Chapter 1: Day 1/A Child Called Lile [2/9]

"Woman, leave the damned food to boil and come service me," Oisin leers, grabbing crudely at his groin. "Been too long since ye worked me cock proper."

Aislin's shoulders hunch inward, resignation etched on her careworn face. "Yes, husband," she murmurs. Turning to me with a weak smile, she says gently, "Lile, why don't ye go outside and play wi' the chickens for a bit?"

I force my expression to remain vacantly childish despite the fury blazing inside at Oisin's vile words. Skipping woodenly to the warped door, I push it open to the fetid aroma of the village hovels mingling with livestock stench on the crisp morning air.

Goddamned piece of shit hovel with its nonexistent amenities. As if sleeping on piss-soaked straw wasn't indignity enough, now I must scramble barefoot through mud and manure searching for these vermin-infested fowl? If I wanted to wallow in filth with creatures possessing the intelligence of a turnip, I'd have slit my wrists back in the real world.

At least those feathered fucks won't try to hump my leg or trade me for a jug of ale. Small mercies. I'd happily watch the chickens peck out Oisin's bloodshot eyes and make a nest of his matted beard. Sadly, the inbred things likely revere that slack-jawed bovine just for having a cock.

I emerge from the ramshackle hovel into the muddy livestock pen, nose wrinkling at the overpowering stench. A few scrawny chickens scratch listlessly in the bare dirt, pecking for insects around patties of manure. The rooster eyes me warily from his perch atop a split-rail fence encircling the small pen. One hen clucks softly, nestled in the corner of the enclosure atop a meager clutch of brown-speckled eggs.

Beyond the pen sprawls the village - a haphazard collection of forty or so crude hovels clustered along a winding dirt lane. Thin tendrils of smoke rise from holes in their sloped thatched roofs, mingling with the omnipresent odor of unwashed bodies and livestock waste. Most look ready to collapse into rubble at the slightest breeze.

I spot peasants in ragged clothing toiling in the fields bordering the hovels, using hand tools to work the soil behind plodding oxen. Children in dirty smocks chase mangy dogs between the lanes, their laughter mingling with the bleating of goats and lowing of cattle. All ignore me as I stand barefoot in the muck, peering curiously at their labor. Do they accept their lot as serfs without complaint or question? Are souls so easily crushed under the heels of overlords like Oisin?

In the distance I glimpse a small wooden building - the village church, I surmise - its rough-hewn steeple topped with an iron cross weathered almost black. But the promised salvation seems far removed from this cluster of sinking spirits trapped in squalor. Perhaps the stoic resignation in their dull eyes comes not from faith but simply the bone-weariness of beasts driven beyond capacity.

I rake my nails fiercely over my scalp, gritting my teeth against the fiery irritation. Dear god, it's unbearable - as if a million insects are burrowing into my very brain matter. I grab hanks of the tangled blonde hair, peering in dismay at the seething lice swarming over my fingers, their disgusting egg sacks and feces coating every strand. Bile rises in my throat even as I desperately scratch again, nearly sobbing in frustration when it brings no relief.

Not only does it feel like my head is infested, but now my groin and nether regions are unbearably itchy too. I slide a hand under my filthy smock, horror mounting when I feel swollen bumps - flea bites no doubt - covering my privates. This waif's body is nothing but a mobile host for vermin colonies!

The pressure in my bladder grows more insistent. I desperately need to relieve myself, but the mere thought of squatting bare-assed outdoors like an animal has me nearly hyperventilating. How do women even urinate properly? Surely my unfamiliar female parts will betray me somehow, dribbling piss down my legs to further degrade any last shreds of dignity. Why, why can this not be some coma-induced delirium? Let me wake in a hospital bed soaked in antiseptic, not parasite excrement! I cannot endure this hell one moment longer.

I scramble barefoot through the muddy livestock pen, dodging piles of manure until I locate a scraggly bush behind the dilapidated chicken coop. Heart pounding, I lift the coarse wool skirts with fumbling fingers, awkwardly positioning my unfamiliar female parts over the bare earth.

I strain to release the pressure in my bladder, trying in vain to relax muscles that betray no sensation of fullness. How the hell do women manage this most basic of bodily functions? I hiss in frustration, squatting lower and bearing down with all my might, yet nothing emerges.

After countless failed attempts that leave me lightheaded from effort, I finally feel an odd release accompanied by the disconcerting sensation of fluid escaping my previously useless orifice. I stare in dismay as a steaming yellow stream arcs gracefully from between my legs to water the thirsty soil, the earthy scent mingling with the pungent livestock aroma.

Mortified heat floods my face at this degradation. Not only am I trapped inside this waif while manure-encrusted chickens look on, but I cannot even take a piss while retaining a shred of dignity. What further humiliations might this bizarre existence inflict upon me?

I yank down the coarse wool skirts with trembling hands once finished, desperate to cover my alien parts that betrayed such unfamiliarity. This cannot be happening. I cannot truly be reborn inside a four-year-old peasant girl's body in some medieval backwater. Perhaps this is divine punishment for misdeeds I can no longer recall? But what sin merits such excruciating torture and humiliation? Let this be some fiendish vision I soon awaken from.

