Forged by Iron

by Eric Schumacher

  Life was harder than it had ever been, yet in the midst of our brutal plight, we managed to find moments of distraction. During the dark nights, we mended each other's wounds — those seen and those internal — or bathed each other discreetly with wet rags, or combed the tangles and lice from our hair. Olaf proved a gifted storyteller, recounting to us tales of heroes and kings and monsters that he had heard in his father's hall as we munched on berries or a morsel of frog found by Pipin that day.

  In the winter we snuggled tightly to keep warm, caring not about the smell of our bodies. Occasionally, when the wind kicked up and hid our sounds, we whispered jokes to each other and laughed until our emaciated sides hurt, or shared dirty secrets about the Estlanders, or plotted the escape that one day soon we would accomplish together. If we had the energy, which was rare, Olaf and I would grab sticks and brandish them like swords, practicing the moves my father had taught us, much to the wide-eyed wonder of the other thralls. Simple acts they were, yet critical, at least for me. They were the balm for my bitterness, keeping my temper in check when my body screamed to retaliate.

  Through it all, we grew from children to young adults. Though Olaf's seed had not yet spilled, dark hair grew on my chin and jaw, chest, and groin. My skin blemished and my voice cracked. Turid, too, changed, as did the bodies of the other girls. Soft mounds grew on their chests. Whatever softness clung to their youthful bodies fell away. Their faces became masks of guarded severity, like ice that forms over a waterfall. It pained me to see it so, though I understood it. Our bodies had become the product of our toil. As we stretched, our faces and physiques tightened, every muscle defined and chiseled by our pain, our labor, our malnutrition.

  Sadly, I was not the only man to note the changes in Turid or the other girls. Heres and his men saw them too and cast upon them their lecherous gazes — gazes that eventually transformed to comments and prods and gropes. It was one more indignity in a life of fleeting dignities and it all came to a head on a rest day in early autumn, one of the few rest days we had had that season.

  Most of the other thralls were down by the ocean, washing their clothes and bodies and resting in the sunshine. Olaf and I were lounging in the shade, casting stones at a target we had erected at the base of a nearby tree, when a yell suddenly rent the morning air, scattering birds into the sky. The two of us stopped our game and looked back toward our pit-house. The cry came again, only more muted this time. But in it I heard something familiar and so I scrambled to my feet and sprinted toward the thrall quarters. Olaf came behind me, and though he was smaller, he was faster and rushed ahead.

  He disappeared into the structure ten paces ahead of me. I arrived shortly thereafter and stopped at the door. In the murk stood Reas above a prone, half-dazed Turid. Her shift had been torn at the neckline. A trickle of blood dripped from her bottom lip. Reas held a knife in his hand, facing Olaf. My mind raced. Together, I knew Olaf and I could kill the bastard, but I knew, too, that we would die for it. I glanced at Olaf and watched as that mischievous smile crept onto his face.

  “Olaf, no,” I said in our Northern tongue.

  Reas scowled at me, and just then, Olaf moved. Though younger, he was just as tall as Reas and much faster. By the time Reas reacted to the threat, Olaf was a step away from him. Reas slashed wildly at Olaf with his knife, but Olaf blocked Reas's arm with his left hand, then punched the boy squarely in his left jaw, dropping him hard to the hay. His knife skittered away as he hit the ground. Olaf kicked the blade from Reas's reach and bent to grab Reas's collar.

  “What is happening here?” a voice boomed from behind us.

  We thralls moved away from Reas and stared wordlessly at our master.

  “What has happened here?” he repeated, this time with more ire and with his switch brandished in his fist.

  Reas sat up, rubbing his jaw, and pointed at Olaf. “He hit me.”

  “He was attacking Turid,” Olaf shot back.

  Heres's eyes moved for the first time to Turid, then back to Olaf. “I can kill you for striking my son, thrall.”

  Olaf shrugged. “You can try.”

  Heres did not take the bait but rather snorted and turned to his son. “Are you such a fool that you come to take with force that which is already yours? If you want her, you need only ask.” He looked as if he might say more, then he pointed to the knife. “Pick it up and take her to the house.” He turned to us. “Do not resist or you will suffer.”

