A Bone to Pick. Gina McMurchy-Barber
— which is considerable — I learned from her. In fact, I’ve been on several important real-life excavations and —”
“Yay! We’re finally here,” Robbie interrupted. “Phew. Don’t think I could have handled another minute. It sure was getting stuffy in here.” She looked at me and fanned herself.
There were no lights — even the moon had vanished — so the night sky was inky black as we drove up to the meadows. While I couldn’t see the ocean, I did hear the waves lapping on the shore in the distance. After we parked, Robbie took out a flashlight and shone it in my eyes. “Like I warned you, lights go out by ten-thirty. C’mon, I’ll show you where you’ll be bunking.”
Robbie pulled out my bag from the trunk of the car and dragged it to the nearest tent. “You’ll want to be real quiet,” she whispered. “From the sound of it, Bertha is asleep. And trust me, you don’t want to wake her up.”
“What? I’m supposed to sleep in a tent with someone I’ve never even met?” I whispered back. “Maybe we should find Eddy —”
“Shh! Those are the orders, kid. Straight from Professor Brant. He’s the chief around here, and you do what he says if you want things to go well.” Robbie shone the flashlight across the tent. “That’s your cot over there. Probably best to just crawl in and get some sleep while you can. You’ve got an early start in the morning.” After I’d stumbled to my bed, Robbie waved and then whispered, “Good luck.”
I heard her giggling on her way out. Good luck? Why would I need good luck?
An hour later, still not able to fall asleep, I figured out why. Bertha snored like a hound dog with a head cold. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she burped and then there was the thunder coming from under her blanket. Soon after, the air in the tent was toxic, too. She was some kind of noise machine: Snuzzz, blurp, craccck, snuzzz, blurp, craccck. If there was a way out, I would have taken it, but it was too dark. And besides, if this was how noisy she could be in her sleep, what would she be like if I woke her?
Sometime after three in the morning I must have been so tired that even the human generator next to me couldn’t keep me awake.
“Sigrid Thorbjornsdottir, put down your uncle’s sword and get back to your work,” scolds Gudrid. “When you’re finished with gutting and cleaning the fish for our evening meal, I need you to come and watch Snorri while I help Thorfinn in the wood shop.”
Sigrid struggles to raise the heavy sword and waves it in the air just once before setting it down by Thorfinn’s chair. She admires the way the firelight glints off its shiny blade, and imagines how many times it has been used to strike down an enemy.
“Come now, my dear, you need to get your mind straight. How many times have I told you that each of us was made to fulfill a certain role? You, my girl, are not a warrior, no matter how brave you may be.”
“That’s ridiculous, Aunt Gudrid, and a waste. I’m every bit as strong, fierce, and capable as any boy — and much more clever.”
Her aunt smiles and draws the girl in for an embrace. “Maybe so, Sigrid, my dear. But the goddess Frigga has determined that you shall be a wife on your next birthday and with her blessing a mother soon after that. Now get on with your work like a good girl.”
Sigrid curses the goddess Frigga for her blunder in creating her a girl instead of a boy. She kicks at the dirt and throws on her cloak. As she bends over to take up the string of fish, she snags her woollen tunic on the corner of the hearth and tears it.
“Stupid thing,” she curses. “And which of the gods divined that girls should wear such awkward things. Girls should be allowed to wear trousers like the boys.”
Gudrid laughs good-naturedly. “Such a temper, girl, such a temper. No man is going to want a wife like that.”
“Good, because I don’t want a husband — not now, and not when I turn thirteen, not ever.” Sigrid thinks of the wrinkled old trader, Bjorni, who asked Uncle Thorfinn to let him have her hand in marriage when they return to Greenland. He is rich and well settled. But surely her uncle would not agree to the union.
Out in the brisk air, Sigrid feels as dark and cold as the lowering clouds threatening to pour down on her. She pulls her thin cloak close about her and walks through the camp toward the stream. On her way she hears the usual sounds of people at work — clanging of metal on metal coming from the forge, the hammer driving in nails in the wood shop next door, and so many other voices. Some of them from the women sitting outside the workshop on stools, chatting as they deftly sew up breaks in the fish netting.
Sigrid sighs. She is afraid Gudrid is right about everyone having one destiny and purpose, and that hers is merely to be a wife and mother. She kicks at the stones along the path and wonders why she could not be like Stikla, the warrior girl who ran away from home, preferring the life of war over marriage. Maybe that is what she should do — run away.
“I know what you’re thinking, but those maiden warriors were not just common girls. Gautrekssonar, she was the only child of King Eirikr. Unlike you, she was of royal blood,” said Aunt Gudrid some time ago. She said it not to make Sigrid feel bad, but only to state a simple fact. It is true. Sigrid is not of noble lineage. But she cannot help being this way. She did not plan to be the kind of girl who would rather wield a sword than sew or cook. It is just the way she is.
Sigrid follows the trail to the narrow stream. She drops the fish into the water to clean them. Soon they will become another boiled fish stew. She is tired of fish stew and hopes the men will go out hunting soon for fresh deer meat. She would not even mind a few scrawny squirrels or hares, though they are much more work to prepare. If her uncle would let her, she would gladly go and get some herself since she has mastered the bow and loves to hunt.
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