Chapter 1: Day 1/A Child Called Lile [3/9]

What. The. Actual. Fuck. This must be some coma-induced delirium because reality cannot bend this way. I've time traveled over a thousand motherfucking years back to the fetid armpit of history? Get the fuck out!

I dig my fingers into my thigh under the table, desperate for the pain to awaken me from this vivid nightmare.

Am I being punk'd? Is Ashton Kutcher hiding behind that pile of turnips ready to pop out yelling I've been transported back to the 4th century? I peer at the vegetables suspiciously but see no hint of that smirking face.

I've wandered onto a medieval episode of The Twilight Zone. Any moment Rod Serling will step through the warped wooden door in black and white saying I've crossed over into another dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A dimension of imagination...

But no wry-voiced narrator materializes, just continued baffling reality. I dig my nails deeper into tender flesh, embrace the bright pain. Anything to awaken from this nightmare!

Mother is frantic as she rummages through the cluttered hovel, overturning bowls and stirring the rushes with her calloused feet.

Her desperate gaze swings to me where I sit frozen on the rough plank bench, heart pounding. She strides over and grabs a hank of my tangled blonde hair, giving it a sharp yank. I cry out, more in surprise than pain.

"You were wanderin' about early this morn, before I was properly awake," she accuses, eyes narrowing. "Did ye take the bag of coppers, girl? Answer me true!"

I shake my head frantically, pulse racing. "N-no, Mama, I never touched no coins!" I widen my eyes, willing her to believe my innocent act.

Mother twists my hair tighter, eliciting a gasp. "Are ye sure now, Lile? Did ye take it outside maybe, to play some game wi' the chickens? 'Twould serve ye right if they ate all the coppers, foolish lass."

I bite my lip as if struggling not to cry, keeping my face a mask of childish confusion and mounting fear. "No Mama, I ain't taken nothin'! Please, you're hurtin' me!"

Mother releases me with a frustrated sigh, raking her fingers through her lank hair once more. As she turns away, her foot scuffs the sack of turnips by the crude hearth. It tips over, scattering the vegetables across the dirt floor - along with a small cloth bag that spills out several copper coins.

"Lord above!" Mother exclaims, snatching up the coins with trembling fingers. She clutches the recovered bag to her faded bodice, relief slackening her taut expression.

Kneeling, she takes my hands in her rough, work-worn ones. "Forgive me, sweetling. I should not have accused ye." Remorse fills her sunken eyes. "The worry and stress make me speak rashly. But that's no excuse for hurtin' my little lass. Can ye forgive yer mam?"

I nod silently, throat tightening with emotion I do not fully comprehend. She pulls me into a fierce embrace that feels both foreign yet comfortingly familiar.

Mother releases a long, shuddering breath, clutching the small bag of coins to her faded bodice. "Blessed Jesus, that was too close this time. If I hadna found the coppers before Oisin returned..."

She shudders, careworn face growing paler still. "He'd have taken a blade to me throat for certain. Probably mounted me head outside on a pike to rot." Her voice drops to a hoarse whisper. "As warning to other disobedient wives."

I gape at her in dawning horror, bile scorching my throat. She speaks so matter-of-factly about her husband mutilating and publicly displaying her severed head. Can such brutality truly be commonplace here?

Mother crosses herself with a trembling hand. "I'm already at risk, ye ken, after losin' all three babes before you came along." She smooths my tangled hair with a sad smile. "Our lord wants as many young boys as can be spared to train up for soldiers. Havin' only a lass does little to fill his ranks."

Soldiers? Ranks? I nearly choke on the bite of porridge still coating my tongue. What lord is she speaking of with such deference? I force my voice into a childish treble. "What lord, Mama? Who is it demands peasant boys to make soldiers for him?"

Aislin blinks at me in surprise. "Why, the local magistrate my father pledged fealty to, Lord Eamonn MacRuarc. He oversees these lands in the name of High King Boru now, bless him."

She crosses herself again, head bowed. "Lord Eamonn showed mercy on our village after raiders burned the fields. He took many boys for trainin' soon as they could walk and wield sticks." Her eyes take on a faraway look. "My eldest brother was one such lad."

My thoughts reel as I absorb her words. This lord essentially raids peasant villages for toddlers to turn into cannon fodder from the sound of it. And desperate families like Aislin's willingly offer up their male children out of feudal obligation. Or fear of retaliation if they refuse...

I suppress a shudder, forcing my expression to remain innocently curious. No need to arouse undue suspicion by condemning long-ingrained societal norms. There will be time enough later to unravel the tangled threads of this era I find myself trapped in. For now I must don the mask of simplicity once more.

"Can I see the soldier boys training one day, Mama?" I ask brightly, as though eager for such spectacle. "Do they march about with big sharp swords and spears like in the church paintings?"

A small smile touches her lips though shadows still lurk in her eyes. "Mayhap someday, little one." She strokes my hair again gently. "But not till ye've grown some and prove biddable 'round men, aye? Now help me clear these turnips."

