1 Daily Chores

Isla

The mornings were still chilly in the spring; small patches of snow remained in the dark shadows of the woods. I dug through a patch of the snow in the Black Woods to get to the cold root of the black tree. As the snow melted and the ground warmed up, I will have to dig deeper to get what I need.

I feel the cold prick of the spike that only occurred when the roots were cold. Holding the root, I recite the blessing and thank the tree for its sacrifice. Grabbing the knife out of the sheath on my belt, I cut off a spike and then covered the root back up with the dirt and snow.

After slicing off a thin strip of the root to chew on, I put the rest of the root in my pouch and sheathed my blade. Standing up, I brush off my kirtle and head back to the house. I stop a few times to get some wild herbs, placing them in the basket that I brought. Once back at the house, I go into the small chicken yard next to the barn.

Opening the two small doors, I hear the chickens inside moving around. I open the larger door and step inside, shooing the chickens out so that I can gather the eggs. Walking back out, I see the rooster on the top of the high fence. I’ll need to catch him and trim his wings again. The last thing that I need is that asshole getting in with the hens and fertilizing eggs.

He complains loudly as I shoo him off the fence and cross the yard to the house. Stepping into the house, I hang the thin cloak on the peg and slip off my muddy shoes. The cold of the floor seeps through the wool socks on my feet.

Without my shoes, I shuffle slightly due to my left leg being slightly shorter than the right. About a month after I moved in with my father and his family, Gretta pushed me down the stairs. The fall did not kill me, much to their disappointment, but it did break my leg.

The healer splinted my leg and said that I should stay off it for at least a fortnight. Since that did not happen, my leg is now twisted slightly and a little shorter. There was never an apology or remorse. I gave up expecting any type of sympathy or kindness from them.

Unlike my *twin sister, I only have two pairs of shoes, and I have modified them both to even out my legs. I have the pair that I wear outside in the muddy animal yard and in the woods. My nice pair of shoes are reserved for when we have company. Since we moved here, they have had to admit that I am part of the family. But only when they are forced to.

My hope is that one of their guests will offer me to come work for them. I don’t expect anyone to make an offer of marriage to me. Maybe to my *sister, but not to me.

Binding the new herbs, I hang them to dry. This is just one of the many things that I do that Gretta would never do. As I get the bread bowl and flour, I try to imagine her doing menial labor. I can’t help but chuckle as I scoop flour into the wooden bowl.

Gretta is the bastard daughter of my father, born two days after I was born to his wife. My mother died the same day that I was born. Grandmother told me that she had to wait for him to come home to tell him that his wife was dead. It had been an arranged marriage, and my parents did not love each other. At least one of them had been faithful, it had not been my father.

Father left me with Grandmother and made himself a new family in a different village. Three years ago, Grandmother died and the jarl sent me to my father. My appearance messed up their perfect family. We moved to a new village where Gretta and I were introduced as twins. We both look too much like our father to pretend that I was not his child.

I mix the rest of the dry ingredients in the wooden bowl, stirring them with my fingers. Using the wooden spoon, I scoop out some lard from the lidded bucket that I use to store it in. The last ingredients to go in are honey and water.

Still using my fingers, I mix the dough together in the bowl. Spreading out some flour on the wooden board, I turn the dough out and knead it before flattening it out. Using the kitchen knife, I cut the bread into squares and prick the thin dough to help it cook evenly. Once the biscuits are on the flat stone above the fire, I wash off my hands and the vegetables that I gathered from the garden yesterday.

By the time the biscuits are done, so are the potatoes, leeks, strips of pork and eggs that are all scrambled together. The biscuits go on a wooden serving platter while the eggs and vegetables are scooped into a large wooden bowl. The family is gathering at the table in the dining hall as I bring breakfast out of the kitchen.

“Isla, you’re running late,” mother complains as I set the food on the table.

“I’m sorry, Mother.” But I’m really not. There is nothing that I can do that she will approve of. I could shit gold bricks, and she would complain that they did not have any jewels.

Father sits at the head of the table, and my sister and three younger brothers take their seats. There is no place for me at the table, so I go back into the kitchen to scrape the leftover egg mix into a wooden bowl. Leaning against the worktable, I eat my meager meal alone.

After the meal is complete, I gather the dishes and take them to the kitchen to wash. Once that is done, I slip on my muddy shoes and go about my chores for the day. While my sister sits with her mother in the solarium working on needlecrafts, the boys train with Father with the horses and swords.

Meanwhile, I feed the animals, trim the rooster’s wings, muck the barn, and tend to the kitchen garden. As the sun shines high above, I go back to the kitchen to make the midday meal. Stoking the fire, I heat the stew, adding more vegetables and some more meat. There is enough bread left from breakfast that I don’t need to make more. I mix some herbs and butter with honey to smear on the bread and take everything out to the table.

Pain radiates from my leg, but I cannot slow down. Cannot show the pain. This will make them happy. They like to make me miserable and I refuse to give them any more pleasure from my pain and misery.

“Isla.” Gretta smiles at me with that perfect smile of hers. “I need you to wash my pink dress for tonight. We’re going to have dinner at the manor house.”

Nodding, I tell her that I’ll take care of it as I go back to the kitchen to eat my own stew. I do not ask about going because I know that I’m not invited. The fact that I don’t ask about going or object to the extra tasks that are now being given to me, irritates her. This I do get a little pleasure from.

Her dress is cleaned and pressed, and I haul hot water up to the bathtub. While my stepmother and sister have their baths, I heat the curling rods and then style their hair. I’ve heard the rumors too. The old jarl’s son is traveling across his lands, inspecting his properties, and searching for a wife.

Gretta can have him; I just want a decent meal and a fire to sleep by.

They all load up in the wagon and leave. By the time I empty the bathtub, my leg is stiff from being worked too much. Putting extra salve on to hide the mark on my arm, I wrap a thick strip of wool around it to hold the salve in place. Dragging my leg, I make my way to the hot spring in the woods.

Stripping off my clothes, I slip into the water and let the heat and minerals do their thing. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes and relax. I must have drifted off because *they come to me in my dreams. The scarred dragons that are hunting my mark.

The hoot of an owl wakes me, and I have to wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness around me. Once I can see, I climb out of the pool and quickly dress. Thankfully, the mark on my arm is still covered.  I move as quickly as I can back to the house. Before going inside, I herd the chickens back into their protective house and check that the barn is secure.

If I am dreaming of the dragons, that means they can sense me. I spent too much time in the water and washed off my protections. Inside the root cellar, I sit on my thin palette of blankets and cover my body in the perfume that will mask my scent.

After a silent meal by myself, I clean up the kitchen, leaving the remaining stew over the smoldering coals in the fireplace. In my small room by the kitchen, I pull out my grandmother’s book. Long after the sun has set, and my tallow candle burns low, I close my eyes and find sleep.