Chapter 1: Day 1/A Child Called Lile [7/9]

I allow a hesitant smile to emerge, scuffing the dirt floor with my bare toes. "Do ye really think Lady Gwenhwyfar helped me, Mama? Was it magic what made me sew so nice afore?"

Mother's tired face warms, the skin around her eyes crinkling. "Why, 'tis as good an explanation as any, child." She crosses herself with a work-roughened hand. "I prayed ye take to yer lessons swift. Perchance the Holy Mother herself answered me prayers through yer tiny fingers!"

I nod solemnly, cheeks dimpling. "I'm gonna pray extra hard tonight to her and sweet baby Jesus for helpin' me, Mama! And I promise I'll practice sewin' and mendin' every day from now on til I'm as good as you!"

And as the lies slip glibly from my smiling rosebud mouth, I silently beg the powers that be to conceal my unnatural talents long enough for me to unravel this inexplicable phenomenon. For if Mother suspects witchcraft, my imposter peasant fingers won't save me from the pyre's hungry flames.

"Mama, do ye have a mam and pap of yer own still?" I ask curiously, watching as she scrubs our wooden bowls with reddened hands. "Or maybe a grandmam or sisters or aunties livin' somewhere else?"

Aislin pauses, glancing over with a tired smile. "Whyever the curiosity about me family all sudden, lass?"

At my mute shrug, she wipes her chapped hands on her faded skirts with a sigh. "Well then...truth is I haven't seen hide nor hair o' them since bein' wed to yer father nigh on thirteen years past. We dwell in Baile Coille now, a far piece from the village I were born."

She shakes her head slowly. "After Da died of fever when I were just nine winters, Mam had to beg the local lord's pity and accept his offer to marry me off quick as could be arranged. Women alone starve faster than men without protection."

Pain flashes across her worn features at long-buried memories. "I've two younger sisters what went the same sorry route, else ended up spreadin' their legs for coppers. And me brother Sean were taken as soldier to fight the Norsemen soon as he could lift a spear."

Aislin crosses herself with a trembling hand. "Heaven knows if any of 'em still draw breath or met the sword, plague, childbed, and all the other cruel fates what claim peasant folk." She closes her eyes briefly as if offering a prayer for long lost kin.

When she finally continues, her voice emerges hollow, haunted by grief. "So nay, lass, no grandmams or aunties to speak of in these parts. 'Tis just we three now - yer da, me, and my little Lile."

She attempts a wavering smile that seems more akin to a grimace. "We womenfolk must cling together as family since fate stole the rest, aye?"

Baile Coille? What an odd name, almost ominous sounding. Though I suppose peasants likely don't choose what to label their wretched hovel clusters. The local lord probably just named it after the nearby forest that provides lumber, hunting, etc.

Still, you'd think they'd choose something more cheerful or holy to inspire hope instead of emphasizing they're essentially slaves trapped working this gloomy landscape until they collapse. Why not call it Baile Solais - Village of Light?

But I guess false hope is the heart's greatest weakness or some such shite. Better to accept your lifelong sentence in the bog of eternal stench surrounded by soul-crushing darkness than pray for dawn's rosy fingers to caress your miserable face as you choke down bowls of gruel.

Flowery dreams make for bitter awakenings when you're born a peasant in a brutal feudal system that views baby girls as a waste of precious resources. No lucky charms or four leaf clovers to be found here! Though who knows, maybe the next plague or raid will wipe this miserable mudpile from the map and some eager young warlord can rename our corpse-strewn fields something more fitting like Baile Fuil - Village of Blood. God bless us, every one!

...So this muddy shitscape is part of Lord Eamonn the Rat Bastard's fiefdom - may his entrails be gnawed by syphilitic badgers! And our glorious high king is the famous Brian Boru, uniter of Ireland, blah blah horseshite. Didn't he get his royal brains bashed out by Vikings eventually? Can't wait to see that battle reenacted once the annual Turnip Festival gets cancelled from lack of interest.

