I wanted to ask her to keep stroking my head, but I had not the nerve. And so she left me to my pain and the sleep that soon swallowed me.
Olaf came to me later and woke me with a nudge. The interior of the shed was yet dark, so mayhap it was still night. Or mayhap it was morning and dawn had not yet broken. It was hard to say in our gloomy quarters.
Olaf moved his face close to mine. His hair was matted and his face streaked with something black. Ash? Mud? I could not tell. “You are better?” he asked eagerly.
“No,” I answered and winced at some shock of pain in my side. I was hungry again and my stomach growled.
Olaf's face collapsed. “I understand,” he whispered.
I wanted to lift his spirits but knew not how. I could not think of many worse situations in which to find ourselves, so I had nothing to offer Olaf in the way of humor or distraction. “How are you faring?” I finally asked.
Tears welled in his eyes. “It is hard here, Torgil,” he started. “Heres and his men treat us no better than oxen. We work from daybreak until after nightfall, digging for ore and hefting it to the furnaces. One misstep earns us a whipping. I have been whipped countless times already. I know not how long I can take it.”
I am not sure what Olaf thought thralldom would be like, but everything he described fit my imagination of our new life. Still, I felt for Olaf. He was a tough boy, but like a rusted ring in a byrnie, that toughness was showing signs of weakness, and there was nothing I could do. Nothing, at least, until I was healed. When that day came, I hoped I could deflect some of the attention Heres currently reserved for Olaf onto myself. “If I could help you now, I would. When I am better, I will help you. You must persevere until then, Olaf.”
He nodded, though there was still sadness in his eyes. “I know,” he muttered.
I grabbed his arm then and looked at him full in his grimy face. “Hear me, Olaf. Do not forget your mother's words. You are a king's son. You cannot be broken by these swine. It may take some time, but we will find a way clear of this piss hole. Do you understand?”
He nodded hesitantly.
“Do you understand?” I hissed.
“Aye,” he said fervently.
I forced a grin to my face, despite the pain it caused. “Good.”
He moved away and I closed my eyes, exhausted by the exchange.
One morning, after the others had left for the bogs, Turid came to me to examine my wounds. She prodded the ribs on my right and I winced, though the pain had abated somewhat since I'd regained consciousness. Suddenly, I felt the familiar fullness in my bladder that usually accompanied my morning exams. “I have to piss,” I said indelicately.
“Shall I bring the bucket?”
“No,” I responded. “I would like to walk to the privy.”
She nodded. “That is a good sign.”
Gently, I rolled to my side and pushed myself up to my feet, gritting my teeth at the pain in my ribs. Turid tried to grab my arm but I politely shirked her proffered assistance. Step by awkward step I walked across the pit-house to the door, then outside. The pit-house was a gable-roofed, A-framed structure that sat on the top of a small rise. Its design and location kept rain from its interior. As I descended the wooden steps outside our door, I shielded my eyes from the daylight that greeted my face.
Turid urged me forward until I had taken some thirty awkward steps. There, I rested my hand on a birch tree as I took in my surroundings. To the west of me was a flat meadow of green dotted by clumps of wildflowers and random groupings of birch trees. To my right, north, was a hall that filled my vision with its size, as well as a storehouse and a barn. The hall was an awe-inspiring structure, with beautifully lain stones for walls mixed with high gables carved like serpents and a thatched roof that had been freshly placed. Our master, it seemed, was not poor. Near the main door, two stones stood, each with some sort of inscription on it. I guessed they were markers to commemorate the sons whom we killed. I took some pleasure in that.
Turid followed my gaze. “That is Heres's hall. It houses his family and his men. Those who oversee the iron production,” she muttered.
“Where are all of the people?” I wondered aloud.
“Reas is in the hall, and you can bet that one of Heres's henchmen is watching us.”
I gazed about me but saw no one. Instead, my eyes took in the sunshine glinting off the fluttering birch leaves, the serenity of the meadow, and the blue of the sky. “This would be pretty, were we not thralls.”
