by Mark Hall
The morning the priestesses came, Frida had sent the children to the orchard, ostensibly to pick fruit, though in truth she knew little Greta would do the work, and Tom would disappear up a tree with his whistle. The baby was in her cradle, asleep, and wouldn't wake, although there would be noise when Aelfred got home. Frida knew what sort of noise it would be, and massaged her bottom in worried anticipation.
The north was a cold place, isolated, unforgiving. The little village could thrive, even celebrate its festivals, but only if everyone did their bit and worked hard, together. And Frida knew she had a rebellious streak, ill-befitting a good wife.
Aelfred was older than she. They'd married when she was just twenty, but that was considered late. Her friends already had babies. Frida hadn't been considered a good catch. She was small, lithe, rebellious, a girl who could climb trees, and she was skinny (her bottom was the only bit of her with any decent padding, something for which Aelfred often told her they both should be grateful). She wasn't the comfortable, solid sort of woman who could be relied upon to cook, to clean, to wash, to produce babies, to work in the fields and gardens, and above all, to do as she was told. No, she was not a good catch.
Aelfred had come from outside the village, already nearly forty, widowed, a builder. He'd done some work for her father, and fallen for the daughter, whom he'd seen from a distance. He loved her plump bottom, her smile, her messy, fair hair. She always seemed missing, or in trouble, something which induced strange feelings in Aelfred.
"I don't know what to say," said her father. "If you can tame her, you can have her."
And Frida remembered exactly what had happened after that. She and Aelfred had struck up an odd sort of friendship, two outsiders. They'd taken to sitting on the orchard wall together while Aelfred ate his lunch. Sometimes she brought him an apple, or a pie from her mother's kitchen, usually without permission.
"I don't know why one of the young men hasn't married you yet, woman," Aelfred had commented one day.
"They like me for their fun at the midwinter dance," commented Frida, "but their parents all think I'm bad. So I'm stuck."
"You're a slip of a girl, half my age, but I'd have you if I got the chance," said Aelfred.
"You mean 'have me', or marry me?" asked Frida, sticking out her tongue.
"Marry you. I don't see why not."
"Lots of reasons. I don't have big breasts. I'm half your age. No one likes me..." At this point Frida realised Aelfred really didn't care about any of these reasons, so she changed tack. "And you'd have to catch me first!"
So Aelfred found himself, for the first and not the last time, chasing his disobedient fiancée across the orchard, while she dodged round trees, and occasionally threw rotten apples back in his direction. He caught her at the far end of the orchard.
"Woman, I love you dearly, but I will not have fruit thrown at me for the rest of our lives," declared Aelfred. "And for that reason, we're going to start as I mean to go on."
And with that, Frida remembered, he grabbed her round the waist, hoisted her clean off the ground, and deposited her over his knee, while he sat on the edge of the low wall beside the orchard gate. Frida hadn't been in that position for some years, but she knew what happened next. And sure enough, she'd felt him lift up her skirt, and he'd commenced spanking her.
Aelfred was surprised at himself. He'd looked at Frida so often, even thought what it would be like to spank her. Her bottom was firm and looked just so spankable, entirely appropriate for a spirited, rebellious girl. And now here she was, over his knee, and she felt every bit as lovely as he'd hoped. She fitted perfectly, her arms dangling down one side, her thighs pressed against his thigh. And her bottom... there was plenty to spank. And Aelfred realised he'd already landed two good slaps on those firm curves before he'd planned his strategy. He smacked again, feeling her body move, and watching how her knees bent a little as she felt the sting. Well, she'd given him ample reason, and he wasn't having her think he was a soft touch, an old man to wrap round her finger! No, the little minx would get exactly what she deserved. And in his heart he knew it was what she wanted as well as needed. So he commenced spanking in earnest, making sure he covered every bit of her bottom, and holding her arm as she reached back. And she wriggled, oh how she wriggled. Aelfred was loving every second.
From Frida's perspective, being spanked by Aelfred was a very different experience to any spanking Frida had previously received. It wasn't like her mother's attempts at discipline: short, stinging affairs with a wooden spoon, which made her yelp, and were appallingly embarrassing. The worst thing about them was that she knew she had grown quite capable of escaping and running away, and yet she had to cooperate. No, Aelfred's spanking involved absolutely no chance of escaping. He, as a strong man (and what girl wants to marry a weakling?), had made the decision to spank her, and she had no say in the matter whatsoever. Her cooperation or otherwise was completely immaterial. She could flail away with arms and legs, protest all she wanted, and yet Aelfred would calmly carry on spanking.
