I make my way reluctantly across the muddy livestock pen, nose wrinkling at the overpowering stench of animal waste. A small flock of scrawny chickens scratches listlessly in the bare dirt, pecking for insects around dried patties of manure. They look relatively healthy, if a bit underfed.
Eight hens, one rooster, and a nesting box with a few brown-speckled eggs confirm that we at least have a steady supply of protein from their output. Not exactly living in luxury, but better than abject poverty if these fowl provide extra income along with feeding the family.
Of course that assumes Oisin doesn't drink away all earnings from selling eggs and dressed birds at market. I wouldn't put it past the dolt to trade an entire season's worth of flock reproduction for a few jugs of ale...
I push open the crooked gate to the pen, keeping a wary eye on the irritable rooster perched atop the fence. He ruffles his feathers menacingly but seems content merely to observe my progress with beady black eyes.
The wooden feed trough stands empty save for a few stray oats and kernels littering the bottom. I peer inside, then over my shoulder call out, "Mama, the chicken feed bin is near empty! Where's their feed kept?"
Aislin appears in the doorway, hands dusty with ashes from the hearth. "There should be a sack of oats in the cellar still. I'll fetch it out front for ye, Lile."
She disappears into the shadowed interior. I wait, scuffing my bare toes in the muck crusted over everything, manure stench assaulting my nose. The rooster watches me like a vulture waiting for some poor animal to expire.
A minute later Aislin reemerges lugging a burlap sack nearly as big as herself. She drags it through the hovel doorway and over to the pen gate. "Here ye are, lass. This should last the week."
I take the heavy sack from her hands with a small grunt of effort. The rough material scrapes my tender palms and I can feel individual oat grains poking through the weave. "Thank ye, Mama," I say politely with a deferential dip of my head. No need to seem an ungrateful cur.
I upend the burlap sack over the wooden trough, releasing a cascade of oats that pours in a gritty rush. The chickens instantly mob the feed bin, jostling wings and pecking fiercely at each other in ruthless competition. Their frenzy kicks up small clouds of dust that swirl through the slanted morning light.
I wrinkle my nose at their mindlessly voracious shoving and scratching. Revolting creatures. Yet we rely on their fecundity for survival here. I must support Mother in managing these fowl, even if they are vile witless beasts.
As they gorge themselves in a feathered frenzy, I move toward the wooden pail sitting beneath a trickle of water from the barn's rain catch. The bucket is encrusted with ancient chicken shit and algae blooms, its fetid contents swarming with writhing larvae. I gag, grasping it with both hands to dump the revolting liquid and scrub away some of the gunk with a handful of straw.
Once refilled, I lug the sloshing pail back to their pen. The chickens are still engrossed in violent competition over spilled grains. I take the opportunity to stealthily check for eggs, creeping into the coop on silent bare feet.
Eleven speckled ovals sit nestled in the foul straw! I grin and carefully transfer them to my tucked-up skirts, cradling the fragile bounty. Their smooth warmth seeps through the coarse weave. Not bad for one morning's yield.
Phew! That wretched rooster left me be, thank the Lord! My scrawny legs likely wouldn't survive a slashing from his wretched spurs. These stringy chicken limbs can barely support my weight as is. I shall have to sneak about on cat feet collecting eggs from now on to avoid a beaking.
I carefully gather up my grimy skirts, cradling the still-warm bounty inside. Eleven speckled ovals sit nestled against my bony chest. Their smoothness proves a small comfort amidst the coarseness of my daily existence trapped in this waif's body. I treasure the fragile shells and the new life waiting to emerge...so unlike the bleak brutality of my own rebirth into squalor.
Would that I could crack open these eggs and become a mother hen nurturing the chicks within instead of the confused spirit I am, adrift in time. At least the wee fluffy babes would accept me as their caretaker without question. Not like this stranger Aislin who birthed the body I now inhabit. I must pretend affection for her still unfamiliar form, never betraying my secrets...
