Northlanders Prologue

The Life and Death of Eira

Eira was fourteen when her father sent her over the water. A husband waited in the far North, a man she’d never met. Dressed in skins, clutching a wrap of food, she stepped into a longboat and sat on its floor. She looked back. Her parents were already walking away.

The sea made her sick. She retched until her stomach was empty, then lay on the slats, listening to ice thump against the hull. Drifting in and out of sleep, she craved warmth and comfort. She craved her mother’s touch. She would never see home again.

She had been born small, slow to learn stitching. Her sisters laughed but never helped. Acceptance was a contest, even among siblings. Utility outweighed blood. Her only value now was to be sold.

By the time the boat ground onto a beach of black stone, Eira had cried out her sadness, screamed her fury into the wind, and exhausted her body into resignation. She collapsed trying to stand. Hands dragged her to a peat fire. Skins steaming, she watched her fingers shift from blue to white to pink. When strength returned, she sat up.

The tundra was a vast place containing very little. With nothing to break it, the wind's cut was brutal. She had been brought to a homestead similar to the collective she came from, but there were no apple trees or gardens here. Only peat as far as one could see. And fish, she reckoned, based on the smell.

An old woman was approaching with a bundle in her arms. With little care or consideration for her modesty, Eira’s wet skins were peeled off her and replaced with dry clothing. When the woman wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, despite its reeking of sheep and smoke, Eira burst into tears at the motherly gesture.

The homestead was a smattering of stone structures half buried in the ground. Eira was led into one and sat on a bed while the old woman ladled stew from a pot on the fire. Eira was again comforted. She ate quickly and fell asleep.

When she next woke, it was the middle of the night. Her husband had entered the house and was feeding the fire. Eira was buried under several pelts, and she did not think she would be noticed, but he knew she was there. He peeled back the pelts and got in beside her.

Eira was not well prepared for what was expected of her in this new life, but she knew of wives and husbands. He was kind to her and that was the best Eira could expect, as she was at the accepted marrying age and living in a time when this was what it meant to be female.

The old woman had left her that first night but returned months later to examine her. During this interval, Eira worked hard, tending to the sheep and catching the fat fish that swam in the river, so plentiful she only had to reach in and grasp them.

She cut peat to the extent she could, seeing as she was small and struggled with the shovel. The other men in the settlement were strong and went bare-chested while cutting the peat, regardless of the weather. Eira enjoyed watching them.

The old woman put her fingers inside Eira and announced her as with child. Based on the woman’s expression, Eira wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad. The man, her husband, was informed and he seemed pleased.

Carrying babies was difficult in this remote location. Eira had many questions but no one to ask. Her husband left often on voyages, and she did not see him for months. By the time he returned, Eira’s belly was swollen. A red-haired woman was on the boat in much the same state as Eira when she arrived. Her husband slept with the new woman that night and the night after.

The old woman frowned at Eira’s distended belly. "Too large," she muttered. Eira ached constantly, bedridden now. The woman stayed, waiting for the healthy boy her husband expected.

Childbirth was a harrowing ordeal, one that pushed Eira to the limits of her strength. She was aware that her failure or success in supplying her husband with a living child would determine her future. She was one of several wives, interchangeable and expendable.

One child was delivered, and then a second soon followed. The old woman, who had not once expressed any emotion whatsoever, shouted with delight. Two newborns, twins, healthy and screaming. Her husband appeared and named them on the spot.
Hella, the girl, and Hunter, the boy.

He touched Eira’s fevered brow. Gratitude? Then he left. The old woman followed, carrying the newborns, leaving Eira alone.

A sheep was slaughtered for the fire pit, and jars of beet spirits were dug up and opened. The babies were washed in the stream and wrapped in wool. When the old woman returned, she found Eira had died.

The red-haired wife, soon to be heavy with her own child, took the twins to her breast. Within a week, Eira was forgotten.

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