Chapter 1: Day 1/A Child Called Lile [5/9]

I grasp another fistful of scratchy weeds, yanking them loose from the dry soil. Peering closer, I see carrots and turnips thriving alongside potatoes and onions. Despite the poor rocky soil, our garden bounty seems sufficient to supplement the endless bowls of watery gruel. At least we shall not starve outright before the next harvest...small comfort in this era of ceaseless toil.

My mother continues searching cabbage leaves for beetles, the lines on her careworn face seeming deeper than her eighteen years would suggest. She moves slowly, as if bone weary, yet I know the day's work has scarcely begun. There will be no rest for her until the dinner pot bubbles over the fire and Oisin is snoring in his cups.

How she manages to coax sustenance from this paltry patch of earth is a testament to the resilience of peasant women throughout the ages - thankless laborers never acknowledged as the true backbone of agrarian society. Their sweat waters the crops that feed armies of ungrateful men. Their blood nourishes generations of unappreciative children who cannot fathom the depth of sacrifice endured to grant them breath...

This woman beside me now - is she truly my mother? I cannot reconcile the stranger's face with any scrap of memory from my veiled past. Yet her familiar movements and speech suggest some deeper connection still mysterious to my conscious mind. I must continue this pretense of daughterly affection while unraveling reality's tangled threads.

Mother pauses in her inspection of cabbage leaves, glancing over with a tired smile. "We've much to be thankful for, Lile. Yer father Oisin treats us more kindly than most men."

I blink up at her in surprise. This slack-jawed drunk who threatens his prepubescent daughter with prostitution qualifies as benevolent treatment? I force my tone to remain childishly curious. "How's that, Mama? Don't all families live same as us?"

Mother shakes her head, sadness etching new lines around her eyes. "If only 'twere so, a leanbh. Too many women in our land ain't blessed with roofs and clothes like us. Why, some souls are turned out naked as sin to fend for themselves when a husband tires of 'em."

I gape at her, pulse racing. Surely she jests...yet her somber mien suggests otherwise. I wet my lips, hesitant to probe further lest she grow suspicious at my ignorance of such customs. But morbid fascination compels me. "What happens to them poor women, Mama?"

"Ah, 'tis a hard life for those wretches," she sighs. "Some sell their very flesh just to fill their bellies or keep babes alive a short while longer." Her voice drops, scarcely audible over the summer breeze rustling the vegetables. "And others pray for the mercy of a quick death rather than face the slow agony of starvation."

I sit perfectly still amidst the weeds and cabbage, stunned by the bleak images her words conjure. In this era, discarded women must choose between selling their bodies like chattel or dying abandoned in the streets like animals. And those too ugly or old to entice men are left to writhe in slow wasting agony before their worthless corpses are tossed in pits...

A chill sweeps through my soul that has naught to do with this morning's brisk air. How can God sanction such cruelty in His name?

I stare at the clump of weeds clutched in my grubby fist, pulse racing as Mother's bleak words echo through my thoughts. Discarded women must choose 'twixt selling their very flesh or starving with babes swollen from hunger, their worthless corpses tossed in pits...

This cannot be real. Never in all my years have I heard such casual discussion of horrific fates. Are modern men truly so enlightened compared to these Dark Age peasants? Christ on a bike, e'en axe murderers possess more empathy! At least they end misery quickly rather than leaving victims to writhe in agony for weeks.

Perchance I've smoked too much marijuana and dropped too much acid in another life? Now I'm paying penance trapped in this waif's body, forced to dwell among callous shit-kickers. Why else would I envision such a grotesque world where women count less than livestock? At least the damned goats get to keep their hides instead of being flayed for some drunken lout's pleasure!

This has to be a coma-dream...or maybe I'm already in Hell? Would explain the nonstop horrors and aroma of festering sores. Gotta be eternal punishment for my multitude of sins. But what precisely did I do to deserve this, God? Covet my neighbor's ass? Fail to tithe on that sweet Bitcoin action? Forget to cross myself walking past that church in Tijuana? C'mon big guy, can't we talk this over? I'll even listen to bagpipe sermons if it means waking up from this nightmare!

"...Lile? Lile!" Mother's sharp tone interrupts my spiraling thoughts. I blink up at her dumbly. "Sorry Mama, what?"

She huffs in exasperation. "Honestly child, yer head is stuffed with wool today! I asked have ye finished pullin' them weeds yet or still lollygaggin' about?"

I quickly resume yanking plants, piling them in the rough sack. "Almost done, Mama!" Just gotta make it through this day without losing my shit or getting burned at the stake. Praying this freakshow fever dream ends soon cuz Mama's "wifely duties" are sounding less appealing by the minute. Unless the hubby candidates here enjoy getting stabbed with rusty garden tools.

"Ow!" I drop the scratchy weed stem as a sharp pain lances through my finger. A crimson bead wells up, staining the callous. I pop the digit into my mouth, sucking away coppery blood.

Mother glances over, brow furrowing. "Oh now, what have ye done to yerself this time, m'anam?"

