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Donna nodded. It was not unusual, particularly under circumstances like Greta’s, where both her mother and father had died, one straight after the other, for the living to want to escape from the dead. Everyone coped with grief differently, and Greta’s way was to run away from it.
Greta went outside into the fresh spring air and looked at the shoots of the crocuses that were beginning to push their shoots above the ground, looking like spear points. The trees were starting to bud, and the first of the rye and barley seeds were being planted. After the land had rested for the winter, it was now awakening, and new life was springing up everywhere, except in Greta’s heart. It had just broken.
Present day…
“Damn!”
For the hundredth time, Greta wished she had an ox and a plow big enough for the whole field she had to sow. Using a hand plow, especially on a field of barley as big as this one, was no easy task for a woman, especially one as slight as she was. However, if she wanted to eat later in the year, then she knew she had to do it. She looked at the cut she had managed to give herself, right on the palm of her hand. She would have to bind it up, and she would suffer for it later.
Running a farm on her own was not easy, and when her parents had died of a fever two years before, many of the village folk had not believed that Greta could do it. The only person who did believe was Greta herself because she would not be beaten. It was that determination that had carried her through the last few years, that and the kindness of the villagers, who admired her more than she would ever know.
Even now, one of her neighbors had come to bring her a gift. Greta jumped as Agnes MacDowell tapped her shoulder, then laughed, embarrassed by her own skittishness. Since she had been on her own on the farm, she had been extra wary since a woman alone was an easy target for any kind of criminal.
“Agnes!” she cried, putting her hand on her chest. “Ye fair gave me a fright.”
Agnes’s old face creased into a kind smile. “Here is somethin’ tae make yer days a wee bit sweeter, hen,” she said as she handed over a clay jar.
Greta opened the jar and sniffed the heady scent of the amber liquid within. The vessel was full of honey, a treat she had not had since her parents died. Her diet consisted mainly of barley, rye, and vegetables she grew herself with a little milk from her own goats, and the occasional piece of chicken or rabbit, so honey was a gift from heaven. She dipped a forefinger into it and smeared it on her tongue, then closed her eyes in bliss, savoring the heavenly sweetness of flowers.
“Agnes, this is lovely!” she breathed. “How much do I owe ye?”
The old woman reached out to grip her arms tightly. “Nothin’, hen,” she answered firmly. “Ye work yerself tae a shadow tae keep this place the way yer da and ma would have wanted it, and it is only right ye should have a wee somethin’ for yersel’ now an’ again. I only give ye what I can spare, an’ neighbors should look after each other, d’ye nae think?”
Greta embraced the old woman tightly. “Aye, thank ye, Agnes. I will eat it taenight after my supper, and if there is anythin’ I can do for ye, ye only have tae ask.”
The old woman shook her head, concerned. “There is nothin’ I need, hen,” Agnes answered. She looked even more concerned as she said, “But y-ye need a nice young fellow tae look after ye. Is it nae about time ye got yersel’ married?”
Greta sighed. She was tired of giving the same answer over and over again. “Agnes, I am happy on my own,” she replied patiently. “I don’t want or need a husband.”
“Do ye no’ want bairns, hen?” Agnes asked, frowning. She was incredulous, having never met a woman who did not want children before. “A husband to be a father tae them?” She looked concerned again.
“No, Agnes,” Greta answered. “I would rather take care of myself, as I have done these past two years wi’ nay man’s help. I want for nothin’.”
“Ye cannae go on like this for the rest of yer life, hen,” Agnes observed. “Ye never stop. Ye will wear yersel’ doon tae a shadow, an’ who will look after ye in yer old age or if ye are sick? My Angus is a good boy in need of a wife. He can take care of ye.” She stared at Greta hopefully.
However, Greta knew that Angus was not just in need of a wife but a farm. Hers was not a very big piece of land, but it was large enough to keep a family and make Angus a little money, which she doubted very much he would share with her. Moreover, from what she knew of him, he was not a pleasant character, inclined to be bossy and violent when in his cups. However, she would never say this to Agnes since her son was her pride and joy.
“Thank ye, Agnes,” she said, smiling. “But I have been on my own for too long now. I like bein’ by myself. Thank ye for the honey, but now I must get back tae work.”
“Have ye hurt yer hand, hen?” Agnes asked, frowning as she noticed the blood on Greta’s hand for the first time.
Greta wiped her hand on her apron, smearing it with blood. It did not matter. She reasoned that the garment was already filthy, and a little blood would not do it any more harm.
“Aye,” she replied, wincing, then she shrugged. “It will stop in a wee while, an’ I will strap it up when I get home.”
“Make sure ye do,” Agnes instructed. “An’ rub some honey on it. It makes it better.” She turned away, then turned back to face Greta, putting a rough hand on her arm. “An’ if there is anythin’ ye need, hen, just come an’ see us. Ye’re a good lass.”
“Thank ye, Agnes,” Greta replied, smiling. Then, with a look of grim determination on her face, she turned back to her work. If she did not do it, then no one would, and if it was not done, she would starve.
Greta’s back was breaking, and her arms had gone from being sore to almost numb.Maybe I should marry somebody,she thought.At least he could do the plowing.She chuckled at the thought. The man who married Greta Baines would have to be made of something a little stronger than the hardest iron. She had been doing a man’s work for so long that she was as tough as nails and doubted whether any man would tolerate it. As well as that, she had become adept at many things that women rarely did, like butchering meat and plowing. It was an extremely hard life, but it was the only one she had ever known, and in a strange way, she enjoyed it.
Presently, she heard a distant rumble coming from the east, a noise which soon resolved itself into the drumming of many hoofbeats. She did not know how, but a feeling of dread suddenly assailed her, and she had an awful premonition of what was going to happen next.
She rushed out of the field and down into the middle of the village, making for the church. On the way, she saw a crowd of children playing games with stones and sticks in the middle of the street. They looked up, startled at her approach. Later, Greta would reflect that she must have looked like a madwoman. She plunged into the middle of them, screaming at the top of her voice.
“Bandits are comin’! Get out on the street! Run an’ hide in the church!” she yelled, waving her arms to alert everyone within earshot of the danger they were in. She stood still for a moment to make sure the children had gone to the special hiding place they had in the crypt of the church for such occasions since raids had happened before.
Then she rang the church bell, pulling the rope as hard as she could to make it ring as loudly as possible, and heard frantic screams and shouts outside. The villagers, realizing what was about to happen, had scrambled to hide their possessions before they were seized. Greta watched until the last child had disappeared into the crypt, then crept to the door and looked around it. Some of the men and women from the village were running to the church, hoping to find sanctuary there as the church decreed.