  Reas grabbed his weapon, then reached for Turid's arm. She moved it away. We moved toward her to help but she held up a hand to us. “Do not. It will only make matters worse for us all.” And with those words, she followed Heres and Reas from the pit-house.

  We could only watch them go.

  Turid returned to us that night, walking slowly. She was dazed and bruised, both on her face and body. The other thralls stared at her as she walked silently to her mattress, looking only at the ground. Perchance the two other girls — Sigdag and Eydis — were wondering when a similar fate would befall them. Olaf and I moved to her, but she flinched and retreated and would not let us come close. Later, as the darkness deepened around us, I heard her soft sobs, and still, I could do nothing to help her.

  The following morning, Heres roused the thralls early and marched Olaf and me to a nearby stand of trees, where Reas waited with a thick stick. He was bending it between his hands, testing its strength and durability. Tarmo lifted my arms and tied my wrists to two separate trees so that I stood like Thor's hammer before the others. I did not try to resist — to do so, I knew, would only bring more pain.

  “Yesterday,” Heres explained to the thralls as I awaited my punishment, “two thralls attempted to interfere in the actions of my son. Interference of that nature will not be tolerated. You are all my property and will accept the words and actions of my men as if they have come from me. Is that clear?”

  The thralls mumbled their understanding. I looked at Turid, who gazed at me with tears in her eyes. I could say nothing to her to ease her distress and so I looked away and steeled myself for the pain I was about to endure.

  “This,” Heres continued as he motioned to me, “is their punishment.” He nodded to his son. “Proceed.”

  Reas's first stroke tore through my rough tunic and into my skin, opening a groove that would take months to fully heal. I winced and whimpered, but did not cry out. He struck again and I bit my lip until it bled, keeping my teary gaze on the ground, away from Olaf and Turid and the others, lest they see my weakness. Three more strikes and my back was a patchwork of bloody crisscrosses, my mind delirious from the searing agony. Tarmo untied my arms, and I collapsed to the ground. He kicked me clear of the space so he could bind Olaf's arms to the birch.

  Olaf fared worse than me. He was defiant and cursed Reas with each lashing, which only made him strike harder. By the seventh strike, Olaf had stopped his cursing and was spitting blood and saliva onto the dirt. Yet remarkably, he still had enough strength to remain on his feet.

  Reas snarled and drew the stick back to strike again, but Heres caught his arm. “That is enough. We need our thralls in the bog.” He untied Olaf's hands and let him drop to the ground like a corpse.

  Chapter 21

  Two more winters passed. Two more winters of toil and hardship, of longing and loneliness. Two more winters in which the gods shat upon us thralls while Heres, his family, and his men enjoyed the warmth of their high-timbered hall and the profits of our labor.

  Unless you were Turid, Eydis, or Sigdag.

  They endured a different fate that in many ways was worse than ours. Their burgeoning womanhood saved them from the bog and our cramped pit-house, but it did not save them from the beds of men. Of course, I was too engulfed in my own misery to truly grasp their particular brand of horror. All I saw was their transformation. They looked better rested, bathed, and groomed. Gone were their smelly, mud-caked shifts. Gone were the emaciated limbs. Unlike us, they no longer had the look of death upon them. Guardedne
ss, aye. Bitterness, certainly. But death, no. And that transformation enraged me.

  Occasionally, I would see Turid and our eyes would meet, but one of us would invariably turn away. I do not know why she hid from me, but I know why I could not gaze upon her. The gods help me, but the sight of her incensed me as much as it confused me. I was thankful for her well-being, but I was jealous of it too. My young mind could not grasp how violated she must feel. All I could think of was better rations, better sleep, and an occasional bath. If being the toy of women could guarantee me those things, I would do it gladly. Which begged the question: did she perform her new tasks readily, or did it sicken her to do so? To think on it tormented me, so much so that I began to go out of my way to avoid her.

