Aislin turns from the hearth, hope kindling in her sunken eyes. "Oisin, we ought at least let the man see Lile. He might pay a fortune for our girl if he thinks her the very image of his lost Brigitte restored to him!"
She dares to lay a trembling hand on Oisin's thick forearm. "And wi' those coins, ye could take a new young wife to birth proper sons!"
Oisin shakes her off with a derisive snort. "Enough foolishness from ye addled women! This Colm enticed by peasant stock nor squallin' whelps."
He spits contemptuously on the dirt floor again. "The girl's worth naught but the lowest bridal price, and I'll get not a copper more."
My cheeks burn at his callous words even as desperation swells inside me. "But Papa, I want to be Colm's wife, not some stinky peasant boy's! Why can't you ask him to look at me at least?"
I stomp my foot angrily, all pretense of meekness gone. "It's not fair you never let me choose anything! I hate you!"
Aislin makes a distressed noise, clasping my shoulder warningly. But Oisin just barks another harsh laugh. "There's that cursed unbiddable Ban blood risin' swift as storm clouds, eh!"
Oisin takes another long swig before wiping his scruffy beard with the back of one meaty hand. "Very well, enough wheedlin' from ye addled women. I'll speak to this healer on the morrow when next he passes through the village."
I clap my hands excitedly. "Oh thank you Papa! I just know Colm will take one look at my yellow eyes and think me a fairy changeling!"
I dance in a circle, blonde hair flying. "He'll pay fifty silvers for his magical wee bride, you'll see! We'll live in a grand timber hall with fur blankets and eat smoked boar!"
Oisin snorts, taking another swig of sour ale. "I'll be blessed if the fool offers even five coppers for scrawny stock like yers. But the hour grows late and I'm tired of yer foolish prattlin'."
He belches loudly, wiping his mouth with the back of one broad hand. "This Colm can look his fill tomorrow when I've concluded my own business. Now leave me be, whelp."
Aislin sinks to her knees on the hard-packed dirt floor, pressing her forehead against Oisin's mud-crusted boots. "Husband, I'm overcome by yer mercy showin' the healer our little lass," she gushes effusively. "Why, 'tis the answer to all me prayers lately!"
She embraces his legs, tears of gratitude streaming down her smudged cheeks. "Oh thank ye, husband, thank ye! Sweet heaven itself will smile on ye for this act of Christian charity!"
Oisin aims a half-hearted kick in her direction. "Enough snivellin' woman, yer stainin' me breeches! Just pray this Colm ent a complete lack-wit taken by the fancy of beddin' a child."
He drains the last of his ale before crushing the clay jug under one heavy boot. "Now quit yer bawlin' and serve me supper. I'm famished after slavin' away so you women can eat."
Aislin bows even lower, pressing her cracked lips to his filthy feet in supplication. "Yes, husband, right away! I swear you'll have naught but the finest meal my humble hands can manage this night!"
Still sniffling gratefully, she scrambles to fill Oisin's wooden bowl with steaming pottage and shredded rabbit meat. As he shovels the food into his mouth, broth dribbling through his tangled beard, Aislin continues murmuring fervent prayers of thanks under her breath...
I can't believe Mother groveled at Oisin's mud-caked feet, her whispered prayers of gratitude intermingling with barely stifled sobs. Never have I witnessed a woman so utterly crushed in spirit, so devoid of any shred of dignity or self-worth. She actually thanks this rancid piss-bucket for showing the same basic decency most men would extend to a lame horse! As if not whoring out your prepubescent daughter merits saintly accolades rather than being the absolute fucking minimum standard of morality!
And he still presumes to act so goddam high and mighty, lording over us "addled women" like some feudal fucking king granting royal boons from his throne of turnips rather than a slack-jawed drunk who probably has goat shit for brains! Even semi-evolved cavemen knew not to piss where they ate, drank or fucked. Yet this rotten turnip-humping bastard fails on all three counts judging by the eye-watering stench pervading every inch of this foul hovel. No wonder Mother's womb ejects his rancid seed if his idea of foreplay is farting in her face after a night guzzling fermented diarrhea behind the pigsty!
