by Hazel Hunter
The porridge turned out thick and lumpy, but he didn’t wait for it to cool. Even as it scalded his tongue, the hot sticky oats tasted better than anything in his memory, and completely filled the hole in his gut.
Once he finished eating, Gavin draped the damp tartan over a chair by the fire, and then stepped outside to take a piss. Even that felt grand. From the lodge he spotted a trail leading up into the ridges. Now that the temperature was plunging, he retrieved the tartan before he followed it. The path wound through the woods until it slanted up to end at a high crag. When he walked to the very edge of the cliff, he finally saw what lay beyond the ridges.
A crooked valley spilled down to a river and a sprawling terrace of land covered in high, green grasses. Thousands of red deer moved in a single, enormous herd as they grazed peacefully across the glen. The river itself branched off into low, wide waterfalls that spilled into small, rocky lochs. To the west he could see a much larger body of water, and beyond that the ocean. Long dark shadows on the horizon formed the Black Cuillin mountains on the Isle of Skye, and more of the outer islands beyond that.
Gavin had lived in Scotland most of his life. This was his world, but he no longer recognized it. Entire villages and farms were gone. He saw no ferries, telephone poles, cars or roads. Something more nagged at him, something huge, until he worked out what it was.
The Skye Crossing, the bridge that spanned Loch Alsh to connect the island to Eilean Bàn, no longer stretched over the water. Twenty-four hundred meters of bridge had vanished, as if it had never been built.
He went still as the only explanation for what he was seeing began to dawn.
“Because it hasn’t been built,” he murmured under his breath. “Not yet, anyway.”
Chapter Four
WAKING UP IN the arms of Tormod Liefson had made everything seem a little less terrible, at least until Jema’s hands disappeared. She jerked them away from him, and when she looked down she couldn’t see her abdomen or legs either. A scream rose in her throat as she flung her arms around his strong neck, but the sound died when she saw nothing where she felt his hair and skin against her forearms.
“Easy, lass,” he said and clamped his long arms around her, holding her against his chest. “You’re still with me. I can feel your shape and your heat.”
“But I’m invisible,” she whispered, her throat so tight she felt as if she were strangling.
“Aye, you are.” He rubbed his hand over the back of her head. “I ken you’re afraid, but you neednae be. I’ll no’ leave you. Only look at me, and breathe, slow and deep.”
She stared at his face as she gulped in more air. Everything about him seemed familiar, from the shaggy mane of bleached gold hair to the sunlit sea of his eyes. The torch’s flickering flame made shadows dance across his features, masking him with a sterner expression than he’d had when she’d first seen him. As her heartbeat slowed, a cool sweat broke out over her skin. She felt the panic easing, and exhaled slowly. Her arms began to show in semi-transparent outlines, and then filled in and solidified, as did the rest of her body.
“Oh, thank god,” she exhaled. She pulled his head down to hers, and pressed her wet cheek against his, sobbing with relief.
Tormod held her without speaking, his hands stroking her shoulders and back as he let her weep. She clung to him like the rock he had become to her. All she knew was this man, and this place. Finally she pulled back and wiped at her face with her shaking fingers.
“Am I still here?” She could see that she was, but she wanted to hear his voice again.
“You never left, lass.” He removed his tartan and swaddled her with it. “I’m no’ a healer, but I should see if you’ve other hurts.”
“While you can still see me,” she tacked on, and pressed a hand to her brow. “My head is pounding, but that’s all.” She saw his expression and nodded. “Of course, you should check me. I’m sorry, this is just unnerving.”
“’Tis no’ a picnic for either of us,” Tormod said, and smiled a little. “At least, that’s what my friend Red would say.”
The gash on her head throbbed in time with her massive headache, but Tormod handled her carefully. With his hands he felt along her limbs, squeezing just enough to feel her bones before he flexed her elbows and knees. He also pressed his palm against her belly, and ran it from the bottom to the top of her spine. Finally, he used the torchlight to inspect her clothing for blood, but all that he found had come from her head wound.
