Noren’s Icy Endeavor

Within Hradec’s sole apothecary shop, Noren’s gaze discerningly swept over the multitude of ceramic jars, her hands sifting through them.

“This one, this one, and this one…”

She lifted a jar of powdered dragon’s tooth grass, giving it a light shake. Next, she stripped the unnecessary leaves and branches from a bundle of rhubarb stalks and another of wormwood, gathering them into her arms. Finally, her fingers closed around a small, linen-wrapped piece of fresh honeycomb.

The apothecary, a white-bearded old man, continued to grind powders in his mortar with a pestle, speaking without turning his head. “The dragon’s tooth grass is two silver coins. The rhubarb and wormwood together are ten. The honeycomb is on me; I’m too old to enjoy such sweetness.”

Noren counted out twelve silver coins, setting them neatly on the table. She tucked the ceramic jar and the two bundles of herbs into her cloth satchel, then unwrapped the linen from the honeycomb. Nibbling on the sweet treat, she inquired, “Do you have any sugar left?”

The old man plucked leaves from a yellow herb, dropping them into the mortar. The pestle clashed and scraped against the ceramic, producing a grating sound. “None,” he replied. “No spice merchants have visited Hradec lately.”

Upon hearing this, Noren took another generous bite of honeycomb, chewing thoughtfully before spitting the waxy residue onto the ground. After a brief moment of contemplation, she turned and departed.

****

Days later, six transport wagons laden with stone rumbled into Ostrava, bringing not only nineteen refugees but also two skilled stonemasons.

The transport workers, having unloaded their heavy cargo, immediately set off back to Hradec. Large, rough-hewn stones lay piled by the roadside, still a considerable distance from the well they were intended to line. With the better part of the day already gone, Noren decided to prioritize settling everyone in, postponing the actual work until the following morning.

The Blacksmith’s Hut

“Sister, you’re back?” Frey looked up, his wooden spoon never ceasing its rhythmic stirring of the pot.

Noren guided the two skilled stonemasons to seats at the table. From the kitchen cupboard, she retrieved two sets of wooden utensils, placing them before her guests. She then fetched two cured sausages from the cellar, chopped them finely, and tossed them into the simmering pot. Turning to her younger brother, Frey, she instructed, “These are stonemasons from Hradec; they’ll likely be staying in the village for several days. You’ll need to cook an extra pot of stew daily, and ensure no alcohol is offered to them. I’ve also brought back a group of refugees. Tomorrow, you and the household slaves will construct a simple lean-to for them to reside in temporarily.”

Frey scooped a spoonful of soup, tasting it with a smack of his lips, before filling the stonemasons’ bowls to the brim. “Understood, Sister,” he affirmed.

****

Within the thatched hut where the slaves resided, the refugees waited with palpable anxiety. Outside, several slaves squatted in a circle, clutching their soup bowls and gnawing on rye bread.

The slaves’ gazes were fixed on the women inside the hut. Some possessed eyes burning with desire, while others merely held a vacant, dead-fish stare, sweeping back and forth across the cluster of women.

The eldest among the slaves couldn’t help but issue a quiet reminder: “Do not forget the Young Mistress’s rules.”

At his words, the slaves dispelled their lewd fantasies, lowering their heads to resume gnawing on their bread. Not a single one dared to glance towards the women again.

Noren entered the thatched hut, carrying two large bathing tubs. To the slaves outside, she commanded, “Stop eating at once! All of you, go fetch water!”

The slaves promptly set down their bowls, rose nimbly, and shouldering their wooden buckets, headed off to draw water.

Turning back to the women, she continued, “Soon, you will all cleanse yourselves thoroughly. From now on, during warm weather, you must wash at least once every seven days. When the cold sets in, it will be at least once a month.”

The women nodded in understanding.

“Furthermore, now that you have arrived in my village, you are bound by my rules,” Noren declared, holding up three fingers. “Firstly, illicit liaisons are forbidden; any found engaging in them will be expelled from the village. Secondly, theft is prohibited; offenders will have their hands severed. Thirdly, public defecation by the roadside is forbidden; violators will be denied food for three days. The privy by the river is for my personal use; anyone caught secretly using it will likewise face a three-day fast.”

