Easter Revelry and Rebirth

The season of Lent had barely concluded when Easter arrived.

The advent of Easter held little consequence for Noren’s family; they indulged in meat without a moment’s pause, and the strictures of the fasting period were utterly meaningless to the Norse.

Yet, for the free peasants and serfs of the lower strata, Easter was a welcome respite, granting them a period of rest, provided they did not delay the crucial spring sowing.

By long-standing custom, Svein seized the arrival of Easter as an opportunity to host a revelry for the villagers, ensuring an abundance of wine and bread, and securing the services of a bard who was, at least, not entirely inept; as for the old priest, who had come to spread the gospel, he would inevitably be plied with drink until he was utterly insensible.

In the central clearing amidst the village dwellings, several wooden tables groaned under the weight of food, while people danced merrily around a crackling bonfire, and the bard, clutching his small harp, offered his voice in song, though it was hardly melodious.

Svein, meanwhile, was hunched over a table, busily writing and sketching, a rushlight casting its dim glow beside him.

Having grown weary of the bard’s hackneyed tunes, Noren drew closer to her father, curious to discern what he was meticulously inscribing upon the parchment.

It was Latin, and the maiden’s interest instantly waned by more than half.

“Father, what are you writing?” she inquired, gazing at the Latin characters that possessed such a unique charm upon the parchment.

The quill’s tip glided elegantly across the paper, much like a world-class figure skater, tracing a captivating gaze, executing three pirouettes, and leaving a curling acanthus-like flourish at the tail of a character before coming to a graceful halt.

“I am chronicling the state of the Hradec Norse, their procreation, their births, their aging, and their deaths,” her father’s bovine rumble emerged from his thick beard, prompting Noren to muse that perhaps the beard itself was Svein’s true essence, and the robust body beneath merely a shaggy host.

The dense rows of Latin characters made the maiden’s eyes swim, and she massaged her temples. “Why don’t you write the Norse individuals alongside their husbands and wives, then draw a line, and at the other end of that line, write the names of their children? If someone falls ill, you could draw a cross next to their name, and if they die, a small boat.”

The maiden thus introduced Svein to the genealogical tree method of later generations, a diagram both clear and concise, capable of conveying the writer’s intentions with immediate clarity.

Svein raised his brow, his forehead furrowing as he cast a fleeting glance at her, before the wrinkles smoothed once more, and he returned his attention to the parchment. “A good idea. Fetch me that bottle of red ink; it’s on my desk in my room.”

Noren hastened home, where she espied a solid gold inkwell on the desk; the room was so dim that she could not ascertain if it truly contained red ink.

Returning to the revelry, she placed the golden inkwell beside a black one and inquired, “I don’t recall anyone in Hradec making red ink. Where did this come from?”

“Oh, Jaromir gave it to me,” the man replied with an air of nonchalance.

A flicker of surprise crossed Noren’s emerald eyes, quickly followed by a frown. “Why would he give you such a costly item?”

The quill moved deftly in Svein’s hand, as if an extension of his own arm; in the brief interval of her absence, he had already reformatted the parchment’s contents and transcribed them onto a fresh sheet.

Dipping a different white quill into the red ink, he explained, “I spoke with him about matters concerning ‘great cities,’ recounting my observations from the Christian Holy City, and he offered this bottle of red ink in return.”

The maiden’s slender fingers twirled a strand of golden hair by her temple as she pondered, ‘I know about great cities; it must be that one… ah… right! Istanbul! But what is the Christian Holy City? Israel? Palestine?’

While she was lost in thought, Svein used the red ink to annotate certain words beneath the names, including Roman numerals and Latin phrases.

In but a moment, he ceased writing, placing the quill and the silver inkwell into a wooden box, which he then secured with a brass lock.

Noren, taking the parchment in one hand and the rushlight in the other, began to peruse its contents.

As she had surmised, it was essentially a genealogy for the Norse, though ‘census record’ might be a more fitting term than ‘family tree,’ presented as it was in a diagrammatic, tree-like format.

“Father, did you include us and Tolke’s family?”

“No.”

