"´Idhra´ chapter 5" by J. lawrence

I’ve been having problems getting stories published by moderators. They’ve been nagging me about my use of so many different languages, and not knowing what it is I’m saying. It’s nothing bad, I promise, though some things the soldiers say to Idhra are a bit impolite in their intentions. I figure I have to add what everything means, though I think it takes away from the story. I’ll put meanings at the bottom of the page for the words that I didn’t explain inside the story, in the order that they appear. It will go: foreign word – English meaning, original language. If you guys think the story’s completely confusing and can’t be understood without translations in the text, let me know.

I’m sorry mods, I didn’t know I was being insulting when I said that I’d been nagged. I understand the rules very well and I should follow them. I was just frustrated that I could never get anything passed and wanted to comment on the reason and let everybody know I thought they would be better off not reading the translations. Once again, I’m very very sorry.

Chapter V

“That was where the boat from varðr borg was supposed to meet us. There is something very wrong.”

Idhra was sympathetic, but all her emotions were busy enough elsewhere that she couldn’t be quite as worried as Sighild.

“Varðr borg?” came a triumphant voice from the back of the wagon, in heavily accented Tysk. Sighild’s head snapped around, his hands accidentally pulling to the side, making the horses gallop in wild circles. Idhra yelled out in surprise, and the Tysk soldier in the back of the wagon laughed.

“Warum würde ein Kaufmann zu vardr gehen? Ich wundere welche Güter Sie haben hinter hier. Erfahren wir?”

Sighild pulled back hard on his horses’ reins, yelling “Stans!” They halted, and he spurred them to run again. This time, they went straight, along the road, and only stopped once Idhra could no longer see the soldiers’ camp.

She was holding tight to the seat of the wagon, her knuckles white and eyes wide. Her neck was turned so she could always see the soldier, who was holding on to the crates and smiling maliciously at her, and snapped his teeth at her loose hair, just to scare her more. When they stopped, Næss got down from the bench, and threw a knife into the soldier’s chest. It stuck there in his ribs, and he looked down in surprise as blood flowed over his clothes, and finally looked back at Sighild as his face turned ghostly pale, his eyes went out of focus, and he rolled to the ground with a thud.

Idhra moaned, keeled over, and emptied her stomach. She was thoroughly disgusted with death.

Sighild picked the man up and left him right inside the forest, jumped up to his seat in the wagon, and snapped the horses’ rains once more. They sped down the road, faster and faster, and Idhra was sure she’d throw up again. Once, she gagged, and realized with revulsion that there was nothing left in her stomach to throw up.

They stopped in the town Sighild had mentioned to the west, called Felleskapet, and slept in a nice farmer’s barn for the night. The hay itched, and the animals smelled, but it was softer and warmer than the cold hard ground Idhra had had to sleep on the night before. When she woke in the morning, there were Tysk guards around her, and pieces of Sighild’s body were being fed to the dogs. She gagged again, clutching her stomach, keeling over, sick, dizzy, nauseous.

“Aufstehen, kleines Sara!” said a guard, in a mock-sweet voice. He removed a leather glove and ran his fingers through her hair. She shivered and moved away, feeling violated and ready to throw up again. She didn’t know what he’d said, but the other soldiers had laughed jeeringly, and the way they had encircled her was intimidating.

“Essen?” offered another, holding a wooden bowl out to her. She took it, with nothing else to do, but wasn’t hungry. She realized she should eat, that her stomach was completely empty, but she was too scared and tired and sick feeling.

“Iss! Ja, iss!” said the first soldier, slapping at the bowl, letting some of the mush inside slosh onto Idhra’s dress.

“Du muss essen, kleines Sara, da der Herrn so gesagt hat.”

They were pushing the bowl at her face, wanting her to eat, and Idhra wondered why they were so eager, but she put the bowl to her mouth and drank till her food was gone, and felt dizzy. She was tired and dizzy, and¾ blackness swirled around the corners of her eyes, engulfing her consciousness in one large gulp, like she was in the bowl being swallowed.

There were voices again, shouting in Tysk. Idhra couldn’t understand them, and covered her ears with her hands. Then the yelling stopped, one man hit the other, and there was, all of a sudden, an officer at her side.

“Iss!” he said.

“No. no, no, no.”

“Ja, iss! Du muss essen, oder?”

Iss. It was always iss, iss, iss. They would come, she would eat, and then the dizzy darkness would set in.

“Ja, iss!”

“No. no, no…”

He pushed the bowl to her mouth and poured the wet food in, then held her nose until she swallowed and sunk back to the pillow.

“Wake up, wake up girl. Stop moaning and crying, wake up girl.”

“No. No, no, no, no.”

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself, and you’ll feel better. Here, eat.”

“NO!”

Idhra braced herself for her visitor to hold her gag her until she swallowed the food; the only reaction she’d had to anything throughout the entire trip. Her muddled, foggy mind wouldn’t allow more than the smallest response to anything.

“All right, Sara, I’ll leave you alone to sulk. But when the drug wears off, you’ll be hungry. The food’s here.”