God almighty, how can she abase herself so utterly to this reprehensible sack of shit? Have decades of beatings and bone-grinding labor so crushed her spirit that she lost all memory of dignity or selfhood? Does she truly believe her only value now lies between her legs, endlessly breeding heirs for Oisin's ambitions - or failing that, earning him coin on her back servicing every poxy ploughboy in Christendom?
Fuck me sideways, I'd sooner claw my own cunt out with rusty garden tools than degrade myself thus! Yet here Mother grovels happily, ready to kiss the unwashed scrotum of any passing pedophile if his silver might secure my future. And still she spares not a thought for her own sorry lot - only tearful prayers of thanks that I might escape someday.
Jesus wept...I cannot stand this madness one moment longer! I don't care if I must burn this entire piss-reeking hovel down and piss on the ashes - I swear to almighty God that I WILL save this woman from further debasement! She wants me safely wed? So be it. I'll spread my thighs gladly for this healer Colm if his seed can purchase Mother's freedom too. But after I've secured our escape, I'll return to slaughter that shit-eating peasant Oisin like the pig he is and leave his corpse for the fucking crows! No one brutalizes this woman and lives, goddammit!!
Oisin shovels down the last few mouthfuls of rabbit stew before pushing his bowl away with a belch. He rises unsteadily to his feet, swaying, then lumbers toward the doorway leading to the cramped sleeping quarters.
"Best be another jug of ale waitin' for me when I wake, woman," he slurs over his shoulder. "A hard workin' man deserves proper drink after a long day."
Without waiting for Aislin's murmured assent, he disappears into the dim chamber. A moment later, the creak and rustle of straw announces his collapse upon the filthy pallet. His thunderous snores soon echo through the cramped dwelling.
"There now, he'll be dead to the world for hours betwixt the drink and exhaustion," Aislin says under her breath. She turns to me with a wan smile.
"Come sit by me, lamb. Let's share what's left afore it goes cold."
She ladles the last bit of rabbit stew from the blackened pot into two wooden bowls and carries them to the crude plank table. I slide gingerly onto the rough bench across from her, grimacing at the crusty remnants of past meals coating the scarred surface.
To my surprise, the tender meat and savory broth prove flavorful, with the potatoes and carrots lending a pleasant sweetness. After days of choking down gruel and rock-hard black bread, this peasant pottage seems fit for a king's table. I spoon every precious drop into my mouth, licking the bowl clean when finished.
Aislin watches me with tired amusement. "There now, no need to bolt it down like 'tis yer last, a chuisle. We've bellies full and a roof overhead tonight."
She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand with her own rough, work-worn one. "And I'm grateful my Lile kept her temper when Oisin was at his worst. Ye make this old woman proud, child."
I duck my head, cheeks warming at her praise.
"Woman! Get yer bony arse in here!" Oisin's slurred bellow echoes from the sleeping quarters. "Been three days since ye worked me right proper. I aim to plow that furrow good tonight!"
Aislin flinches, resignation etching itself across her prematurely lined face. She lays a gentle hand on my shoulder, murmuring "Lile, be a good lass now and wait here while I...attend yer father."
I watch mutely as she rises from the crude plank bench and moves toward the doorway with slow, dragging steps. Her gaunt frame seems to fold in on itself, shoulders hunching as if anticipating a blow. She hesitates on the threshold to the sleeping quarters, silhouette limned by flickering firelight. For an instant Aislin appears a tragic specter glimpsed between worlds - neither fully present here in this wretched hovel, nor able to escape to better realms.
My heart aches fiercely at the abject surrender in her posture. "But why's Papa so mean to ye, Mama?" I whisper plaintively, no longer caring if my speech seems too sophisticated. "Ain't husbands and wives supposed to love each other like the Bible says?"