This is supposed to be a Christian society? This fetid backwater of lice-ridden turnip farmers living in their own filth? Where slack-jawed yokels like Oisin are allowed to beat and rape their wives with full religious blessing? And now I learn they're all slaves to some local warlord named Lord Eamonn, breeding cannon fodder for his armies in exchange for...what? Not getting their crops torched?

What kind of ass-backwards bastardization of Christ's teachings is this? Didn't Jesus spend his time healing lepers and saving adulteresses from stoning instead of preaching that women deserve to be fucked to death in hovel corners? Maybe Oisin skipped that part of the Bible while he was getting his daily hummer behind the chicken coop. No wonder he defends whoring out prepubescent daughters if it puts more coin in his pocket. WWJD - Who Would Jesus Dick, amirite?

And they actually offer up their toddler boys like sacrificial lambs to be forged into soldiers for this petty warlord! As if it's some great honor and privilege to get your brains bashed out before puberty for King Ratfuck the Almighty. I bet his royal emblem is a pile of peasants skulls underneath a giant erection with the motto "Obey or Die" in Latin. Religion sure is a helluva drug in the 4th century!

If this shitshow is what passes for Utopian Christian values in 300 AD, no wonder the Roman Empire fell apart. At least vomitoriums and public orgies sound more fun than scrubbing diarrhea out of your hovel's dirt floors. But hey, I'm sure Lord Cocksucker rewards his loyal serfs with an extra thimble of gruel during the High Holysperm Festivals. Maybe if I pray hard enough, Jesus will bless me with some medieval antibiotic ointment for my festering fleabites! Hallelujah and shove a turnip up my ass!

I dig my fingers into my thigh under the rough plank table, struggling to dredge up any scrap of memory about my identity before awakening in this waif's body. But my thoughts chase themselves in maddening circles, always returning to this present moment - sitting in a crude hovel that reeks of piss, animals, and unwashed peasants.

So I somehow retain the ability to comprehend advanced subject matter like the trajectory of a photon or recite the entire chronology of Irish High Kings. Yet when I try grasping for even a shred of recollection about my own name, my mind slams into a blank void. No clues whatsoever about the person I was before becoming Lile.

I mean, what kind of demented divine prank is this? Reborn as a 4th century Irish peasant girl in place of loading my consciousness into some utopian paradise? Why not a Hawaiian beach resort or the Playboy Mansion if I'm stuck with amnesia? But nope, the cosmic lottery sticks me here in this crapscape hovel with its dirt floors and hay mattresses.

I'd beg for death if these shit-encrusted peasants wouldn't just fuck my corpse for a good time! And little wonder if their so-called "Christianity" preaches that women are soulless animals existing solely for breeding more serfs. Clearly I pissed off someone mighty powerful to get damned to this fate. Or perhaps am I exaggerating? I need to learn more.

Mother scrubs burnt porridge remnants from our wooden bowls, her reddened hands plunged into a bucket of frigid water. She pauses, glancing over with a tired smile.

"Yer bein' mighty quiet this morn, lass. Normally I canna get a moment's peace from yer chatterin'." Her brow furrows slightly. "Everythin' all right, poppet?"

I shift on the rough plank bench, tracing patterns in the dirt floor with one grubby toe. "Just thinkin' is all, Mama." I keep my eyes downcast but sense her gaze lingering on me.

"Oh? And what serious matters occupy that little head so early, I wonder?" Her tone holds gentle amusement. When I remain silent, she prods gently, "Come now, Lile, ye know ye can tell me anythin' troublin' ye."

I risk a quick peek at her face. Seeing only patience and concern there, I take a bracing breath. "Was thinkin' on what Papa said. About...spreadin' my legs for coin...when I'm older." My thin voice wavers uncertainly over the crude words.

The bowl slips from Mother's hands, landing in the bucket with a loud splash. We both flinch as water sloshes over the sides, pooling on the dirt floor.

Mother stands frozen for a long moment before crossing herself with shaking fingers. "Lord above," she whispers hoarsely. She turns to face me, features tight with distress. Or is it fear?

"Lile...lass, ye must never repeat those words again, d'ye hear?" Her voice drops, scarcely audible over the crackling hearth flames. "Not to anyone. Swear it to me now."

I nod mutely, insides twisting at her reaction. She rakes trembling fingers through her lank hair, leaving streaks of grime.

"Yer father...he gets strange notions betimes, poppet. Pay them no mind." Her tone tries for briskness but the strain shows through. "Now help me with these dishes afore the day escapes us."

She turns back to her task with bowed shoulders while I stare at her rigid spine, unease sitting like a stone in my belly. Her visible distress over my casual mention of potential child prostitution makes little sense if such threats are commonplace here.

I want to probe further but intuition warns me to feign indifference.

With slow steps I join Mother at her washing, dipping my hands into the frigid water without complaint. But my thoughts continue churning long after the last bowl is scrubbed clean and set to dry.

I glance at Mother as she scrubs burnt porridge remnants from our wooden bowls, pondering Oisin's crude remarks about whoring me out once I'm older. Do basic concepts like age of consent not exist in this primitive era? Women and girls seem to have no inherent rights, viewed as soulless breeding stock. Is any female considered fair game for male lusts, regardless of age so long as she has flowered?