  I saw a change in Egil, too. When his sister was finally pulled to the main hall, I think he took on his twin's pain with his own. He became bitter and pinched in expression. When spoken to, he answered in short, clipped responses. When our guards appeared, his malignant gaze followed them closely, as if he were trying to kill them with that look. A few of the guards finally took exception to him and beat him nearly to death, then tied him to a tree for a night. It did not cure him of his anger.

  When I confided in Olaf about my feelings, he just shrugged it off. It was early summer and we were working together as we had done for the past six summers, only now, Olaf's voice cracked with his newfound maturity. “You speak as if Turid has a choice in the matter. You know as well as I that to fight her duties is to be punished or killed.”

  “I know,” I responded sourly. “Still, it eats at me. As it eats at Egil. I can see him rotting from the inside out.”

  “It eats at me too, Torgil,” Olaf confided. “And one day, we will set it aright. These bastards will pay dearly for their cruelty.”

  After six long summers, I was no longer so hopeful, but I held my counsel on the matter.

  We returned that day from the bogs to find Heres waiting for us at the pit-house. “Five days hence,” he announced in the Estland tongue when we were assembled, “begins the market on Saaremaa. We had a good haul from the bog these past months, so I will need two of you to assist us.”

  As I mentioned, this task normally fell to the thrall who had caused the least havoc over the previous three seasons. It offered a break from the monotony of our digging, so we all wanted to go, though Heres normally chose only one of us. Our rule-follower, Herkus, was oft chosen, though Raban and Egil had also gone. Being bigger troublemakers, Olaf, Pipin, and I were overlooked. Still, the prospect excited us and so we all listened closely to Heres's words in the hope that one of us would get lucky.

  “This summer, I will take Raban and Olaf.”

  I whooped involuntarily and clasped my friend's shoulder, receiving a captious gaze and frown from Heres. Olaf grinned at my joy and mayhap at his own luck, then quickly sobered, lest his chance to go was revoked by our master.

  “Over the coming days, you will all help load the ship.”

  When our master was gone, I pulled Olaf aside and spoke a thought that had jumped into my head. It was a delicate topic but one I felt compelled to say. “If you get the chance to escape, take it,” I whispered to him. “Get to your uncle, if he still lives.”

  Olaf studied me with his blue eyes. “I cannot leave you or Turid. You know that.”

  I knew he would say that and was ready with a reply. “Then come back for us when you have the means and rescue us.”

  He was about to respond when Reas tossed me a bowl for the night meal. Olaf turned to catch his.

  “You must,” I said quickly, then moved away to get my food.

  Four days later, we walked together with Heres's household to the shore. Heres was there already, making a final examination of the boat and its oars. Those men headed to the market with him were saying their farewells to their comrades and family members. I clasped Olaf on the shoulder and whispered to him, “Remember my words, Olaf.”

  He nodded. “Keep well,” he said with a glance in my direction and a slight smile. Then he moved to the ship and climbed aboard.

  As there were many people milling about on the shore, I took the opportunity to seek out Turid. I knew not what I would say to her, only that I must say something. It had been two summers since we had spoken and despite my anger at her, I felt the need to at least acknowledge her. Mayhap it would help quell my ill feelings.

  I found her on the fringes of the gathering, standing with Eydis as she watched Olaf settle himself in a spot on the ship's deck beside Raban. I snuck up behind her, for I feared she might try to avoid me if she saw me coming.

  “You look well,” I said into her left ear.

  Startled, she partially spun and, seeing my face, blushed and turned away. In that quick glance, I saw the bruise on her left cheek and the cut on her brow, and my stomach twisted.

  “Do not move away,” I whispered quickly, trying to get the words out before I lost her again. “I wished only to greet you. It has been some time since last we spoke.”

  “I know,” she said. She kept her face averted.

  “My hope is that they are treating you well, Turid, but I can see that is not the case. I am sorry.”

  She snorted bitterly “They plump me up, just like their pigs, so that they can justify beating me when they spread their seed.”

  “At least they feed you,” I replied sourly before I could stop the words.