What in blue blazes am I doing? Have I sunk so low that I'm actually starting to enjoy performing these menial peasant tasks like some indentured Cinderella? Pretty soon I'll be breaking out in song while I sweep ashes and scrub diarrhea out of my hovel's dirt floors. Bibbidi-bobbidi-bullshit!
At least I didn't upend the eggs into my begging bowl to be scrambled up for breakfast. Let's hear it for small miracles, folks! Though I'm sure if I wandered the village cracking my haul over every starving peasant's head, by the end I'd have enough ingredients for a sizable omelette. Maybe even an egg white frittata if I got really creative with the beatings! Humpty Dumpty would be jealous of all these free range options.
I carefully set the basket in the corner, nestling my haul in the hay. Not exactly the golden goose, but hey - a freckled quail egg is better than a kick in the arse! Now no one can accuse me of being a good-for-nothing louse bait. I've earned my daily gruel!
...What is Mother up to by the smoldering embers? Some new recipe for flavoring our gruel perhaps? I wander over, bare feet recoiling from the slimy dirt floor. Peering into the blackened pot, I catch the eye watering stench of vinegar. My nose wrinkles in dismay.
"Mama, whyever are ye boiling vinegar in the cook pot?" I ask. "The fumes are overwhelming! Are we to drink this for the humor balance or some such?"
Aislin glances up from stirring the bubbling concoction, waving away the coiling steam. "Nay, lass, 'tis for scrubbin' out this filthy hovel. The grime has become ungodly. I aim to scour every surface till the floorboards shine!"
I gape at her in bafflement. Surely she jests? These cracked mud walls and dirt floors shine? The most one could hope for is reducing the top layer of accumulated filth to a slightly lighter shade of brown. But vinegar is a good start...
"But Mama," I protest, "how can ye possibly cleanse a dung heap woven from straw and sticks? This place was built from crud itself! Why not craft a new hovel from fresh lumber?"
Aislin snorts at my suggestion. "And where would we get coin for such fripperies, child? Every copper must go to the king's men on the morrow." Her face tightens with bitterness. "Useless to dream of castles when we dwell in squalor."
I fall silent at the stark truth in her words. In this era of serfdom, peasants cannot hope to better their situation, only endure. What small comforts can I realistically provide this woman chained by society's strictures? For now, only the illusion of a biddable daughter.
"May I help ye scour then, Mama?" I ask brightly. "Betwixt us both, we can make this hovel the envy of the village!"
Aislin smiles wearily, stroking my tangled hair with work-roughened fingers. "Ah, yer a good lass, Lile. Here now, take this brush and start on that wall afore the vinegar boils dry."
How do I even know these complex words like "betwixt"? Surely this waif I'm inhabiting now is bleeding into my own memory passively somehow. I must take care not to let such advanced vocabulary slip out in front of Aislin or others. They would surely think me touched in the head or possessed by demons!
Yet I cannot shake the uncanny sensation that this child's very essence permeates my spirit, granting me inexplicable familiarity with her peasant dialect and mannerisms. When Aislin speaks to me, the lilting words flow effortlessly from my tongue without conscious thought. I comprehend our conversations as easily as my native English.
It feels akin to inheriting a lifetime of linguistic immersion from some phantom benefactor lodged within my skull. How else to explain this waif's vocabulary and phrases creeping stealthily into my own? I dig my fingers fiercely into my scalp, seeking clarity amidst the creeping dread. There must be a rational explanation why I, an educated modern man by all indications, can now chatter away in ancient Irish brogue without puzzlement. Why I instinctively know to fetch eggs and feed fowl despite retaining not a single scrap of my own girlhood.
This growing sense of displacement chilling my bones has naught to do with the frigid drafts gusting through cracks in the crude walls. Nay, 'tis some spectral usurper slowly supplanting my essence with its own - one memory, one word at a time. I am haunted by a wraith, the lingering ghost of the waif whose flesh and bone I now inhabit. It knows this world, this era. I am the interloper here. The one who does not belong.
How long before I forget myself entirely?
