A Bone to Pick (4 page)

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.

As she draws out her gutting knife, Sigrid slowly turns the small dagger-like blade from side to side. It is sharp and pointy. It could inflict pain and damage should the need arise. She whirls around and stabs violently into the air, imagining she is suddenly faced with a force of dark elves and fire giants.

“Ha!” she shouts as she brings down the first of the giants. Then she turns to the right and slashes out again with her would-be dagger. “Take that, you wretched elves. Come out into the sun and turn to stone.” Suddenly, Sigrid is aware of being watched. When she turns around, there is her cousin, Gunnar, smirking at her.

“Oh, Sigrid the brave, save me, save me,” he squeals in a mocking voice. “Please do not let the ugly ogre eat me.” He buckles over with laughter.

In a flash Sigrid drops her knife, dashes over, and rams his head under her arm, squeezing until he shrieks in pain and asks for mercy. She pushes him to the ground and stands over him. “Remember the parable — brawl with a pig and you go away smelling like a pig? I might never become a warrior, but I take pleasure knowing that neither will you.”

The lad gets off the ground and rubs his neck. “You're mean, cousin.” The boy glares at Sigrid while brushing off his tunic. “You could learn to laugh more.” Gunnar turns and walks back toward the camp. “By the way, I was coming to help you clean the fish, but I think I'll find some other work to do instead.”

Sigrid's cheeks burn now. She regrets being so rash and for taking out her frustration on her cousin. He is a good-natured boy, though prone to silliness. She will find a way to smooth things out with him later.

“Rise and shine, Princess. Ya got ten minutes to get washed up and meet me in the cook tent, which is over there,” said a big woman with pumpkin-coloured hair as she pointed her flabby arm out the door.

It took a few groggy seconds before I figured out she was talking to me. I sat up and squinted at her. Along with her funny accent and colourful hair, she wore a Hawaiian shirt that looked like a circus tent.

“Oh, by the way, I'm Bertha. Pleased ta meet ya. Now get up.” Before I could say a word she turned and marched out of the tent.

“Pleased to meet ya, too,” I mumbled. I looked around and found my bag sitting on the floor where Robbie had left it the night before. I knew Bertha said ten minutes, but I was much too tired to function at that speed. It took me nearly that long just to get off the bed.

When I finally stumbled into the kitchen tent, Bertha was moving around like a whirlwind. Other than the sound of bacon crackling on the frying pan, the camp was quiet as a graveyard. Probably because everyone else was in bed — where I should be.

“You're late. Over there're some eggs ta get crackin'. Make sure ya don't get shells in the mix or I might have to clobber ya. Catch my drift?” Bertha chuckled menacingly.

I wasn't worried that she'd actually clobber me — everyone knew that hitting kids was against the law — but if she ever did, I had the feeling I'd need someone to scrape me off the ground with a shovel.

I yawned. “I'm really tired. It took about fourteen hours to get here. And then falling asleep last night was almost impossible.” Thanks to thunder butt sleeping next to me. “Then add to that the time change.” It occurred to me that Mom, Aunt Margaret, and Uncle Stuart were still all curled up in bed.

“So you're tired, eh? Well you'll be happy to know I don't need ya after seven o'clock and ya can crash then.”

I looked at my watch, which said six-thirty. “Well, that's not so bad. I guess I can hack it until then.”

Bertha chuckled. “I was talkin' about seven tonight, dearie. Now get on with the eggs. I've got a schedule to keep here.”

Ha! If she thought I was going to slog away in the kitchen for the next twelve hours, she had something to learn. I'd talk to Eddy. She'd put things right.

“I don't get what the rush is about. Other than you and me, no one else is even up yet,” I said, then yawned again.

“That's right, Princess. But in about one hour there'll be about thirty people comin' through those doors over there and they'll be expectin' hot coffee and a hearty breakfast. Then after we're all cleaned up from breakfast we have just enough time to catch our breath and start all over again fer lunch. Now, if ya don't mind, I'd appreciate —” she glared at me and raised her voice “— if you'd get yer skinny rear end into gear so we don't let them down.”

Whoa! It was time for a little name-dropping. “You probably don't know this, but my good friend, Dr. Edwina McKay — I call her Eddy, she's one of the professors here — got me this job. You see, I'm not really a cook's help. I'm actually aspiring to be an archaeologist, and Eddy's been training me.”

“Well, you don't say. That's nice, eh?” Bertha said in a sort of friendly tone.

Good, now maybe things would go better, I thought. But then she picked up a wooden spoon and wagged it in my face.

