Chapter 1: Day 1/A Child Called Lile [6/9]

Rory aims a light cuff at the boy's ear. "Mind that whinin' tongue, lad. Ye ent near man enough to handle a lass, let alone a wife." He shakes his head indulgently. "Why, ye still run bawlin' to yer mam over every scraped knee and bellyache!"

The older man nods agreement, stroking his beard. "Ye must finish growin' afore taking a bride, Fergus. Another five years at least to put some meat on them scrawny bones." He winks, eliciting the boy's sulky scowl.

But Fergus quickly rallies, leaning eagerly on the fence rail. "Pardon me, mistress, what name might ye have? I wish to claim this maid as my future bride!"

Mother glances up from the cabbage rows, taking in the trio of faces with thinly veiled distaste. "'Tis Lile Ban ye address so boldly, boy. Now off wi' ye all afore her father returns from the fields."

At our family name, the men exchange knowing looks. Fergus's face falls. "B-but I thought her mighty comely..."

Rory spits again. "Aye, but that fiend Oisin would sooner gut ye than accept coin for his cursed get." He shoves the protesting boy down the lane. "Best set yer sights elsewhere, lad."

Their voices fade around a bend in the road, leaving naught but swirling dust motes glinting in the morning sun.

What peculiar superstitions these peasants harbor regarding names, I muse silently. That my very surname should elicit such a dramatic response seems absurd. Yet clearly the mere utterance of "Ban" carries ominous weight here.

Do they view the appellation as cursed somehow? An ill-fated lineage tainted by misfortune or scandal? Perchance some ancestor ran afoul of the Church in ages past, leaving descendants stained by the sins of their forebear?

I must learn more of this family's history and mine own origin story in this strange era I now inhabit. For names hold power among the credulous masses, and this one in particular seems to conjure fear and mistrust on peasant tongues...

Mother shakes her head slowly, calloused fingers combing my tangled hair. "Ah, pay their superstitious blather no mind, m'anam. Our name makes peasants uneasy is all."

She sighs heavily, features tightening as if pained by some unpleasant memory.

"In truth, we're quite fortunate yer father Oisin puts the fear o' God in most folk around these parts. They know better than to trifle with his property." Her cracked lips twist in a bitter smile. "'Twould go ill indeed for any man what tried despoilin' his womenfolk."

I force my tone to remain childishly curious. "Why's that, Mama? What would Papa do if someone hurt us?"

Mother's face pales, her reply barely audible over the summer breeze rustling the vegetables. "'Tis best ye never learn the answer, lamb. Just pray his black reputation keeps ye safe when I cannot."

I wet my lips, hesitant to probe further. But morbid fascination compels me. "Did Papa...punish someone before? For touchin' his family?"

Mother closes her eyes, anguish etching new lines around them. When she finally speaks, her voice emerges hollow, haunted by memories no child should possess.

"Aye. I had a cousin once try layin' hands on me after Domhnaigh Mass...brazen as ye please in front of the village, thinkin' himself untouchable." She shudders violently. "Oisin broke his legs with a sledge and left him to the crows. We could hear the screams for hours..."

I sit perfectly still amidst the cabbage rows, pulse racing as her bleak words sink like stones in my belly.

Huh. So apparently my dear old da is the local equivalent of an attack dog crossed with a rabid wolverine. Just the stench of his passing strikes peasants with a piss-their-pants paralysis. Who'd have thought that slack-jawed drunk could send an entire village scurrying for cover at the mere hint of his shadow? Why, those superstitious turnip farmers likely whisper tales of the fiendish Oisin Ban around campfires, warning their brats to behave lest he leap cackling from the darkness to drag them kicking and screaming to eternal torment!

I can just envision mothers invoking my father's name to terrify misbehaving children into submission. "Hush now or Oisin Ban will gobble you up bones and all!" They probably pray nightly for the Lord to strike him dead between swigs of ale, not realizing Death himself likely cowers squealing under the bed whenever Oisin staggers by. Not even plague rats are foolish enough to build nests in his beard.