“Aye,” Turid conceded. “It is pretty here. But walk five hundred paces up that path,” she said, pointing to a trail heading west into the forest, “and you will find a different place entirely.”
“Where are we?” I asked. “Where is this place?” I pointed to the ground on which we stood.
Turid shrugged. “I am just beginning to understand the language of these people. I believe we are on the eastern side of the island the locals call Saaremaa in their tongue. Behind us, to the east, is a small bay where Heres keeps his ship. I have heard some of the thralls say that another island lies to the east of us and, beyond that, the mainland of the Estlanders.”
Her words formed a picture in my head. I sighed, feeling suddenly very far from Holmgard and from the future that was supposed to have been waiting for us there.
“Please turn your back,” I said as I fumbled with the laces on my trousers.
She blushed but did so, and I emptied my bladder on the birch.
Over the following days, I made it a point to become more aware of my surroundings. As I have said, we lived in a pit-house, a structure that was buried two ells in the ground. In theory, it was designed to protect us from the elements, which, for the most part, it did. However, a wall of poorly lain stone climbed from the turf to the old thatched roof, and both seeped air through their cracks and holes. At night the air washed over us, chilling any exposed skin. Our shelter's interior was cramped, with just enough space for twelve straw mattresses laid an ell apart from each other along the walls. A rectangular hearth lay in the middle to keep our feet or head warm, depending on which way we slept. Wooden pegs lodged in the stone walls held our clothes at night. Our privy was an exposed trench on the back side of our pit-house. Though it lay outside the walls of our dwelling, a slight wind blowing in the wrong direction was all it took to fill our noses with the stench of it.
The thralls with whom we lived are etched in my memory like the lines on a runestone. Most of them were Prussians, for the unprotected coastline of Prussia was close to the island and easy hunting for the Estlanders. Of them, Herkus and Raban were the eldest. Herkus was with us at the slave market. An earnest and friendly man he was, and a rule follower besides. I rarely saw him earn the ire of our masters, though many were the days he would offer me a helping hand. Raban was there when we arrived, and he was our jester. I remember him for his missing teeth, his babbling, and his flatulence. It mattered not what we ate for our meals, you could count on him to foul the air with his skinny arse and, in the confines of our pit-house, flash us a toothless grin for the gift of it. Besides that, he had a habit of talking to himself, so much so that even the guards ignored it.
The worm eater from the market was Pipin. He was small and mangy, but I have yet to meet a more resourceful lad. Most nights, he would produce something from the folds of his tunic — something he had found in the bog that day, such as a frog, cranberries, or blueberries — that we could eat at night. It was not much, but it kept us nourished.
Agi was the other boy. He was a clumsy, oafish lad who seemed to mope his way through the days, though that may have had something to do with the brutality of our work. There was a Prussian girl as well: Sigdag. She was a blond mute, but fierce in her demeanor and as tough as the iron we dug from the earth. Cross her and she spoke her mind with gestures and prods that were as clear as any words she might have uttered.
Our other two housemates were Swedish siblings: a boy named Egil and a girl named Eydis, both
roughly Olaf's age and almost as pale in hair and skin as Lodin had been. Twins they were and, perchance because of that, inseparable.
Not long after my excursion with Turid, I sat on my mattress, awaiting the arrival of the others. To surprise them, I had collected wood on my own and started a small fire in the hearth. I was blowing on it to build the flame when the door to our pit-house opened and in marched the others, water-soaked and smelling of earth and sweat. Rather than appreciate my gift of warmth, they regarded me — and it — solemnly, then moved to their mattresses.
“What is the matter?” I asked Olaf, who was removing his muddy shoes.
He glared at me. “Agi is gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“In the bog. Gone.”
I looked at Herkus, then at Pipin, for further explanation, but neither would meet my eye. Instead, Pipin moved to the fire to warm his hands. Finally Egil spoke. “It was near the end of the day. One moment Agi was there, and the next, he was gone. When we noticed, we ran to the spot he had been and saw only a muddy pond. He must have fallen into it with his heavy sack. His pole lay there, but he was gone.”