“Now look here, Princess, let's get something straight. I don't give a chicken's waddle that this Dr. McKay is yer friend. I'm the boss of this here kitchen and the sooner ya accept it, the better things will be fer us all.” She slapped the spoon on the counter with a crack. “So, now that we've got that straight, let's get the job done.”

I could see that without Eddy to back me up I was on thin ice. I'd talk to her later, then Bertha would see who was boss.

Cracking open three dozen eggs carefully, I managed to get only a few shells in the bowl. “Okay, now what?”

“Add some milk, of course. I sure hope you're not one of those idjut helpers that has to be told what to do at every turn. Ya got a head, girl, use it. 'Sides, who doesn't know how to make scrambled eggs?”

I growled under my breath. Fine, if that was how it was going to be, I'd figure it out for myself. I mixed up the eggs and dumped in the jug of milk sitting on the counter. I wasn't sure if it needed the whole thing, but I always said too much was better than too little. I stirred the yellow mixture around, trying to think what else was supposed to go into scrambled eggs. I assumed everyone liked salt and pepper as much as I did, so I poured in a generous helping. Then I remembered that one time Aunt Margaret had made me Mexican-style eggs and they were really good. I hunted around for salsa, but couldn't find any. Then I spotted a little bottle of chili powder. The jar was half empty, but I poured in what was left and stirred some more.

“Have ya got the eggs ready?” Bertha shouted.

“Ready.”

“Good, then bring them here, then get out to the dining hall and set the tables. We need napkins, cutlery, salt, and pepper. Now go!”

It crossed my mind to tell her that I had cleverly added the salt and pepper already, but then I figured the less I said the better. Just then I heard the skillet sizzle as Bertha poured out the eggs.

“What the heck! How much milk did ya use, girl?” Bertha shrieked. She turned to grab a towel and saw the empty milk jug on the counter. “Don't tell me ya used the whole thing! Have ya never made scrambled eggs before?”

“Well, I've eaten lots of them.”

“Oh, fer Pete's sake, go to the cooler and grab me some more eggs that I can add to this mess. And don't be lookin' at me like that. Well? Go, girl, go.”

After I helped mop up the runny eggs that had drained off the side of the grill and onto the floor, I burnt the toast, overfilled the coffee machine, and forgot to thaw the frozen butter. Just when I thought I'd messed up everything that I thought was possible, I dropped the plate of warm muffins on the floor as people started pouring into the dining hall. Probably a good thing they were there, because instead of yelling at me, the only thing that happened was Bertha's face went as red as the apples we set out in place of the muffins I dropped. I watched as she puffed and heaved like a steam engine.

“What ya gawkin' at, girl? Start servin' up the food.”

As I plopped one spoonful of eggs after another onto plates, I searched the line, hoping to see Eddy. She needed to know there was a good reason why the last cook's help quit after one day. I needed her to get me out of here. There was no way I would survive two weeks of this, let alone three days.

“Hi, Peggy.” I looked up and saw Robbie grinning at me. “Did you have a good sleep?”

I wasn't sure why, but the way she asked annoyed me. “Actually, it couldn't have been better. Thanks.” Was that a moment of disappointment I'd seen on her face? Good.

“Maile, this is Peggy, the new help,” Robbie said. Maile nodded at me. “She's the kid I was telling you about, the one who's friends with Dr. McKay.” Obviously, my connection had impressed her. “You know, the one who knows everything about archaeology.”

Zing!
I might be a little slow at times, but I could totally tell that wasn't a compliment.

“Well, I didn't say I knew everything. I said I knew a considerable amount about archaeology. Certainly more than the average person,” I shot back. Probably more than her and her friend, too, but I kept that to myself.

“And just how did you come by this considerable experience? You're how old?” Maile asked.

“Sorry, ladies, if ya don't mind, we need to keep the line movin',” Bertha told the girls. Then she turned to me. “And if ya don't mind, Princess, will ya hold off on all the chit-chat until social hour?”

“What do you mean? They're the ones —” I started to explain.

“Close yer gab hole, girl, and just keep the line movin'. These people have important work to do.” Bertha smiled almost sweetly at Robbie and her friend. “Hot coffee's over there, ladies. Sorry 'bout the burnt toast. The help is new.”

Robbie and her friend grinned. Now instead of Bertha, I was the one with the red face. I could tell there was no way to win this one, so I put my head down and didn't look up again until everyone had been served — everyone except Eddy. Where was she?

A little while later Bertha told me to set up a tub of warm rinsing water and then start collecting dirty dishes. As I made the rounds, I found that on nearly every plate, pushed to the side, were the scrambled eggs. I was thinking maybe this just wasn't a scrambled egg crowd. But later, when it was my turn to sit down to eat breakfast, I learned different. Wow! After one bite, my lips went numb. I must have put in a bit too much chili and pepper. I hoped no one knew I was responsible for the eggs that morning. When Bertha left the kitchen for a few minutes, I quickly scraped my eggs into the garbage along with the rest of the slop.