Noren’s gaze swept over the assembled women. “Is that all clear?” she asked.

The women bobbed their heads in unison, like chicks pecking at grain.

“Excellent! Starting tomorrow, you will assist with the wheat harvest and threshing. The children will gather chestnuts, nuts, and wild currants. Once the wheat harvest concludes, I will have other tasks for all of you.”

****

The two stonemasons toiled for four days, meticulously fitting stones of varying sizes to construct the well’s sturdy walls. Meanwhile, Tolke and the carpenter, capitalizing on the stonemasons’ efforts, swiftly fashioned a well winch. A length of hemp rope was wound securely around the winch’s axle, allowing water to be drawn from the thirty-foot-deep well with a simple turn of the crank.

Noren personally tested the well walls’ integrity. Though no mortar or clay had been used for bonding, she was confident they would withstand collapse without external force.

After a quick rinse to clean the grime with well water, the two stonemasons bade Noren farewell. They then departed for Hradec, driving one of the wagons the transporters had left behind. Noren, having already cleared the surrounding area of bandits with Tolke prior to her own journey to Hradec, saw no need to provide them with an escort.

Moreover, she now had pressing matters to attend to.

“Set up the cauldron! Boil water!”

Noren filled a large ceramic jar with boiling water, secured its lid, and then tightly wrapped several layers of linen around the mouth. After binding hemp rope around the jar’s body, she carefully lowered it into the well. The rope’s other end was fastened to the winch, ensuring the jar remained suspended, preventing its base from touching the well’s bottom.

She then crisscrossed several wooden planks over the well opening, covering it as thoroughly as possible to prevent any sunlight from penetrating.

“Mission accomplished!” Noren announced, rising and clapping her hands together to dust them off.

Tolke gazed at the well, built with such considerable effort, his voice laced with doubt. “Just… like that?”

The young woman’s face radiated confidence. “Precisely! Now, we simply wait a few days…”

Eight days later—

Noren carefully lifted the wooden planks covering the well opening, then slowly, deliberately, drew the jar from its cold immersion.

As she cradled the jar, the intense cold within relentlessly drew the warmth from her palms.

Tolke took the jar from her, letting out a gasp of surprise. “Wow! It’s freezing!”

A triumphant smile bloomed on the young woman’s face. She untied the rope and unwound the linen, then pressed down on the jar’s lid. “Now,” she declared, “let us bear witness to this momentous occasion!”

She slowly lifted the jar’s lid. From the gradually widening opening, a frigid draft seemed to emanate, as if from the Arctic Ocean itself. This surge of cold bolstered Noren’s confidence and made Tolke’s eyes widen with eager anticipation.

With the lid fully removed, the jar appeared to contain nothing but water.

The young woman froze instantly, her mind momentarily seizing.

Tolke plunged his hand into the water. A refreshing chill surged from his fingertips, through his palm, up his radius and humerus, all the way to the crown of his head. It then coursed down his spine, raising goosebumps across his entire body.

“Hiss—it’s so cold, like it’s frozen solid!” He abruptly yanked his hand out, splashing water onto the young woman’s face.

The scattered droplets traced paths across her upturned nose, finally dampening her crimson lips. Snapping back to reality, the young woman, too, reached her hand into the jar.

She continuously fumbled and scooped within the water, and to her surprise, managed to retrieve a few tiny shards of ice.

Noren was profoundly disappointed. The jar contained far too little ice, merely a mixture of ice and water. Commercializing such a meager yield was out of the question; it would only suffice for her own family to cool down during the summer heat.

“Never mind,” she muttered, staring at the ice shards, still unable to recall what saltpeter looked like. She abandoned the thought. “Take this jar of ice water back to Freya to quench her thirst. It has indeed been quite warm these past few days.”

“Aren’t you having any?” Tolke asked, cradling the ceramic jar.

Noren’s tolerance for heat far surpassed that of the average Norse person, and she felt no particular craving for ice water. “No need,” she replied. “You take it back.”

“Alright!” The young boy departed excitedly, hugging the jar.

The young woman, however, remained seated by the well, her gaze fixed on the deep, inky blackness of its depths, contemplating whether producing ice from well water was truly a viable endeavor.