Out of the Ashes: Beneath the Birch Tree

By C.C. Naughton

Ásta’s life is turned upside-down when her father marries a woman with a shocking secret. Her distaste for her step-mother is only matched by her new-found desire to protect her step-sister, and she makes plans for their escape.

Brynja fears everything--including her new sister--but as time goes on, she realizes how many lies she’s been told by her mother. Worse, she finds herself caught in a quandary--she can keep herself safe only at the expense of the sister she’s come to depend on.

When her grandson's betrothed arrives on the farm, and Jóhanna discovers there is more to the situation than appears on the surface, the wisewoman's confusion--and concern for her grandson’s life--begins. She finds an unexpected ally in a young woman who is only just realizing her talent.

Each in her own way, they must work toward their common goal--saving the people they love.

Inspired by “The Wonderful Birch” and the culture of settlement-era Iceland, “Out of the Ashes” is part of the “Beneath the Birch Tree” saga, a series of fairy-tale re-tellings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.C. Naughton
• Release date: Apr 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386702429

C.C. Naughton

C.C. Naughton is the author of two fantasy series, The Tales of Twinkle Dingle (humorous fantasy) and the Beneath the Birch Tree saga (fairy tale re-tellings). Her work is greatly inspired by her first literary loves of fairy tales, folklore, and mythology, and her long-time interest in Settlement-era Iceland. When she is not writing or reading, she spends her time herding cats with her life-partner, sewing weird plushies, and trying to figure out how her magic wand works.

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Copyright 2018 © C.C. Naughton. All rights reserved.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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~ 1 ~

When the rain finally stopped, Ásta ran outside to the tree, and hugged it tightly. When the tree branches swayed in response, water dripped onto her head, and Ásta laughed. But before she could do any more than tie a colorful piece of spun wool to her mother's branches, her father and brother came into view, with two more alongside. Ásta again hugged the birch tree, and said, I will bring you another piece of wool tomorrow, if I can. A sudden breeze whipped through the girl's unbound hair. Ásta smiled; her mother heard her.

She ran into the house, careful to shut both doors behind her. Her aunt insisted the outside stay out while the inside stayed in, and keeping the doors closed helped keep the smoke from the cook-fire properly vented through the roof-hole, rather than filling the house.

Aunt Halla stood near the fire, as Ásta expected. Every morning when Ásta woke, Halla puttered near her cook-pot. Every night when Ásta went to sleep, Halla again worked there. In her childhood, Ásta often wondered if Halla slept in the cook-pot, as she had so rarely seen her aunt anyplace else.

Father and Ari are here, and they have two others with them. Women, from the look of it, Ásta said as she hastily combed and braided her hair. She wished her mother could help her as she once had done, but even her mother could not help her, now.

Halla didn't look up from her cook-pot, where she prepared a soup for náttmál, the evening meal. Ásta half-wondered if her aunt might be making a soft bed for herself inside, and bit her tongue to keep from laughing.

Are you sure there are two others? Halla finally asked.

Ásta sighed. Did her aunt think her a simpleton? I can count as far as four. There are four people, and two horses.

Without looking up, Halla said, Take down the extra cups, and pour some ale. They'll be thirsty after the long trip home. And set up the table. If we're to have company, we will do it right.

The table? Why? We'll just have to take it down again to sleep, and it's so heavy.

We don't know who your father has brought home, it might be someone important. Set up the table.

Ásta sighed again as she stomped to the storage area under the loft. She found the heavy table supports, but could only carry one at a time, and Dagny, the hired woman, had once again vanished from the house. Although she’d never caught them together, Ásta suspected Dagny spent time alone someplace with Jens, the man her father had hired to help run the farm. Ásta wondered if she should tell her father he was paying them to pleasure each other in his absence, then thought better of it. Jens eyed her in ways that made her feel uncomfortable; better for Ásta if Jens and Dagny were together, and away from her.

But right now, she wished Dagny could help her with the table. She tugged the heavy support, inching it along the packed dirt floor, past the cook-fire. She set it in place, and went back for the second support. No sooner had Ásta gotten it upright when the outer door opened, and her aunt hissed at her, Hurry up, girl! I will get the ale, go get the top.