Aislin glances up from scrubbing a particularly stubborn patch of grime caked onto the dirt floor. "My, those are mighty big words for a little lass to be usin', Lile! I'm glad to see ye expandin' yer vocabulary so well."
My cheeks flush as I realize my mistake. "Oh...I heard some men in the village talkin' that way," I mumble, widening my eyes innocently. "Didn't know they was fancy words!"
"No matter, poppet." Aislin smiles indulgently before resuming her vigorous scouring, tendrils of hair escaping her linen headscarf. "Best we focus on gettin' this floor presentable afore yer father returns come dusk."
Fuck me, that was close.
"Lile, be a good lass and start scrubbin' them walls now," Mother says briskly, handing me a filthy rag. "I aim to scour this hovel top to bottom afore nightfall."
I take the foul scrap of fabric between thumb and forefinger, lip curling at the crusty stains. "But Mama, I was gonna play with the chickens," I whine, widening my eyes pleadingly. "The little yellow fuzzballs are ever so cute when they tumble about!"
Mother plants her fists on her hips, glaring sternly. "We've a full day's work ahead, young lady, and I'll not be havin' my own daughter lollygaggin' about whilst I toil!" She points to a cracked section of mud wall. "Now start scrubbin' afore I take a switch to yer hide, lazy imp!"
My shoulders slump dejectedly. "Yes Mama," I mumble, scuffing the dirt floor as I shuffle to the designated wall. With a gusty sigh, I halfheartedly rub the filthy rag over the hardened surface, flakes of mud crumbling away to reveal rough wattle beneath.
We work in silence for several minutes save for the crackling hearth fire. As I scrub listlessly at the neverending grime, the stench of vinegar from Mother's efforts burning my throat, she suddenly asks, "Lile, are ye feelin' quite well today? Yer awful quiet, starey-eyed and idle over there."
I blink up at her in surprise before recalling my little girl pretense. "I guess so, Mama," I say uncertainly. "My head's itchy again is all." To demonstrate, I vigorously rake my nails across my scalp, scraping away dried blood and scabs from previous scratching.
Mother tsks in sympathy, halting her own scrubbing. "Ah, them wretched lice bedevil ye so, my poor lamb!" She peers closely at my tangled hair, spying eggs and crawling insects amidst the blonde skeins. Shaking her head, she sighs. "I wish to Heaven I could crush some garlic into a paste to banish the nasty things. But we've barely enough left to flavor our gruel, more's the pity."
I nod glumly. "Will I have crawlies in my hair forever, Mama?" My lower lip quivers pathetically for effect.
Aislin pulls me into a swift embrace, the faint scent of her unwashed body almost comforting in its familiarity. "There now, poppet, dinna fash. We'll find a way to defeat those wicked beasties, sure as Domhnaigh." She strokes my hair gently before releasing me with a tired smile. "Now back to scrubbin' afore yer father returns."
"There now, that floor almost looks habitable," Mother says with satisfaction, tossing her filthy scrub brush into the bucket of murky vinegar water. She surveys the main room appraisingly, hands on hips. "Could still use more work, but 'twill suffice for the tax collectors on the morrow."
I glance around dubiously at the damp dirt and flattened rushes comprising our floor. Habitable seems a rather generous assessment for such primitive "improvements" but I know better than to argue.
Mother claps her hands briskly. "Right then! On to tackle that wretched garden before the weeds choke what pathetic crops remain." She moves toward the warped door, beckoning me. "Come along, Lile!"
My shoulders slump dejectedly at thought of more tedious labor. "But Mama, I wanted to play with the baby chicks," I whine, jutting out my lower lip.
Mother halts, slowly turning to face me with narrowed eyes and thinned lips. She plants both hands firmly on her hips.
"Young lady, I'll not have ye lollygagging about whilst there's work yet to finish," she says sternly. "Them wee fuzzballs will still be there come eventide. But them crops need tendin' now afore they're past savin'!"
"Yes Mama," I mumble, scuffing the still-damp dirt floor with one grubby toe. "It's just...pullin' weeds is so boring!" I peek up at her hopefully. "I wanna have fun instead!"
