. "I will, mama," I reply in my best imitation of a childish lilt. "But lemme yank out a few more first, so's I can grab a bigger bundle at once."
She nods, already turning back to the cabbages as I resume my work. A few minutes later, I've accumulated a sizable pile of uprooted weeds at my feet. Gathering them into my tattered skirts, I deposit the scratchy bundle into the burlap sack with a grunt of effort.
Aislin must be planning to use these as mulch, I muse, or perhaps feed them to the scrawny flock of chickens. Not a bad bit of resourcefulness, I suppose, putting every last scrap to use rather than letting it go to waste.
"Lile, come here a moment," she calls out, beckoning me over. I scramble to my feet, clutching the sack as I scurry towards her hunched form. "Open yer sack up, poppet. I've found some beetles on the cabbages we can use fer chicken feed."
I obediently hold the bag open as Aislin plucks several fat grubs from the plant leaves, depositing them inside with a look of distaste. "There ye are," she mutters, brushing her hands off on her tattered skirts. "That'll make a nice treat fer the birds, it will."
Before I can respond, she reaches out to pat my tangled curls, her chapped lips curving into the ghost of a smile. "Ye're such a good girl, Lile," she murmurs, her voice thick with a surprising tenderness. "Yer ma loves ye dearly, ye know."
I blink up at her, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected show of affection. Then, remembering my role, I force a bright grin and nod enthusiastically. "I love you too, mama!" I chirp, widening my eyes in a look of childish adoration.
For all her ignorance and superstition, it seems even this wretched peasant can't deny the most basic of maternal instincts. How...curious.
The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly as Aislin and I crouch in the hardscrabble garden, yanking weeds from the parched soil. My small hands, caked in grime, grasp the scratchy stems as I tug with all my meager strength.
"Oof, this one's a stubborn bugger!" I grunt in a childish lilt, straining against the tangled roots. With a final heave, the weed finally surrenders its grip on the earth with a wet sucking sound.
"Language, Lile!" Aislin chides, shooting me a reproachful look. "A proper young lady doesn't speak such coarse words."
I pout my lips in an exaggerated sulk. "But mama, it's just a dumb ol' weed! Not like it can hear me or nothin'."
Aislin's stern expression softens somewhat as she pats my matted curls. "Even still, poppet. We must mind our tongues lest foul speech become a habit, aye?"
"Yes mama," I mumble obediently, depositing the uprooted weed into the burlap sack beside me. And so the tedious work continues, the two of us hunched over the scraggly vegetable patch as the hours crawl by.
My back soon aches from the strain, and sweat trickles down my brow in rivulets. But Aislin remains steadfast, her bony shoulders rising and falling with each grunt of effort as she wrestles with the stubborn greenery.
By the time the first hints of dusk begin to creep across the horizon, the burlap sack bulges with our afternoon's bounty - a tangled mass of weeds, roots, and the occasional fat grub plucked from the plants. I wipe my grimy brow with the back of one hand, grimacing at the fresh streaks of filth left behind.
"That's the last of 'em for today, I reckon," Aislin says at last, straightening with a weary sigh. "Well done, Lile. Ye worked hard as any grown lass could."
I beam at the rare praise, my chest swelling with childish pride despite the ache in my limbs. "Does that mean I get an extra slice o' bread at supper?" I ask hopefully.
Aislin snorts indelicately, already turning to gather up the burlap sack. "Now don't push yer luck, ye greedy wee thing..."
I lay down on the ground next to the burlap sack, fanning myself with one hand, mind whirling while we take a break. Honestly, what fresh hell is this wretched existence, really? Did I hotbox the Prius one too many times back in my old life, getting higher than Snoop at the Grammys before waking up trapped in this nightmarish peasant purgatory? Or maybe the universe is just one giant reefer madness propaganda film and I've been tossed into its twisted idea of "Reefer Rehab" as punishment for my chronic ways?
I sneak a sidelong glance at Aislin. Her sallow face glistens with sweat in the early evening heat, tendrils of lank blonde hair plastered to her hollow cheeks. The stench of our unwashed bodies and the surrounding filth is nearly overpowering - like an open-air Phish concert portapotty after a three-day bender.
Yeah, this has to be hell, right? Eternal damnation for all my worldly transgressions? I mean, what else could explain being reborn into this literal cesspit of disease, poverty, and appalling hygiene? Did I dip into the church's collection plate one too many times back in the day? Forget to recycle my Natty Light empties after one too many Sunday Funday keggers? Accidentally hit "Reply All" with that spicy Harambe meme back at the office?
I shudder, grimacing as a bead of sweat trickles down the small of my back. Whatever unforgivable sin I committed in a past life, this eternal torment seems a bit...excessive, no? Surely the big guy could've just sentenced me to a few centuries getting railed by a never-ending train of Cocks of the Rock or something? Anything but this nightmarish existence as a lice-ridden peasant urchin doomed to wallow in filth and squalor?