Ásta just managed to drag the heavy tabletop into the room when her father, brother, and two women came into the house. Her brother laughed when he saw her struggles.

Let a man do that, little sister, he said, as he took the slab of wood from Ásta's hands, lifting it easily in place.

Ásta crossed her arms and glared at him. Fine, but you must find me a man first, I see only a boy here.

He laughed again, tugging her braid as he passed, and went back outside. Ásta smiled to herself, glad he'd returned home. Their aunt had insisted one of them stay with her, and if Ásta hadn't been able to visit with her mother, she might have gone mad with boredom. It would be nice to have someone besides the tree to talk to again, even if that someone was only her brother.

Ásta's father sat at the table, and without a word, Halla placed a cup in his hand. He drained it in one large swallow, then set it back down. The older of the two newcomers looked at Ásta and wrinkled her nose, then sat beside the man.

Ásta kissed her father on the cheek, and he said, This is Yrsa, your new mother. Greet her properly.

Ásta couldn't believe what she'd just heard, thinking perhaps she had misunderstood. "My new what?"

She is your new mother, and the girl is your sister. You will show her how to do her work here. He held his cup out to Halla, who refilled it. He handed it to the woman beside him, and she took a sip and slid it back. Ásta's stomach turned; her father had never shared a cup with anyone, not even her mother, yet he so casually did with this woman.

Ásta turned her attention to the newcomers. What was her father thinking, bringing them to their home? The older woman—her mother, he had called her, of all the things!—stood only as tall as Ásta herself, and she had at least thirty winters, maybe more. Still, her dark blond hair held no silver strands, and she had pleasant enough features. But when the woman cast her gaze upon Ásta, the girl shivered, feeling as if her bones suddenly turned to ice.

She turned away from the woman's disturbing gaze, and found herself staring at the younger of the two. The girl seemed to be about Ásta's age, but the top of her head came only to Ásta's nose. Her loose, waist-length hair, lighter than Ásta's own straw-colored braid, was so pale it nearly looked white. She peeked up at Ásta, then looked away quickly.

Ásta couldn't decide what to make of this girl; with beauty so ethereal, Ásta could hardly believe she existed. Ásta glanced again at her father's wife, and had the uncomfortable feeling she was watched the way a fox watches a mouse, that the woman waited to find a weakness in her and pounce. Ásta swallowed hard; how should a mouse greet a fox? Gratefully, her father interrupted her uncomfortable thoughts.

Ásta, if you refuse to speak, then help your brother with the horses. Tomorrow you will have charge of Brynja, if you have recovered your wits by then.

She bolted for the door without a word, and her aunt called out, Close both doors, girl! Ásta sighed, and shut the inner door, then left the house and shut the outer door, taking care to close it tightly.

Ásta shuffled to where her brother worked, her head filled with thoughts of this new circumstance. She had long wished to have a sister as well as—or instead of—a brother. She hoped Brynja's kindness matched her beauty.

But a new mother? What was her father thinking?

Her own mother had been dead less than a year; even so, Lífa still remained here, if not exactly human any longer. Why couldn't her father understand? Why would he replace something that hadn't gone missing?

The horses were nearly unloaded; bags and baskets lay on the ground where Ari worked. As Ásta drew closer, he called out, Organize it. You know how Father gets when things are set in the wrong places.

Was there any news at Festival? Ásta picked up a canvas sack and peeked inside—dried flaked fish. She stuffed a piece in her mouth, then set the sack down with the rest of the food.

Her brother tossed her a lidded basket and she looked inside. Halla's herbs, only for cooking, so predictable and dull. Ásta closed the lid and dropped it in the pile with the fish.

Ari answered, Nothing you'd care about. I am betrothed now, and will be married next summer. We will wed on her family's farm, and then I will bring her here.

This was not news? Betrothed? Honestly, Ari? What is she like? What is her name?

She is called Sigrún Pétsdóttir, she's blood kin to the chieftain. She is from a good family, what else matters? He dug in his belt pouch. She gave me a ring but it's too small for my hand, keep it safe for me.