  She glared at me, red now from anger rather than embarrassment. “A curse on you, Torgil,” she seethed. “I would rather starve to death than have one of those bastards force himself on me again.”

  Her words were like a slap to my face, and I struggled to apologize. Unlike Olaf, who could spin words like the Norns could spin thread, I was clumsy with language. She did not wait for my lame apology but shouldered past me. I stared at her retreating back for a long moment, feeling utterly foolish, then turned my eyes back to the departing ship.

  At least it would have no harsh words for me.

  The ship returned nearly a fortnight later, during the day. We thralls who had been in the bogs noticed the men and activity as soon as we shuffled into the settlement for our night meal. Raban was there, eating from a bowl in the fading light. Near him were four children — three boys and one girl — looking frightened and dirty, the more so when they saw us thralls appear with our bog-caked skin and dirty clothes. They looked so young, and yet, they were probably as old as I when I first arrived.

  One of our master's men handed us a bowl and a cup of water as we returned, but I did not take mine. Instead, I moved to the pit-house door and opened it, finding myself almost giddy with the prospect of Olaf's return.

  Except he was not there.

  Nonplussed, I moved to the privy, thinking to find him occupied, but he was not there either. Concern began to creep up my spine as I returned to the front of the pit-house where the others now ate. I ignored their prying eyes and approached Raban.

  Before I could even ask, Raban babbled something in his thick Prussian accent that sounded like, “If it is Olaf you seek, the lucky bastard is gone.”

  “What?” I asked, thinking I had misheard.

  “Gone,” he repeated the one word. “Olaf is gone.”

  A wave of panic washed over me, for that one word could have many meanings, most of them bad. “Gone?”

  “Aye,” Raban said as he flashed me a toothless smile. “Gone. A man came to him in the market and asked him his name. A lord, he was, this man. He asked Olaf his name,” Raban repeated, “then the names of his kin. Must have seen something in the boy that was familiar to him.” He shrugged. “Anyway, he purchased Olaf's freedom on the spot. Right there. Handed Heres a sack of silver coins. Paid more for him than he was worth, in my opinion. But still, paid for him he did. A sack of silver. One moment Olaf was a thrall, and the next, he was not.” Raban barked a laugh and shook his head. “Lucky bastard.”

  I could barely believe the words I was hearing and for a long moment thought Raban's
flatulence might have traveled to his mouth. It had to be some sort of jest. I looked at the others now, who were chattering excitedly at the news, then at our guards, thinking that I would find the lie of it in one of their faces. I must have been shaking my head as I searched, for Raban pointed at me. “No amount of head shaking is going to change my tale, Torgil. He is free. Gone from here.”

  “What man freed him? Do you remember his name?” I asked.

  Raban shrugged. “I know not. Though judging from the price he paid for Olaf and the size of his ship resting in the harbor, I could tell he was important. A lord from somewhere.”

  “Try to remember,” I urged him quietly, lest the guards overhear my talk. “Was his name Sigurd?”

  Again, Raban shrugged.

  “And he freed Olaf? You are sure of that? He did not just buy him to do his thrall work?”

  “Of that I am certain,” Raban said. “Heres cut Olaf's collar from him right there on the spot. Like I said, one moment he was a thrall and the next, a free lad.”

  I was stunned, and yet I had no time to process the information, for one of the guards blurted, “Back to your shit-house!” They had called our pit-house that for as long as I could remember, and the name still made them chuckle. We, of course, were immune to the name by that point and shuffled wordlessly to our mattresses. Herkus ushered the children to their new beds, where they sat in wide-eyed silence.

  I lay down and stared at the moldy thatch above me, ignoring the chatter and questions that flew about the pit-house about Olaf and his release. It must be Sigurd. Who else could it be? Erik, Astrid's father? It was possible, but less likely. He would not waste his time on his daughter when he had sons.

  In the end, it did not matter. What mattered was that Olaf was gone. I suppose I should have been overjoyed at my friend's release, but I found myself vexed by his departure and grieving the loss of a vital part of me and my life. Even though I had told him what I expected, I had not truly believed he would leave us behind. And yet he had, and now we were alone.