Once Upon a Pirate Anthology

by Merry Farmer

  And of a sudden, excitement and cries… “They’re coming!”

  A rush of people; the crowds making for the jetties, jostling and pushing, traders abandoning stalls and their wares.

  I hover. I was specifically instructed not to dawdle, but…

  How can I buy honey if the stall-holder isn’t there?

  … and I follow them…

  The crowd gathers, necks straining to see down the length of the fjord.

  And it’s there… The striped red sail of the returning ship: Vatnsskemmari - The ‘Water Skimmer’. She rides the waves in a movement that seems more like the flight of the gulls than of a crafted thing. The dragon-headed prow gleams gold and bronze in the bright day. And of those aboard; some are rowing, others standing and waving; but all are cheering and shouting.

  At the front of the Sea Skimmer, standing tall by the prow, the navigator, Magni, his long hair rippling in the wind of his ship’s passage.

  The ship kisses the foam as she speeds towards us… so lovely a thing…

  This is the ship that took me from my old home.

  I should be afraid…

  … Shouldn’t I?

  But no, my remembrances of that first journey, when they brought me here from my old home huddled with the other slaves… They are so faded… so old…

  I reach for the memories, but they duck and dance from sight. It is so long ago. I was just a child. And perhaps I am only a slave, but life is sweet. And yes, the ship is beautiful.

  And suddenly, I’m shouting and waving with the rest, welcoming home the warriors.

  What will they have? Gold? Silver? Other treasures?

  Slaves?

  My mind sheers away from the thought…

  Later in the great hall, I find an excuse to be inside, moving around, gathering up scraps, crusts, ale gone stale… anything that can go into my slops bucket for the pigs.

  Úlfar takes his seat. As jarl, he distributes the treasures brought by the returning raiders. Beautiful things, shining in the light of hearth and torches; the warm gleam of gold. The cooler glow of silver. The flicker and glint of coins piled in a great chest.

  He fits a bracelet around the wrist of a returned warrior, then holds his wrist aloft. “Magni tells me this is the man who saved his life! Speared a Saxon who actually had the balls to fight back.”

  The crowd cheers and yells. And I cheer too. From across the hall, Bjorn smiles at me, flashing teeth. A hand pats my shoulder. I might be a slave, but just now, in this triumphant moment, I am included.

  For Lady Ísleif, there is a necklace, heavy with gems, almost a collar. She accepts it, smiling as she sweeps her hair to one side while her husband fastens it around her neck.

  “What are you looking at, girl?”

  I jolt, cringing. The voice is harsh; Hjalli. “This isn't for the likes of you. Shouldn't you be feeding the pigs?” He scowls at me, jerking his chin at my bucket and then outside.

  My triumph and the sense of belonging evaporates. “Yes, sir.” Miserably, I pick up my bucket of slops and head for the sties.

  The weather will turn soon and there will be no more foraging in the forest. The pigs are sleek now, grown fat on mast and acorns, but the year lengthens, and it is time for the Autumn cull. The oldest will go first; sows and boars. Some of the late weaners will have a few more weeks, fed on whatever is to hand.

  Suspended by its back feet, struggling and twitching, the sow screams as the blade draws over her throat. The sound dies to a gurgle as her life-blood spurts then drains into the bowl held underneath. A few moments later, her belly slit, the guts drop, blue and purple coils, into a basket.

  The butcher waves me across, kicking the basket of entrails towards me. “You, Mercia. Take the stomach and bowels to the river. Clean them out. Downriver of the bathing pool, mind. And do it properly. When you’ve done, hang them to dry.”

  The bathing pool lies below a small waterfall where the river froths down over rocks then streams away. At the base and to one side lies the pool; translucent green, calm and still.

  Although the pool is natural, it has been improved over the years, edged by rocks to deepen it for bathing. Each Spring, the bottom is scoured out, clearing gravel and pebbles until a grown man can dive in safely. And to one side it is set with flattish boulders for laundry.