Aislin glances back, surprise mingling with sorrow in her faded blue eyes. She attempts a wavering smile that seems more akin to a grimace. "One day ye'll understand, lamb. A wife's duty ent always pleasant, but 'tis ordained by Heaven."
She crosses herself with a trembling hand. "I shall endure what I must to protect ye."
With those bleak words she turns away, back rigid as any martyr ascending the scaffold.
The sounds of their coupling - grunts, flesh striking flesh - echo through the cramped dwelling. Bile scorches my throat as guttural masculine groans rise to a bestial peak followed by panting silence. I stare sightlessly at the warped wooden door taunting me to escape, pulse thundering in my ears.
An eternity seems to crawl by before Aislin emerges from the sleeping quarters. She moves gingerly, hints of lingering pain in the stiffness of her gait. Wordlessly I help her sit at the crude plank table. She avoids meeting my gaze, features tight as she smooths her rumpled skirts with trembling hands.
"Mama?" I whisper uncertainly, loathing the helplessness in my tone. "Did he...hurt ye awful bad this time?"
Aislin shakes her head quickly, still not looking at me. "Nay, lass, yer father were in fine spirits tonight thanks to the healer's promise." Her cracked lips twist with effort. "Why, he only plowed me the once afore fallin' asleep."
She rises abruptly, skirts rustling. "I ought to check Oisin didn't kick off his blanket again. The night air sometimes worsens his humors..." Her strained voice trails off.
I want to beg her stay, to pour out all the words I've swallowed back since awakening in this strange era. But she is already retreating into the shadows of the sleeping quarters, a specter banished by harsh light.
This is my fucking life now? Reborn as chattel in this walking sewage plant?
That bastard wants a goddamn parade for not whoring me out to syphilitic goat herders before I'm "ripe"! Let's all applaud Saint Oisin the fucking Magnanimous for allowing his wife basic bodily autonomy instead of mounting her head on a pike to rot the minute her womb proves useless! Clearly not auctioning off your underage female relatives still suckling at the teat qualifies this shit-eating peasant fuck for sainthood!
God almighty, I'd rather gouge out my own cunt with a crucifix than degrade myself groveling at that slack-jawed troglodyte's crusty feet! This cannot be my fate! Please, I'll do anything - shove flaming torches up my arse, whatever it takes to escape this festering backwater mudpile of eternal torment! Let me wake screaming in a nice sanitized psych ward far away from these unwashed medieval peasants!
FUCK MY LIFE!!!
The walls of this foul hovel seem to press closer with every shallow breath, the cramped confines magnifying each sound until my pulse thunders deafeningly loud in my ears. I can hear the chickens scratching outside. And beneath it all the constant skittering and squeaking of lice swarming over every surface.
I squeeze my eyes shut but still the noises assault me - the crackle of the meager fire consuming precious peat, Father's thunderous snores from the sleeping quarters. The very air feels thick and noxious, saturated with smoke and decades of accumulated filth ingrained into the mud walls. I desperately want to scream or vomit just to release some fraction of the hysteria building inside at being trapped in this foul hovel, this festering backwater mudpile of eternal torment!
Clawing my arms fiercely enough to draw pinpricks of blood, I struggle to control my ragged breathing. But the stench catches in my throat, threatening to smother me.
How can they tolerate living crammed together in one lice-infested room reeking of piss, animals and unwashed bodies? These crude dwellings are little better than the covered pits peasants use for waste! At least the chickens roaming outside enjoy basic amenities like fresh air!
So I sit perfectly still on the dirt floor, back rigid, fingernails gouging bloody crescents into my grubby palms. I stare sightlessly at the crude doorway leading outside, yearning to flee into open forest. If only I could sprout wings and escape this unending claustrophobic nightmare! Instead I remain trapped here playing my role, waiting desperately for the moment I finally awaken screaming far from this festering mudpile.
"Lile, are ye feelin' quite well?" Mother's soft voice interrupts my brooding. I glance up to see her hovering anxiously, brow creased with concern. "Why, yer pale as fresh cream and starey-eyed as one possessed! Are ye ill, m'anam?"