Olaf gestured toward the door with his chin. “Bastards tried to save him by pushing his pole into the water in the hopes he might grab it. They probably just pushed him deeper into the hole.” He spat his disgust.
I was about to reply when the door to the pit-house flew open and Heres's rotund body filled the doorframe like an oversized toad. It was a warm night and even from a distance, I could see the dark stains of moisture in the armpits of his soiled tunic. He squinted into the gloomy interior. Eventually his hard eyes found me, at which point he waddled over and appraised me for a long, silent moment.
“On the morrow,” Heres said in the Norse tongue, “you and your caretaker,” —- he motioned to Turid —- “will join us in the bogs. We lost a thrall today and need more hands. A broken boy and a weak girl should make up for a healthy thrall.”
I nodded my understanding. He snorted, then marched from the pit-house. I looked back at Olaf.
He looked from me to Turid. “I am sorry.” He need not say more, for in those words was all of the information I needed. Gingerly, I moved to my mattress and lay my head on my pillow. Turid, who lay behind me, grabbed my arm and squeezed. I placed my hand on hers and squeezed it back.
There was nothing more to say.
The following morning, we awoke and shuffled out into the chill of pre-dawn. A teenager who I later learned was Heres's son, Reas, handed each thrall an empty cup and a slice of stale bread. The cups we filled in a bowl of water in which blades of grass and dead bugs already floated. The others did not seem to mind, but I fished out a dead bug in my cup and flicked it away.
“There is no time for that,” Olaf coached me. “In a moment, Reas will take us to the bogs and if you are not finished, you will not eat.”
I forced the bread into my mouth and swallowed a mouthful of water, doing my best to avoid the other creatures circulating near my lips. I failed and ended up spitting them from my mouth in disgust. Pipin looked at me as if I were a dolt.
“It may be the only meat you will see this day,” Olaf explained. “You will learn.”
We left in short order, following a bull of a man named Tarmo. His height and brawn made me wonder why he was here, guarding some lowly thralls and not on a ship in the employ of a lord like Klerkon, making a name for himself. He wore a sword on his hip and carried a switch in his hand made from a birch branch. Reas followed us with two other men, also with swords on their hips and switches in their hands.
Tarmo led us down a path and into the birch forest, the breaking dawn casting a pale pink hue on the white bark of those wooden sentinels. The leaves flickered green and silver on the gentle breeze, displaying a beauty that seemed to mock our forlorn figures as we passed beneath them.
A hundred paces into the trees, we came to a clearing in which dozens of low, circular structures stood. I could smell the remnants of wood smoke and something besides — an earthy, almost muddy, aroma that I could not identify. “Furnaces,” Olaf said as we stopped to collect poles and bags, one each for every thrall. “We hunt the iron with our poles,” Olaf instructed as we moved again, “and collect it in the bags. At the end of the day, we bring it here. When there is enough to smelt, Heres and his men burn it down in the furnaces to create the bloom.”
“The bloom?” I asked.
“The bloom is the material that our masters manipulate and tease into iron billets. Billets are what are used to create tools and weapons. They sell the billets at the market each summer.”
I was trying to picture it, but the process was somewhat lost on me, the more so because the forest was beginning to thin and the bog was presenting itself, distracting me. It was, in a word, ghostly. A mist hung motionless above the landscape, painting the entire flat place in a soft gray that sucked the color from the shrubs and made the lonely trees that dotted the bog appear like lost souls in an empty world. Birdsong carried to my ears, but it sounded more like creatures trying to find each other in the gloom than the happy sound of animals greeting a new day. All of it stopped me in my tracks, forcing Olaf to hiss at me to keep me going, lest I feel the sting of Reas's switch on my back.
We followed a path of reddish-orange mud about two arrow flights into the bog, then turned right and wound our way through dark ponds and rivulets of water and clumps of bog sedge until the bear-man Tarmo stopped and pointed us off to the right again. He gave us a few instructions that I did not understand.
