Open Writing

The Wind In The Barley

It was a cool summer morning, with rain looming. I was sitting at my table eating a breakfast prepared by my slave Aoife – oat porridge with a scrunkle of walnut and a pinch of sea salt, milk poured over it.

There was a rose in a bowl of water beside me and two rose petals in a beaker of drinking water.

Aoife has changed a few things in my household and it suits me to let her have her way. Things get done. I’m comfortable and I don’t need a slave with a long face.

It’s a year since she came to me, a gift from my Uncle Erik. The previous year he gave me my hunting dog, Boris – best dog I ever had. Erik is great with gifts.

“Rik, you must come quickly.”

Aoife’s voice at the door. She entered the house, Boris at her heel. He looked at me with a doggy smile, tail wagging. Clearly these two had been up to something that I didn’t know about.

“Must?” I queried. I paused, the horn spoon half way to my mouth.
“What sort of Erin logic is this, where a master must do what the slave tells?”

Boris lowered his tail. His head drooped – a smart dog that one, picks up every nuance.

Aoife took her cue from him. She’s not slow either. She lowered her eyes, placed her hand over her heart. “Forgive me, sir. In your service I’ve seen something in your barley field which defies explanation. But at least I can show it to you.”

I was intrigued. I need that barley, for bread and beer and to help get through the winter, and to trade any surplus.

My uncle Erik swears I’ve no idea with dogs or slaves, though I’m good with crops and farm animals.

“You need to remember the old lore,” he said. “A woman, a dog and a walnut tree, the more you beat them, the better they be. Especially if the woman is a slave.”

“Thank you, uncle, good thinking.”

In the gloomiest part of the year, Aoife had come to me with a bundle tied delicately with a string of dried reed.

“This is a present for you, to celebrate the birth of Christ,” she said.

She had collected urine in a bucket for a fortnight, mixed it with mashed sheep brains, and then steeped a lambskin in the brew.

She soaked the hide at length, removed and washed it, and sewed me a shirt.

I unfolded the shirt and almost cried with joy when I put it on. It had a beautiful feeling, a delight as it kissed my skin.

“See there at your heart,” she said.

She touched the shirt. I looked. There was a pocket, embossed with a cross.

“What is this?”

“A holy sign, a ward over your heart, lord, that Christ will keep it pure and well.”

Who has a slave that goes on like that? How could I beat her?

I didn’t beat her when I found her feeding a drop of my whisky from my horn spoon to a tiny piglet.

“By Odin’s black balls, what are you doing, girl?” I roared.

Back in Erin, the priest had taught her numbers and letters. When my sow Helga had farrowed, she’d counted the buttons on the sow’s waistcoat and made only twelve to serve the 13 piglets.

The tiny piglet couldn’t find a teat.

“He would have died, lord. He’s the wrecklin – the runt of the litter.”

“Piglets are born to die, usually with an apple in their mouth.” I was pleased with my wit.

Aoife pondered this. “He’s cold and not very well. I’m willing him to live. He can have some milk from that ewe that lost her lamb. He can sleep by the fire with Boris and me and I will grow him into a fine gentleman. By Samain, he’ll be ready to pay the rent.”

I overheard her one morning talking to Boris, who was sitting beside her, his tongue lolling.

“You’re a nice dog, Boris, but if a gentleman sleeps with a lady, he needs to be free of fleas.” Aoife had a horn comb and as she groomed Boris, it would catch fleas between the tines. She would flick them off into a bucket of brine, where they’d struggle feebly then sink to the bottom. Boris was soon ensorcelled by this Erin witch and became her devoted servant.

Right now, she’s standing at the door, looking at me quizzically.

“What is it you want to show me in the barley?”

“I can’t explain but I’ll show you.”

Boris stood, lifted his head, tail wagging, telling me to come in dog talk.
So now I’ve got my slave and my slave’s dog telling me what to do. Who am I, a mere Lord of the Isle, to argue?

“Let’s go,” I said and followed them out into the field.

A light fall of rain had just stopped. In the middle of the barley field, a huge ring of the crop was flattened.

“What evil omen is this?” I cried. “Too much of this Christian talk has angered the gods.” Behind my back I made the protective sign of the hammer.

“That cannot be, sir.” Aoife pointed to the sky behind me. I turned and beheld a magnificent rainbow.

“How beautiful,” I cried.

“More than beautiful,” replied my slave. “God has written for you in the sky that despite what the lord of the winds has done to your barley crop, all will be well.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“It’s written in the holy book. The priest showed me. The rainbow is God’s sign to man, a reassurance to go forward in life with confidence.”

Every man should have a slave like Aoife and no, I’m not going to beat her.