  Despite the unpleasant task ahead of me, it’s a lovely spot. Away from the trees, sunlight plays and dances over the surface, casting a rainbow from the spray of the fall. And under shady boughs, moss, thick and soft, deep green, cushions the ground, a robe cast over the naked earth.

  In places, silver-grey specklers hang stationary in the water, heads pointing into the flow, tails undulating. They make good eating. Perhaps I should tickle one into my hands after I have completed my task. The lady would be pleased with me if I returned with extra food. I might even be permitted some of the treat myself.

  Away from the fall, the pool spills into the river once more. I set myself downstream in a spot where the water flows freely, carrying away froth and foam. On this occasion, it will also carry away the foul results of the task in hand.

  So there, with my stinking basket, I squeeze out pig entrails, voiding the wretched things of their contents, turning the clear stream to a greenish-brown. Then running the empty tubes through with fresh water, I work at them until they are clean and fit for use. If I’m lucky, I might get to eat some of the resulting sausages, so I take some care over my task.

  The sunshine is warm, but the air cold and the water icy. Trickling water through the translucent membranes, my fingers quickly turn numb and my hands are red and rough with chill. I work with a will, to finish quickly so I can return to the warm indoors. Working at speed, I’m more careless than I mean to be, and brown-and-green muck flecks my gown.

  Lost in my work, at first, I don't hear it.

  But then, the whistling is all but on top of me. Someone is close by and I shrink back in case whoever-it-is takes offence at my presence. Snatching up my basket of pig guts, I push myself back into the shadow of a great tree root.

  And then I see. It is Bjorn, strolling easily along, with a thick fur draped over his shoulders, a sheet slung over his arm, heading for the bathing pool. Red-faced and sweating, perhaps he has come from the steam house. He's not seen me and by the waterfall, he sheds the fur then tugs his shirt up and free from his belt.

  I press further back into my lurking place in the tree roots.

  He fiddles with his belt, dropping it on top of the fur. Then he works at the laces of his trousers. My mouth goes dry and swallowing is suddenly difficult.

  The trousers fall and he kicks them to join the rest of his clothes. Then he stands, stretches, yawns and scratches at his scalp.

  I watch him, naked; a man with the body of a god. Long-limbed, well-muscled, his red-gold hair drapes over his body, partly concealing the tattooed dragon which coils from shoulder to chest. And without meaning to, I find myself staring at his… manhood… nestled among copper curls.

  When first I came here, half a lifetime ago, I was a child and Bjorn not much more than a boy. Now he is a grown man and mesmerised, I stare as, still whistling, he steps under the falling waters.

  The whistle is cut short, turning to a gasp. “Thor’s balls!” He steps out from the waters, then taking a breath, plunges back under and I suck in a smile as he hastily scrubs himself down with the harsh soap.

  Inside, I’m growing warm and liquid. Something spears through me. In my hand, the basket is shaking.

  Realisation wings home. Here I am: a slave, a nothing, stinking of pig-shit. And I’m dreaming of a man so far beyond my reach I might as well try to net the moon.

  Heat pricks behind my eyes. Abruptly, all I want is to be away from here, but my task is unfinished. And even if it were not, I cannot leave my hiding place without Bjorn seeing me; knowing I was watching him.

  And so, I wait; gulping against the tears which want to break free. I had thought I was reconciled
to my life of drudgery. I had thought that, even as I am, I could have some happiness. Now I know that is a lie.

  And I look away, turning my face from the glory that is Bjorn.

  At length, the whistling resumes and I look back to see him dive into the pool, covering its length and back in long easy strokes. Then, stepping up and out, he shivers, shaking water from himself like a dog, before wrapping the sheet around himself and towelling himself dry. Dressing once more, he sits on a boulder, combing out his hair, still whistling tunelessly, his gaze wandering…

  And, all too late, I realise…

  His eye passes over, returns… then fixes on me. “Mercia?”

  Is he angry?

  I’ll be punished. I know I will. Stammering, I stand. “Sir, I was… They sent me to clean the entrails…” I hold up my basket in proof. “I didn’t mean…”

  My words dry up. Head tilted, his eye is calculating, assessing. Then he smiles. The smile is soft and golden, and it lights his face like the dawn after the long winter’s night.