She takes my small hand in her work-roughened ones, inspecting the injury. With a weary sigh, she brings it to her lips, gently kissing the tiny wound. Her faded blue eyes meet mine, glinting with shared memory of countless minor cuts and scrapes tended through the years. An unfamiliar ache blooms in my chest at this maternal gesture. Not for the first time, I wonder what binds this woman to the stranger inhabiting her daughter's flesh.

"Can't have ye damaged afore yer betrothed comes collectin' his bride price," she chides gently.

My lips twist as I reclaim my hand. "Betrothed? I ain't marryin' no stupid boy, Mama!" I adopt a petulant mien. "They're smelly and gross and mean!"

Mother laughs. "Oh child, 'tis the way of things...ye'll wed whoever yer father chooses, mayhap as early as ten years old."

My head jerks up in shock. "Ten? But that's forever from now!" I force an exaggerated pout. "Why's Papa get to decide anyhow? It ain't fair!"

Mother shakes her head slowly, calloused fingers combing my tangled hair. "Life ain't fair for womenfolk, m'anam. 'Tis our duty to obey the men God puts over us."

Her eyes take on a faraway cast. "My mam taught me the same as I be teachin' you. How to cook, spin, weave, tend animals..." She sighs. "And how to pleasure a husband once yer flower comes, though that lesson were awkward for us both!"

A bitter taste coats my tongue at the thought of this waif's body being defiled by some unwashed peasant. I swallow hard before replying. "But what if I don't wanna husband, Mama? I wanna..."

I break off uncertainly. What futures exist for women beyond wife and mother in this primitive era?

Sadness etches new lines around Mother's eyes. "Ah, wee one, ye must put such fancies aside. 'Tis my duty to raise ye proper so yer husband won't reject ye."

She grasps my shoulders, voice urgent. "Lile, if I fail to train ye right as a Christian wife, yer husband could demand I return the bridal price...and then yer father would beat me something fierce."

I stare up at her, pulse racing. The genuine fear in her eyes chills my soul.

"Do ye understand, m'anam?" Her worn hands gently cup my face. "I'm relyin' on ye to help me be a good mam so I avoid the strap. Ye will obey me in this, aye?"

Mute with conflicting emotions, I simply nod. Mother exhales in relief. "Ah, that's me good girl." She strokes my hair fondly before turning back to the cabbage rows, features tightening once more into weary resignation.

"Not that me efforts will make much difference," she mutters under her breath. "Still just a lackwit child what can't understand aught..."

I can scarcely believe my ears as Mother explains so casually that girls here are essentially sold off as child brides to the highest bidder. And they expect me to meekly accept being trafficked like chattel to some unwashed peasant who'll view me as a convenient womb for squeezing out more serfs!

This is somehow even worse than those modern cult compounds with the sister wife baby factories. At least those women can pretend they chose to drink the grape flavor-aid. But here I'll get peddled off like a prize heifer at ten years old to whichever slack-jawed yokel boosts Papa Dearest's ale fund!

"Congrats, baby girl! This fine specimen named Grimey McGee paid 50 copper coins for your uterus! Now spread those scabby legs nice and wide for your new master!" Who needs Tinder when you can just sell your lice-ridden preteen to the highest bidder? It's like an organic free-range mail order bride service. I'd laugh if it wasn't my actual fate here.

And Aislin sees nothing wrong with grooming me for this bullshit bridal auction. "Just close your eyes and try not to vomit too loudly when your legally licensed rapist crawls on top of you, sweetie! It's your wifely duty to provide heirs and ignore his hideous gnarled feet." GAG ME WITH A SPOON, MAMA!

Wow, maybe I have embraced gallows humor as a coping mechanism in this festering bog of eternal stench! It's either laugh or just lie down and wait for the plague cart to scoop me up. What's the life expectancy here anyway - 35 if the childbirth sepsis doesn't get you? No wonder Mother has the spine of a 90 year old at just 18 after squeezing me out so young.

And Oisin clearly rode her womb like a bucking bronco right out the gate trying to breed sons, not giving a damn that it shattered her pelvis. That's what these "women" are for in his mind - convenient cum receptacles to pump full of baby batter. Who cares if their bodies break down like worn out mares past breeding prime? Just trade them in for fresher models!

Maybe if I'm lucky, the Black Death will sweep through and make me a wealthy widow by age 12. Then I can sit on a pile of corpses and cackle wildly as I burn this festering hovel to ashes! "I'll dance on your graves, you shit-eating peasant fucks!" Hey, a girl's gotta have dreams or she'll go insane.

I halt my spiraling thoughts, taking a deep breath. This is the dark ages - I cannot apply modern views on morality or consent to this primitive era. They have no concept yet of psychology, human rights, feminism...or the very notion of childhood.

Girls here are considered women the minute they flower, ripe to be plucked by whichever male can pay the bridal price. Betrothal at ten years would not raise an eyebrow. And "pedophilia" has no meaning when all are viewed as gendered property first, people second.

I must stop judging them by standards not created for a thousand years. Still...I cannot completely silence my outrage, only mask it behind wide-eyed innocence. Were I to unleash the tongue lashing brewing inside, they would think this waif either touched mad or possessed!

