Chapter 1: Early life

My name these days is Meghr, although it isn’t the name I was given at birth. In fact I’ve been called several names over the nineteen years of my life. I’ve never had a say in what name I am called, and by whom, so I won’t confuse my story by switching from one name to another. Of course there have been those who call me ‘bitch’ or ‘whore’, but I suppose any woman in my position has probably been called those names at one time or another. I’m happy to be called Meghr, which means ‘honey’, being the colour of my hair.

Like most people, I can only remember brief disjointed moments from my early childhood. My memories didn’t become connected and coherent until I grew older. By that time my parents and siblings were either dead or enslaved in far off lands. I’ve never been able to discover their fate, and in truth, any who still survive would be complete strangers to me now.

Father Siegfried once claimed that I am descended from one of the pale skinned, blond haired tribes of the extreme north, where the sun doesn’t shine in winter. I think he intended his comment as an insult to me, but he missed the mark. He offered no proof of his claim other than my physical appearance fits his description of the peoples who once inhabited that area. I confess that I have fragmented childhood memories of living through freezing cold winters, sheltering for days at a time inside a wooden hut, kept warm by a roaring fire. During the long days of summer I remember playing in the nearby lakes and forests.

I didn’t like Father Siegfried, but he was a fountain of knowledge. He helped me comprehend the way our world works, the brutality of which was beyond my understanding when I was little. The land where my tribe lived was coveted by the Nenets, a large tribe from the east. Bloody raids bordering on outright war became commonplace. The frequent attacks of Nenet marauders gradually weakened my tribe to the point that many chose to flee south to safer lands. Father Siegfried didn’t know whether any of them ever reached a safe haven. Certainly none returned to the land that they had abandoned.

Apparently my own family chose to stay, and with others, they built up a fearsome reputation as warriors prepared to die in defence of their land. Unfortunately, that’s precisely what happened to most of them. The Nenets who wanted our lands had an almost inexhaustible supply of fresh warriors to replace those killed in battle. It was a luxury our rapidly diminishing tribe did not share.

My most vivid memory of that time was the occasion when my parents, siblings and I were captured by the savage Nenet marauders. I must have been five or six years old at the time. It’s an episode I don’t need Father Siegfried’s help to interpret. The marauders who captured us were looking for our tribe’s chieftain. They presumed that my parents knew where the chieftain was located, and the marauders were prepared to go to any length to extract that information. When my parents denied any knowledge of the chieftain’s whereabouts, the marauders brutally murdered my older brother before our eyes. Then they turned their attention to me.

Forcing a burning ember from the fire into a young girl’s mouth has predictable consequences. Mercifully, I passed out almost at once. When I awoke I was somewhere else, and in the care of two elderly women. My tongue was gone and my ability to speak was lost forever. Father Siegfried later told me that it was a miracle that I survived the ordeal, although it felt more like a curse at the time. It took a long time for me to recover, but eventually I regained the will to carry on.

The willingness of the two women to tend to my wounds, and provide me with a home, wasn’t entirely selfless. They were very old and frail. As soon as I was able, and despite my young age, I was put to work doing most of the daily chores that kept us fed and warm. I suppose their insistence on me working for my keep helped with my recovery. I wasn’t allowed to mope and feel sorry for myself.