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"...Lile? Lile!"
Aislin's shrill voice cuts through my reverie like a dull blade. I blink owlishly, my mind still reeling from visions of eternal damnation and Harambe memes.
"Sorry mama, what?" I ask, widening my eyes in an expression of childish confusion.
Aislin huffs out an exasperated breath, planting her bony hands on her hips as she fixes me with a reproachful look. "Ye've had yer head stuffed with wool all day, haven't ye lass? I asked ye to take that sack o' weeds 'round back and dump it in the chicken pen!"
I bob my head obediently. "Aye mama, I'll do it now!"
Grasping the scratchy burlap by its frayed lip, I begin dragging the hefty sack across the hard-packed dirt, my bare feet leaving dusty imprints in my wake. The damn thing must weigh nearly as much as I do, filled to bursting with our afternoon's bounty of tangled greenery and fat grubs.
By the time I finally round the crumbling rear of our pathetic hovel, I'm panting like a dog, my stringy blonde curls plastered to my sweaty brow. The chicken pen squats against the mud wall, a ramshackle structure of splintered logs lashed together with fraying twine. The scrawny flock of hens clucks and struts about inside, oblivious to my struggle.
"Stupid...feathered...bastards..." I grunt through gritted teeth, finally reaching the pen's entrance. I yank open the rickety gate, then upend the burlap sack with a grunt of effort, disgorging its contents in a sprawling heap on the ground.
The birds immediately descend upon the pile like a flock of winged jackals, squawking and flapping their wings in a frenzy as they peck at the scattered weeds and grubs. Disgusting creatures - they're practically rabid in their desperation for even the most meager scraps!
I sneer at their frantic feeding, snatching up the empty burlap sack before slamming the gate closed once more. "There, you filthy animals - eat up and enjoy your slop!"
Turning on my heel, I cup my hands around my mouth and bellow towards the hovel. "Mama, I'm done with the sack like ye asked!"
"Well get yerself inside then, lass!" Aislin's muffled voice calls back. "I've got somethin' important to tell ye!"
I raise a brow at that. Important, eh? Now what could possibly be so damn critical in this dreary existence of poverty and drudgery?
Shrugging, I trudge back around front, through the low entranceway into the stifling interior. There sits Aislin on the rickety bench, a filthy tunic bundled in her lap - no doubt one of Oisin's ratty old castoffs. She pats the plank beside her in a silent summons.
"Well?" I ask, scurrying over to plop down obediently. "What is it, mama?"
Aislin's pale eyes find mine as she pats the frayed fabric bundled in her lap. "Lile, poppet," she begins, her chapped lips curving into a thin smile. "I've a plan what might see ye promised to a wealthy man, if the good Lord's willin'."
I tilt my head, feigning the picture of childish curiosity as I blink up at her sallow face. "A wealthy man, mama? Like one o' them fancy lords with big castles an' horses?"
She chuckles softly, reaching out to pat my tangled blonde curls. "Nay, not so grand as all that. But there's a Norseman here in our village, ye see - a freeman what lost his wife just months past. An' from what the others say, his dear Bridgett bore a striking resemblance to yerself when just a young lass."
A Norseman? Here, amidst these wretched peasant hovels? The very notion seems utterly absurd. I have to bite back a derisive snort, reminding myself to play the role of the dimwitted child. "He wants me fer his new wife then, mama?" I ask instead, widening my eyes comically. "But I don't want no stinky ol' husband! They're mean an' they fart a lot!"
Aislin tuts softly, shaking her head. "Now, now - none o' that cheek from ye, missy. This could be the Lord's blessin' ye've been prayin' for, a chance at a better life than this squalor."
She leans in closer, her breath hot and sour on my face. "I aim to speak with yer da today, an' see if I can't convince this Norseman to pay a proper bridal price fer ye. If he takes ye to wife, ye'd be a freeman's lady instead of a lowly serf like meself!"
"A freeman's lady?" I echo, unable to keep the mocking lilt from my voice. "Like one o' them fancy noble-born maidens with pretty dresses an' jewels?"
Aislin's brow furrows slightly at my tone, but she presses on. "Well...mebbe not so grand as all that straightaway. But 'twould be a far sight better than this wretched existence, that's fer certain! An' I'll be sure to teach ye all a wife must know - mendin' clothes, tendin' fires, pleasin' yer husband abed so he stays content..."
I can't help the childish giggle that bubbles up at her words. The very notion of this filthy, lice-ridden waif "pleasin'" any man, let alone in the marriage bed? Why, he'd likely take one look at my scabrous pelt before beating a hasty retreat, his cock shriveled up like a salted slug!