He handed Ásta a thin ring made of gold. Concerned only with his words, she slipped it onto her finger without looking at it. How could he marry someone he hardly knew, even kin to someone as wealthy and powerful as a chieftain?

What do you mean, what else matters? she demanded. Everything else matters. Is she kind? Is she clever? When she lives here with us, will I like her? Do you like her?

Ásta, you have foolish notions of why people marry. I don't need to like her, nor do you. She can weave and sew and cook, maybe she can teach you some things.

Ásta sighed, slumping to the ground. Her whole life had changed, in only a few moments, and she didn't know what to make of it. She felt as if the earth and sky had suddenly traded places with one another, leaving Ásta to wonder if she might fall into the sky and float away.

Ari reached again into his leather pouch. He pulled something out, then handed it to his sister. I bought you a new needle, for your naalbinding. It's whalebone.

Thank you. She turned it over and over in her fingers; Ásta was grateful to have it, as such things were luxuries they couldn't often afford. Sometimes Ari surprised her with his thoughtfulness; sometimes nothing he said made any sense.

She toyed with the needle for a moment longer before asking, Ari, why did Father marry that woman?

Why does any man marry? And don't say for love, or some other half-witted thing. He tossed her a bag, and she set it down without looking inside.

But he doesn't need children, he has us. And Aunt Halla can run the farm. She likes telling people what to do.

Halla is leaving soon to wed, remember? And men want more from their wives than a sister can give. I hope Mother explained things to you before she died.

She'd seen Jens and Dagny together often enough, as well as the animals—what girl raised on a farm did not? And her mother had explained it to her, years ago when she had three or four winters and first realized the differences between men and women, and wondered why they were so. But that still didn't explain why her father brought her a new mother. I am not a babe, I know what a man expects from his wife. But why didn't he just buy a woman for his bed, if that's what he wanted?

It's not our place to question who our father chooses to warm his bed, little sister. He tossed her another bag and she set it down at her feet. Ásta, pay attention! Put that in the right place.

Ásta glared at him and opened the bag, grimacing as the stench of un-aired clothing hit her. She threw the bag far away from the house, and Ari chuckled.

Father said this woman is my new mother. I don't need a new mother. Ásta picked up another bag but after the previous one, she was loath to discover its contents, so she just pushed it aside and hoped her brother didn't notice.

Maybe it's not such a bad idea, she can teach you how to be a proper woman. He sat down beside her and looked into the bag at her feet, before tossing it to land beside the one Ásta had thrown.

I already have a mother. She tells me what I need to know. I don't need another. Ásta studied the needle again, then slowly wove it into her dress for safekeeping.

Ari watched her for a moment, then finally said, You're not playing that game again, are you? You can talk to her or the tree all you want, but she is not going to answer you.

It's not a game, she does answer me. She'd answer you, if you paid attention to her. If you believed in what she was.

He stood and picked up a bag from the pile of food. Ásta, look, I know how much you miss her, but stop pretending you see and hear her now. You'll just anger Father with your wisewoman nonsense. He's forbidden you to speak of it, and I don't want to hear of it again either.

But Ari . . .

He lifted another bag and started toward the door of the house. Stop, Ásta. Father has married another. Why he has is not your concern. Grab some of the food and bring it inside, the rest can wait.

But she is your mother too, Ari! Don't you care?

She's dead. Dead and gone. Get over it. He pushed open the door with his shoulder, and went inside the house.

Ásta watched him go, sighing. He would never understand. He would never see what she saw. He would never know what she knew. Her mother was dead, but she wasn't gone. And someday, if Ásta paid very close attention, her mother might tell her why her father had married another—and how Ásta could be rid of her, and turn the world back the right way up.

~ 2 ~

Brynja's new sister hated her, and Brynja couldn't find a reason to fault her for it.

