‘Marriage Vows’ by Joyce Bingham

He holds the axe my father made, examines the fine tool work, the leather thongs holding the blade to the antler handle. He grunts and slots the axe into his belt. Taking my chin in his hand he forces my lips apart with his dirty finger and inspects my teeth, his hands pull my tunic aside and he smirks. I am grateful the quickening in my belly is not noticeable. He grips my arm, bruising the skin and pulls me out of my home and onto the wide beach. Father watches from the entrance of our round house, his arms folded across his chest. I know mother will be weeping, remembering when she was taken by my father. She has prepared me well and I know my place, but I have my lover’s child with me, and he will be this man’s first born. I follow my husband to his boat and as we move away, I turn and give father a look of defiance.