not know.
* * *
Gudfred and the other men of the household, carls and thralls, had headed out to the fields early that morning. The departures, the exchange of fare-wells among comrades who were parting ways, were not their concern. The hay—the cutting, the spreading, and the drying—was. After the partings were spoken and the ships had sailed, I headed out to the fields to join them. The sooner the hay was harvested, the sooner our pursuit of Toke could begin.
The long rows of hay which had previously been cut, though still a faded green in color, had dried enough to be gathered and hauled to the byre for storage. Thralls using wooden rakes were rolling up each row from either end into two loose stacks at the row's center. As each row was completed, Fasti led a large two-wheeled cart, drawn by a single ox, to the stacked hay, and the thralls heaved it aboard with their rakes.
Beyond, a row of carls was advancing slowly through the unmowed portion of the field, swinging long-handled scythes. The slow, steady rhythm of their movements—swing, step, swing, step—and the chuff, chuff of the long blades slicing through the tall grass called a memory of my brother Harald to my mind.
Harald had never cared for the work of the estate—the growing and harvesting of the crops and beasts necessary to feed the folk who lived here. While Hrorik was alive, he'd had to assist, for Hrorik did not tolerate sloth. Could Harald have had his way, however, he would have devoted his life entirely to fighting and raiding, and in between to training to perfect his fighting skills. I think he had welcomed the need to train me in no small part because it gave him a reason to ignore the labors of farming.
The one exception was scything hay. "There is a skill to using a scythe, Halfdan," he'd told me one day, when trying to explain how my use of a sword was still lacking. "You do not just chop at the hay. You do not just hack it. The edge of the blade should slide across the grass, and slice through it. It is the same with a sword. Draw the blade across what you are striking as you swing through. You should slice, not hack. Your blade will cause a far deeper wound, with less effort, if you learn how to do this."
At the time, I had not found his comparison between scything and sword-work helpful. He'd forgotten that slaves were not allowed to use the big, sharp blades. Carls cut the hay; thralls followed behind with wooden rakes and spread it into neat rows for drying.
When I reached the field I found some extra tools lying in a pile at the edge, waiting for more workers to arrive and use them. I would have liked to have tried my hand with a scythe this day, but there were no scythes among them, only rakes. I took one and headed out into the field.
The scythers were moving across the field in a staggered line, each man far enough behind the one to his right so he could safely swing his long, cutting stroke to overlap the edge of the swath cut by the man ahead. Einar, who had come to assist in the harvest, was the fourth man over. He appeared to be the only worker who was not from the estate. None of Hastein's men had come out to assist.
Thralls trailed behind several of the scythers, pulling the cut hay into neat rows with their rakes. I recognized Ing behind the man cutting to Einar's right, and beside him, Hrut. For now, no one followed Einar. I suppose I will be Einar's thrall this day, I thought, and I began raking the irregular trail of hay he had cut. This was not the homecoming I had dreamed of.
I had been working for some time, raking the scattered, cut hay into a neater row for drying, when the carl mowing to Einar's right happened to glance back and saw me. He laid his scythe down and walked back to where I stood.
"Do you remember me?" he asked. I did remember him, though not his name. He had light brown hair, cut off so it hung just below his shoulders, and a beard which he kept trimmed and shaped to a sharp point. He
* * *
Gudfred and the other men of the household, carls and thralls, had headed out to the fields early that morning. The departures, the exchange of fare-wells among comrades who were parting ways, were not their concern. The hay—the cutting, the spreading, and the drying—was. After the partings were spoken and the ships had sailed, I headed out to the fields to join them. The sooner the hay was harvested, the sooner our pursuit of Toke could begin.
The long rows of hay which had previously been cut, though still a faded green in color, had dried enough to be gathered and hauled to the byre for storage. Thralls using wooden rakes were rolling up each row from either end into two loose stacks at the row's center. As each row was completed, Fasti led a large two-wheeled cart, drawn by a single ox, to the stacked hay, and the thralls heaved it aboard with their rakes.
Beyond, a row of carls was advancing slowly through the unmowed portion of the field, swinging long-handled scythes. The slow, steady rhythm of their movements—swing, step, swing, step—and the chuff, chuff of the long blades slicing through the tall grass called a memory of my brother Harald to my mind.
Harald had never cared for the work of the estate—the growing and harvesting of the crops and beasts necessary to feed the folk who lived here. While Hrorik was alive, he'd had to assist, for Hrorik did not tolerate sloth. Could Harald have had his way, however, he would have devoted his life entirely to fighting and raiding, and in between to training to perfect his fighting skills. I think he had welcomed the need to train me in no small part because it gave him a reason to ignore the labors of farming.
The one exception was scything hay. "There is a skill to using a scythe, Halfdan," he'd told me one day, when trying to explain how my use of a sword was still lacking. "You do not just chop at the hay. You do not just hack it. The edge of the blade should slide across the grass, and slice through it. It is the same with a sword. Draw the blade across what you are striking as you swing through. You should slice, not hack. Your blade will cause a far deeper wound, with less effort, if you learn how to do this."
At the time, I had not found his comparison between scything and sword-work helpful. He'd forgotten that slaves were not allowed to use the big, sharp blades. Carls cut the hay; thralls followed behind with wooden rakes and spread it into neat rows for drying.
When I reached the field I found some extra tools lying in a pile at the edge, waiting for more workers to arrive and use them. I would have liked to have tried my hand with a scythe this day, but there were no scythes among them, only rakes. I took one and headed out into the field.
The scythers were moving across the field in a staggered line, each man far enough behind the one to his right so he could safely swing his long, cutting stroke to overlap the edge of the swath cut by the man ahead. Einar, who had come to assist in the harvest, was the fourth man over. He appeared to be the only worker who was not from the estate. None of Hastein's men had come out to assist.
Thralls trailed behind several of the scythers, pulling the cut hay into neat rows with their rakes. I recognized Ing behind the man cutting to Einar's right, and beside him, Hrut. For now, no one followed Einar. I suppose I will be Einar's thrall this day, I thought, and I began raking the irregular trail of hay he had cut. This was not the homecoming I had dreamed of.
I had been working for some time, raking the scattered, cut hay into a neater row for drying, when the carl mowing to Einar's right happened to glance back and saw me. He laid his scythe down and walked back to where I stood.
"Do you remember me?" he asked. I did remember him, though not his name. He had light brown hair, cut off so it hung just below his shoulders, and a beard which he kept trimmed and shaped to a sharp point. He
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