Shortly after they arrived, Ásta showed Brynja the farm and explained the chores, but they were not things Brynja had ever learned to do: sheep and horses frightened her; she had never woven on a large loom; all she understood about cooking was how to light the fire and eat the food. She and her mother had wandered; they'd never stayed in one place more than a few months, if even that. They'd never owned animals, a loom, nor even a cook-pot. All Brynja could really do well was spin wool with her drop-spindle.

Ásta glared and crossed her arms when she realized she would still have to do all of the work. Brynja wanted to explain, but how could she tell Ásta they never stayed long enough in one place to learn? Brynja was frightened that Ásta would never like her, but more terrified she would unwittingly reveal her mother's secrets—or worse, she might discover her sister truly was a troll in disguise, as her mother had so often told her, as explanation of why they could not live with her father.

Brynja's dismay grew when she realized her fear of her father himself. She wasn't worried he'd hurt her; rather, she worried he'd cast her out, as her mother so often threatened to do. Over time, she grew certain he wanted only one daughter, and Ásta worked hard when Brynja could not. So Brynja set her sights on being as perfect as she could be in other ways, to stay in her father's favor.

Yrsa found fault with everything Ásta did: she was slow; she was dirty; she was careless; she was lazy. Even when she did things right, Yrsa found something about it that didn't meet her expectations. In truth, Ásta worked hard, she never complained without cause, and she was only dirty because she hadn't been given the time to clean herself properly. But Hákon, their father, only nodded when Yrsa complained, and bade Ásta do things the way Yrsa expected.

When Hákon commanded that Ásta and Brynja both come washed and dressed nicely to náttmál, Brynja took extra time to comb her hair, and saw to it that her dress was spotless. More often than not, Ásta would race in at the last moment, splash some water on her face and sit—only to have their father chastise her for her appearance, while he praised Brynja for her tidiness. As much as Brynja wanted her father's approval, having it only at the expense of her new sister distressed—and frightened—her. Still, when their father was happy, he made Yrsa happy, and then she in turn treated everyone more kindly than she might have, otherwise, and there was nothing more Brynja could do anyway.

At Midsummer, a half-month after Brynja arrived on the farm, Halla was to wed a neighbor called Reifr, a widower with four daughters. Hákon demanded Ásta wear her smokkr and brooches to the wedding, rather than just her dress. Brynja watched as Ásta packed the blue smokkr and golden brooches in her back-basket, wishing she had something nice to wear as well. But Ásta had a right to them that Brynja did not—they had been given to Ásta by her mother, when she came of age. Brynja had no smokkr and no brooches; at least her own clothing remained clean.

On the appointed day, the family walked to Reifr's farm, taking with them a horse laden with Halla's possessions and dowry. They left Jens and Dagny on the farm to take care of things while they were gone. Ásta whispered to Brynja, . . .  and to take care of each other, but Brynja wasn't sure what Ásta meant, exactly. From the way Ásta said it, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

The walk to Reifr's took only a few hours, the weather stayed mild and clear, and still, Yrsa complained the entire way. As they were accustomed to walking, Brynja suspected her mother wasn't upset by the travel as she claimed, but rather was angry that Halla would no longer cook for the family. Brynja hoped Ásta's cooking wasn't as bad as Ari teased, or they might all starve. Brynja herself remained unable to keep the fire from filling the house with smoke, and she shuddered to imagine what vile things her mother might conjure out of a cooking-pot.

When they arrived, Reifr showed Ari, Ásta, and Brynja where they would sleep in the barn with his daughters. Ari looked around the barn loft, shook his head, and took his things outside to sleep in the open. Brynja had slept so many places in her life that as long as it was warm and dry, she didn't care where it was, or if she had to share with others, and this was no worse than the loft she slept in at her new home.

As Reifr owned nothing but his farm and livestock, and had no living kin except his daughters, the wedding had only the two families as witness. The event reminded Brynja of when her own parents wed—they proclaimed their intention, exchanged rings, drank from the same cup, and it was over.

