BATTLE SCARS

I walked into the village, covered in dust from pounding hooves. No one paid me any attention. The sounds of human life and activity filled the air as I wound my way past playing children, scattering chickens in my wake and causing the random dogs to bark. I was heading for a yurt at the far side of the village, set away from the houses where the locals could attempt to ignore it. There was a pole set in the ground by the entrance with part of a branch strapped across it. On this branch was a large Raven, who sat, watching my approach. I swear his feathers were tinged grey with age, but perhaps that was just the way the light caught them. Do birds go grey, or do they not live long enough to do so?

     Hawk flew down from the sky. He had kept an eye on my journey, or so I had come to believe. But now, I had reached the destination, and it appeared he wanted to be nearer to me. He landed on the other end of the branch and faced Raven. With small turns of their heads, their sharp eyes regarded one another. Hawk dipped his head once, and Raven nodded in return. After a few more moments of silent staring, Raven spread his wings and effortlessly took off, only going as far as a large rock a couple of yards away. Raven’s position here had been acknowledged, and Hawk had been accepted. But, Raven was damned if he was going to share his perch with him.

     I was here at last, and whatever nerves I felt needed to be pushed aside. It was time to meet Beorhthramma. I wasn’t sure what the right term to call them was—the correct title? Words fluttered through my brain, encompassing at least some of what they were and what they did; a few sounded insulting. None were wholly satisfactory. I settled for calling out a generic greeting. An answering call from inside bade me welcome, so I pushed aside the flap of hide and entered their home.

     It took a while for my eyes to adjust from the harsh sunlight outside to the rather dimmer inside. It was more basic than I expected. I could see a central hearth with a small fire, and around the edges were piles of bedding and cushions of bright fabrics mixed with neutral sheepskins. There were some wooden boxes with assorted objects on top and a variety of bundles and bags. On one side, there looked to be a small shrine or altar. 

     Beorhthramma themself was short and wiry, and their face showed that they had lived through many winters. Intricate patterns in ink wound their way across skin, up arms, across the chest, and over their face. They looked fierce yet so fascinating, full of knowledge and penetrating thoughts. There was plenty they could tell a stranger if they so wished.

     I opened my backpack and pulled out the packets and envelopes of dried herbs I had brought from my own garden. They opened each one and sniffed it deeply, nodding in satisfaction each time. Finally, I brought out the small ceramic jar with a stopper, within it was an unguent scented with rose petals. Beorhthramma brought the jar up to their nose and inhaled. Their face broke out into a broad smile of pure delight, laughter lines creasing deeply around their eyes. Using a finger, they dabbed a tiny amount onto the skin just below their nose, and they sighed contentedly. This was indeed a fair price for what I wanted them to do.

     There was some preparation needed as Beorhthramma mixed up their ink using charcoal, ash, and fat. All were combined in a small bowl that had been used for this purpose over long years, leaving it with a permanent greasy residue. Explaining what I wanted had seemingly taken years to tell, since Beorhthramma wanted to know the stories behind it. That was what they did best: capture stories in ink and pin them to one’s skin.

     Finally, it was time. They lit an oil lamp and some candles to give more light, and taking a bone needle from a pouch, they held it in a flame for a short while. Although I had been warned this was how it would be done, now that the time had arisen, I was full of doubts and apprehension. I’d come too far to back out now though. I lay back on a bed of soft animal furs and skins and bared my abdomen. It was across here that I needed a battle scene with a hawk hovering above. A needle made of bone somehow seemed appropriate.

     It was painful, but not as painful as all those days when the blood flowed in an unstoppable manner with piercing cramps and grotesque clots. It hurt, but not like the twisting of the bulky masses that once filled this barren womb. It brought tears, but they were not like the tears of one whose child was never conceived. And it stung, but not like the final ignominy of the infected organ and tissue. As I lay there, I lived through it all again, but viewed at a distance and with a newly won determination.

     No one could really see my battle scars; they were hidden from the world and of no consequence to anyone else anyway. But now, at last, I could wear the battle on the outside. I could commemorate the fight that occurred. I wasn’t even sure if I had won or lost in the end, just that there had been an ending. Including Hawk above the scene was to show there was new life—a different life—that I could fly away to and leave the battle behind.

     It took a long time, but Beorhthramma completed it all in one session. I hadn’t realised how tense I had been until they stopped and my body finally relaxed, sore though it was. They didn’t want me to move and, after wiping away the blood and stains, handed me a sweet warm drink that tasted of honey. They cleaned, put away their tools, and helped themself to a cup of the same drink.

     They sat by the fire and, to pass the time, told me stories, some that were on their skin and some that were fables and myths. They asked me to share some too, so I told them the tale of the giantess who dropped all her story stones and stood them up in circles and avenues so others would hear the stories too. They liked this one,cackled when the stones tumbled from the over-full apron, and nodded approvingly at the ordering of the fallen ones. They observed that only a certain person would tidy after themselves that way and that other giants would have left them where they fell. I don’t know if this story ever made it onto their skin, but I am sure it stayed in their memory. Dark had fallen long before they had finished tattooing me, and we stayed up even later, swapping our tales. So when I fell asleep, it was into a deep, dreamless state, and I slept late into the next day.

     When I awoke, they weren’t in the yurt. I heard the caw of their Raven, so I knew they probably hadn’t gone far. It was time for me to go, and as I heaved myself up off the bedding, I noticed that at some point, whilst I had been sleeping, a dressing had been tied around my middle to keep the new scars clean. I prepared myself to go and, in doing so, felt the gentle thump of my bag of story stones against my body. I realised there was one last thing I needed to do. I opened it and rooted around for a particular stone. It was quite unmistakable, being a crimson red, but it had hidden itself at the bottom of the bag. The carnelian eventually revealed itself with a slow reluctance. I held it up to the crack of sunlight coming through a gap around the hide door covering, and it glowed a deep red blood colour, almost like a beating heart. I held it to my lips one last time, crossed the floor, and placed it on Beorhthramma’s shrine. Stone for ink: a fair exchange.

     I made sure I had all my meagre belongings with me before pushing aside the flap of hide and emerging once more into the sun. Hawk was still perched on the branch. I doubted he had remained there the whole time I was inside the yurt, but it was nice of him to let me think that. He checked me over before leaping into the sky with a cry that let me know he was glad I was fine but really needed to stretch his wings. As he soared high above me, Raven returned to his own perch, glad to reclaim it from the visitor. I gave him a nod and took a quick look around, but I couldn’t see Beorhthramma and decided it was time to leave anyway. Our transactions had all been completed the night before.

     As I strode back through the village I had only come to the day before, I took a minor detour to the horse shrine that lay on the outskirts. Set back from the nearest buildings, yet still in view, it contained four horse skulls set up on poles. Some might view this as terrifying—a warning to outsiders to stay away perhaps—and certainly not as a tourist attraction. Manes of horsehair cascaded around the unseeing eyes and bones and moved slightly in the gentle breeze. Somehow, I knew that three were female, and one was male. Perhaps I picked up subconscious clues from the trinkets that were tied to the poles as decorations or perhaps I just knew. They didn’t scare me. I felt drawn to them, and I sat there for a while until the pressure of the long journey ahead began to nag me. Daily life couldn’t wait forever.

     I walked back across the plain toward the road, the scent of sage still clinging to my hair and clothes as I left the village behind. Hawk flew high in the sky above me, and I was prepared for the herd of horses to thunder past me once again. My journey home would be long, and my stomach still felt tender to touch. But it would heal, and I would feel all the stronger for it.

     My story was now inked on my body, not knotted away inside. I would return as a changed woman.

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