The barilla plant grew in the barnyard, where it absorbed urine. Kama used her nose to choose the right pot from the shelf. She then added the dried leaves to the bubbling, steaming water. The smell of lye and ammonia seared her nostrils and turned her stomach. The promise of gifts and treasures helped her endure the fumes, as she scrubbed grease and soot from wooden walls and floors. Her wet cloth washed away the small black bugs living in cracks between the slats. When all was clean, she rubbed linseed oil into the wood until the house shone.
As Kama worked, the midday meal stewed.
Soon onion and chicken overpowered all other smells. She removed her work clothes and replaced her shift with a dress that had unusual red stitching at the bottom of the sleeves. Mother arranged a red silk scarf over her hair and shoulders.
Then they waited. And they waited.
When it became clear that there would be no Father that day, Mother ladled stew into two bowls. As she spooned up her broth, she began her screaming.
“Oh, he's such a prince, but he can't even comb his own hair.” Kama knew she was referring to the women who worked in the Big House, trimming his beard and taking care of his needs.
“He always has to overdo everything,” Mother yelled. Her ability with Norse improved as her anger increased. “Other families don't throw away their silver as though it grew on trees. They save their coins, and he goes buying everything.”
“He fooled me,” Mother continued. “That's what he did. He told me stories about how beautiful it would be. About how rich we would be. And now I walk around with holes in my shoes. And then always all these gifts for you, as though he wanted all the world to notice you. Other families save so they can move out of here. This is no place to grow up in. And most of the women former slaves. What kind of children do you have to play with? What good does it do? I go around saving coins and he throws everything away.”
Kama knew this had nothing to do with silver and shoes. Each time Father returned, he would bring chests full of coins. Mother had enough to share with the other women.
From Father, she shifted to Astrid.
“One day Astrid will regret her evil. God will destroy her. Flames will lash her forever. You will see. Astrid thinks she can decide everything. Astrid knows not god or the meaning of love.”
As a young girl when Mother had talked, Kama had often lost track of what was real and who was who. Mother seldom spoke with the other women in the townhouses. But alone with Kama, she never cared how she sounded. She blended her Greek into Norse, the way she tossed cinnamon, honey and peppers into her dishes. Even if Kama didn’t know the true meaning of the words and phrases, she imagined she did.
Mother relived her past adventures vividly, shaking as though they were occurring now, as though the sharp spear was still prodding her, as though she still had no shoes, and callouses covered her feet. Hunger would cause her to see insects crawling over her skin, but when bread finally arrived, she would vomit.
As a small child, Kama had lived Mother’s fears. Often she had believed she was the person running through the maze of market stalls, hiding behind sacks of grain or breathing so quietly not even a dog could hear her. Now Kama couldn’t wait to be away from this blabbering fool who was frightened of everything and couldn’t let go of her past. In the convent where Mother had finally found safety, the nuns believed they were married to a god. Thor and Odin often took earthly wives, but this was messed up. Locked in an abbey, rows of lonely women dreamed that they were the bride of a god who had left the earth hundreds of years ago, never to return.
The end of Mother’s scarf had slipped into her bowl. Broth had spilled over the front of her dress. Her eyes were the stare of a mangy cat.
Mother appeared to be disappearing, her face and figure becoming smaller, as though she were sailing away. Then Kama felt she was inside a room, looking out at Mother who was a storm brewing. Kama imagined reaching up and pulling the shutter closed to lock Mother out. She couldn’t do anything about Mother’s unpredictable silliness. But Mother shouldn’t drag her into the muddle. She didn’t blame Father for not being here. Why would he want her outcries? Kama had never met her grandmother, but Astrid’s decisions made sense. She knew how to rule a kingdom. Astrid was a person she could learn from. Kama couldn’t wait to be in her presence. It was as though Astrid were her real mother and this tiny creature, who was waving her spoon now and tearing down the name of Father, was a stranger who couldn’t grasp concerns beyond her own fears.
Kama wanted to be gone. She couldn’t wait to live in a real house and be part of the great feasts. She could almost smell the sweet rosehip soup and taste the soft cheeses and Frankish wine. She couldn’t wait to leave this place for Hedeby, her true Midgard.
HARVEST MONTH KIEV 934 CE
Katerine was at her loom. The threads were smooth. She was crisscrossing the yarn and singing.
“Santa Lucia. Santa Lucia.”
She liked how the tones banged against the walls in the small house. In the nunnery, there was endless space, and songs drifted and became lost. But here every chord reverberated and intensified. The loom’s wooden slats were percussion, counting out the phrases of the chant, although heaven was pure, not a raucous dance. The loom wasn’t a carnal drum but simply a gentle clapping that helped her transcend earthly Kiev.
Although it was still Harvest Month, snow had already fallen.
Hinges creaked. The front door opened. Katerine jumped. Who was there?
“Hello, Katerine,” he said, as though he had the right to say her name. Of course this was his place, and he could enter unannounced. She looked down and tried to continue her weaving, when his hand reached over and covered hers. She stared at the long fingers and the ring with its red stone encircled with gold. Only the great and mighty possessed such jewelry, and he flashed that sovereignty every time he reached out or grabbed. Even Christian merchants bowed to its power. All knew this was Sigtrygg, son of Gnupa and Astrid, the Odinkar.
All her godliness vanished with his presence. She was a castanet rattling. She had imagined this moment. She had planned it. She knew that she needed to scream but the words had vanished. Her certainty was ripped into rags.
“Turmeric,” he said. “Already boiled and dried.” He passed a clay jar, as though he didn’t need to explain his absence and there was no reason to resist his company.
She remembered the first time she saw him. It was many years ago in the chapel. He had burst in. The space had been ablaze with light. The afternoon sun was streaming in through circular windows that were clusters of colored stones held together with gold threads. She was kneeling, looking down, when she heard two voices behind her, Persian and Greek. They were yelling about “vitrum” and “renekeha,” glass and color, with little regard for Christ hanging on the cross over the altar. Katerine tried to block out their reckless words but they were loud and persistent. The conversation insisted on infiltrating her prayers. When she turned she saw him—an odd and distracting creature in boots and a bright red, woolen cape. Not really a cape. More like an over tunic fitted to his body with sleeves and hooks that closed in the front. The whole get-up had told Katerine this stranger was accustomed to colder climates. He held a long spear as though it were a walking stick and he was posing, cupping his hands around the ruby-encased handle and leaning back slightly, extending his left leg. His hair was clipped. His white locks were combed up and back but one part spilled over his forehead and shook as he laughed and talked. When he smiled, he appeared to be just a boy.
She remembered the next time. He had come alone. He convinced her to forgo kneeling and sit beside him. He whispered Greek sounds in her ear. Soon he was visiting every day, and she was waiting for afternoons when he would disturb her prayers.
Today he was wearing a fur vest like a common fighter, but he couldn’t look common. When he put on any outfit