Infinite 01 - Infinite Sacrifice

through an odd stage where her plumage is coming in and all her parts seem too big for her. Her peeps are cracking into more of a honking sound. She’s becoming braver and braver, leaving my side only to come running back when she realizes I’m away. She’ll come flip-flopping back with her head low, honking away in a punishing but reunited tone.
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    It’s a crisp spring day when Thora comes out dressed in a lovely white goatskin dress. She shoos Borga away from nipping at her fringe and says, “Time to go, Liam.”
    “You are getting married today?” I know the answer; I don’t know why I asked.
    Her mother comes out and commands the workmen to load up the wagon. “Fetch her loom, chests, and featherbed.” She takes off one of her keys and, with a wide smile, hands Thora the key on her own silver chain to clasp around her waist. “For your new farm.”
    Thora thanks her as she wraps it around her waist, and after all of the things are secure in the wagon, I go to sit up on the wagon bench, but her mother points to the back.
    Thora nods with a smile. “You will have to keep Borga company.”
    I bend over and grab the spiky-feathered gosling around her middle, then hold her close to my chest, feeling her downy sponginess. She honks a bit and flaps her giant, orange feet in the air but calms when I settle in between the chests. Thora says good-bye to her mother as a workman drives the wagon nine farms up the common road. It looks identical in size and shape to Thora’s old farm, except it’s on the right side of the road. There are similar out buildings in slightly different placement. A tall man steps out of the central hall with two other men. I recognize him as one of the warriors who stormed my village and laughed at me hanging at the hand of my abductor. Before even helping Thora down from the wagon, he takes inventory of the contents of her dowry. He grimaces when he sees me holding Borga. One of the men comes to record on dried goatskin exactly what Thora brings with her, and the tall man finally puts a hand up to help her down. He looks at her like food, tasting her with his single-dimpled grin.
    A red-haired woman comes out from the house with two children near my age. With her chin up in the air, she leans on the side of the house, watching, as her children lose interest and begin hopping around, playing games on the path, completely disregarding me. The pagan holy man says the prayers for their marriage and all are invited inside for the feast to the fertility god Frey. I put Borga on the ground and attempt to go in for the feast, but Rolf, the groom, sticks his foot out as I step up to go into the house last. “All thralls eat and sleep in the dugouts.”
    The door shuts and I wonder what “thrall” means. Thora has never taught me that word. I take my small linen sack, filled with my blanket and some clothes Thora made, then walk over to the five dugouts behind the large barn. I notice smoke coming from one. Borga keeps honking in parade behind me, and the noise brings out a young girl. She’s a few years older than me, with dark hair, dark skin, and eyes like a stormy grey-blue ocean. She smiles a brilliant white smile when she sees Borga’s humorous greeting. I wish I were in the house with Thora but know I must make friends before night falls and the wolves descend in hopes of wayward animals.
    “My name is Liam.”
    The girl scrunches her face up and says, “Liam,” like it tastes bad.
    I wait, not sure what to say next, and she says, “Una” while pointing at her bony chest. She motions inside the dugout. “Hela has made a soup, and I’m sure we have enough for you too.”
    I go inside the small, warm space with a fire lit in the center lifting up through a hole in the roof. The space glows orange from the flames and makes the white woman appear magical. I stop at the sight of her, focusing on her elfish-pointed ears as Una makes her way to the mat by her side. The wrinkled woman gives me a warm, though toothless, grin.
    Una whispers to her, and Hela turns to me. “Liam, would you like some soup?”
    I nod and move to the farthest corner on a straw pile, and Borga quickly waddles in, chiding me for leaving her. The old woman laughs heartily and instantly puts me at ease. The soup, savory and salty, tastes wonderful with the torn pieces of stale bread. I thank them and watch Una tucking herself up in a ball on a mat near the fire to