Mortification washes over me as I frantically scan for anything to wipe with now that I've finished pissing all over this bush. God forbid I drip urine down my legs on the way back. I spot a relatively intact leaf near my feet and quickly snatch it up, awkwardly patting between my legs with the makeshift toilet paper.

Of course it disintegrates instantly, leaving me just as sodden and reeking of piss with the added bonus of vegetation mush coating my thighs. This day is getting better by the minute.

As I'm desperately clawing at the remaining leaf bits, the crunch of footsteps makes me whirl around. Two male peasants - a boy of perhaps ten and a younger man - are strolling along the fence line bordering the livestock pen.

The boy's grubby face splits into a grin when he spots me still awkwardly crouched with my skirts hiked up and my arse hanging out. He tugs the man's sleeve and crows delightedly, "Da, look at that dumb animal having a shite out in the open!"

He points a dirty finger right at me, laughter echoing across the pen. "She don't even have the sense to hide her naked arse! Reckon she knows she's no better than a beast?"

My face burns with humiliation as the boy's laughter echoes across the livestock pen. I drop my gaze and bite my lip as if struggling not to cry, widening my eyes in feigned childish hurt. Inside, rage storms through me at being mocked so cruelly.

The man cuffs the boy's ear, frowning. "Enough, Eamon. We've no time for gawkin' at beasts makin' water. The steward will take the strap to us if we're late for the fields again."

Eamon scowls, rubbing his head resentfully. "Why can't we have a laugh at the dumb cow pissin' herself? Not like she's got feelings like folk do."

The man sighs. "All God's creations deserve basic dignity, even females and livestock. 'Tis only right to look away and leave her be." He turns to leave, beckoning Eamon to follow.

"But Da," the boy persists doggedly. "If she's naught but a soulless animal like Ma says, why..."

His voice fades as they continue towards the fields. I release a shaky breath, humiliation and fury still churning inside me. So even peasant children are taught from infancy that females are less than human? What a delightful society to find oneself reborn into.

Ha, hahahaha, hahahahaha. So, not only am I reborn in this shithole as a girl with my dick stolen and sold for ale money, but now I'm seen as nothing but a convenient cum dumpster for inbred peasant fucks? Fan-fucking-tastic. What's next, getting mounted from behind and livestreamed to Pornhub's beastiality channel?

Maybe I should let that bovine bastard Oisin whore me out if it means escaping this bog of eternal torment. Although with my luck, the first pedo with a penny to spare would take one look at my lice colony trailing behind me and decide it wasn't worth catching typhus for a quickie.

And to top it all off, I just gave an entire boy scout troop a free peek at my bare ass pissing all over creation like a clueless heifer. But hey, when in Rome and all that. Maybe I should just embrace my new station and start mooing for extra realism. MOOOOO, step right up gents! Soulless animal ready for breeding! Who wants first dibs at this human-shaped livestock? Surely my womb will fetch top dollar once properly fertilized!

Hahahahaha, fuck me gently with a chainsaw, this is my life now! Reborn as chattel in a walking sewage plant. Praying the diarrhea doesn't kick in before I make it out to my designated shitting bush. But hey, at least the chickens don't seem to mind. Maybe I should ask that feathered harem for pointers on how to properly lift my leg and mark my territory. Ruffles over there is eyeing my muddy feet with more than casual interest. Careful buddy, you might catch something nasty. On second thought, I'd probably be a step up from what he's used to. This love story is inevitable; I can already hear the wedding bells ringing. MOOOOO!

This cannot be real. Never in recorded history have women been so debased as to be viewed as "soulless animals" unworthy of basic dignity. What kind of hellish patriarchal dystopia is this?

Have I somehow time traveled to the dark ages? Impossible! They had plague, not primitive hovels with deluxe mud floors and hay-stuffed mattresses!

Am I trapped in a coma-dream? Did I fall off my Peloton mid pre-workout edible and now I'm envisioning myself as a lice-infested medieval peasant?

No, this feels far too vivid. I can practically taste the fleas nibbling my nethers. Maybe this is divine punishment for my sins? But not even Trump deserves this level of torture!

What fresh hell is this? There's no logical explanation for finding myself reborn as chattel in this walking sewage plant!

I'd sell my soul for just a quick glimpse of modern plumbing. A toilet, a shower, a wet wipe! Instead I get to choose between squatting bare-assed behind the goat shed or using leaves as natural TP.

"Lile! Get yer scrawny hide in here, girl!" Mother's voice rings out from the ramshackle hovel, cutting through the stench of livestock and smoke hanging low over the village. "Yer porridge is gettin' cold and ye father's already left for the fields!"

I scowl down at my muddy bare feet, caked with manure both fresh and days old mingling with the ever-present muck. Just the thought of choking down lukewarm gruel makes my stomach churn after the events of this morning.

"I ain't hungry!" I yell back petulantly, kicking at a clump of stale dung crusted to my toes. It disintegrates, flecks spraying the legs of my filthy smock.

