The Enchantment by Betina Krahn Page A

the coals, igniting the great side of pork on one of the spits. Marta ran to put it out, and Miri hurried to help. When they turned back, Aaren was brushing dust from her breeches and trying unsuccessfully to drag her fingers through her wildly tangled hair. When she felt their critical gaze roaming her, she looked up.
    â€œAaren, your poor hair,” Miri said, shaking her head.
    â€œYou look like a wild thing,” Marta declared. “No wonder everyone is terror-struck at the sight of you.” She took a sniff, then wrinkled her nose. “You need a good bath and a sound combing. Come with me . . .” She took Aaren’s wrist with an authoritative manner and started for the door.
    â€œWhat—do you think to bathe me like some helpless babe?” She tried to wrest her hand free. “Why, I was bathing your ragged little bottoms—”
    â€œA very long time ago,” Marta declared, tugging stubbornly on her arm.
    â€œI am perfectly able to bathe myself,” she insisted, jerking free.
    â€œAt the very least, you’ll need help with your hair . . . it’s a cowbird’s nest,” Marta insisted.
    Aaren stared at her, then transferred her gaze to Miri, whose eyes were narrowed in agreement. Her jaw went slack.
A cowbird’s nest
. . . she used to call their hair such, when they got it snarled and tatted and she had to spend time untangling it. She stared at them and was struck forcibly by the womanliness of their appearance and the determined set of their faces. They weren’t children anymore; they were young women, who insisted on taking care of her just as she had cared for them. A sudden, powerful wave of loss swept over her, mingled with longing for days gone by . . . for old ways and certainties. Her eyes burned, and to hold the humiliation of an eye-flood at bay, she tossed her head and laughed stridently.
    â€œOh no! Not you, Marta Mauler . . . nor you, Miri Mangler. You’ll not get within arm’s reach of my hair. Too well I remember how you squealed and muttered vows of revenge while I rescued your poor locks. I’ll manage well enough on my own!” And with that she darted out the door and headed for the women’s house.

    J ORUND ARCHED HIS broad back, bracing on the handle of his scythe. He looked about the barley field, from the green-gold sea of grain stalks to the rounded backs and bright kerchiefs of the harvesters bending in a row before him. There was a huge crop this harvest; the fields were groaning, laden with grain. But without more workers, much of it would lay in ruins before it was gathered in. He looked up at the sky, where puffy white clouds drifted like billowed sails across a sea of azure blue, and he prayed the good weather would hold yet a while, so that the harvest could be finished and the village would be spared the ravages of winter-hunger.
    Helga’s boy came hurtling from the path and across the field, aimed straight for Jorund. He had run so far and so long that he couldn’t seem to stop. Jorund dropped the scythe and caught him, whirling him around with a laugh.
    â€œWhoa, Fleet-footed! What brings you in such a hurry?” He set the boy on his feet and stooped to brush back his tousled hair and peer into his dirt-streaked face.
    â€œYou said”—the lad panted—“you wanted to know . . . where the battle-maid could be found.”
    Jorund seized his shoulders in a gentle, coaxing grip. “Where?”
    â€œIn the village! She asked for . . . the bathing house.”
    Jorund’s face broke into a broad smile as he ruffled the boy’s hair. “You did well, Little Brother.” The boy beamed under the praise, but his eyes nearly popped from his head when Jorund added with a knowing wink: “I’ll see you have a honey-cake for this.”

FIVE

    T HE BATHING house was a low stone structure built into the side of a rocky hill overlooking the great lake, some