curses the goddess Frigga for her blunder in creating her a girl instead of a boy. She kicks at the dirt and throws on her cloak. As she bends over to take up the string of fish, she snags her woollen tunic on the corner of the hearth and tears it.
“Stupid thing,” she curses. “And which of the gods divined that girls should wear such awkward things. Girls should be allowed to wear trousers like the boys.”
Gudrid laughs good-naturedly. “Such a temper, girl, such a temper. No man is going to want a wife like that.”
“Good, because I don’t want a husband — not now, and not when I turn thirteen, not ever.” Sigrid thinks of the wrinkled old trader, Bjorni, who asked Uncle Thorfinn to let him have her hand in marriage when they return to Greenland. He is rich and well settled. But surely her uncle would not agree to the union.
Out in the brisk air, Sigrid feels as dark and cold as the lowering clouds threatening to pour down on her. She pulls her thin cloak close about her and walks through the camp toward the stream. On her way she hears the usual sounds of people at work — clanging of metal on metal coming from the forge, the hammer driving in nails in the wood shop next door, and so many other voices. Some of them from the women sitting outside the workshop on stools, chatting as they deftly sew up breaks in the fish netting.
Sigrid sighs. She is afraid Gudrid is right about everyone having one destiny and purpose, and that hers is merely to be a wife and mother. She kicks at the stones along the path and wonders why she could not be like Stikla, the warrior girl who ran away from home, preferring the life of war over marriage. Maybe that is what she should do — run away.
“I know what you’re thinking, but those maiden warriors were not just common girls. Gautrekssonar, she was the only child of King Eirikr. Unlike you, she was of royal blood,” said Aunt Gudrid some time ago. She said it not to make Sigrid feel bad, but only to state a simple fact. It is true. Sigrid is not of noble lineage. But she cannot help being this way. She did not plan to be the kind of girl who would rather wield a sword than sew or cook. It is just the way she is.
Sigrid follows the trail to the narrow stream. She drops the fish into the water to clean them. Soon they will become another boiled fish stew. She is tired of fish stew and hopes the men will go out hunting soon for fresh deer meat. She would not even mind a few scrawny squirrels or hares, though they are much more work to prepare. If her uncle would let her, she would gladly go and get some herself since she has mastered the bow and loves to hunt.
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