by Jacky Gray
~*~
The rocking motion of Quinn’s carriage soon had all three inhabitants falling asleep after a long, tiring day.
Jarl heard a snoring sound – except it wasn’t snoring. Rocks tumbled around him, bouncing off his body and the walls. He was swept along, deeper and deeper into a cave and, when the ground finally stopped his progress, the rocks continued to pile up. He awoke with a start.
~*~
Senna’s dream took a strange turn as the boat she was floating on began spinning in circles toward a large black hole in the middle of the lake. Unable to move, she could only watch in horror as the boat was dragged through the hole and she was falling into a black nothingness.
An awful pounding resonated around the walls and she covered her ears with her hands to stop it from giving her a headache. But it persisted, along with someone shouting her name. She woke up just as her front door burst open.
~*~
Dark. When did it get so dark? And cold. The lamp must have gone out. But there was plenty of oil in it; help should have arrived long before it went out. Then he realised his eyes must be closed and opened them.
Still dark. Still cold.
As Lyran’s eyes accustomed to the environment, he spotted light at the edge of his peripheral vision. He tried to move his head toward it, but something held it back. Something held his whole body back. By twitching one muscle at a time, he realised his entire body was weighted down as though he had been buried.
By rocks.
From a landslide.
Just like in last night’s dream.
A tune ran around his head. “Thank you for my beautiful wife, Senna. Thank you for my lovely daughter, Lyrelie.”
~~***~~
Epilogue: A Grey Mourning
Well this is not what I was expecting at all. It’s all rather dull and grey. After witnessing the way Eloise’s spirit left her body when Senna hugged Jarl and I …
Sorry, you must be a little confused – I know I am. It’s Lyran, by the way. Apologies if you were tricked into thinking it might be Jarl – what can I tell you? I love a red herring – especially soused with vinegar.
Anyway, I’m no longer lying at the bottom of that cave piled high with rocks. My body was dug out, along with that of poor Tasker, whose death I suspect to be the result of foul play. As for that sour-faced deputy, Rulf, I’m not sure whether he deserves any of your sympathy. But I will need to investigate further.
“Where are you?” I hear you ask. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure. As I said earlier, it’s nothing like I expected. You hear all manner of stories about glorious singing and blinding lights, but so far, I’ve had none of that.
For some reason, the eternal forces saw fit to enlighten me about my early demise, so I’ve taken every opportunity to research what happens. Although I never planned it that way (or did I?), my work required me to be in contact with the dead and dying. And, while studying in Oxford, I examined every account of what you now call near-death experiences.
“Hang on a sec,” the keen of ear will be saying. “How can you speak of things in your future? In a modern voice?”
It’s all a bit of a mystery – the closest explanation I can imagine is that, while on earth, our understanding of time and space is very different.
But I digress; my purpose is to answer questions, not raise more. Those of you with sharp minds and a thirst for solving clues will no doubt want reassurance about a few things. The most pressing being about the manner and circumstances of my death.
*Chuckles* - a ghost with an ego? For sure.
Unfortunately, now is not the time to answer them, as this murder mystery unfolds gradually over the next two stories. Indeed it is the driving force for the entire Hengist prequel series. Oops, there’s that ego again. Must rein it in.
Suffice to say that as far as Senna is concerned, the matter is closed. She has little choice after the county sheriff got involved, ordering an extended investigation. He personally assured her that the results showed it to be an unfortunate accident.
“Fix.” I hear you shout, but I couldn’t possibly comment. Now, if you’d asked me about the Strictly results …
Jarl, of course, is a completely different matter, and his story will come out eventually. You’ll have to wait a wee while because Senna’s story is next, then Lyrelie’s. It’s not fair but, while these stories aren’t exactly matriarchal, they do seem to focus more on the distaff side. What? I’m only saying!
So where does that leave you with all those niggly loose ends annoying the bejaysus out of you? Kudos, if you suspected that foreman’s dodgy behaviour, you are so on the right lines. Anything else you want to know, follow the link to “Ask Lyran” and I’ll do my best. But, much as I’d love to, I’m not revealing who wins the glitter ball or endures the most bush tucker trials to become King or Queen of the jungle. Apologies to those who don’t watch UK reality TV.
For now, dear reader, I think we should let poor Senna and Jarl alone so they may spend the year getting used to living without me. Senna’s dealings are somewhat limited by the strictures of her year of mourning; she has to cover her hair and wear “widow’s weeds.” And every aspect of her behaviour will doubtless be scrutinised by people who take it upon themselves to enforce the rules of propriety. Don’t blame me, I’m only the messenger. But it’s probably just as well Jarl took himself off seeking a war to vent his anger. I pity those poor Scots. Or French. Or both.