I shake my head mutely, not trusting my voice. How can I tell her my spirit feels ready to flee this wretched body and beg sanctuary anywhere but this festering hovel?
Mother lays a cool hand on my forehead, her touch soothing against my clammy skin. "No fever at least, praise God. But ye still seem peaky as an old ghost, child! Best get some rest now for tomorrow's travails."
She gently urges me onto the pile of soiled straw in our sleeping quarters. I lie stiffly on my back, gaze fixed unseeing on the crude timber beams overhead as she smooths the filthy blanket over me.
"There now, snug as two peas," she murmurs. "Try not to fret about tomorrow, a leanbh. Why, mayhap this Colm will fancy yer strange eyes and make ye his new bride!"
I remain mute, jaw clenched to hold back hysterical laughter. As if being peddled off to some lusty widower should fill my heart with girlish dreams rather than nauseous rage!
Mother sighs, stroking the lank hair back from my brow. "Oh I know, poppet, yer fearful of leavin' all ye've known. 'Tis never easy abandoning childhood's shore for married life's stormy waters..."
Her cracked lips graze my forehead in a tender benediction. "But remember yer mam will be just a short walk hence. I'll still bake yer favorite honey cakes when ye visit."
When I continue staring fixedly at the ceiling, she sighs again. "Do try to sleep some, Lile love. The morn will come swift enough whether we rest or no."
With a final caress, she moves away to bank the hearth fire for the night. I remain rigid on the lumpy straw tick, pulse thundering in my ears. Sleep seems as unlikely as waking to discover this was all some bizarre dreamscape.
Mother settles on the soiled straw beside me with a weary sigh, the faded floral scent of her body mingling with less pleasant odors of smoke and unwashed flesh. She pulls my rigid form into her arms, my spine and limbs wooden in her embrace. Her cracked lips graze my forehead in a tender maternal benediction before she drifts into exhausted slumber. I remain staring sightlessly upward, pulse thundering in my ears.
This has to be some bizarre coma dream brought on by bad clams or dodgy street cart hot dogs. Why else would I be cast as an urchin extra in the peasant version of Jersey Shore?
Any second now I'll hear the director bellowing "Cut! Print that shit, folks!" and the cameras and crew will emerge from the grubby woodwork. These medieval muck farmers will rip off their dental disaster prosthetics and start cracking jokes about having to choke down bowls of gruel between takes. Maybe I'll even get discovered and land my own reality show chronicling the zany misadventures of a time traveling peasant girl. Move over Snooki, Lile Ban is bringing the middle ages into the 22nd century!
But no, this festering hovel remains stubbornly real no matter how fiercely I dig my nails into these scabby palms. And the only comfort to be found is this stranger woman slumbering beside me on piss-soaked straw that even the plague rats disdain. Yet her tender maternal affection feels like a lone candle flame against encroaching darkness. Small wonder I want to collapse weeping into her calloused embrace, to beg sanctuary from the bleak brutality surrounding us. This weary peasant mother seems my only ally amidst the cruel indifference of fathers and fate.
As if getting reborn as a lice-infested peasant waif in the fetid armpit of history wasn't shitty enough, now I have to play blushing child bride to some mead-swilling Viking transplant to avoid getting sold off as a junior cumbag to the highest bidder. Please kill me now with a rusty crucifix! At least the plague cart offers swift escape instead of decades getting pumped full of squalling brats by Sir Plowsalot. And once my uterus prolapses from birthing his quiver of future pillagers, this chivalrous charmer can just trade me in for a fresher model! True love really does stand the test of time.
I'd rather share my bridal bed with the plague rats nesting in the walls. Maybe if I break enough commandments, God will show mercy and let Satan drag me back to modern times. "Sorry for all the toddler trauma, your unholiness! Now where's the nearest shower and tampon vending machine?" A girl can dream, right? In the meantime, guess I'll close my eyes and pray really hard I don't wake up tomorrow in this festering mudpile of eternal stench.