  And in that moment, I would give myself to him. No matter that he could command it if he wished. I would let him take me and I would rejoice in the taking.

  Comb still in hand, he stands, walks over to me, looks down at me. And still smiling, he offers his hand, helps me stand.

  After a long silence, he shakes his head. “Not like this, Mercia. Not like this.” Turning, he gathers up his goods and strolls away, leaving me trembling in his wake.

  By the time I’ve finished the work, my gown is filthy, reeking of pig shit and soaked through. I’m shivering violently in the chill of the evening. The sun has vanished behind grey banks of cloud and isolated snowflakes are falling.

  Draping my basket of cleaned guts over the drying racks, I head for the great hall. Perhaps I can turn the spit whilst my clothes dry off.

  But the evening crowd is already gathering into the warm and instead, Úlfar waves me to the barrel to serve ale. I would have preferred to be close to the fire, but at least I’m indoors. Filling my jug, I pass through the throng, serving free men and women with ale. As I pour, some turn away, grimacing and wrinkling their noses.

  Hjalli gestures at me with a horn. “Girl, here. Ale.”

  I walk across, jug in hand, reaching to pour, but he recoils, mouth twisting. “Odin's Eye. You stink. Get out.” He gestures to the doors, closed against the night air. “Don't come back inside again until you've cleaned up. Someone else can serve the ale.” And with that, he waves me out into the bitter night.

  Where can I go that I won’t freeze? The cattle remain in the hall, albeit at the far end. Usually, I sleep with them.

  Could I sneak back inside?

  If Hjalli noticed me, he’d beat me. I know he would.

  Where do I go?

  Some while later, in the cleanest I could find of the sties, I huddle between the last of the weaners. I am at least warm. The straw is fresh and the crush of a dozen or so bodies is heating me enough to dry out my gown.

  It’s a blessing they’re youngsters. I wouldn’t have dared do this with the adult pigs. If one of the sows had taken a dislike to me, they wouldn’t even have found my body the following morning, but the sow would have been well fed.

  But while I might be warm, I am sharing space with the swine. The way I smell isn’t going to improve.

  And they won’t let me back inside tomorrow…

  Or Hjalli won’t…

  In the night air, my breath is a blue mist, set against the moonlight which gleams pale at the sty entrance. I huddle deeper into my nest.

  The light abruptly grows, then cuts off. A head appears, silhouetted against the moonlight. Then it brightens against the flickering light of a flare aiming inside the sty.

  “Mercia?” It is Bjorn’s voice. “What are you doing out here with the pigs? Are you being punished for something?”

  Humiliation battles with the need to be courteous.

  That he should see me like this….

  “As you saw, sir, by the river; I was cleaning pig-guts. Hjalli says I can't go back inside until the smell wears off. And my clothes are still wet. At least it’s warm here.”

  He pulls back, muttering to himself. Then his tone is all surprise and reason. “The smell isn’t going to wear off while you're sleeping in there. Go clean yourself up and change your clothes. You can use the steam-house after the others are done. If any ask you, tell them I said so.”

  “Thank you, sir. But I can’t change. These are the only clothes I have.”

  He grunts, sniffs and backs out, his footsteps receding into the night. I listen, wondering if he will return, but there is nothing. Then, resigning myself to my night with the swine, I snuggle down.

  The moon has risen high when I hear the crunch of feet on frost once more and the glow of torchlight appears again.

  Bjorn leans in, hand outstretched, hauling me out. Then he tosses an ungainly bundle at me. “Go clean yourself in the steam-house. Change into these. Tomorrow, bathe yourself. Ask Lady Ísleif for soap or sweetrush. Tell her that I told you to do this.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He huffs. “You'll be no good as a slave if you freeze to death. And you’re not much use either if you stink so badly no one wants you near.”

  But a smile haunts his lips and something in his eye says more than his words.

  “Mercia...” Ísleif calls me from the hall. “Here...” She thrusts a basket of herring at me, gesturing around to others. “It’s been a good catch. There’s plenty to gut and dry.”