The parchment documented thirty-two Norse families, all formed through marriages between Norsemen and Slavic natives; there were twenty-five living adult Norse, seventy minors, and an astonishingly high infant survival rate, one so elevated it seemed atypical for the Dark Ages.

“Father, which ones are the men, and which are the women?”

Svein scratched his head. “I didn’t mark them. I can’t remember that clearly; I’m getting old, and my memory is failing.”

“Alright then.”

The revelry continued unabated. Noren wondered if such boisterous celebration on the day of Jesus’s resurrection truly aligned with Christian doctrine, yet she supposed there could be no harm in celebrating His return.

Behold! Was not that bearded, Mediterranean priest himself singing, dancing, and feasting with unrestrained gusto?

The moon had stealthily ascended the celestial dome, only to slip beneath the earth after a yawn or two, making way for the colossal, crimson sun to scale the peaks.

The night had passed, leaving a scattering of drunken figures sprawled haphazardly around the bonfire; judging by the disarray of their garments, those who had succumbed to carnal abandon after the wine were far from few.

Noren navigated through the widespread disarray, having long been acutely aware of the consequences of allowing a mob of drunkards to revel without restraint.

Yet, upon witnessing the scene this morning, her eye twitched uncontrollably, for she was uncertain whether ♂+♂ constituted adultery in Christian doctrine, especially when one of the participants was the most devout believer of Jesus Christ, the very priest entrusted with shepherding the flock.

Noren’s face was etched with disgust, finding the sight utterly unbearable, yet for the sake of the old priest’s reputation and the hope of inviting him back to officiate Easter next year, she found a piece of wood and, with it, haphazardly draped a garment over the priest’s acne-ridden posterior.

Her temples throbbed incessantly, and she couldn’t help but cover her face with a sigh. “That’s quite enough. This is precisely why I dislike Easter revelries.”

****

After a night of unrestrained celebration, the villagers seemed to forget the anguish the plague had inflicted upon them, and life gradually returned to its usual rhythm.

“Here, take this. These are your barley seeds. This year, you’ll just have to gather more chestnuts from the forest to eat…”

Noren lent sacks of unhulled barley to the impoverished farmers who lacked grain for sowing, for Jaromir’s two tithes during last year’s plague had left countless peasants within the domain facing severe food shortages.

Had it not been for Sithi’s clandestine dealings with Silesia after the winter snows melted, acquiring large quantities of grain, it was unknown how much land would have lain fallow this year.

The seeds in her hands were a gift from the mayor, her uncle by marriage; without the mayor’s grain aid, nearly half of Ostrava’s land would have been left barren this year, and full recultivation would not be possible until at least the year after next.

“That little devil, Jaromir!” As she mused, the maiden’s fury blazed, a searing, arid flame igniting in her belly and surging directly to her heart.

She harbored an immense, fervent hope that Jaromir would appear before her. That way, she could plunge her hand through his fifth rib, seize that pulsating, warm organ, pat his face, pale with terror, and mercilessly insult and mock him; should his reply displease her in the slightest, then— “*Bang!*”

Noren — Stress +25 (Rage, Eccentric)

“Milady, may… may I depart?” The old farmer, who had come to borrow grain, trembled uncontrollably, his legs shaking so violently from the maiden’s fiendish, chilling smile that he wished he could simply urinate on the spot.

Noren blinked, snapping out of her reverie, and suddenly let out a derisive scoff. “Hmph!”

She felt a profound shame for her own impotent rage, capable only of conjuring gruesome images of her enemy in her mind, then waved a dismissive hand at the old farmer. “You’re dismissed. Go.”

The old farmer, clutching his grain, bowed repeatedly, uttering endless words of gratitude before scurrying away in a flash.

The surrounding farmers and their wives also grew uneasy, for their past taxes had been meager, and their survival through the plague owed entirely to Noren’s family’s aid; perhaps the young mistress had grown weary of their insatiable greed.

The first person knelt, as if a domino had been toppled, and the rest followed suit, falling to their knees one after another.

‘What fresh drama is this now?’ the maiden thought, pressing a hand to her face in exasperation.

“Everyone, rise!” The people remained utterly still.

Perhaps she had indeed been too lenient. She cleared her throat twice, then commanded in a more authoritative tone, “All of you, get up now! Do not make me say it a third time.”

