I win/The Maiden of Inglaydius Pt. 1

This morning my daughters perfected the art of the foot race. They lined up at the end of the hall where their baby brother is usually trying to sleep and shouted, "READY, SET, GO!" Then they took off across our home screaming like banshees, much the same as any other childhood foot race. However, this morning my daughters decided to take turns declaring where and when the finish line existed. They raced around and around every room and then one of them would arbitrarily declare, "I WIN!" The other child would give an obligatory sulk before claiming their own turn.

I think they are geniuses and I want to be just like them when I grow up.

The story I am about to share with you may very well make no sense to you. Zero. Nada. You may be left scratching your head wondering why I would feel so compelled to write something like this, let alone share it.

And I'm okay with that, because right now it's my turn. And I'm winning.

The Maiden of Inglaydius

The wind dove down the narrow valley corridor and lifted the plaits of the maiden's hair like a dozen ravens taking flight. It whipped the cold stiff fabric of her clothing, pulling it against her chapped skin. She paid the humorless weather no mind as she pulled her ax from the trunk and reburied it juxtaposed. Again and again she swung the ax until her muscles burned and sweat collected above her lip and between her shoulder blades. The tree fell without her call, with no one to hear it. She listened to the silence after the fall's echo, a sound more native to her than the language she spoke. 
She wiped the sweat from her brow and shivered, acknowledging that her work was done for the day.

Her breath froze in a cloud around her as she pivoted to survey the forest. She could not see the first stars awakening in the east. She could not see her path home in the west. She saw only the trees rising up around her like a many fingered hand holding her in its palm. She heard only the whispers of the forest residents as they recognized her as an intruder. When the wind lifted her hair again and caressed her neck she let the shadows chase her back to the village that had raised her.

     The warm glow of evening firelight welcomed her like an embrace as she began to weave and duck through the village's low, thatch roofed dwellings; her ax perched upon her capable shoulders. She was no longer ashamed of her height or build. As a child she envied the lithe, petite forms of her peers. She had wept at the discrepancies in her size and behavior when her limbs had first sprouted and she wobbled around like a fawn on fresh legs.  Now, at the cusp of womanhood, she rejoiced in her strength, knowing that she was no longer an encumbrance to those who had taken her in out of scandal. Her mother had tumbled into the village full of child and had escaped back into the night without the burden of her. All the maiden had she owed to this people who were not her own, but with every passing year she found she could reach a little higher and lift a little more. They came to her daily to thatch their roofs and work in their fields. She held her head high as she passed the flower picking, basket weaving young woman who called to her in jest.

      The events of the last few weeks had run together like many small streams gathering together and pooling in this evening's ceremony. Today she was of age and a match had been made. Against all odds, with the height of a man and the gait of an ox, the maiden would be a bride. She was to marry a son of this village. No, she had nothing to be ashamed of. 
Her calloused hands scraped and caught as she attempted to wipe the sweat from them before entering her guardian's cottage. Thesma, stooped and crooked with age, waited inside with some of the other women, bathtub nearly cold and crisp garments draped over a corner chair.

   "Where have you been, girl?" Thesma scolded as the maiden ducked into the room. She grabbed her by the arm without waiting for a response and began pulling her toward the tub, her clothes thrown off in their wake. They plunged her in the tepid water and scrubbed mercilessly; pulling out long limbs to scrape nail beds, scouring away the work earned layers of her skin, and tsking at her broad, freckle marred nose. Goosebumps coated the length of her while they wrapped her in borrowed linen and beaded sandals. She knelt before them as their nimble fingers weaved her long onyx hair with flowers and braids until it rested like an ornate crown upon her head.

She stooped before a dimly lit mirror trying to reconcile the woman before her with the girl she knew herself to be. The glossy black heads of the village women bobbed around her shoulders as they straightened and smoothed the layers of her gown. It fell in gentle folds across her shoulders and chest, wrapping gently around her abdomen before falling to the ground, leaving her toned arms bear. Wisps of hair brushed against her neck and for a moment she felt only fear at not knowing herself. It occurred to the maiden for the very first time that although she made a very ugly villager, perhaps that was not a fair comparison. Perhaps, she thought as she gazed into this new perspective, a mountain cat made a very ugly doe.