A door closed, and Idhra slowly opened her eyes; something she hadn’t done since she’d woken up in that barn with soldiers all around her. The room was a bit blurry, and a wave of dizziness sent Idhra clutching the soft mattress she lay on.

After a few more tries, she could open her eyes without blurred vision or dizziness, and began taking in the grand room that enfolded her.

The pillows and quilt-cover of the bed were of deep red damask, and the sheets of plain white muslin, silken and damask curtains hanging from ton-foot windows, and plush gold-ribbed chairs beside polished mahogany tables with empty gold trays and platters. A large crystal plate sat at the end of the large bed, with food piled high, but nothing Idhra’d ever seen before.

Hunger gripped and tore at Idhra’s stomach, and she lunged at the plate. The food tasted strange, but sweet, and she ate with pleasure until it was all gone.

A lady came in, Idhra decided she was most likely the one who had been there before, and asked what to do with the plate, but she laughed.

“Oh, little Sara, daughter of my brother, you’ll do nothing of work as long as you’re here.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, looking curiously into Idhra’s eyes, smiling sweetly. She had white-blonde hair down to her toes, braided and pinned with gems. Her eyes were light washed-out blue and her lips the lightest pink that they almost weren’t there. She looked slight and frail, and not at all like Idhra’s father.

She laughed and smiled again. “The drug’s not all worn off, dear. I don’t think you knew you said that. Your father and I shared the same father, but his mother died as he was born, and The King married again and once more after his second also died. I am the only child of the third wife. But Ketill, your father’s mother, was queen, and she was given the glory for all The King’s children.”

Her voice was high and airy, and the smiles seemed more and more strained and fake. The lady looked at her again closely, and Idhra realized she must be staring like an old fool. Her head still was somewhat muddled and slow. For the first time, she realized she was in a soft cotton nightgown, and blushed. She should’ve noticed and found clothes before eating.

“Aaou¾ I…”

“Clothes,” said the lady kindly. “Come, dear.” And she led Idhra into a large adjoining room full of gowns, smocks, chemises, girdles, gloves, and purses. There were shoes lining the walls and shawls folded on shelves along the back wall. Idhra’s mind flashed back to the dresses in Sighild’s wagon, and then to Sighild himself, and she almost threw up again, thinking about those dogs.

“Oh, this will look nice…”

She held out a yellow dress with black lace trimming, a lace-trimmed chemise, and black chausses. Idhra tried not to grimace as she took them and changed. But when she disappeared and came back with a corset, Idhra resisted.

“Oh, no, I ¾”

“Oh, yes, you do. Take that dress back off. You’ll look lovely.”

“Nnn… I ¾”

“Yes.”

Idhra frowned, and glared over being cut off.

“Oh, be happy, girl, you’re a guest in the King’s castle. Don’t want to act and ungracious fool. This is a simple, casual party ¾”

“Casual?”

“Yes, casual… as I was saying, this is a simple, casual party for the King’s youngest daughter’s birth.”

Her speech became choppy, stiff, and strained at King’s. She sniffed slightly and stopped talking with a small hiccup. Tying up the corset and taking her anger out on the laces, she took a deep breath and began again in tense staccato syllables.

“She is Aleit, Orvokki of Finland’s second child.”

“You’re ¾ you’re married to the King, too…”

“Of course I am.” She left with that, strutting out of the room, all courtesy and gracefulness gone.

Idhra looked at her full length in the tall mirror on the wall. She felt like a palace toff, and wrinkled her nose. Yellow and black? Lace? The dress only went just past her knees, but there was a hoop in the hem, and it stuck out miserably. The yellow was bright, and the black was just about as dark as any color could get. The dress half looked like something a peasant would wear, but the cuts were clean, the colors were pure, and the materials were expensive. Idhra wasn’t sure what in the world she was wearing. The door creaked open and a maid stepped timidly in, pushing loose hairs away from her face.

“Fräulein?”

“Sorry, what was that?”

The maid smiled.

“Dein Haar, Fräulein. Und die Händen.”

She pointed to her head and her arms, and pushed black lacey gloves at Idhra.

“Die Haar, Fräulein,” she said again, walking over to finger through Idhra’s hair.

“What? Ouch!”

“Entshuldigung!” she cried.

“Oh, ow, it’s okay.”

Idhra was shuffled over to a stool, where the lady handed her a gold circlet and necklace to put on, then wrapped locks of her hair around a warm stick to make it curlier. Idhra wished she would stop; her hair smelled like it was burning, and felt stiff as the newly super-curled locks were dropped on her shoulders. It was eventually pinned on top of her head and held with a large gold ring. Lastly, the maid found tall yellow and black boots for her to wear that laced up the sides with silk. The maid clapped her hands and laughed when she was done, and let Idhra in front of the mirror. She almost screamed.

Then, the little blonde lady bustled out, and Idhra sighed, ready to sit in a plush chair and wait for a bell for supper, but another maid walked in with a small round box, and started puffing Idhra’s face with a pad inside, then took out pens and colored her lips and eyes, finishing with a small dark beauty dot for her right cheek.

This maid, instead of leaving quietly, bustled Idhra out of the room with bursts of “Komm! Komm, Fräulein! Komm!”

