load to the barn and put the donkey away for the night. Your auntie’s preparing your favorite meal. Be sure you be clean for table.”
Galen eyed the pail at the edge of the field, where other workers were even now wiping away a day’s worth of sweat and grit. The dirt beneath his feet stood a better chance of cleaning him that did the sludge in that pail.
“Have a wash in the stream,” his uncle clarified.
What? Never did Olaf release Galen from work before sunset. Did his aunt even know his favorite supper? She’d certainly never asked. And a full bath? Uncle only permitted Galen time off for a bath on restday, two days hence. That could only mean…
“Uncle, have you found me a match?” He failed to hide the tremors in his voice. At harvest start, he’d reached manhood. His uncle’s last duty as Galen’s guardian would be to see him suitably joined. Once paired, Galen could assume his position as head of the family, and instead of Galen Olaf-kin, the tables would turn. Olaf Galen-kin. Nice sound to that.
“We shall see,” his uncle replied, his uncharacteristically cheerful expression wavering. Perhaps his mouth, unused to smiling, naturally reverted to a frown.
Nice to take a break then, regardless of the reason. Galen did as told, cramming his cartful of tubers into a rapidly filling barn. Soon the barn would be full, the result of a plentiful harvest. After unloading and raking loose dirt from the cart, he took the donkey to an empty stall to ensure no greedy horse stole its meal. A rack of fresh hay and a few imperfect tubers secreted in Galen’s pockets rewarded the animal for a hard day’s work. He kept a few tubers for himself, in case supper proved less than promised. Uncooked, they tasted much like the soil from which they came, but satisfied an empty belly.
The stream wound around one edge of the village and formed a wide pool behind the smithy that, at this time of day, should be relatively free of prying eyes. Galen kept his own eyes downcast, passing through the little village he’d grown up in, avoiding the speculative appraisals of ambitious mothers longing for a prosperous match for an unjoined daughter.
One lass, however, caught his eye. Fluttering her lashes and smiling, she set her bucket on the edge of the communal well. She tugged at the edges of her headscarf, calling Galen’s attention to the red woven cotton that marked her as unspoken for. He ducked his head and continued on, counting it a blessing that the woman, her unspoken-for friends, and their conniving mamas, by law, weren’t permitted to address him personally about a joining. Few relished petitioning Olaf or the surly farmsteader’s equally mean-spirited mate. This might possibly be the reason Galen remained eligible at his age. Some other village lads had found themselves promised before the first whiskers formed on their chins.
Once safely behind the smithy, Galen slipped out of his homespun braes and peeled an equally rough-woven tunic from his sweaty body. He dutifully washed them in the stream, concealed tubers and all, and hung them on a nearby bush to dry.
He plunged into the mountain-fed stream, so cold it stole his breath until he grew used to the chill. First he scrubbed his skin and hair with the sweet-scented sand found at the bottom of that particular pool. He’d come here with his brother in his younger days. Einar had never grown strong enough to duck Galen, and had plastered sand in his hair as revenge for being dipped beneath the surface. Oh how Galen longed for sand behind his ears once again. Anything to erase the loneliness of his missing family.
When evening shadows reached the smithy, he climbed out of the stream with a heavy heart. Ah, to be heading home to the warm embrace of his mother and kind words from his father. How had he ever found his much-missed younger brother annoying?
“Greetings, Galen Olaf-kin.”
Galen froze in his tracks at the deep, male voice and playful tone of the formal greeting. Slowly, slowly he turned around. Svienn the smith’s son leaned against the smithy’s back wall, bulging arms folded across a broad chest. A smile twitched the man’s lips upward and mischief dwelled in his eyes.
Tongue suddenly thick, Galen stammered a reply. “G…gr…greetings, Svienn Halcon-kin.”
Politeness dictated that Svienn turn away from Galen’s dripping nakedness. He didn’t.
So nervous that his hands trembled, Galen pulled on damp clothes under watchful eyes as