Who'd have guessed my malodorous paterfamilias would prove so useful for keeping potential suitors away? Why, I'll have to craft little voodoo dolls with his ugly mug to gift as protective totems! Now if only I can train the chickens to attack on command whenever some desperate peasant boy comes sniffing around. "Sic him, ladies! Protect your mistress from the vile male scourge!"

Mother glances up at the late afternoon sun slanting through the wooden slats of our garden fence. "Saints be praised, we've scarce a few sun movements afore Oisin returns from the fields." She makes the sign of the cross, kissing her thumb. "Best tidy this plot then go inside for evening prayers to Gwenhwyfar, aye?"

I nod obediently, keeping my gaze downcast like a biddable daughter. But curiosity compels me to ask in a small voice, "Who's Gwenhwyfar, Mama? How come we gotta pray special to her?"

Mother blinks at me in surprise. "Why, 'tis the Blessed Virgin I mean, child. The mother of our Lord Jesus Christ what prays for sinners like us wretched peasants."

She rakes her fingers through her lank hair, leaving streaks of grime across her smudged forehead that highlight the strain etched prematurely on her young face.

"'Tis especially important girls pray to the Virgin for protection and guidance. She intercedes with her Son on behalf womenfolk." Mother's cracked lips twist in a bitter smile. "For the Lord knows we need all the help we can get in this world ruled by men's fists and phalluses."

I force my face to reflect only childish curiosity about this mythical female figure who supposedly grants magical favors to her groveling gender across the centuries.

"What should I ask Lady Gwenhwyfar for, Mama?"

Mother touches my cheek with work-roughened fingers. "Why, for the wisdom and humility to accept thy fate as the Lord deems fit, child. To embrace the duties of thy station, no matter how difficult or demeanin' they may prove."

Her voice drops, scarcely audible over the summer breeze rustling the vegetables. "'Tis the only way womenfolk survive what men inflict upon us, poppet. We endure and pray the next world offers kinder rewards for our sufferin' in this one."

I follow Mother inside the cramped hovel, bare feet recoiling from the slimy dirt floor. She kneels on the packed earth before the crude hearth, worn skirts puddling around her folded legs. Clasping her calloused hands together, she bows her head over interlaced fingers in an attitude of humble supplication.

"Holy Virgin, mother of our Lord Jesus Christ, hear my prayer," she intones, rocking slightly back and forth. "Intercede for me and my daughter, Lile, thy humble servants. Beg of thy Son forgiveness for our many sins and grant us the strength to uphold our womanly duties with grace."

Her cracked lips move soundlessly for several heartbeats before she makes the sign of the cross. Straightening from her crouch, she smiles tiredly at me.

"Come now, Lile Ban. Kneel beside me and offer up thine own prayer to Lady Gwenhwyfar. She listens with especial sympathy to motherless girls and women beset by trials."

I awkwardly lower myself to the dirt floor, grimacing at the grime coating my bare knees. What in the seven hells am I supposed to say to this mythical martyr figure?

Clasping my grubby hands together in clumsy imitation of Mother's posture, I mutter, "Um, Blessed Virgin Mary, hear my prayer too I guess? Please...make me brave and, uh, obedient like you was with God?"

I risk a sideways peek at Mother's profile. "Was that done right, Mama?"

The weary smile creasing her worn face seems to gentle something inside my chest. She reaches out to stroke my tangled hair.

"'Twas just perfect, my little lamb. The Holy Mother will surely grant thee courage now."

These primitive screwheads are praying to King Arthur's side piece? What kind of pagan-Christian mashup is this, the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch edition? Hail Mary full of grapes, blessed art thou amongst sloppy seconds! So Sir Loinsalot and his merry men can take turns stroking their Excaliburs before pulling them out to Excali-splooge all over the local wenches? No wonder Mother's knees are so calloused!

