Flash Fiction : Loose Ends

The path to the highest peak is wrought with many a low branch.  Her father’s words echoed in her mind. To marry a chief is to choose an ambitious path, girl. Keep your aims high. But keep also your head low. Suffer humiliation with tolerance. Suffer sadness with solace. Suffer indignity with patience. Lift others to lift yourself. This is the only way to survive this road you choose. Estrid wondered if the indignity of a blind old woman prodding her holes before an audience would merit an exception in her father’s wisdom. 

“Hmp-” Estrid stifled a groan as the Seer’s tools dug deeper than she thought could be dug. She took some pride that the audience of braves expressed more disquiet than she did during the bizarre ritual. Is that why she insisted they witness the affair? Pride?

The Seer chanted something that might have been soothing were it not for the scratching growls from the flock of seerling girls, hissing and purring like so many cats in heat. She was certain that it was a ridiculous show. But Estrid was desperate, and she had made up her mind. 

Estrid was two years married now. Two years and yet a barren womb. She timed her blood with the moon’s faces. She took remedies. She fucked until fucking lost its appeal. A family without progeny is a fruit without seeds - it can nourish but once. Father had wisdom for each occasion. The chieftain was yet a virile man, all knew. He’d sired a son before her marriage. So the fault must be hers, and this gaunt old hag was truly her last hope.

“MmHm.” The ritual stopped abruptly as the seer ejected herself. Estrid stood and composed herself as she heard the Seer’s words. “Your womb sleeps. It can yet be roused.” 

“How could anything sleep through that?” It’s the best she could muster in the moment; an effort to steal back some dignity.

The Seer’s silence allowed Estrid’s embarrassing outburst to echo in the dusty shelter. After due time digging through her kit, she offered a squirrel skin pouch to Estrid. “Nature does not give without first taking. Nothing can be gained without sacrifice.”

Her father would have surely loved this old hag. 

***

Cut firewood. Move stones. Hunt. These are the tasks that might be expected of a man when called to serve a coven of women. Not this. Of all things, Grenr did not expect this. 

Of the men accompanying his aunt on her quest, he was not the strongest, nor the wisest by any stretch. He may have been the youngest. Despite this, he was the one the Seer chose to tend to her and her coven until Estrid returned.

The other men told young Grenr that the women of the Blind Seer’s coven were each and every one an outcast or offering, sent to serve the Seer from every clan in the Territories. When Grenr first saw them, he could not hide his bewilderment. Their draping cowls and exotic furs gave the impression that the women beneath took the shape of a three-pronged hut. Their faces were smeared with mud and blood. Their teeth were stained black. They seemed inhuman - like the hags of the fireside tales that would steal away children that wandered too far from the hold. Yet, as the seerlings peeled back their furs before him, what awaited beneath was most certainly of the womanly persuasion. And if Grenr was any degree uncertain - being altogether unfamiliar with such things - his budding manhood was not.

Consumed in a haze of aromatic smokes, bitter herbs, soothing chants, and warm bodies, the days passed for Grenr like a fevered dream. Before being offered to the Blind Seer, Grenr had never once laid with a woman. In those six days, he lay with more women than his age in years. He may have earned a proud name for the act, were it not for the oath he swore. Only a fool would cross the Seer, so this dream would remain his alone.

***

Settle your affairs. Take the remedy. Fuck. Return. Simple enough. Yet, “settle your affairs” had a foreboding hum. Estrid should have pressed. Alas, wisdom and regret are coupled. You must take one with the other. When she faced the Seer again she was struck with the revelation like a cudgel to the teeth.

Estrid erupted, “Stay? I am to stay here? How long must I stay?” Patience and solace eluded Estrid. One of the brave’s gasped at her insolence.

The bones that dangled from the Seer’s wrist rattled in a calming chime as she intoned her reply, “Yes, sweetling. You will return to your home with child in arms. Not before.” After a pause, she barked at the braves in a rasp. “Away. In twelve moons, return. I have spoken.” 

And so it was. 

Moons passed. Seasons turned. Estrid swallowed down each of the Seer’s disgusting concoctions like a nested birdling. Her belly never grew, yet - to her surprise - her milk did come. By the time a newborn was offered to drain it, Estrid understood what transpired. 

Solving life’s puzzles is a joy. Don’t spoil the fun with hasty askin’. Estrid solved this little puzzle all by herself. She concluded that her nephew was not idle here. Indeed, he planted many a seed over his short stay. Further, her womb never woke as the crone promised, nor will it ever. Yet, she would return home with child in arms. Estrid kept her silence on the matter. She never questioned. Some part of her hoped that her silent wisdom impressed the old crone. 

Estrid and the boy- her boy - grew quite fond of one another in their time together as nurse and suckling. He had his father’s look about him - and for that some of her husband’s too. Clever old hag. 

The braves returned to fetch her after a year’s passing, as they were instructed to do. Who would dare play tardy to the Blind Seer’s whims, after all? And it isn’t only the whims of witches that humble the bravest of men. No matter how calloused their hands nor grim their hearts, no man can resist the wiles of a newborn babe. So, upon their reunion, as a matter of course, each man smiled and cooed at their heir apparent in turn. Estrid watched them closely as they examined the pup. Each was a year wiser than before, yet none the wiser to the Seer’s ploy. Good. 

After a time, the eldest wrinkled his bald pate and presented a face of solemn regret. “I’m sorry to have to bear this news on such a happy occasion. It’s about young Grenr. He didn’t make it a night after the journey home, ya see.” The old warrior shook his head. “Spoke of a crone’s curse and sworn silence. Dead in his sleep not long after. And I thought he was just being a coy bastard.”

That surprised Estrid - for a moment. Nothing can be gained without sacrifice. Estrid presented the appropriate sighs and words of condolence before guiding all eyes back to the child. “Then his name shall be Grenr, after his honorable cousin.”

The old warrior nodded and spoke to the child in a pinched, happy tone. “Strong name, that. A leader’s name. Ain’t that right, little Grenr?” His eyes darted back to Estrid’s in a way that stopped her breath. He grabbed her arm firmly. 

Did he realize the ploy? How could he?

He moved in close - too close. “Begging your pardon, Estrid, but these women - what happened with Grenr…  Is there any chance that we get to leavin’ this twice cursed place? Much longer here and I’m going to shit myself.” 

Estrid exhaled, masking her relief with a laugh. “Of course. Grenr is due to meet his father.”