“We are to work in pairs. Starting here,” Olaf translated. “Come. I will show you how.”
To this day, I cannot think of another task as grimy, backbreaking, and mind-numbing as hunting for iron in a bog. There was generally no skill needed. Just step, prod, prod, step, until your pole hit something hard, at which point you dug with your hands in the turf to see what lay beneath. If you were lucky, you found a pebble or small stone of gray-brown iron, which you then placed in your bag. Sometimes oil appeared on the surface of the bog water, indicating that iron was near, though you still had to prod the muddy pond bottoms until you found it, and that, again, required only luck.
That first day, I found five measly pebbles of bog iron, which I placed in my sack and carried back to the furnaces, though I could have carried them in my fist. I was, like the other thralls, soaked and muddy and too tired to speak. My hunger tore at my stomach and robbed me of strength. My back screamed from bending and pulling. I had twisted my right ankle on a clump of grass so that each step sent a twinge of pain up my leg that carried to my right rib. It had been Turid's first day as well, and she appeared to me as tired and mud-caked and pain-wracked as I felt. By the time we reached the furnaces, she was dragging her feet so severely that Olaf and I were forced to hold her upright to keep our masters from prodding her with their switches.
Back at the pit-house, our masters gave us a bowl of watery vegetable stew with a chunk of gristly meat, a slice of stale bread, and a cup of water. We sat outside the thrall quarters, unwashed, and devoured the meal wordlessly. Turid fell asleep halfway through her meal. Others grabbed her bowl and shared its contents between them. I could not blame them — I would have done the same, were I seated closer to her when it happened. Not long after, I collapsed on my sleeping mattress and instantly fell asleep.
So began my bondage in Heres's household.
Chapter 20
For four winters, we struggled to survive as thralls in the household of Heres and Rekon.
The days took on a strange uniformity so that we marked time only by the seasons and the variations of our work. Mostly, we dug in the bogs. Only in the dead of winter, when blizzards blanketed the landscape and made it impossible to locate the iron, did we break from that toil. In the late spring and through the summer, if we had collected enough iron ore already, we dug at the soil for peat, then carried it to the furnaces, where Heres's men would carve the chunks into brinks and set them out t
o dry. When we had enough iron and enough dried peat, we worked at the furnaces, pumping the bellows until our arms could pump no longer.
Like the iron we harvested, Heres had smelted our lives down to its most basic pursuit: survival. We worked. We slept. We ate whatever we could get our hands on, which was not much. If we were lucky, we were thrown an extra scrap of meat over which to fight, much to the sadistic enjoyment of Heres and Reas, Tarmo, and the other men who served them. We were the playthings of our masters, our treatment worse than the mangy hounds lying at the Estlanders' feet. Our skin seared in the summer sun and the biting cold of winter. Our nails cracked and bled. Our muscles ached. Our teeth fell out. We thinned and sickened. Yet still, we worked. And if we failed to work, or slowed in our toil, we felt the switch on our skin for our dereliction.
Only at the height of summer, when the market appeared again on Saaremaa, did some of us get a break from the backbreaking routine. Those among us who had been good were chosen to help Heres carry the iron billets to market, which was in no way a break from work. I, of course, was not always the most submissive thrall and so I never had the “honor” of accompanying our master to market.
It was clear that Heres cared little for our welfare, save for our ability to keep him and his family prospering from the iron we dug from the bog on his lands. The same held true for Reas. He saw his father's treatment of us and mimicked it, reveling in his ability — his power — to bring us low. I suppose this had something to do with his own low status in his household, for he had not yet earned the right to smelt the iron, a task that required great skill and for which Heres had others. To counteract his inferiority, he would target us with his sadistic whims. They were simple things, like a pebble in our shoe he would not allow us to remove. Or a thrall caught in a water hole he would not let us help. Or a switch to the back for working too slowly. It was incessant and infuriating, and random, and we could do nothing to protect ourselves from it.
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