Aislin heaves a long-suffering sigh, briefly closing her eyes as if in prayer for patience. "Oh child, ye try my soul at times, truly ye do." She fixes me with a gimlet stare. "I'll not warn ye again. Now march yerself out to that garden this instant afore I take a switch to yer backside for willful disobedience!"
"Okay okay, I'm goin'!" I raise both hands in surrender and shuffle toward the exit, head bowed. But I can't resist one parting grumble. "Weeds are stupid anyway..."
Mother makes a strangled noise of frustration. "Keep up that sass and ye'll feel my hand next, young lady! Now get movin' afore I count to three!"
I quickly scamper outside, bare feet recoiling from scratchy weeds and prickly stems assaulting my tender soles.
"Come along then, Lile! No more dawdlin'!" Mother calls over her shoulder as she steps through the warped wooden door. I follow reluctantly outside, bare feet recoiling from scratchy weeds and prickly stems assaulting my tender soles.
Our small garden occupies a patch of rocky soil along the livestock pen's fence line. Crooked rows contain onions, cabbage, carrots and turnips in various states of maturity. Some plants appear healthy enough, thriving in the late summer sun. Others are choked by weeds nearly as tall as me.
Mother hands me a rough sack. "Start pullin' them nasty weeds while I check the cabbage for beetles."
I take the sack with a long-suffering sigh. "Do I gotta, Mama? This dress will get all dirty and my hands will get ouchies from the prickles!"
Mother fixes me with a stern look. "Young lady, ye'll do as yer told or feel my hand next! This toil is necessary for puttin' food in our bellies come winter."
"But why do I need to learn stupid girly stuff like gardenin'?" I whine. "I wanna go play instead!"
Mother straightens, frowning. "Mind that sassy tongue, Lile Ban! Yer a young woman, not some wild creature runnin' loose. Time ye learned proper skills for managin' a household and pleasurin' yer future husband like a good Christian wife ought."
My nose wrinkles in distaste. "Husband? Yuck!"
Mother laughs softly. "Oh poppet, ye'll change yer tune soon enough when yer blood starts flowin', sure as Domhnaigh."
She gestures for me to start weeding. I slowly kneel in the dirt, gingerly grasping a woody stem between thumb and forefinger. Ugh, this is awful!
"But why's it only girls gotta do the hard stuff?" I ask sullenly. "Ain't it unfair?"
Mother blinks. "Unfair? 'Tis simply the natural order of things." She shakes her head.
She points a calloused finger at me. "Now ye listen close, Lile Ban. The Lord made women and men differently for good reason. 'Tis our duty as wives to serve our husbands, mind the house, and raise babes. Them menfolk work themselves ragged in field and forge to provide for us. So we must repay their efforts with warm hearths, full bellies and Christian obedience."
Is she seriously lecturing me about some mythical man in the sky dictating gender roles? I scowl down at the weeds, viciously ripping up a handful.
"But what if I don't wanna husband, Mama?" I glance up pleadingly. "What if I just wanna...I dunno, go on adventures and stuff?"
Mother presses her lips together in that familiar expression of strained patience. "Oh child, such fanciful notions will bring ye only sorrow. Best accept yer womanly duties gracefully."
She smiles then, a touch sadly. "Why, I'll teach ye meself how to be a proper wife in God's eyes. How to mend, spin, cook, tend animals...and yes, pleasure yer husband too when the time comes."
I gag at the thought of "pleasuring" any man, let alone some unwashed medieval peasant.
Mother misinterprets my disgust. "Oh I know it sounds frightful as a maid. But 'tis a wife's sacred duty to accept her husband gladly into her marriage bed." Her eyes take on a dreamy cast. "And if ye truly love the man God chooses for ye, those wifely obligations become a joyful blessing..."
"Ew gross, Mama!" I stick out my tongue. "I ain't never gettin' married!"
Mother laughs again. "Ah, ye say that now, stubborn child. But just wait..."[...]