   They pinned a heavy veil into her hair, covering her to the waist, and positioned her by the door. As the other women scurried out before them, Thesma unlocked the old wooden trunk at the foot of her bed and began piling the contents on the floor. The maiden watched her curiously. At last she excavated something wrapped in old black cloth, nearly as long as Thesma was tall. She grasped the heavy object in both of her age speckled hands and dragged it behind her.

"Thesma, what is this?" Her voice croaked as if she had never spoken before.

"It is your dowry gift, child. You will present it to your groom. Your father sent it with a messenger when he learned of your birth." Thesma released it into the maiden’s waiting hands, like it was a burden she was happy to be rid of.
The maiden stared dumbly from behind her thick veil. “My father? For my dowry? Thesma, what is this?” She lifted the object numbly, as if there were any question as to what they spoke of.

“It’s a sword, you foolish girl. He probably stole it from someone. It is a wonder your mother even knows who your father is,” she spat on her own floor, removing the foul flavor from her mouth. “He sent a messenger to tell us what your name would be, and that this was to be given to you when you were of age. Now it will purchase a fine situation in a respectable family. He could have hoped for no more than a match such as this one.”

The maiden opened her mouth again, still feeling that she was wearing the wrong skin.

“Hush your mouth, girl. I’m weary of your voice,” Thesma rubbed her hand across her brow, clearly taxed by the maiden’s inquiry.

“Abigail, you will bring the sword to your groom when you hear the drums. Wait here until we are ready for you,” Thesma was out the door with only her words remaining.

Abigail. It had been months since the maiden had last heard her true name. Months since she had responded to anything more than ‘child’ or ‘girl’, but she had a name. Her father had named her. And this was his sword. Her eyes blurred with collecting moisture.

She dropped to her knees and laid the dowry gift out before her like a puzzle to solve. There was no time left to hesitate. She swallowed an aborted attempt to breath and pulled aside the fabric, revealing a sword hilt alive in the fire. Rubies and Sapphires caught the light as it played across the ornate filigree. She reached for the veil obscuring her vision and tore it away, flowers and pins thrown from her. A pattern of thin, fruit heavy branches with long oval leaves was etched into the scabbard. Olive branches. She gripped the handle firmly with decision and removed it. The blade sang softly, it flashed in the light free from rust or tarnish, and from tip to hilt was a fine pattern of script in a language the maiden did not yet know.

This was her father’s sword. He had given it to her. And now a man she had not chosen was waiting for her to hand it over. The payment he was to receive for the the burden of their union. She threw her head back and laughed, reaching hysteria as tears slipped from her lids to stream unattended and alien on her cheeks. She stood again, now with the sword in her hand. This place was not her home. These were not her people, and she would not sell her birthright to purchase a place among them. This sword would lead her home, or it would buy her freedom. This village could gather its own wood, thatch its own roofs, and place its toil and labor upon the shoulders of its own daughters.

She moved to gather her possessions only to realize she owned only what was in her hand. The clothes on her back were borrowed. The village would hold the ceremony and wedding feast as her debt, and she had no means to pay. They would try to keep her here. She is an asset to them, she realized, lifting her chin. They had benefited from the strength of her body, and now they would take the wealth from her hands.

The mirror watched silently from the corner. It held her reflection’s gaze like a confidant, as she stared at her now ragged appearance. Tears glistened oily on her cheeks and neck. Her thick dark hair fell tangled with flower stems down to her waist. Her hair. Dark and lustrous, the only testament that this village had once been her mother’s home. The only part of her that belonged here.

She set the sword by the mirror and pulled her hair into a single knot. She knelt down again and lifted the twist of hair above the blade, closing her eyes against the shame, she pulled the blade up from the nape of her neck. The hair whispered a sharp inhale as it tore across the edge. What was left of it fell in her face.

After a few deep breaths she looked into the mirror again. The woman staring back at her was not beautiful, but she did not look afraid. In the distance the ceremonial drums called.