The Berserker

1

The only place I could be myself was here, on this hill overlooking the fjord. It wasn't much of a view, but it was better than if I glanced over my shoulder and saw the grassy rooftops of Eldham below. We weren't much of a village, but it was home and has been for eighteen years.

The view of my village wasn't why I find myself up here, alone. I come here to a place of familiarity. This was a bonding spot where my mother would bring me and place me down on a bolder. She would braid my hair and hum. No words to her songs, just a soft and soothing tune.

I watch as the fisheries make their journey inland. With some luck, we will have something that wasn't game. A roll of thunder makes itself known, and I pray they make a safe return. My hand clasped the cross that was gifted to me on my twelfth birthday.

The wind picks up, amplifying the scent of wildflowers that plague the meadow. Bringing my thoughts back to my mother, who loved wildflowers. Often she would pick them and hang them around the house; it was the only source of colour in our dull home, and once they dried, she would crush them and add the powder to our bathing waters. The scent would soak into our pores, which was far better than smelling like a pig's muck. I tried but failed. I never had her knack for preserving.

Just last winter, I ruined a whole beast, because I didn't cure it correctly. We had just scraped by and welcomed the spring, eating nothing but grain.

My mother would have known how to cure the meat. It really should have been me who died, and not her.

It was three winters back when the illness took to our lands and spread like wildfire. It started with a cough, then advanced from there; fevers, spots, sleep, then death. I always sought my mother to be strong. At least she perceived that way to me. With helping my father plough the fields, and mend the fences; there were times I would catch her on the roof, replacing the shillings because of my father's crooked knee he could not climb the ladder.

Over the years, the images have blurred, but up here, up on this hilltop, her memories live. I feel connected to her here. My hand rests on a large bolder. I can feel her fingers run through my hair. The soft hum of her voice. And now, with the scent of wildflowers, it brings my memories to life.

"Catherine." I spin around to see my father struggling to make his way up the steep slope. He walks with a limp and his hair is almost gone; just the sides remain. His tunic shows how hard he has worked today, covered in dirt and sweat.

"What are you doing all the way out here?" He wheezes. Gripping his fingers around the cane as he leans on it for support. It's just an old oak branch; Marcus, an old friend of my father's, carved a handle for a better grip. He is good like that.

"There is work to be done!" He pointedly says. "I'm too old to be gallivanting up here to remind you of your chores."

He isn't mad, I could tell that much, but he sounded annoyed. Having to walk up the slope with his poor knees and needing to remind me of my duties.

It is just us. There was Tomas, but he succumb to the sickness that hit our village heavy. It was also the same illness that claimed my mother. My father helps in the fields and I am tasked with the farm animals cleaning and chopping wood.

None of which I have started.

I glance down at my feet. My toe pokes through the worn hide-boots. I guess I needed to add repairing to the list.

"I'm sorry, Father." I didn't intend to be here for as long as I have been.

"I'll make a start on them now." Father held his hand and shook his head.

"The sun is setting, so just feed the animals. You can clean the trough in the morning." He grips his cane tight and hulls himself to his feet. "I'll light the pit."