Mother appears in the doorway, face smudged with ashes from the hearth fire. She plants her hands on her hips, glaring. "Starvin' yerself helps no one, lass. Now get inside and eat up before I take a switch to yer backside for disobeyin' me!"

I bite my lip, blinking back childish tears I pray she attributes to her scolding and not the overwhelming urge to retch. With slow, dragging steps through the mire I make my way inside, the stench intensifying until my eyes water.

"Come now, lass, sit yerself down and eat up," Mother says briskly, ladling out a scoop of lumpy porridge from the pot hanging over the smoldering coals. She gestures to the rough plank bench and table, her lined face smudged with ashes.

I perch awkwardly on the edge of the splintering wood, grimacing at the crusty remains of past meals coating the scarred surface. Mother sets the wooden bowl before me, flecks of old porridge mingling with ashes and nameless grime to form a crunchy topping. My stomach lurches queasily at the sight and pungent aroma wafting up. I swallow hard, willing myself not to vomit.

Mother sits beside me with her own bowl, seemingly oblivious to the state of things as she scoops porridge into her mouth. "We've a full day ahead, poppet," she says around the mouthful. "The chickens need feedin' and waterin', the garden must be tended, lessons in mendin' and darnin', gatherin' eggs for market, and evenin' prayers."

She pauses to scrape the bottom of her bowl with a horn-carved spoon. "Best eat up if ye mean to keep strength for the tasks, aye? Nary a moment for lollygaggin' about today."

"What day is today, Mama?" I ask around a mouthful of porridge, trying not to gag on the ashy gruel. I need to gather more information about this bizarre circumstance I've found myself in.

Aislin glances at me, weariness etched on her smudged face. "Why, 'tis the second day of the week, the day dedicated to the archangel Gabriel. Called Dé Máirt in our tongue."

I nod slowly, scraping the wooden spoon around the bottom of the bowl. "And what month are we in now?" The days of the week are still called by pagan names, it seems. This must be an early age indeed.

"The harvest month, a ghra," Aislin replies. She rises to check the bubbling pot, the stained hem of her woolen dress trailing through scattered rushes and debris littering the packed dirt floor. "Lúnasa it's called, the month after Iúil, when we reap the last barley and make preparations for winter."

Iúil...that must be July then by the name, and Lúnasa must be August. I set down my spoon, staring at her slender back. "And the year, Mother? What year is this one called?"

Aislin glances over her shoulder, brow furrowing. "What odd questions ye ask this morn, lass. Are ye feelin' quite well?" At my mute nod, she shrugs. "If ye must know, the monks claim 'tis the year of our Lord 300."

She crosses herself quickly, murmuring a prayer under her breath. I simply gape at her in dawning horror as her words sink in.

Holy fuck, it's the goddamn 4th century up in here? I've time traveled over a thousand years back to the fetid armpit of history when bathing was just a glint in some medieval peasant's eye. No wonder it smells like the underside of a dead badger's nutsack.

I feel like I've wandered onto the set of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. One step outside this dung pile and I'll get assaulted by plague-ridden mud farmers yelling "She's a witch!" before the Knights Who Say Ni shove me into the pit of eternal peril.

Except the pit of eternal peril would be a step up from this bog of neverending torment. At least the 3-headed guardian beast might put me out of my misery quickly instead of forcing me to choke down bowls of gruel that look like they were scraped from the devil's crusty asscrack.

I'd take 3 rounds with the rabbit of caerbannog over dealing with that slack-jawed yokel Oisin for 3 minutes. At least the killer bunny is just doing his thing to protect his warren instead of threatening to whore out his prepubescent daughter for drinking money. But hey, maybe if I'm lucky, Sir Lancelot will get bored of the castle anthrax and ride through town handing out wet wipes to all us unwashed peasants! A girl can dream, right?

In the meantime, I better shut my trap before Aislin decides I've been replaced by a changeling and leaves me on the fairy hill to die. Wouldn't want to blow my cover when I've just been reborn into the Bog of Eternal Stench. Pinch my nose, here we go!

Mother mutters under her breath as she rummages around the cluttered hovel, overturning bowls and stirring the rushes with her calloused feet.

"Blast Oisin for not tellin' me where he's hid the tax coins this time. The king's men will be here tomorrow to collect their tribute." She rakes dirty fingers through her lank hair, scanning the room desperately.

My ears prick up at her words. The king's tax collectors coming here, to this impoverished village? Curiosity gets the better of me.

"Who is the king, Mama? Why does he need our coins?" I ask innocently around a mouthful of gruel. I'm careful to use childish vocabulary, though alarm skitters through me. What kingdom is this wretched hovel part of?

Mother pauses in her frantic searching to frown at me. "King Brian Boru of Eire, bless him. Surely I've told ye this before, Lile. He defeated the Norsemen and united our land, though the war took its toll. 'Tis only right we pay tribute to fund rebuilding."

Brian Boru? Eire? This makes no sense. None of Ireland's ancient kings held power in the 4th century. What madness is this?

No. Nononono. This cannot be real. Brian Boru ruled around 1000 AD, not 300! Has my soul somehow crossed time and space to inhabit this waif? Am I trapped in the distant past centuries before I should exist?[...]