during the night? Had he been here?
Mother stopped.
“It’s late,” she called.
“It's late,” Mother said again. The urgency in Mother’s voice answered Kama’s question. Time only seemed to matter when Father was coming home. There was work to do. She and Mother needed to ready the house and prepare the midday feast for his arrival. For a few hours they would be together as a family: father, mother, daughter. Father would bring gifts and tell stories about Constantinople, the great city of gold where lanterns burned all night. The buildings were as tall as mountains. Their glass let light shine in, so the long shafts would paint the rooms with many different colors. To Father, Constantinople was Valhalla on earth. For the time being, misguided Christians controlled the city, but one day the Norse people would rid the world of the scourge of Christianity.
A heavy curtain turned Kama’s chamber into a dark private sleeping space. She pulled the cloth. Wooden rings rattled along the rod. Bed closets lined the walls of the square wooden room. Two trunks sat directly outside hers. Kama rifled through the folded garments. She had clothes she could never wear in this small settlement—silk dresses with fur cuffs and collars, necklaces of precious stones. As well as clothes, she had an Arabian horse she called Thor and kept in the barn. Thor wasn't just any stallion. He had adornments. Red gems inlaid his gold harness. An embroidered tapestry lay under his smooth saddle. Kama knew Father’s gifts were his way of reminding her that Kiev was only a temporary home and that the time would soon come when she would leave for Hedeby.
Kama unfolded her oldest dress, a rough shift that tied over her shoulders. She glanced quickly in the mirror on its nail. Her long white hair was still in its nighttime braid. She tied a square cloth over her head and knotted it in the back. The covering emphasized her eyes. For a moment, they seemed similar to Mother’s. She had the same penetrating stare, although Kama’s eyes were green, not black. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that connection.
The barilla plant grew in the barnyard, where it absorbed urine. Kama used her nose to choose the right pot from the shelf. She then added the dried leaves to the bubbling, steaming water. The smell of lye and ammonia seared her nostrils and turned her stomach. The promise of gifts and treasures helped her endure the fumes, as she scrubbed grease and soot from wooden walls and floors. Her wet cloth washed away the small black bugs living in cracks between the slats. When all was clean, she rubbed linseed oil into the wood until the house shone.
As Kama worked, the midday meal stewed.
Soon onion and chicken overpowered all other smells. She removed her work clothes and replaced her shift with a dress that had unusual red stitching at the bottom of the sleeves. Mother arranged a red silk scarf over her hair and shoulders.
Then they waited. And they waited.
When it became clear that there would be no Father that day, Mother ladled stew into two bowls. As she spooned up her broth, she began her screaming.
“Oh, he's such a prince, but he can't even comb his own hair.” Kama knew she was referring to the women who worked in the Big House, trimming his beard and taking care of his needs.
“He always has to overdo everything,” Mother yelled. Her ability with Norse improved as her anger increased. “Other families don't throw away their silver as though it grew on trees. They save their coins, and he goes buying everything.”
“He fooled me,” Mother continued. “That's what he did. He told me stories about how beautiful it would be. About how rich we would be. And now I walk around with holes in my shoes. And then always all these gifts for you, as though he wanted all the world to notice you. Other families save so they can move out of here. This is no place to grow up in. And most of the women former slaves. What kind of children do you have to play with? What good does it do? I go around saving coins and he throws everything away.”
Kama knew this had nothing to do with silver and shoes. Each time Father returned, he would bring chests full of coins. Mother had enough to share with the other women.
From Father, she shifted to Astrid.
“One day Astrid will regret her evil. God will destroy her. Flames will lash her forever. You will see. Astrid thinks she can decide everything. Astrid knows not god or the meaning of love.”
As a young girl when Mother had talked, Kama had often lost track of what was real and who was who. Mother seldom spoke with the other women in the townhouses. But alone with Kama, she never cared how she sounded. She blended her Greek into Norse, the way she tossed cinnamon, honey and peppers into her dishes. Even if Kama didn’t know the true meaning of the words and phrases, she imagined she did.
Mother relived her past adventures vividly, shaking as though they were occurring now, as though the sharp spear was still prodding her, as though she still had no shoes, and callouses covered her feet. Hunger would cause her to see insects crawling over her skin, but when bread finally arrived, she would vomit.
As a small child, Kama had lived Mother’s fears. Often she had believed she was the person running through the maze of market stalls, hiding behind sacks of grain or breathing so quietly not even a dog could hear her. Now Kama couldn’t wait to be away from this blabbering fool who was frightened of everything and couldn’t let go of her past. In the convent where Mother had finally found safety, the nuns believed they were married to a god. Thor and Odin often took earthly wives, but this was messed up. Locked in an abbey, rows of lonely women dreamed that they were the bride of a god who had left the earth hundreds of years ago, never to return.
The end of Mother’s scarf had slipped into her bowl. Broth had spilled over the front of her dress. Her eyes were the stare of a mangy cat.
Mother appeared to be disappearing, her face and figure becoming smaller, as though she were sailing away. Then Kama felt she was inside a room, looking out at Mother who was a storm brewing. Kama imagined reaching up and pulling the shutter closed to lock Mother out. She couldn’t do anything about Mother’s unpredictable silliness. But Mother shouldn’t drag her into the muddle. She didn’t blame Father for not being here. Why would he want her outcries? Kama had never met her grandmother, but Astrid’s decisions made sense. She knew how to rule a kingdom. Astrid was a person she could learn from. Kama couldn’t wait to be in her presence. It was as though Astrid were her real mother and this tiny creature, who was waving her spoon now and tearing down the name of Father, was a stranger who couldn’t grasp concerns beyond her own fears.
Kama wanted to be gone. She couldn’t wait to live in a real house and be part of the great feasts. She could almost smell the sweet rosehip soup and taste the soft cheeses and Frankish wine. She couldn’t wait to leave this place for Hedeby, her true Midgard.
HARVEST MONTH KIEV 934 CE
Katerine was at her loom. The threads were smooth. She was crisscrossing the yarn and singing.
“Santa Lucia. Santa Lucia.”
She liked how the tones banged against the walls in the small house. In the nunnery, there was endless space, and songs drifted and became lost. But here every chord reverberated and intensified. The loom’s wooden slats were percussion, counting out the phrases of the chant, although heaven was pure, not a raucous dance. The loom wasn’t a carnal drum but simply a gentle clapping that helped her transcend earthly Kiev.
Although it was still Harvest Month, snow had already fallen.
Hinges creaked. The front door opened. Katerine jumped. Who was there?
“Hello,