Everyone rose in unison.

“Take your barley and return to your homes.”

A grimy, short man lunged directly at her feet, attempting to embrace the maiden’s slender, smooth calves, but she deftly evaded his grasp.

The short man wailed, snot and tears streaming down his face, “Milady, please, do not cast me out! This year, I shall toil diligently in the fields and offer you the finest barley. If you drive us away, there will truly be no means of survival for us out there!”

“Indeed!” “Milady!” “We beg you!”

The crowd once again knelt, offering their pleas in a cacophony of voices, but Noren had not the slightest interest in their abject groveling; she merely wished to distribute the barley swiftly and then hurry home to secretly indulge in her private habit.

With the man still whimpering at her feet, her head felt as though it might explode.

“If anyone utters another sound right now, I will immediately cast them out of this village!”

The maiden’s furious roar silenced everyone instantly.

Her rage still burned fiercely, but she forcefully suppressed it, taking deep breaths and slowly expelling the scorching heat from her lungs; after a dozen long inhales and exhales, the searing pain in her chest finally subsided. “As long as you do not transgress my rules, no one will drive you away, nor will I permit you to leave.”

She drew two more cooling breaths before continuing, “If you diligently cultivate your fields and work hard, you may remain in Ostrava indefinitely. I will not press you to repay the barley seeds, nor will I demand you return even a single grain more than what you received.”

Seeing the villagers gradually calm, she waved a hand dismissively. “Enough. Go and do your work; do not delay the planting season.”

Then, Noren kicked away the sniveling man with the tear-streaked face, entered the house, and slammed the door shut with a resounding *bang*.

Having received the maiden’s reassurance, the villagers’ anxious hearts finally settled. They carefully picked up their respective sacks of barley seeds, and before departing, they did not forget to spit a mouthful of saliva at the whimpering man still sprawled on the ground.

“Pah! Coward!” (repeated numerous times)

“Damn it all, if I’m a coward, I’m the greatest coward in the world! If it weren’t for me, all of you would have been driven out by Milady today!” The man wiped the spittle from his face, spat a glob of phlegm toward the retreating backs of the villagers, then cast a respectful glance at the blacksmith’s closed door, tucked a small sack of barley seeds into his embrace, and walked off, beaming with contentment.

****

The wheat, nourished by the winter snows, glistened verdant and lush. Livestock were yoked, and farmers, guiding their plows, turned over the fallow fields, burying weeds into the earth. The heavy plows naturally created furrows and ridges, eliminating the need for manual mounding. After more than a decade of cultivation, Ostrava’s farmlands contained few small stones; once plowed, only a hoe or rake was needed to break apart the larger clods of soil before sowing could commence.

Barley seeds were sown with vigorous sweeps of the hand. This resilient crop, unlike rice, required neither nursery cultivation nor transplanting, nor did it necessitate hilling or mounding; so long as its seeds could take root and sprout in the soil, it would exhibit a vitality that surpassed even that of weeds.

All seemed auspicious. Farmers toiled, their sweat mingling with the soil of the barley fields; Frey and Svein labored in the sweltering blacksmith’s forge, their bodies glistening with perspiration; Tolke and the carpenter sparred, their sword and shield clanging rhythmically; and within the malt ale workshop, farm women vigorously stirred the wort with wooden poles, the sweat from their palms trickling down the shafts and into the nascent brew…

And Noren… well!

Emmm… she was currently secluded in her room, honing her martial arts. Splashes of sweat radiated outwards with each intricate movement of her ‘Pinching Flower Finger’ technique. This astonishing martial art, inherited from her previous life, was absolutely not to be witnessed by anyone, especially Christians. She had heard that practicing such a skill was a heinous sin, but Noren cared little; her very existence was the greatest blasphemy against Jesus Christ, both in bloodline and in soul.

Releasing her thumb and forefinger, she gathered her qi and concluded her practice, gazing at the bed imprinted with her sweat-drenched form. She ran her hand through the damp hair on her forehead, sighing with a sage-like weariness, “Why is there still a cooldown? Oh, I’ll have to wash the sheets again…”