So I swallow back bitter words and affect childish curiosity instead. "Mama, will my husband be old like Papa? What if he has no teeth and smells like farts?" I wrinkle my nose for effect. "Or what if he wants to kiss me with his scratchy beard? Yuck!"

I force an exaggerated shudder. "Boys are gross, Mama! Why can't I just stay here always with you instead?"

Aislin smiles gently, though sadness lingers in her eyes. "Oh my little lamb, if only that could be. But ye'll come to accept yer husband in time, as all women must to survive."

I poke out my lower lip, widening my eyes pleadingly. "But that's not fair! Why do I gotta do stuff I don't wanna?" Inside, I seethe at her resignation. This acquiescence to fate galls my independent spirit.

Aislin cups my grubby cheek with one work-roughened hand. "We each have our duties, Lile love. Yers shall be childbearin' and servin' some lucky man. Mine is preparin' ye for that worthy role."

I wrinkle my nose in exaggerated distaste, eliciting a tired chuckle from her. My modern sensibilities may rail against this world, but I am powerless as a child. For now I must bide my time.

God, how I'd love to see some purple-haired feminazi land here and start shrieking about the wage gap or glass ceiling, waving a poster with the Venus symbol. These peasants would think a banshee got possessed by a demon!

Before the poor deluded cow even finished her rant about empowerment, Oisin and his grubby cohorts would mount her head on a pike to shut her up. Then all the village children could use it for kickball practice in the cow pasture! It would be the most entertainment they've had since old man McDermott got his drunken arse stuck in the pig trough. At least no one can accuse the medieval bogtrotters of cancel culture. Their version of putting feminists in their place is a bit more hands-on and final, heh. Outrage? Meet cudgel, honey.

Can you imagine some blue-haired land whale in cat-eye glasses time traveling here and trying to call out Oisin for being problematic? "Excuse me sir, it's highly toxic for you to suggest selling your prepubescent daughter's body without her consent! I'm reporting this hate speech to the authorities!" Bwahahaha! As if lardasses like that could last five minutes off the grid without their triple mocha lattes and antidepressants. Once their phones died, they'd be crying for mommy faster than you can say pumpkin spice.

And Oisin's "authorities" consist of the local priest who'd probably offer him a finder's fee for fresh meat. Who needs content moderation when you can just crack a few skulls until that bitch stops whining? Cancel THIS, loser! Ugh, could she stop bleeding on my only pair of boots? Some people are so rude. Time to go burn the witch's cottage and give her cats to the village kids as snacks! Oppression solved!

I can scarcely fathom the notion of "cancelling" someone here in this primitive era. These illiterate peasants have no concept of free speech or individual rights beyond what their overlords deign to grant. The feudal system leaves no room for dissent or open debate about societal norms. And there is certainly no public platform in the 4th century equivalent of social media.

Any peasant foolish enough to question let alone condemn the status quo would soon find themselves facing dire consequences. Flogging, mutilation, execution...outraged authorities have plenty of brutal methods for shutting up malcontents. And forget making any so-called "fake allegations" against men here. Women's words carry no weight beyond what their fathers or husbands allow.

In truth, this entire worldview centered around male dominance and female submission leaves no avenue to even imagine a different reality. It is simply accepted as the natural order ordained by God. There is no framework yet for envisioning gender equality nor language to articulate the notion of oppression. That women are essentially property without rights or autonomy seems as unquestioned as the sun's passage across the sky.

Any modern woman finding herself suddenly transported to this savage era would be shocked into silence. The stark brutality and indifference to female suffering would be incomprehensible to one raised with hard-won suffrage and legal protections. But here a husband owns his wife's body, his children are his possessions, and priestly authority stems directly from Heaven. There is no debate...only obedience.

This is the true face of patriarchy - one untouched by modern progress or sensibilities. It is submission or death. And I must hold my tongue lest angry peasants decide this waif's fate.

The crude wattle fence encircling our meager garden provides scant privacy from the rutted dirt lane passing nearby. As I yank up another handful of scratchy weeds, struggling peasants trudge past in the distance, their hunched forms casting broken shadows over the barley fields lining the road. I pay them little mind, focused on finishing this tedious chore so I might snatch a few precious moments of solitude.

But my brief hopes are dashed when the crunch of footsteps halts just beyond the crooked wooden slats. I glance up warily to see a pair of broad-shouldered men accompanied by a boy of perhaps ten winters eyeing me with evident interest.

The older male strokes his grizzled beard, weathered features creasing into a smile. "Well now, ain't ye the bonniest little thing with them yellow eyes? We dinna often see such coloring here."

He elbows his companion. "What say ye, Rory? This pretty maid would make a fine match once she blossoms, eh?"

Rory spits on the ground, scratching his matted hair. His wandering gaze assesses me like a prize heifer at market.

"Aye, she's a tiny wisp now but give her a few years and I'm certain Fergus here will take her to wife." He claps the wide-eyed boy on the back...

Rory guffaws loudly at his friend's jest while Fergus flushes red, scuffing the dirt lane with one grimy toe.

"But Da, ye said I can pick any girl from the village once I turn ten!" His voice cracks petulantly. "This one's awful pretty wi' them strange eyes. I want her to birth me sons!"[...]