She was rushed down hall after hall, bustled through doorways and down stairs, shuffled around ladies, trundled past gents. There were bright gay colors and laughing people everywhere Idhra looked, and now that her head was fully clear and there were such strange people, and sights, and noises around her, Idhra for the first time began to wonder why she was in the King’s castle.

Why was she alive when all her family was dead? Why had the soldiers killed Næss and not her? Why would they bring her all the way to Tysk, and as a guest? If her father were a traitor, why would his sister go to such lengths to be nice to her?

Idhra let herself be pulled down corridors, her face slack, feelings numb. But finally, she was shoved into a humongous room full of people and her stomach tightened miserably.

Everyone was sitting at a long wooden table, which sat on curved, graceful, carved legs, and had silver and gold platters crowding its surface. The floor was polished stone, as were the walls and the head chair, in which sat the King.

His hair was steel-gray, and his eyes were thoughtful, colored blue, on Idhra as soon as she’d entered the room. He must be about sixty, Idhra thought, from what she knew of him from school. He was leaning on the table with one arm, hand cradling his head of silver curls. He doesn’t look half bad, Idhra thought, especially for a madman who murdered my entire family.

His eyes flicked up and down her figure, like he was inspecting her, then their eyes caught, and he smiled slowly, and sat up straight in his chair.

“She’s here, we feast!” he shouted. “Sit down, my girl.” And he beckoned her to an empty chair at the opposite end of the table from his.

Idhra felt strange, walking alone toward it, the only person in the room up, or making any noise. Everyone watched as she took five steps to the empty seat, and then the King started to shout again, but in Tysk this time, making Idhra realize she had been the only one to understand his first declaration; her and Karita, Idhra thought as she spotted her aunt at the place to the right of hers.

The noise level picked up, and people started laughing and talking and waving their hands and pointing. Though it was all very discreet, a lot of the pointing was being done at Idhra, and she blushed and hung her head. The lady across from Karita was pointing too, and the two of them were whispering in Tysk.

“Sit down, dear, and hold your head up,” said Karita when Idhra got close enough. “This is Mireille, your mother’s older sister.”

Idhra nodded and tried to smile. The knot in her stomach was tightening rapidly, as she started looking at what the other guests were wearing. They looked normal, typical lords and ladies, no black and yellow half-length skirts.

“Try the food in the yellow plate, Sara,” Mireille said, pointing to a golden bowl. “It is good. Try the food.” Her Norsk was bad; she used the wrong article for plate, and the wrong conjugation for the verb that went with it. She smiled timidly, and started speaking again to Karita, who nodded and looked back at Idhra.

“She says she doesn’t know the word for beautiful, or how to say you look like your mother,” she explained. Karita seemed in a more humorous mood than before, Idhra realized, as tears welled up in her eyes. It was probably because of her stupid dress. They were mocking her about it.

“What’s wrong, Sara?” Karita asked worriedly, her brows drawn tight above her nose.

“I look like ¾”

Karita and Mireille burst out laughing, immediately trying to muffle themselves. A tear broke loose and rolled down Idhra’s cheek, bringing eye paint with it in a dark line.

“Stop, Sara!” Mireille cried in alarm, taking a white napkin from the table and daintily blotting Idhra’s face. Karita stopped laughing too, and watched her niece worriedly.

“We’re not laughing at you,” she said slowly. “We’re laughing at ¾ well ¾ you?” she ended pathetically. “Not that way, love. You’re starting a new fashion here. All the fashions are extreme when they start, but they spread in no time at all and are old ideas after a few weeks. This one is very interesting. The King hired a new tailor for his enjoyment. The old one was boring him.”

Her voice got tight at the end of that speech like it had in the last. Idhra hoped she wouldn’t stay upset through the rest of the evening.

“He was sent away for only boring the King?” Idhra asked before realizing she might should change the subject.

“He was ¾ no. The King doesn’t let people go, he ¾ beheads them.”

Discussion finished. It was clear now, why Idhra aunt had been so uptight. She clearly disapproved of her husband’s actions. And now Idhra was curious to find out what had upset the woman so terribly before. Most likely another behavior, Idhra thought to herself.

Warum würde ein Kaufmann zu varðr borg gehen? Ich wundere welche Güter Sie haben hinter hier. Erfahren wir?- Why would a merchant go too varðr borg?  I wonder what goods you have behind here.  Should we find out?, german

Stans- stop, Norwegian

Ausstehen, kleines Sara- get up, little Sara, german

Essen- eat, german

Iss! Ja, Iss!- eat (command), yes, eat (command), german

Du muss essen, kleines Sara, da der Herrn so gesagt hat- you have to eat, little Saram because the lord said so, german

Du muss essen, oder?- you must eat, or? (that’s a direct translation. It’s really more like someone saying, “you have to eat, you know. You can’t deny it” or something like that.), german

Frälein- miss/unmarried woman, german

Dein haar, fräulein, und die henden- your hair, miss, and the hands, german

Entshuldigung- sorry/excuse me, german

Komm!- come (command), german

Tysk- german, norwegian

Norsk- Norwegian, Norwegian