Why couldn't I get zapped back to Camelot in a sexy sorceress body instead of this lice-infested turnip? At least then I could drink mead out of goblets instead of choking down gruel from wooden bowls! Maybe if I pray hard enough Mistress Gwenhwyfar will turn me into a busty redheaded beer wench so I can live out my wildest medieval fantasies involving illicit trysts with the Knights of the Round Groin! We'll rewrite the legends to make Lancelot look like a celibate choir boy! All hail Queen Guinevere, Patron Saint of Adulterous Orgasms!

But nope, instead I'm stuck as a four year old peasant waif betrothed to Grimey fucking McGee since birth. My only purpose is squirting out more grubby serfs between getting pounded like a training dummy by Sir Plowsalot! What's next, the Holy Foreskin Relic getting paraded through town before the High Balls Festival? Someone please just bash my head in with a crucifix! Maybe if I'm lucky this is all just a weird coma fantasy and I'll wake up any second now in the psych ward. Hallelujah, lock me up and throw away the straitjacket!

Fuck my life, this can't be real.

"Mama, my tummy's rumblin' something fierce," I whine, clutching my midsection for effect. "Can we eat now, please?"

Mother glances up from mending a pile of torn linens, worry creasing her brow. "Not yet, love. We must wait for yer father to return afore breakin' bread."

At my exaggerated pout, she adds gently, "Ye ken Oisin insists on suppin' first. Then we womenfolk can eat once he's filled."

I scowl, kicking at a clump of rushes. "But that's not fair! Why's Papa get first nibbles always?"

Mother shakes her head firmly. "Hush now, Lile Ban, and apologize for that spiteful tongue."

She pulls me close, stroking my tangled hair with work-roughened fingers. "Yer father toils from dawn to dusk in the fields to put food in our bellies. 'Tis only right he regains strength first."

I poke out my lower lip mutinously but stay silent under her quelling gaze.

With a tired sigh, Mother adds, "And I must try again tonight to give Oisin a son while he's deep in his cups. Mayhap this time God will take pity and let the babe quicken fully."

She touches the crude wooden cross at her throat like a talisman against remembered pain. "If not, well...I aim to please him as a Christian wife ought."

"Mama, does my name mean anythin'?" I ask, pouting.

"Whyever the curiosity about yer name all sudden, lass?" Mother asks, not glancing up from her mending.

I shift closer on the rough plank bench, tucking my bare feet beneath my grubby skirts. "Was just wonderin' if it means anything special is all." I widen my eyes pleadingly. "Like magic charms against bad luck or keeping away sickness and such."

Mother snorts softly. "Nay, not quite that fanciful." She bites off a length of coarse thread, deftly threading her bone needle. "Yer named for yer father's mam what died birthin' him. Lile Ban - white lily flower - on account of her fair looks."

She shakes her head wryly. "'Course Oisin weren't much impressed havin' a girl child carry on that legacy. He prayed nightly while I carried ye that ye'd emerge a boy." Her cracked lips twist bitterly. "One more disappointment for that wretched man."

Mother ties off the mended seam before glancing over at me. "Might as well start yer trainin' in womanly arts afore ye're sold off. Come sit by me now."

She gestures at the pile of torn linens. "We've enough rags here to practice sewin' and darnin' a fair while."

I wedge onto the rough plank bench beside her. Peering at the basket of foul looking rags, I ask uncertainly, "But Mama, can't we do something fun instead?"

Her sharp look quells my protest. With a resigned sigh, I accept the stained scrap of fabric she offers along with a splintering hoop attached to coarse threads.

"Mind yer clumsy stitchin' now," Mother chides as I fumble to thread the bone needle. "Sloppy mendin' will earn naught but the back o' yer husband's hand for wastin' good linen."

"Yes, Mama," I mumble, squinting at the tiny eye of the needle. This is going to be duller than watching turnips grow. Just kill me now!

As I attempt to push the bone needle through the coarse linen, I'm surprised to feel my fingers automatically performing the intricate motions - almost without conscious effort on my part. The thread slides smoothly along as the needle dives in and out of the fabric, my small hand moving with practiced ease I cannot account for. Within moments I've completed a row of tiny, even stitches that would impress even Mother's experienced eye.