During the short ceremony, Ásta stood between Hákon and Ari, holding Ari's hand while her father draped his arm across Ásta's shoulders. Watching them, Brynja felt a pang of envy for the family she never had; for even though they were her family as well, as far as anyone knew they were only her step-family. Hákon was her true father, not her stepfather. Brynja had known this for as long as she could remember, but had been forbidden to speak of it, and he had never given her his name. Still, Brynja knew the truth, and couldn't help but have some jealousy toward Ásta, as Hákon's rightful daughter. Brynja glanced up at her mother, standing next to her on Hákon's other side, and saw only thinly-veiled anger, as if she'd forgotten everything existed save for her own misery. Brynja kept as far away from her as she dared, and did her best to hold back her tears.

The wedding soup had been cooked by Eyvǫr and Eydís, the two eldest of Reifr's young daughters, and at the first taste, Halla frowned, then jumped up, collected the bowls, dumped them all back into the pot. She rummaged through the cooking supplies she'd brought with her, adding bits of this and dashes of that to the pot. Brynja's stomach grumbled; the food hadn't been the worst she'd tasted, and after the long walk here, she would have gladly eaten it. But remembering Halla's fine cooking, she patiently waited, knowing the end result would be worth it.

Ásta and Ari, sitting together on a far bench, talked quietly to one another. Brynja longed to join them but feared they'd snub her. Reifr's daughters only chattered and giggled until their father finally shooed them outside to wait for the meal to finish cooking for the second time. Yrsa showed no such patience, and did not hesitate to voice her displeasure with the noise and the delay; finally she drove Hákon to tell her to stop complaining.

The meal was indeed worth the wait, and then Yrsa praised Halla until she glowed. Brynja ate quickly, and twirled her hair, waiting for her mother to finally excuse her from the house. Finally Brynja and Ásta were told to go with Reifr's daughters to the barn for the night. Ásta laughed and talked with the younger girls as they walked, as they had long known each other. Brynja walked slowly behind, alone, not sure how to fit in.

It took the girls awhile to decide where to sleep, for they all wanted to lay their heads next to Ásta's. Finally settled, Eyvǫr, the eldest, said, Tell us a story, Ásta!

Which one would you like to hear? Ásta asked.

Tell us the one about the witch! Eyfura, the next to youngest, said.

Brynja shivered where she lay, wrapping her arms around herself, but Ásta said, No, nothing scary, you'll never get to sleep and we have a long walk back tomorrow. It's Midsummer, wouldn't you rather hear the cows speak tonight?

We haven't any cows, Eyvǫr said, so listening for them is useless.

Some other story, then, Ásta said, or perhaps you'd just rather go roll in the dew.

Eyfura and Eyja pouted, but Eydís said, We promise we'll go to sleep.

The girls clamored so that Ásta finally gave in, saying, Fine, but you have to all promise you will sleep as soon as I am finished. There are only a few hours of darkness tonight, and I want to sleep during all of them.

We promise! Eyvǫr said, as her sisters nodded their agreement.

Ásta propped up her chin in her hands, cleared her throat and began, Once there lived a man and his mother. But they were not ordinary people, no, they were trolls!

I thought the mother was a witch! Eyfura said.

She is both, you know that from the last time Ásta told the story, said Eyvǫr. Now be quiet so we can hear the rest.

Ásta said, You are right, the mother was a troll—and a witch!

The girls screamed, then they all laughed. Except for Brynja, who twirled the end of her hair as she scrunched her eyes shut. These girls had no idea how life went for someone who actually had a witch for a mother; listening to a tale told so casually about one was almost more than Brynja could bear.

One day, the witch's son returned home after a long day away, Ásta continued. He brought with him a dead man, for that is what trolls like to eat.

How did the man die, Ásta? Eyja, the youngest, asked.

What does it matter? said Eyvǫr. The man isn't important, the witch is!

It always matters how a man dies, said Eydís. Did he die honorably, fighting the troll?

Yes, he did—but the troll got him anyway! Ásta sat up suddenly and roared, her hands held in the air as if they were claws. The younger girls shrieked, but Brynja clasped her hands over her mouth, choking back her fright as she willed her racing heart to calm itself.

What happened next? asked Eyfura. Did they eat him?

Of course they did, said Eydís. That's what trolls do.

Who is telling this story? asked Ásta,