What a grand era to get reborn into as a girl without a soul or basic human rights! Let the oppression begin! Maybe if I pray hard enough, my fairy godmother will turn me into a dung beetle so I can spend my days rolling turds across the barnyard without some slack-jawed yokel trying to impregnate me.

But hey, at least Mother Church hasn't gone full witch-burning bonkers yet. No need to worry about lighting the kindling pyre if I accidentally levitate during Communion! Always look on the bright side of life *cue whistling plague corpses*

Yippee skippy, I sure am blessed to have this front row view of history's greatest shitshow! Gather round, kids! Grab your wooden spoons and get ready to choke down gruel until the English show up to teach us proper misery! Remember, the key to survival is having daughters so your husband can sell their wombs for goats! Hallelujah!

Mother glances over from her mending with a sly smile. "Lile, I've a secret to tell ye, child." She leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "There be a right comely Norse healer named Colm just arrived in these parts. Tall and fair, wi' flaxen hair and emerald eyes."

She nudges me eagerly. "I caught a glimpse of him in the village yestermorn and sweet Jesus! This viking could turn a nun into a wanton, I swear it!"

I gape at Mother's uncharacteristic giddiness as she continues in a fervent rush. "Now this Colm were already wed when he came here last spring wi' his woman, Brigitte—another blonde Norse beauty. But she died birthing a babe what didn't draw breath."

Mother crosses herself quickly. "God rest their poor souls. Still, awful convenient he finds himself lacking a wife these days, aye?"

She grasps my hands, smiling widely. "Why, with yer yellow eyes and moon-pale skin, ye could near pass as Brigitte born again! Oh Lile, just imagine—my girl wed to a freeman healer from foreign lands! No more slavin' away knee-deep in mud and shite."

She sighs dreamily. "I'll speak to yer father straight away about arrangin' a meetin'." Her cracked lips twist into a wry smile. "Once Oisin gets a look at Colm's hefty purse, he'll be right eager to sell ye off, I've no doubt."

I stare at Mother, pulse racing as her words sink in. A Norse freeman healer seeking a young blonde wife after his own perished in childbed? Why does this sound too conveniently like the setup for a troubadour's tale?

This is my chance to escape lifelong enslavement to some drunken Irish peasant! No more choking down bowls of gruel or getting bred to whelp an army of snot-nosed brats. Just imagine—me, lounging on fur blankets inside a sturdy timber longhouse, my tall golden warrior husband returning from adventures abroad to ravish me senseless!

We'll feast on exotic foods and honey mead while I urge him towards ever greater raids so I can adorn myself in silks and jewels. As a healer's wife, he'll pamper me with scented oils and perfumes instead of reeking like bog water and pig shit. And once I've borne him a gaggle of strapping blond sons, we'll sail off to discover new lands beyond this fetid backwater!

Gods yes, the thought of spreading my thighs for this Norse Adonis already has me wetter than a mermaid's cunt. Please, please let Colm's "mighty sword" cleave me in twain and fill me with his holy spirit! I'll be the best heathen shieldmaiden bride ever!

But wait… Colm? Why, that's no Norse name at all, but rather a common Irish one! This mysterious healer must have adopted it to better blend in with the local muck farmers. Clever man. Though I've no doubt his towering frame, flaxen hair and sharp emerald eyes still mark him as foreign around these swarthy peasants.

Yet if I truly resemble his late Brigitte, mayhap her very ghost will cry out to him upon glimpsing my uncanny likeness. What man could resist that siren call from the grave, begging him take this waif child that mirrors his lost love grown young again? 'Twould be a simple enough matter for one with a healer's skills to concoct a fertility draught ensuring I flower early. Unlike these Irish dogs, I've faith the Norsemen place more value on a maid's wits and spirit than the size of her teats.