I halt abruptly, heart pounding as I examine the mended section closely. How did I achieve such skill on my very first attempt? The delicate stitches speak of long familiarity with needlework far beyond my scant four years in this waif's body. Yet I possess not a single memory of ever having sewn before today.

Unease skitters through me as I try grasping for some scrap of recollection about my original identity before awakening here. Could I have been a tailor in that former life now forgotten? But why would a grown man retain such feminine handicraft? Surely needle arts are the purview of women and girls alone...

I bite my lip fiercely, struggling to make sense of this latest inexplicable revelation. Perhaps some essence of the former Lile yet clings to this flesh now under my dominion, granting me access to her hard-won knowledge. Yet wouldn't a small child's efforts appear clumsy and awkward? Why does handling the bone needle feel so uncannily natural when by rights, I should be pricking my tender fingers to bloody shreds?

It's almost as if...as if muscle memory lingers in the very sinews and nerves of this physical form - an intrinsic familiarity independent of the spirit currently inhabiting it. I flex my fingers slowly, staring at the tiny callouses marking the waif's once-soft skin. What history do these small hands recall that I cannot?

Mother glances up from her own mending, brow furrowing as she takes in my handiwork. "Saints be praised, those are finer stitches than I could manage, lass! Why, 'tis almost like an invisible fairy guided yer efforts."

She holds out her linen beside mine, rough fingertips tracing the delicate rows with something akin to awe. I force myself to giggle brightly, widening my eyes.

"Just got lucky is all, Mama! I bet next time it looks like chicken scratches again." I scrunch my nose self-consciously. "Don't got yer talent for sewin' and such womanly stuff. My hands is too clumsy still."

Mother smiles indulgently, stroking my tangled hair. "Ah, but yer a clever imp, no mistake! I've a feelin' ye'll pick up household skills quicker than me own sisters. Mark me words, poppet - ye've the makin's of a fine wife for some lucky man one day."

My lips twist in feigned distaste. "Ew, boys is gross! I don't never wanna get married." I poke out my tongue for emphasis, eliciting a weary chuckle from her. Crisis averted...for now at least. I sneak another peek at the impossibly delicate stitches marring the coarse linen, unease still churning inside me.

Mother hands me another torn scrap of linen, her sharp gaze assessing as I position the coarse fabric in my small hoop. I can feel her eyes boring into me as I push the bone needle awkwardly through the weave, my clumsy stitches dragging the material. Perspiration dampens my brow with concentration at the effort to appear inept after my previous inexplicable display of talent. The wretched thread keeps missing the pathetic holes I jab, knotting into a birdsnest of chaos.

I risk a hesitant glance at Mother's face. Faint lines have appeared between her brows, her thin lips pressed tightly together. I duck my head again quickly, fumbling another uneven loop that puckers the linen comically.

"Er, sewin's harder than I thought, Mama," I mumble, squinting in feigned frustration at the mess of stitches. "My fingers feel all stupid and useless today." I stick my tongue out the corner of my mouth, poking the needle wildly at the fabric as though trying to spear an elusive fish.

Mother makes a small noise of impatience. "Lile, are ye truly so incapable of followin' the most basic instructions?" She puts her hands on her hips, glaring down at me. "Or just an idle little wastrel tryin' my patience for sport?"

I widen my eyes, letting them fill with crocodile tears. "I'm tryin' my best Mama, honest!" My lower lip wobbles pathetically as I survey the mangled linen. "But it's gone all wrong and I can't get the needle to go where I want properly."

Mother chuckles then, reaching over to stroke my tangled hair. "Ah, but I'm prone to forgettin' yer still a wee babe in truth. Why, when I were four winters I could scarce thread a needle without stabbin' meself bloody, let alone manage even these wobbly efforts."

She holds up my previous attempt with its perfect tiny stitches. "This were right clever for a little lass. I'll admit I were shocked to see such fine work from me Lile's small hands." Mother shakes her head in wonderment. "Must've been the angels guidin' yer way because beginner's fortune won't explain it."[...]