“Don’t do that,” she said as he ripped off one sleeve from his tunic.
“I’ve naught else to bind that gash, and the smell of your blood will draw…trouble.” He brushed her hair back and carefully wound the sleeve over the wound and around her head before knotting the ends. “We’ve a long trek back to where I left my mount. We’ll try your legs now.”
“You could leave me here.” Though she hated the suggestion the moment she said it, leaving the only place she knew didn’t seem right. From the way Tormod scowled he didn’t like the idea any better. “Maybe my family lives nearby. They’ll be looking for me, won’t they?”
“You’re no’ from here, lass. There’s more, and I’ll tell you what I ken, but later. I must take you to…a safer place.” He set his hands on her shoulders. “Can you make yourself unseen again? If you can will it, ’twould help when we need you no’ to be noticed.”
Just thinking about it made her stomach knot. What if she disappeared and didn’t come back? Who could just disappear anyway? How in the world could she will such a thing? But as he waited, his kind eyes met hers.
“I wouldnae ask it of you,” he said quietly, “if I didnae have to.” He offered her an encouraging smile. “I’ll be here.”
She pulled in a long, slow breath through barely parted lips. For him she would try.
She closed her eyes, and recalled the awful fear and panic she’d felt the last time. When she looked down at herself, her body began turning transparent. A moment later she disappeared completely.
“Clever lass,” Tormod said. “You’ve done it.” He slid his hands up to cradle her face. “Now breathe, as before, and come back to me.”
When she turned visible he smiled, and she felt a flicker of suspicion. “You know what this is? What’s making me do this?”
“Mayhap,” he said and released her. His expression sobered as he glanced at the horizon. “We must go. You need sheltering, and I’m to report for duty at dawn.”
Holding up the torch to light the way, Tormod guided her out of the clearing and through the maze of close-planted oaks. “Tell me if you need a rest.”
Her knees had felt a little rickety, but were growing steadier with every step. “Why did you ask if my name is Jema?”
“I thought I heard it, just before I found you.” He took her arm as they encountered a fallen elder, and boosted her over it. “I’ve naught to call you but my lady and lass.”
“Or the Disappearing Woman.” She shuddered a little. “How is it possible that I can vanish at will?”
“Such things are gifted by the gods,” Tormod said and stopped. He held the torch lower to the ground, and changed direction. “’Tis in your blood, my lady.”
“Until I remember my name, I’d rather you call me Jema.” She slid her hand down to his, feeling a little safer when his fingers twined with hers. “You’re not Scottish, are you?”
He made a rude sound. “No’ even a little.”
Tormod fell silent as he retraced the path that had brought him to her, but Jema didn’t mind. Nor did the long walk bother her, which meant she was in good physical shape, and knowing that pleased her. The only thing she hated was the huge black wall in her head preventing her from remembering who she was, how she got here, and why she felt so wretched each time she thought of that trench in the ground.
At last they emerged from the forest into a broad clearing, where Tormod extinguished his torch in the ground, and went over to an enormous white horse tethered to a bush.
“We’ll ride from here.” He removed the four-horned saddle, gave it a regretful look, and tucked it in the bushes. “’Twill be quick.”
Jema didn’t feel afraid of the horse, but when her rescuer removed his ripped tunic to fold it over the gelding’s back she felt startled. Inked on his shoulder was a large symbol shaped vaguely like a ship’s helm wheel.
“I’ve seen this symbol somewhere,” she murmured. Her fingers tingled as she reached out to touch it, and then she felt something cool rush up the length of her arm. A fragment of memory flickered through her thoughts. “Are you a Viking?”
Tormod covered her fingers with his, closing his eyes before he removed her hand. “Aye, and we’ll talk on that later as well. We must ride now.”
Jema guessed he didn’t want to tell her too much, and that it had something to do with the differences between them. His garments appeared crudely-made, while hers seemed much more sophisticated and complicated. He wore fur and leather and linen, but her clothes had been made from different varieties of cotton.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, and when he muttered something under his breath, she answered him in the same language. “Please, do not curse me. I’m only trying to fathom this.”
