Chapter Five: Samara's Story.
The fish had been out of water for hours; the entire morning in fact. But it still flopped frantically as a girl slogged through the mud towards it. Its mouth opened and closed, as though appealing for help. Samara placed her left hand over its head and with a downward swipe of the knife in her right hand, separated it from its body. Then she salvaged the body from the mud and packed it into her basket with the others, and slogged onto the next stranded fish. She left the head for Luke to deal with.
‘Samara – look – its eye’s still blinking!’
Samara shuddered; eight year old boys were repulsive. This never-ending chore was also repulsive. The stench of dead and dying fish filled the air, although Samara was too deep in her own misery to notice the smell anymore. Others from her village toiled alongside her. Every able man, woman, and child had been given a hessian sack to wrap around their waist, and pressed into service. Glancing around at her co-workers, Samara decided they looked like an army of scarecrows: very muddy scarecrows at that. Yesterday, the River Cole had stretched wide and shallow as far as the eye could see. Today, its glittering waters had vanished, leaving behind this gloopy mud sprinkled with fish gasping for life. Without the fish to supplement their diet, the villagers would starve this winter.
The reed-woven basket weighed her shoulder down to one side, and was almost full. One more fish and then I’ll swap this basket for an empty one, Samara told herself. Swiftly beheading the next fish, mercifully already dead, Samara shoved its body into her basket. She set her burden down and massaged her shoulder. It felt good to be rid of the basket’s weight, if only for a few moments; she gazed around her. I didn’t realise we’d ventured so far onto the mud – if the waters should come rushing back now – she pushed that thought away.
Before slinging the basket over her opposite shoulder, Samara placed her hands in the small of her back and leaned backwards, hearing vertebras click into place. Sensing a presence lurking behind her, she straightened and turned. Vander watched her with a hungry expression on his face. Samara stared back for a second, and then deliberately looked past him in an effort to pretend he wasn’t there. He was twenty years her senior and, as of this morning, also her husband to be. Vander curled his top lip, displaying teeth the same dirty yellow shade of his face.
‘I haven’t yet received a kiss from my intended bride,’ he leered. Samara placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. ‘That wasn’t in the bargain,’ she snapped, and turned to pick up her basket. Vander wheezed a laugh, grabbed at her wrist and spun her around.
‘Feisty! I like your spirit, but in a few years, I won’t have to ask – I’ll take.’ He pursed his lips and slobbered, acting up for the benefit of other villagers who had paused to watch this little spat. But his eyes were hard and his fingers were steely. When he released his grip, there were red marks around Samara’s wrist.
‘I pray for death before that happens,’ Samara hissed at him. Before Vander could react, Lillian rushed to Samara’s side.
‘Come on Samara, mother’s women are waiting for more fish to gut and salt.’ The younger girl reached down to Samara’s basket, ignored the shoulder strap, and grabbed at one handle. Samara turned her back on Vander and snatched the basket’s other handle. Together the two friends lurched through the water-puddled mud towards the river’s bank. Lillian’s hands also glistened with fish scales, but like her brother Luke, the basket over her shoulder contained only discarded fish heads. The chief’s daughter could have been excused even that light duty, but like every other youngster in the village, Lillian appeared to relish this unexpected drama.
But for now, as they slogged towards the women bustling on the river’s bank, Lillian was unusually subdued. With her free hand, she twisted a tendril of golden hair, lifted it to her lips, and began chewing it. Samara breathed out with impatience.
‘Lillian, I don’t blame you and I don’t blame your father. He needed money quickly to purchase extra salt and pickling barrels.’
Lillian shot her a sideways glance, and then her face crumpled.
‘But Samara – Vander’s so creepy!’
‘He’s also rich.’ Vander’s two previous wives had died young, leaving him their land and livestock. Earlier this morning, Lillian and Luke’s mother had stood with her eyes lowered, listening as her husband bartered Samara’s lands and hand in marriage in exchange for Vander’s gold. The two men were of similar age, but Chief Wulfstan’s face seemed pinched with shame; in contrast, Vander glowed with pleasure. Lady Lydia waited for the two men to seal the bargain and then spoke: ‘Of course, the marriage cannot take place until Samara inherits her lands, on her eighteenth birthday.’ Remembering the altered expressions on both men’s faces brought a grim smile to Samara’s own face.
‘It’s pointless worrying; we’ve enough on our plates, and besides, anything can happen in the next five years.’
The sludge gave way to shingle. Scaly arms with sleeves rolled back past elbows reached down to take the basket from the two girls. Other hands reached down to help the girls clamber up onto firmer ground.
Lady Lydia hurried over to the two girls and steered them towards a makeshift bench and tables. Nearby, five of the largest fish had been wrapped in leaves and were slowing turning on spits constructed above a fire. A cluster of village grandmothers turned the spit handles. Despite the heat from the flames, they all wore dark woollen shawls over their shoulders.
‘Wash your hands, and then sit down and have some lunch.’ Without waiting for a response, she caught Samara’s hands between her own, plunged them into a basin of clean warm water, and began lathering using a lump of soft waxy soap. It felt luxurious. Samara smiled her thanks. She guessed that Lady Lydia intended to signal that her daughter’s best friend was under her own special protection. From now until the day she entered under his roof, Samara should be free from any unwanted attention from Vander.
‘Five years, anything can happen in five years,’ Samara muttered. Lady Lydia paused in massaging Samara’s hands; her plump matronly features hardened, but then she nodded briefly. Lydia hoped that in five years' time, for everyone’s sake, this young vibrant girl would be resigned to her fate.
In any case, as she'd already explained to Samara, only peasants married for love.