We'll leave this wretched mudpile behind for his sturdy timber longhouse, furs and smoked meats aplenty. I'll spend my days lounging on wool blankets embroidered with tales of Thor and Odin while Colm's clever hands tend my needs.

Let these Irish curs keep their pasty red-haired brides whose whey-white skin burns quicker than bread. I'll be an exotic prize on Colm's arm, my moon-kissed complexion proof of supernatural ancestry. Whispers will follow our passing - "The Norseman's witch wife ensorcelled him with those eldritch yellow eyes..." Aye, let them stare and mutter curses under their breath. Their envy and superstition will only enhance my status as a woman of mystery and power. Just wait, peasants, until my Viking lord begins raiding your villages after I urge him to ever greater conquest! Then you'll witness true witchcraft at work.

I shift closer to Mother on the rough wooden bench, watching as she expertly mends a tear in Oisin's stained tunic.

"Mama, how come my eyes are yellow when yours are blue?" I ask innocently. "Is it very rare here to have such color?"

Mother smiles indulgently, reaching out to stroke my tangled blonde hair. "Nay, strange hues manifest in peasant folk as often as vibrant threads weave through our tapestries."

She bites off a length of coarse thread with her teeth, deftly threading her bone needle before continuing. "Why, just last season little Bran Og were born with a shock of red hair akin to licking flames! His poor mam near fainted from the fright of it."

I widen my eyes, picturing blazing crimson locks sprouting from an infant's tender scalp.

"Is red hair magic then, to scare Bran's mama so?" I whisper eagerly. "Will he put curses on folk what anger him when he's grown?"

Aislin chuckles, her needle flashing rapidly to close the gaping hole in Oisin's tunic. "Ah now, some say red betokens a fiery temper sure enough, but naught as fanciful as witches' mischief."

She holds up the mended garment, scrutinizing her handiwork. Deeming it satisfactory, she folds the tunic and smoothens the fabric across her faded skirts before turning back to me.

"Truly now, all manner of oddities manifest amongst we peasants, sparse as miracles may prove." Her cracked lips quirk wryly. "Why, just last summer little Eithne were born with a shock of pink hair!"

I gasp aloud. "Pink hair? Like the wild roses bloom in the meadow?" I bounce excitedly on the rough wooden bench. "Oh Mama, I wish I could see such a magical sight! Is Eithne touched by the fair folk then?"

Aislin shakes her head indulgently. "Nay, though folk mutter she's a changeling, in truth 'tis naught but a quirk of nature." Her eyes take on a faraway cast. "The Lord works in mysterious ways, to be sure. But peasant babes oft emerge...different than nobles."

She reaches out to stroke the pale blonde hair back from my forehead, her weathered fingertips tracing my brow. "Yer vibrant yellow eyes be one such peculiarity. Why, ye got them from yer father straight away."

I wrinkle my nose doubtfully. "Papa's eyes are red like the devil's, not pretty colors."

Aislin nods somberly. "Aye, the drink turns them bloodshot now. But once they shone near this golden hue." Her worn features softened, lost in memory's bittersweet embrace.

"Oisin were right handsome when first we met, I'll admit. Tall and broad, wi' thick black hair and luminous yellow eyes." She sighed heavily. "I were sure my fortune made when Da accepted his bride price."

Pain flashes across her prematurely lined face. "If only the drink hadn't stole the man away, leavin' but a tormented shadow..."

She shakes her head, banishing phantoms with the resolve of long practice. Then she pats my leg briskly. "But enough ancient tales, m'anam. Let's to makin' supper afore yer father returns."

That's so weird. I'm almost certain the species I'm part of right now is not human at all. We just resemble humans. Pink hair? Vivid red hair? What else should I expect here?! But no, this cannot be limited to the peasants living here...

My working hypothesis is that I have somehow been transported through space and time to inhabit the body of a young female in 4th century Ireland. This humanoid species appears nearly identical to Homo sapiens externally, save for unusual phenotypic variations like the vivid hair colors Mother described.