Tormod jerked away from her as if she’d slapped him. “You’re not druid kind.” Before she could ask what he meant, he switched back to English. “You mustnae speak in our tongue to anyone but me, and only when we’re alone.”
She felt a small pang of hope. “You mean, I’m Viking, too?”
He started to speak, stopped, and then exhaled. “’Tis no’ a language a Scotswoman would speak.”
“Well, that’s something, then.” She looked past him to the road that had brought him here. “Can you take me to your tribe? Maybe one of them will recognize me.”
“My tribe is gone. I was—I am—the last.” He gripped her by the waist, and lifted her onto the horse before he swung up and settled behind her. As he gathered up the reins, he said, “Jema, do you ken what huliðshjálmur is?”
She knew the word translated to “the helm of hiding,” but she didn’t know how she knew that, or what the phrase meant. After his reaction to her speaking their tongue, she decided to keep her knowledge a secret.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe I did, but I’ve forgotten.”
Tormod said nothing more as he guided the gelding out to a dirt road flanked by old, deep ruts. From there he urged the horse into a quick trot, and tucked his arm loosely around Jema’s waist.
The countryside they rode through seemed vaguely familiar, although she kept expecting to see lights and homes where there were only woods and fields. She squinted as she looked around, but the jolting motions of the horse’s trot magnified her headache. As soon as they reached his destination she’d ask if she could rest for a few hours, but until then, she’d just have to put up with it.
“Lean back against me,” Tormod told her, and when she did he tucked her head against his neck. “’Tis no’ far now.”
Her cheek warmed where it pressed against the top of his shoulder tattoo, and the hammering pain behind her eyes slowly eased. Jema finally relaxed, soaking up the warmth from his tough body, and growing so drowsy she nearly dozed off.
Tormod’s arm tightened around her. “You cannae sleep yet, Jema lass. When we reach the castle, then I’ll doctor your wound, and put you to bed.”
“Will you sleep with me?” she asked without thinking.
“Since I’ve only one bed, I’ll have to.” He hesitated before he added, “Or I’ll pile some furs on the floor.”
“You needn’t do that,” she said and stopped, eyes wide.
What had she been saying? She took her head from his shoulder. She’d only just met this man—hadn’t she? With an upward glance, she stole a look at his handsome face. It felt as if she knew him. More than that, it felt right to be in his arms. But if they knew each other, wouldn’t he have said so? She frowned as the thought made her head ache again. With a sigh she settled her head back down and rubbed her cheek against his ink. Warmth spread into her temple sending the last tendril of pain dwindling away.
The cold air grew damp and salty, and when at last the road led to a coastal town, she felt as if she should recognize the small, shabby-looking cottages and buildings. When Tormod reined in the gelding by an old, dark barn, Jema eyed the weathered wooden sign sporting a primitive red cow, and saw it again in her head, only flatter and much older, with most of the paint gone.
“Is this where you work?” she asked Tormod as he dismounted.
“’Tis where I keep the nag.” He lifted her from the gelding’s back to the ground, and pulled his tartan up over her head. “Stay here.”
Jema nodded, and watched him open the doors and lead the horse inside. She wanted desperately to go after him, for her head had begun aching again the moment he’d released her. On some level she knew that couldn’t be right, but being close to him had made her almost forget she had a head wound.
A querulous voice came from the stable as Tormod emerged. “’Tis the last time you drag me from my bed to stable that evil beast, Liefson.”
Jema watched the Viking swing around and wait as an old man came out to confront him. The stable master wore a crudely-sewn tunic over trousers that had been mended so many times the patches were virtually all that held them together. Tormod handed him some coins, which the old man snatched and tested with his few remaining teeth.
“’Tis happy for you that I’m no’ a hard sleeper.” The old man turned to go back into the barn, and then caught sight of Jema. “Who’s this? I’ve no stall for your hora, you randy bastart.”
