Kama. Terese Brasen

      She could hear their bold songs rising to the sky.

      All around her Greek tones were rising to the sky, as though she were back home among the travelers and gossipers in the crowded, narrow streets that curved with the buildings. Her memories were spotty and broken. The soldiers had sounded like thunder and lightning at first, but then she had realized the noise came from men, not the heavens. She had left her bed to push open the shutters and look down. The streets had been packed with horses. Stirrups butted against stirrups. She could almost grab the headscarf of a soldier right below. She considered pulling the red cloth with its gold threads. But then she saw blood dripping from many bright silver blades. After the men and beasts stampeded away, there was quiet and a moment of pause before the flames advanced with their red heat rising. Katerine had heard her mother’s screams among the many high voices. After that she could recall nothing, until they were on a mountainside. Old steppingstones guided them up the incline. The exhausting heat pushed down. Her sandals weren’t made for climbing. There was an eerie silence, as they tramped up. When she looked back, she saw a long single-file procession and assumed her mother was behind her in the line. Later she learned she was alone.

      Now she smelled the perfume. It was distinctive—vinegar and clover together. She was facing a Belladonna garden—an entire field of purple petals.

      Suddenly she felt no fear. Now that she had taken the first step, the inner tremors were silent. She was the old Katerine before the soldiers came. Katerine’s home had been where citizens feasted. Flavors wafted up the stairs. Scents lingered in the passageways. Cumin and coriander called out to hungry patrons who soaked up the broth with their bread and cleaned their plates with the crusts. Her mother’s superb dishes made them talk, laugh and sing, especially late at night when there was a great deal of wine. After the stew was done, they broke walnuts and snacked on olives from the south.

      Katerine’s mother had taught her to break eggs, knead bread and choose zests and seasonings. Working over pots and cutting boards, they had stirred up the ingredients along with the rich scents.

      Katerine took her knife from her pocket, held it up and ran in among the flowers. Some were as tall as trees. The hexing plants surrounded her. Madly she sliced their stems. She wanted to slash and stab Astrid but this was all she could do.

      How old had she been the first time, when she ran from her captors? Ten maybe. She had been running across an open field with short grasses. They were chasing her, and she had scrambled up a tree like a squirrel. Shaggy, red-haired guards poked at her with swords and yelled that she was stupid and not worth the effort but they would get her down some way. Finally she jumped, hoping to land on her feet and out run them, but her wrist hit a stone and fractured. It was still crooked from the fall. She wanted to forget all that past. But her twisted hand was proof that her memories told the truth. She had run again in Constantinople but this time into the arms of her savior. The alleyways of home had taught her to duck and maneuver through jam-packed spaces. That day her feet served her well. Her small frame helped her hide. She slid in between two buildings and stood there barely breathing. The wall was cool against her face, while two feet away the hot market swarmed with flies. When she pushed herself free, she encountered a woman dressed in the same habit Katerine wore most days. She steered Katerine quickly and quietly down back streets to the convent. In the chapel, Katerine accepted a life of purity. And she would still be there now, if not for Sigtrygg. She had believed his dreams. She had become his princess. They had sailed together from Constantinople. But Sigtrygg’s mother, Queen Astrid, had put her son under her spell. She had sent word that there was no place for Katerine in Hedeby: “A slave has no place among the Odinkars.” When Sigtrygg delivered Astrid’s news, he had evil in his eyes and reeked of the devil’s poison. Astrid could never understand. Katerine was not like the Norse women whose gods tricked and toyed with them. Freed women no longer had masters, but years of sin and servitude had tainted their bones. Katerine was different. Her god had washed her clean. She was not a slave anymore. All was forgiven. But Astrid understood none of this and demanded her son Sigtrygg leave her here in this pagan place where her neighbors prattled on about nothing—the same gossip day after day—and where it was difficult to summon angels. All along she had hoped Sigtrygg would wake up and understand he couldn’t just sail away from her forever. But time was running out. The months would cycle through and then Astrid would take everything away—including Kama.

      The fires of hell can rage through us. Hold them back. Don't allow them to take over. Turn to prayer. Invite in the light of heaven.

      Still it had been impossible to listen.

      Soon her apron was stuffed. All winter the herb would dry in the barn. When the river ice melted and the ships sailed again, Astrid would journey to Kiev where Katerine’s flavorful stew would vanquish the last of her glory. Astrid would taste the sweet broth with its almonds and figs. But hidden inside the honey flavors, the gift of Belladonna would be waiting to rankle her false complexion and silence her breath forever.

      Katerine had tried to open Kama’s eyes to the evil in the Norse ways and to show her that Runes were signs from the devil. When you write one, you call up Satan. Don’t ever carve a Rune in this house. If you do, we can expect the worst. Fire will come in the middle of the night to burn our faces.

      Katerine had tried to warn her about Astrid.

      Those who appear to be your friend can be deceiving you. They sense that you need them and will use that fact to trick you when you least expect it. Astrid can toss you aside just like Sigtrygg did me. But Kama would not listen. She believed Sigtrygg and Astrid when they said she would be queen.

      Katerine tried to make Kama understand her situation. “You don’t belong here,” she tried to tell her. “You can’t expect to have friends because no one wants to be with someone who doesn´t belong. That’s more true than ever for you, because you don´t fit in anywhere. You´re neither Greek nor Norse, neither servant nor queen. You’re simply a lost misfit who better learn how to stand on her own two feet and not expect anything from anyone.”

      3

      The next morning, Kama heard Mother chopping. It was rhythmical, almost like prayer. Mother was singing too, accompanying the persistent hacking with melody. Normally she chanted hymns, but today she was humming a Greek song that sounded like fast dance steps.

      Kama was groggy from sleep. She remembered voices—Mother's whimpering and Father's annoyance. Were they part of a dream or had there been shouting? Had Father come home during the night? Had he been here?

      Mother stopped.

      “It’s late,” she called.

      “It's late,” Mother said again. The urgency in Mother’s voice answered Kama’s question. Time only seemed to matter when Father was coming home. There was work to do. She and Mother needed to ready the house and prepare the midday feast for his arrival. For a few hours they would be together as a family: father, mother, daughter. Father would bring gifts and tell stories about Constantinople, the great city of gold where lanterns burned all night. The buildings were as tall as mountains. Their glass let light shine in, so the long shafts would paint the rooms with many different colors. To Father, Constantinople was Valhalla on earth. For the time being, misguided Christians controlled the city, but one day the Norse people would rid the world of the scourge of Christianity.

      A heavy curtain turned Kama’s chamber into a dark private sleeping space. She pulled the cloth. Wooden rings rattled along the rod. Bed closets lined the walls of the square wooden room. Two trunks sat directly outside hers. Kama rifled through the folded garments. She had clothes she could never wear in this small settlement—silk dresses with fur cuffs and collars, necklaces of precious stones. As well as clothes, she had an Arabian horse she called Thor and kept in the barn. Thor wasn't just any stallion. He had adornments. Red gems inlaid his gold harness. An embroidered tapestry lay under his smooth saddle. Kama knew Father’s gifts were his way of reminding her that Kiev was only a temporary home and that the time would soon come when she would leave for Hedeby.

      Kama unfolded her oldest dress, a rough shift that tied over her shoulders. She glanced quickly in the mirror on its nail. Her long white hair was still