“Now that the breakfast rush is over I thought I'd take a little break and have a look around,” I said when Bertha came back. “You know, see the site, check out the excavation —”

“Oh, a wee look around, eh?” She snorted. “Well, tink again, will ya? I've been run off me feet these past two days with no help a'tall … so I'm afraid yer little sightseein' trip will have to wait. Okay, Princess?”

“Is it just me, or do you call all your helpers ‘Princess'? FYI — my name is Peggy,” I said, gritting my teeth.

“Oh, sure it is — Princess Peggy,” Bertha said slowly. “And FYI to ya, too. I've just tracked down that Dr. McKay of yours and gave her a piece of my mind. Did she even check to see if ya knew how to cook before gettin' ya this job? I tink not!”
Poor Eddy
, I thought. “And I don't know whatcha did to those eggs, but from now on ya don't go concoctin' something without my permission — got it?”

I sat down on the kitchen stool. “Well, I'm sorry I'm not what you expected. You should probably just look for a different helper.”
Please look for a different helper
, I silently pleaded.

“Nope, too late fer that. 'Fraid I'm stuck with ya,” Bertha said. “Ya might see yerself as the next star archaeologist, but fer now you're my helper. So get used to it. People say I'm the best cook around, and they also say I run my kitchen like it was the army — and that's true.” She sat on the stool beside me and grinned. “But I'm a reasonable person, Princess.”

She might be the best cook around here, but reasonable? I doubted that was true.

“Now I'm not makin' any promises,” Bertha continued, “but if ya try yer best, then I'm willin' to put all this behind and start fresh.” She stuck out her hand. “So is it a deal, Princess?”

At the moment what choice did I have? I took her hand and we shook on it.

“Good girl. Follow my lead and I might make a cook out of ya yet.”

I could hear Aunt Margaret laughing now. “Oh, great,” I said, hoping afterward that she hadn't noticed the hint of sarcasm.
No matter
, I thought,
the first chance I get I'm out of here.

After scrubbing six trays, four pots, five muffin tins, and the entire grill by hand, I started peeling potatoes. The main course on the lunch menu was hearty potato- leek soup. There was also fresh dinner rolls, and bakeapple pie for dessert. I'd never seen bakeapples before. They were sort of like raspberries, but orangey and bigger. Bertha said they were an indigenous plant and grew all around L'Anse aux Meadows.

“Did the Vikings eat bakeapples?” I asked.

“I should tink they did,” Bertha said. “After all, they weren't idjuts. They would've used whatever food was available. And I'm sure bakeapples were around back then just as they are today.”

By the time the lunch crowd arrived, I'd had only a couple of minor disasters to test Bertha's temper. I was serving up soup — which actually tasted really good — when I heard a familiar voice coming from the crowd.

“Well, there you are,” said Eddy, standing in line with a tray in hand.

“Eddy!” When she finally reached me, I asked, “Where have you been? I was looking for you this morning.”

“I had a lot to get ready for my class, so I skipped breakfast.” She bent over and whispered, “I guess we're both in hot water. I should have asked if you were any good at cooking before enlisting your help.”

“You're right about that, Professor,” Bertha chimed in when she caught us talking. “I can tell this one is a spitfire, but I tink we've come to an understandin'. After I rein her in some, she might make a good cook's helper, after all.” Bertha winked at Eddy, who looked sheepish. “Okay, Princess Peggy, ya done well. Now go have lunch with yer friend.”

“Really? Thanks.” She didn't have to tell me twice. I ripped off my apron, grabbed a tray, and helped myself to lunch. When I got to the table where Eddy sat, there were no free chairs. She pointed to the table behind her. “Hey, people, this here is my young friend, Peggy Henderson. She's working as cook's help for the duration of field school. But she's keen about archaeology and will no doubt be making her way around our site from time to time. Feel free to share what you've learned.”

“From what I hear, she already knows everything,” Robbie said, smirking. I wanted to sneer, too, but with all the other students looking at me I decided it was better if I pretended I hadn't heard her remark. After introductions no one took any notice of me.

“Professor McKay, I was wondering what sampling method you preferred?” asked a short and very hairy guy.

“Well, Taylor, every archaeology site is unique, and the kind of sampling you do will actually all come down to how much time and money you have.”

“Sometimes sampling isn't even possible,” I chimed in. “Like when you have an emergency excavation that needs to be done right away. Right, Eddy?” Taylor looked annoyed. “Did you already cover that topic yet, Eddy?”