Tormod grabbed the old man by the tunic, hauling him off his feet and up to his eye level. “I came alone this night, and you’ll keep that privy of a mouth shuttered.”
“Please, don’t hurt him,” Jema said and hurried over to the men. She touched Tormod’s arm. To the old man she said, “The warrior protects me. I am lost and hurt.” She pulled back the tartan so he could see her face, and then realized she’d spoken in the old language. “Oh, damn. Sorry.”
The old man stared at her, and then he gave Tormod a clumsy clout on the head before he whispered furiously, “Dinnae waste your time with me, you great fool. See to this kyn-ligr kona. If the Scots find a shieldmaiden here–”
“I ken,” Tormod said and lowered the man back to his feet. “Say naught of her to anyone.”
Jema’s exhaustion and weakness suddenly dragged at her like heavy chains, and the pounding in her head had returned. She swayed as she reached out to Tormod. “I might need that rest now.”
Her vision blurred as he bent to swing her up in his arms, and then she blacked out.
But her sleep wasn’t dreamless.
A large hand clamped over her nose and mouth, and then she swam. But it wasn’t swimming exactly. It was like being propelled through a bubbling river. Her clothes grew heavy with the strange swimming and clung to her body. Her head gash went numb in the frigid water.
But finally the warmth and smell of a fire roused Jema, and she opened her eyes to see orange-gold flames in a small hearth a few yards away. She lay on a soft bed of furs, with more piled atop her. The ceiling, walls and floor of the narrow room were made of stone blocks, which should have made it cold, but the air felt slightly warm. Parchment scrolls lay in neat stacks on a wide table in the corner. A rack of swords and axes hung gleaming on the wall opposite the bed.
Jema peered at the wide-bladed swords. The plain bronze pommels had curved cross-guards, and the tips of the iron blades appeared rounded rather than pointed. She knew how heavy they were, and that distinctive cross-guards had been a hallmark of Pictish weapons. But how did she know that? Had she carried a sword like those belonging to the Viking? Why would Tormod have blades belonging to another, very different culture?
On the other side of the small room Tormod crouched bare-chested and barefoot as he took a leather vest and some fur-topped
boots from an open trunk. He’d already changed into clean trousers, and when she looked down at herself she saw he’d dressed her in an old, soft linen shirt. She touched her head, and felt a new bandage covering her wound as well, but her hair felt damp.
Some or all of the dream had been real. Tormod had brought her here, to his safe place, by water—through water. She would soon have to start asking questions, but for now she was simply too tired. That and she trusted him. If the Viking had wanted to hurt her he would have done so in the forest.
“You’re awake,” he said standing and came over to the bed. “How fares the head?”
“Better,” she said, only now realizing it was true. She eyed the tunic he held. “Are you going to work now?”
“Aye, there’s no dodging it.” He shrugged into the vest. “I’m on duty until nightfall, but I’ll look in on you when I can. You mustnae leave my chamber.” She cocked her head at him, and he must have seen confusion on her face. “We’re in the keep. I managed to smuggle you in.” He smiled a little. “If there’s one thing a map-maker knows, it’s the lay of his own keep.”
She glanced at the parchment scrolls, but her eyes drifted to the weapons. Dimly she recalled what the old man at the stable had said about her.
“Why don’t you want anyone to see me?” she asked. “Is it because I’m a shieldmaiden, whatever that is?” She glanced at the swords and axes. “What did I do?”
“I cannae tell you, lass,” Tormod said as he sat down beside her to tug on his boots. “You speak my language, but your accent is Scots. You wear the helm of hiding, but your garments come from another time. In your pocket I found this map disc.” He placed a small circle of blackened silver etched with tiny lines in her palm. A small hole at the edge look weathered, as though a chain had once been there. “’Tis older than me, and that ’tis very old. I’m fashed by you, Jema, well and good.”
So was she, Jema thought. “What is the helm of hiding?”
“This.” He took her hand and brought her fingers up to her cheek, where she felt a silky, circular pattern of lines on her skin.