A chill runs through me at the thought. But no, that implies an acknowledgment of womanhood, a bestowing of some tenuous sliver of humanity to females who have passed some arbitrary biological milestone. I highly doubt peasants like Oisin view their prepubescent daughters as anything more than inconvenient parasites draining precious resources for years before finally becoming profitable. My value is not predicated on nebulous markers of maturity determining readiness to bear children. Here in this fetid hovel, I am simply livestock - an animal bred for male usage.

I glance towards the warped wooden door, curiosity and dread curdling in my belly. What sights await beyond these cramped walls? When I finally work up the courage to step across that wretched threshold, what horrors will assault my senses?

Will I encounter peasant women chained and collared, toiling naked in the fields under the cruel gaze of overseers? Or perhaps that boy Eamon's words hold truth - that females wander openly without garments or shame, rutting with livestock and defecating in the mud like beasts?

My mind conjures images of hollow-eyed children with skeletal limbs and distended bellies clustered around cookfires, fighting the mangy village dogs for scraps. I picture lashes stripping flesh from women's backs while leering men wager on how many strokes they can endure before collapsing.

Bile rises in my throat. Sweet merciful Christ, grant me the strength to endure whatever abominations my eyes may behold outside this hovel.

"Mama, how old are ye?" I ask, watching as she scrubs the last traces of gruel from our wooden bowls.

Aislin pauses, glancing at me curiously. "Whyever do ye want to ken my age, lass?" At my mute shrug, she wipes her reddened hands on her faded skirts with a sigh.

"Well then...I've seen just eight and ten winters now, though I sometimes feel twice that when me bones ache fierce from long days laborin'." Her mouth quirks with gallows humor. "Reckon I'll be naught but a hunched crone by five and twenty, God willin'."

I nod slowly, absorbing this information. If Aislin is eighteen now and was married at twelve...

"How old were ye when ye had me, Mama?" I keep my tone bright with childish curiosity.

"Ah, not yet full grown meself - just fourteen." Her eyes take on a faraway look. "Yer father wanted me breedin' straight away to birth him strong sons." Pain flashes across her worn features. "Though the good Lord saw fit to take yer brothers and sisters back to Heaven afore they drew breath..."

I watch emotions play over her face - grief, resignation, a glimmer of resentment quickly smothered. An unfamiliar ache blooms inside my chest.

"But He finally blessed me wi' you, praise God," Aislin continues softly. She strokes a hand over my tangled hair. "Me little Lile, who turns five on the twenty-fifth day of Deireadh Fómhair, if ye must know."

A gentle smile touches her lips though melancholy still lingers in her eyes. "Yer a willful imp at times, 'tis true, but also the sweetest balm to yer mam's weary soul."

She pulls me into a sudden fierce embrace. I stand frozen, pulse racing as unfamiliar emotions storm through me. But I force my rigid limbs to soften and return her embrace. For I must pretend affection while unraveling the tangled threads binding this mother and daughter.

...This walking skeleton of a woman has been pregnant more often than not since being sold off to that slack-jawed yokel at age twelve! Who knows how many miscarriages before they finally managed to whelp me, and not a single snot-nosed brat in the four years since. And she just casually drops this trauma like commenting on the weather before going back to scrubbing bowls. Her uterus must look like bloody swiss cheese held together with twine at this point!

Not that it matters if she's barren as the Sahara now that she's finally popped out a nearly viable female after what was likely countless rounds of that drunken oaf Oisin furiously pumping away in vain. No wonder he hates me if his "manhood" has been failing to plant his mighty seed for the past decade of fruitless boning. I bet his shriveled raisin testes are drier than month-old dog turds baking in the sun. Yet somehow his rotten spunk managed to spawn me after two dead runts. Lucky me!

And what's with that "the good Lord saw fit to take yer brothers and sisters back to Heaven afore they drew breath" religious horseshit? More like your shoddy medieval healthcare couldn't prevent babies from getting yeeted straight from the womb into the bone pit. At least they escaped this bog of eternal stench on express passes to the pearly gates. Though with my luck, I probably have their souls squatting inside me which is why I remember jackshit about my former existence. All I know is I must have monumentally pissed off someone mighty powerful to get damned to this fate.

"Lile, be a good lass and go feed the chickens now," Mother says briskly. "Check their feed bin and give them more oats if they're low. And bring any eggs ye find back inside afore that wretched rooster tries hidin' them again."

I shift uncertainly on the rough plank bench, eyeing the warped wooden door leading out to the foul-smelling livestock pen. "But Mama, that mean rooster always pecks me when I gets too close." I stick out my lower lip in an exaggerated pout, widening my eyes.

Mother snorts, unmoved by my theatrics. "Lord save me, he's just establishin' dominance, child. You must show the beast yer not afraid or he'll torment ye evermore." Her tone allows no argument. She points a reddened finger toward the door. "Now go on wi' ye afore I take a switch to yer legs."

I scowl down at the dirt floor before remembering my meek peasant girl role. With an exaggerated sigh, I drag my feet toward the exit, each step taking me closer to the nightmarish menagerie existing just on the other side of those warped planks.[...]