Chapter Three: Plans Cannot Keep Pace with Change

"How did you get into trouble?"

"He tried to assault me, and I... well... defeated him!" Oni explained, her frail constitution leaving her slightly breathless.

"Defeated? Then your strength must be no less than a man's!" Harold’s gaze wandered upward, scanning Oni from head to toe. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were contemplating something rather impolite.

The two hurried through the alleyway to Oni's home on the edge of town. It was a modest wooden cabin, unremarkable in appearance, but the courtyard was kept immaculately. It was clear the owner was a diligent person with a severe obsession with cleanliness.

Oni opened the door, ushered Harold inside, and handed him a horn cup, pouring him some home-brewed malt ale.

"Thank you! Er..." Harold froze. His hand trembled, nearly spilling the ale. His eyes widened suddenly, and he stared blankly at Oni's back, one hand pressed against his chest.

Oni untied her headscarf, hung it aside, and went to the kitchen to bring out a pot of stew and a plate of what looked like soft white bread. She had originally prepared it for Field. Seeing her turn, Harold quickly lowered his head, then looked up at her again, his intentions unclear.

Oni placed the bread—or rather, the cake-like loaf—on the table. Material conditions were poor, and whipping eggs was exhausting work; this was the best she could do.

"Delicious. I thought your father was bragging, but it seems he was being modest!" Harold feigned composure, taking a piece to eat and lavishing it with praise. It was unclear if he was talking about the bread or her; perhaps it was both.

"Careful, it's hot!"

"Thank you!" Harold’s hands trembled with nerves. Clenching his teeth, he carefully took the bowl of hot soup from Oni, thanking her again.

Seeing his shy and awkward demeanor, which contrasted sharply with his appearance, Oni felt a secret amusement; she found it quite interesting.

"Not too salty, not too bland, absolutely delicious. During my time on the ship, I missed warm food more than anything. I don't think I can go back to eating that swill anymore."

Oni smiled, smoothed her skirt, and sat on a stool. Resting her chin on her hand, she asked about some of Field’s experiences during his travels. Harold answered each question, though he seemed somewhat hesitant to look at her. It was as if they were a teacher lecturing a student who was regretting their mistakes.

She knew he had an ulterior motive, but for some reason—perhaps out of embarrassment—he seemed to have left some things regarding her father unsaid. She did not believe for a moment that her father had entrusted her to him without any conditions; without mutual benefit, no one would agree to such a thing.

But she felt it best not to say anything, to avoid the awkwardness of having to refuse. She hadn't even considered such an arrangement.

"Your father was a good man. During our first Viking voyage, he looked after me like a child... well, it’s getting late, and the lord’s banquet awaits! I need to go collect my well-earned reward!"

Harold’s eyes wandered over Oni with a complex emotion—part concern for a friend’s daughter, part respect for a strong woman. Half-full, he reluctantly took his leave: "I will come by at this time tomorrow!"

Oni leaned against the doorway, watching Harold walk away with a strange, off-beat gait. She tilted her head, her expression peculiar, a string of question marks appearing in her mind. She recalled that he hadn't walked like that when he arrived. For the first time, she had a clear realization of her own qualities.

Yet, she truly did not intend to rely on anyone. With what she held in her mind, she didn't feel the need to be anyone’s appendage.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a freeman squatting near her door. When he saw Harold leave, he whistled at her.

"Hey, girl, your father’s dead, isn't he? Does your house need a man?"

Oni angrily slammed the door, slumped against it, and slid to the floor, rubbing her eyes. She had used too much force; some dust had gotten in.

"Damn it!" She stood up, grabbed an axe from the table, and marched toward the door, intending to open it, but she stopped when her hand touched the handle.

She wanted to scare him off, but she remembered a Norse social phenomenon that defied common sense: they would not run. Even if a rampaging brown bear were charging at them, their faith did not permit cowards, and they would actively challenge it in hopes of ascending to Valhalla.

Going out would only have two outcomes: either she killed him, or she would suffer at his hands despite her bravado. The freeman’s provocation filled Oni with deep anger and helplessness. She knew that in this world, a woman who had lost the protection of her father was like a lonely boat in a storm.

Oni spent the entire day in a daze, staying inside and thinking about many things, feeling lost. There were knocks at the door, but she didn't open it. In these circumstances, opening the door without knowing who was there was like inviting a wolf into the fold. A widow’s door attracts trouble, and so does an orphan’s.

...

After a sleepless night plagued by the same nightmare, a haggard-looking Oni wore her apron and baked sourdough barley cakes. She disliked any sourness other than that from fruit, in both of her lives. To remove the sour taste, she chose to add lye water filtered from wood ash to neutralize it. Her mind, however, was on the dream from the night before, where her father begged her to bring him home.

"I will, I promise I will, just wait for me!" she replied to her own anxiety. She took down some smoked fish, added sweet and sour blackcurrants and spices, and prepared a dish of fish braised in sour sauce.

Having not slept all night, drowsiness overcame her, and she slumped over the table for a nap. She ended up sleeping until the afternoon. When she woke, the food had long since gone cold, and the fire for the barley cakes had gone out.

In a panic, she rushed outside to check the weather. Dark clouds mirrored the gloom in her heart, and rain began to fall, as if the sky itself were weeping for her helplessness and loneliness.

Harold might have come by, but perhaps because she was sleeping when he knocked, he had received no answer and left... How could this happen?

Sleeping through her chance! She tapped her throbbing head. She didn't know where he lived—she had forgotten to ask yesterday. Now she had truly ruined everything; the plan she had spent the whole night thinking about was dashed.

As she fretted, her gaze landed on the alleyway between the wooden cabins. A boy of about ten was crouching on the ground. Whenever the rain fell harder, he would shrink back under the eaves. Perhaps noticing her, he looked up once and then ignored her.

She knew this child; his name was Ralph. He was a neighbor’s son whose father had been executed by the lord years ago for accidental manslaughter. But he had an older brother who had followed the lord on the Viking voyage to Rus—had he not returned?

A pang of sorrow swelled in Oni’s heart. She knew that since her father’s departure, she had to become her own protector. But at this moment, facing Ralph’s sobbing, her heart softened; it was as if she were seeing a reflection of herself.

"Ralph?" Oni called out gently.

Ralph turned his head numbly, gave her a startled look, and without a word, lowered his head and buried his face in his arms. A burst of sobbing followed.

Oni watched Ralph, a resolve rising in her heart. She knew she couldn't just sit by, even if it meant facing more trouble. She covered her head with her hand to keep her hair from getting wet and smelling, walked over, gathered the back of her skirt to keep it from dragging on the ground, and crouched down. She reached out and brushed his wet hair.

Her voice was gentle: "Aren't you going home?" There was no answer, but Oni seemed to guess why.

"Don't be afraid, I'm here!" Her voice was like a beam of light, piercing through the gloom in Ralph’s heart as he looked up.