His smacks were not cruel, but they were firm. His arm was used to carrying timber and stone. Frida was strong for her size, but Aelfred was implacable, irresistible. And what girl can resist an irresistibly strong man? At first, Aelfred's hand wasn't too bad, compared to the wooden spoon. But the longer she stayed over his knee, the harder the smacks seemed to get. They stung more and more; Frida's bottom was not only her largest asset, but also her most sensitive. Aelfred's hand got harder and harder, and her bottom seemed more tender; hotter and hotter. And she became more and more desperate that he should stop! And now! Much to her surprise, Frida found that her squeals had joined into one continuous howling, and that tears were running down her nose. And yet she was not embarrassed. The sting was dreadful, but where everyone else in the village had complained she was bad, this man cared about her enough to make her good.
If anyone heard this, if anyone saw this, she would make certain they knew that she was being spanked because she finally had a man who cared. She would defend to the death his right to spank her. She finally belonged to a man. A good man. Oh how she deserved this, for throwing apples at him! Oh how she wanted this to stop! But, oh, how she didn't want it to stop too soon!
So it was quite logical that when Aelfred finally stopped spanking, and asked her if she would marry him, she said that of course she would, and called him a bad name. This naturally meant another short spanking, but now that they were officially man-and-wife-to-be, another spanking seemed almost a good thing, and Frida was grinning from ear to ear even as she squealed and squirmed.
They had gone back to her parents' house, Frida holding Aelfred's big, hard hand with one of hers, and still rubbing her bottom with the other, and Aelfred now grinning broadly. Aelfred had declared that Frida was sufficiently tame for wedlock, Frida nodded demurely in agreement, and the rest was history.
Now, standing in her kitchen and massaging her bottom, Frida knew that Aelfred would deal with her when he got back from his work. He would know by now that she'd sold their beans at far less than the price they'd agreed. But she had so wanted to buy the cloth. They would survive, there were more beans to sell. But for now, Frida had a price to pay, and over the years they'd been married, Aelfred's hand had remained hard. And Frida's bottom sensitive. Frida was grateful to her husband for his love, his support, for their home, for their children; but also for his firm hand. She knew she needed to be kept tame, and only one man could do the job. She deserved what was about to happen, and needed it. If she weren't to be spanked, there would be a risk she'd just give the beans away next time. And all her friends got spanked by their husbands, but no husband did such a good job as her Aelfred!
Nevertheless, she was startled by the sound of footsteps, and quickly brushed down her skirts as the door opened.
But it wasn't Aelfred. Greta ran into the kitchen.
"Mother, quick! The priestesses!"
And Frida was horrified, for the priestesses came out of that place only twice each year, and this was the wrong time.
Beyond the last farms of the village, where the land becomes dryer, stonier, even than the meanest of the village fields, the road is hard, and the road crosses the dry land, and comes to a great wall. And this is the outer wall of the Steenplaak, the stony place, a holy place, that has been there for longer than men. It is said that the place was found, not built. There is something there, that the priestesses honour, but the villagers didn't know what it was.
Once each year, the priestesses would come out for the festival time, when the villagers would form a procession. That day, the villagers would carry produce from the farms, a sheaf of barley; and they would carry carvings of things they had made, and they would take everything to the top of the cliff. The priestesses would come, too, silent, while the villagers banged drums, played horns. But at the top of the cliff, all would fall silent, and just two people would go forward: the head man of the village, and the greatest of the priestesses. And then just one noise would be heard; the flute of an old, old man, the fluter of the Steenplaak. And this was indescribably beautiful, but sad. And then the head man of the village, and the priestess, would throw the gifts to the waves below the cliff. The priestesses would return, silent, clad in their dark robes, their heads covered, tall, stiff, and go back behind their wall, to do whatever they did. And the villagers would shiver a little, glad to be rid of them, and return to their farms, their harbour with its fishing boats, and their orchards.
But at other times, maybe once each year, the gate in that wall would open again, and on these occasions there would be no flute, no gifts. For the priestesses came to select those who would work for them. Sometimes they took a hard-working boy, or sometimes a girl who might serve the gods behind that wall, and in turn, become a priestess. The villagers dreaded this. The priestesses paid for whom they took, and they paid well. But no one wanted to go.
Greta had seen the priestesses from the orchard, tall, taller than the normal folk of the north, who are short of stature. They walked the stony road, six of them, like the six dots on dice. They walked silently, in step. The fair hair of one in the middle blew from her hood, but Greta could not see her face. Greta was frightened.
Her brother, Tom, up his tree, had not noticed. He never noticed anything, when he was playing his whistle, which was always.
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