  “I’ll need a knife, Lady.”

  She sniffs, then takes her own from her belt, passing it to me haft first. “I’ll want it back when you’ve done.”

  “Yes, Lady.”

  Of course, this is my work. Who of the free folk wants to gut fish all day? But it is at least a sign that I am trusted. To gut the fish, I must use a knife. And a knife I have been given.

  Wearily, I heft my basket, straining under the load, and make for the hall.

  “No.” Ísleif calls again, making a circle with her arm. “Go to the back. And downwind. Or the whole hall will stink.”

  Using both hands for the weight, I carry my fish to the wood barn at the rear.

  It's not really a barn, more of a covered area, loosely boarded at the sides to allow the air to flow, where the wood can be stacked to dry over the summer, then split, to store over winter. To the back, logs and kindling ready for the hearths are neatly stacked. To the fore, fallen trunks, old stumps and dropped branches lie scattered, waiting for the axeman.

  And since it is protected from the rains but open to the winds and the sun, it is also an ideal spot for drying fish. The racks, constructed from thin laths, bound with knotted leather or withies, stand in ranks here. Whatever of the fish-catch cannot be eaten fresh, is brought here to be dried. Choosing a stump, I sit, leaning over my bucket to gut an endless supply of fish.

  It is yet another miserable task, and tonight I will reek…

  Again…

  A herring in one hand, I split the fish, swiping out the entrails and the blood-line with the other, then I skewer the thing and place it on the rack to dry. Then I move to the next.

  A couple of scrawny cats sit close by, mewling as I drop fish guts in my bucket. One makes a move to the racks and I snatch up a stick, hurling it at the would-be thief. The stick spins through the air, smacking into the culprit, who yowls and makes away at speed. But three more sit by in slant-eyed watchfulness.

  Another cat, and then a dog, makes a move for the split fish. Two more well-aimed sticks make their mark and the miscreants limp away. But more felines lurk, waiting on opportunity.

  Grabbing up a handful of guts, slippery smelly stuff, I set it in a corner for them. In only a short time, they're joined by half a dozen others, then some of the village dogs.

  At least everyone gets a good feed. When even the dogs have eaten their fill, I spill entrails into another bucket. Doubtless, they will be sp
read on the fields for the crops.

  I work diligently, the level in my basket dropping steadily, the drying racks filling nicely. Another basket follows. And another. Just as I think I might be done, Ísleif arrives with a fresh bucket, filled to overflowing with silver fish. “It's been a very good haul,” she remarks. “No one will go hungry this winter. But we might tire of fish stew.”

  My racks are filling fast and I am almost out of space. So, rummaging through the wood heaps I choose long withies, jamming them into cracks in the wall timbers until I have a series of high rails, well up from the jumping range of felines or canines. And as I split and clean each fish, I impale it, splayed open, then add it to my makeshift drying racks.

  “Good idea.”

  The voice comes from behind and I startle violently. But it's only Bjorn, leaning against one of the supports by one hand, an axe dangling from the other. And he’s smiling.

  “Your pardon, sir.” I duck my head. “I didn't see you there.”

  “I know. You were about your work. But it was still a good idea if we are all going to eat over the winter. Even slaves do better if there’s plenty in the stores.” He nods to my stump and bucket. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

  Obediently, I resume my seat. Bjorn is right. However unpleasant this task is, it’s a big improvement over being hungry in the cold months. If food ran short, a slave would certainly be the last to eat. I bend to my task.

  Bjorn watches me for a moment then moves to the far side of the barn, looking over the stumps. He settles on one with a flattish surface, then chooses a chunk of pine two handspans thick; a complete slice through a tree. Hefting it up, he sets it atop the stump

  Placing himself a stride’s distance from the stump, he braces his legs, testing his position with the head of the axe. In a single long arc, he swings the axe over his head and down onto the slice. It splits cleanly into two, the halves dropping either side of the stump. Picking up one of the halves, he repeats it, splitting the half into quarters before tossing them towards the stacked heap ready to burn.