Aislin shoots me a reproachful look, but continues undeterred. "Mind ye don't laugh, lass. 'Tis a grave matter if yer husband finds ye an unfit wife. He'd be well within his rights to demand the bridal price back from yer da, an' the shame of it could see us cast out to fend fer ourselves like beggars!"
Well, isn't that just a delightful little incentive? Spread your legs and let whatever mouth-breathing lout claims you as chattel have his way, or else dear old dad gets financially ruined and the whole family rendered homeless in the process! Why, it's every young girl's dream come true - to be bartered off like prime livestock to the highest bidder, then ruthlessly plowed like a fallow field until you've popped out enough sons to satisfy your master's quota. What a progressive, enlightened society this is!
Seeming to sense my simmering resentment, Aislin reaches out to grasp my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I know ye're still just a bairn, poppet. An' truth be told, me efforts now won't make much difference in the end. But I aim to be a good mother to ye, an' teach ye proper so's ye can make a good wife when the time comes."
With that, she releases my hand and leans over to snag a battered wooden mug from the rickety table, holding it out to me. "Here now, have a drink. Ye've not had a drop o' water since this mornin', I'll wager."
I nod obediently, allowing her to guide the cup to my lips as I take a few shallow sips of the tepid, metallic-tasting liquid. As I swallow, my belly lets out an audible rumble of hunger - no doubt the result of subsisting on little more than a few mouthfuls of gruel each day.
"I'm hungry too, mama," I mumble, sticking out my lower lip in an exaggerated pout. "When're we gonna eat?"
Aislin sighs wearily, setting the empty mug back on the table with a dull thunk. "We'll need to wait fer yer da to return from the fields afore cookin' up any supper, I'm afraid. He'll be wantin' his belly full first an' foremost."
Of course - why am I not surprised? Let the lord and master eat his fill while his family subsists on whatever meager scraps are left, just as the natural order decrees. This wretched existence is a veritable banquet of injustice and inequality, is it not?
"But I wants food now!" I whine petulantly, unable to resist a bit of playful insolence. "My tummy's been rumblin' like a big ol' bear!"
Aislin shoots me another withering look, but her stern expression soon softens into one of weary resignation. "I know it, poppet," she murmurs, reaching out to pat my cheek with surprising tenderness. "Believe me, there's nothin' I want more than to see that belly o' yers nice an' full when ye've grown into a strong, healthy young lass. An' that's why I'll do me best to convince this Norseman to take ye as his wife - so's ye can eat yer fill an' never know hunger again."
I bob my head enthusiastically, my matted curls bouncing with the childish motion. "I'll be a real good wife then, mama!" I chirp, widening my eyes innocently. "I swears it on the...on the...umm...Bible!"
Oh yes, I'll be a simply delightful little broodmare for whatever mouth-breathing oaf claims me - just you wait and see! Why, I'll pop out sons like a veritable clown car until his wildest dreams of spawning an entire regiment's worth of cannon fodder are fully realized. A man can never have too many tiny bundles of testosterone to indoctrinate into the cult of violence and misogyny, after all!
Aislin sighs, the sound like a deflating leather wineskin as her bony shoulders slump. She reaches for the bone needle and tattered sewing kit on the rickety table, the rough-hewn planks creaking beneath her touch. Placing the supplies before me, she gently takes hold of my tiny frame and lifts me up, settling me onto her lap with a grunt of effort.
"There now, poppet," she murmurs, arranging Oisin's frayed tunic across my legs. "See if ye can mend them gaps fer yer da, aye? Just like I showed ye afore."
I blink up at her sallow face, widening my eyes in an exaggerated look of childish confusion. "But mama, I don't 'members how!" I protest with a pout, furrowing my brow as if deep in thought.
The truth is, I could sew the tattered garment with my eyes closed - a simple enough task for one who grasps the intricacies of warp and weft on a subatomic level. But best to play the role of the dimwitted babe for now, lest I arouse undue suspicion.
"Ah, no frettin' now," Aislin soothes, already threading the bone needle with a length of coarse linen. "Yer ma will guide yer hands through it, ye'll see."
She takes my tiny fingers in her calloused grip, gently positioning them around the needle as she begins the first stitch. I can't help but giggle at the absurdity of it all - this wretched peasant woman patiently instructing me, a being who could recite the entire history of textile manufacturing from the Paleolithic onward, on something as rudimentary as basic needlework!
Yet for all my vast knowledge and cosmic awareness, I find myself struggling to recall even the most basic details of my former existence. Flashes of being a man with jet black hair and deep brown eyes surface, but the face remains a blur, the history a void. All I can seem to grasp are those haunting yellow eyes staring back at me from the washbasin's murky depths, their preternatural glow searing into me like twin suns.[...]