Internally though, there could be significant deviations from standard human physiology that I have yet to discover. The underlying genetic mechanisms producing such radical phenotypes remain unclear. Perhaps these medieval Irish peasants have greater allelic diversity at certain pigmentation loci compared to modern European populations. Alternately, this could be an entirely new hominin lineage that has undergone rapid evolutionary divergence from H. sapiens in relative isolation.

I urgently need to collect more morphological and genomic data to determine taxonomic classification. Thus far I have noted only superficial attributes based on interactions with Mother and our squalid surroundings. Detailed physiological analyses must be conducted on multiple members of this population to quantify anatomical, hormonal, and neurochemical differences.

Of course, acquiring such intimate biological measurements poses immense logistical challenges given my current helpless state as a four-year-old peasant girl. It's not as if I can politely ask the local priest to donate tissue samples or CSF from his spinal cord between Sunday sermons. Nor can I casually excise muscle biopsies from unsuspecting villagers to examine microstructure under makeshift microscopy. Such "heretical" activities would doubtless see me swiftly burned at the stake.

Therefore I must rely on covert observational studies combined with cautious probing conversations to incrementally expand my ethnographic datasets. By maintaining this innocent facade, I can continue assimilating information without provoking undue suspicions over the next few critical years. Eventually my matured brain and body should provide additional research capabilities to unlock the secrets of this mysterious species.

…Sweet baby Jesus, could witchcraft actually exist in this bizarre realm I find myself trapped in? As a man of science, I recoil from such ludicrous notions rooted in ignorance and superstition. Yet what rational explanations suffice to account for my uncanny facility with needlework on first attempt? Surely no amount of inherited "muscle memory" can fully explain such instant mastery of a complex skill requiring substantial training.

Nor have I succeeded in dredging up any memories of my former self before awakening in this waif's body that might provide clues. That lingering void taunts me, names and faces hovering tauntingly out of reach no matter how fiercely I grasp at fractured recollections. It cannot simply be amnesia - this feels akin to that essence being erased entirely, my previous existence wiped clean as chalk from slate.

So could arcane forces be responsible for transporting my consciousness across the gulfs of time and space into this miserable hovel? And in the process, granted me access to the former Lile's innate talents now inexplicably mingled with my own? That theory should not merit even the briefest consideration from any rational intellect...yet this entire ordeal defies all logic.

Perchance the peasants' fearful mutterings of witchcraft and demonic possession hold truth I cannot fathom. If mystical energies permeate this wretched land, twining the skeins of reality into strange new tapestries, might I someday wield such uncanny gifts myself? What secrets could an inquiring mind divine from probing the boundaries of this world's magical forces?

"Mama, I'm awful thirsty," I say, wiping my sweaty brow with the back of one grubby hand. "Can I have a mug of water, please?"

Mother glances down at me. "Why yes, of course ye may drink, child."

She shuffles to the crude wooden bucket sitting just outside the hovel door. I watch curiously as she reaches down with a faded ceramic mug, scooping brackish liquid from inside.

Returning to my side, she passes me the mug. "Here ye are, poppet."

I take the rough clay vessel gingerly, peering at its contents. Murky water sloshes inside, bits of debris and sediment swirling through the cloudy liquid. The fetid odor of stale piss mingles with the ever-present stench of animals and unwashed bodies permeating our surroundings. My nose wrinkles in dismay but parched throat wins out over squeamishness.

Bringing the mug to my lips, I take cautious sips, gagging slightly on the brackish flavor. I force myself to swallow every last drop, knowing fresh water is scarce in this primitive village.

As I reluctantly lower the emptied mug, an uncomfortable pressure makes itself known in my lower abdomen. My bladder and bowels signal their impatience to void themselves immediately. Wonderful.

"Um, thank ye kindly for the drink, Mama," I mumble, squirming on the rough wooden bench. "But now I gotta make pee-pee and...do the other business too."[...]