It’s going to take me a while to get used to the way it all works here. I wanted to say “up” here, but the grey nothingness makes me feel it’s more down than up.
Anyway, I’ll sign out now. Places to go, people to see, murder to solve, and a few more fourth walls to break.
~~***~~
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading this story; I hope you enjoyed reading it at least half as much as I enjoyed writing it. Huge apologies if you don’t like cliff-hangers, but I hope Lyran’s cheeky epilogue has you smiling enough to forgive me.
I’d appreciate if you could let others know what was good/bad about it by leaving a comment.
Thank you
Jacky Gray
I’d love to hear your suggestions and am happy to answer any questions via the newsletter/Facebook. Just because you may enjoy it, here’s a peek into when Senna first met the cousins. Enjoy.
When Senna met Jarl
“Oh dear, I’m afraid that will not do at all. The stiches are all different sizes and unevenly spaced.”
Senna sighed as her mother criticised her latest sewing disaster. As far as she was concerned, it would do the job adequately, preventing the linen from fraying at the edges. When she said as much, Rielle clicked her tongue, a familiar admonishment.
“Cora, dear. Will you bring your kerchief to show Senna what I mean?”
Jumping off her stool, the curvaceous girl hastened to comply while the other girls in Rielle’s workroom exchanged dark glances.
Even though she hated it, Senna understood their jealousy. If Cora hadn’t been her best friend, she, too, might have felt angry at the way her mother always singled the girl out, praising her as a good example.
Cora’s blush showed her discomfort. She never preened at the praise, hating the attention, and frequently implored Senna to ask her mother not to make such a fuss.
But Rielle firmly believed in giving due credit, and pointing out shoddy effort. “You see? Cora’s stitches are all exactly the same size, and the spacing is identical.”
“Yes, mother. Cora is much more skilled; she has nimble fingers and a good eye.”
“Which you could learn if you had a modicum of her patience. Maybe, if you weren’t so keen to get outside all the time …”
Senna voiced a thought which had nagged at her for a while. “Maybe Cora and I should swap places; I’d be much happier working on the farm …”
“Senna!” Her mother pointed to the door, oblivious that her anger had the other girls sniggeri
ng behind their hands.
Shooting outside, she prepared for a grave face and recriminations. Instead, her mother hugged her, whispering endearments into her hair. “I’m so, so sorry, my darling. I have been thinking for some time that you are not suited to the life of a seamstress. The idea of you and Cora swapping places had crossed my mind, but she is not needed on the farm except at harvest tide, and her parents were keen for her to learn a trade.”
“You are not angry with me?”
“How could I be? You have tried hard to apply yourself, and your needlework is sufficient to be functional. But I could never ask money for it, and you know Taysen and I make our living from selling to merchants. One day, we hope to open our own shop in Marlborough …”
“You wish to leave Avebury? But …”
“Not for many years. You will be married and settled down. Probably with a farmer so you can spend your days with the nature you love so much.”
Senna frowned. Apart from Alfun, who lived in the farm neighbouring Cora’s, all the other boys in the village took every opportunity to laugh at Senna, teasing about her sparrow’s legs and short hair.
Rielle pointed to the rainwater barrel. “This dry spell means we are nearly out of water. How would you fancy a trip to the well?”
Senna eyed a wooden pail next to it. “It will take many more than one trip to get enough for everyone for one day.”
“That is true, but two pails will halve the trips.”
Senna picked one up, putting it straight back down. Even empty, they were heavy, but she would manage somehow.
With an exclamation, her mother reached behind the barrel, pulling out something almost as long as she was tall. “That’s where it got to. I haven’t seen this for a long while.” Her nose wrinkled as she eyed the dried leaves and dirt clinging to the pole, courtesy of the numerous webs. A large spider, thrust from his comfortable home, scuttled toward her. With a tiny squeal, she dropped it.
Suppressing a grin, Senna picked it up, dusting off the mess with her hand. “Don’t worry, Ma. He’s probably much more scared than you are.”
“I was startled, that’s all.” Despite her protest, she moved far away from the spider’s path back to safety and inspected the strangely-shaped wooden pole before touching it. “This is a milkmaid’s yoke. The curved part goes behind your head.”
Senna followed her instructions, balancing it across her shoulders as her mother hung a pail on the groove at each end.
“There you go. Now you can get your fill of fresh air while doing something useful.”
With an uncertain smile, Senna took a few tentative steps, altering her natural gait to minimise the bobbing and swaying of the pails which took on the mannerisms of unruly infants in her mind. She had just about got the hang of it as she reached the well at the centre of the village.
To her dismay, a large gaggle of people surrounded it, complaining about the inconvenience. A few moments’ observation told her all she needed to know. The hook at the end of the rope had broken and the large bucket used to raise the water had fallen. It had wedged half-way down, and a man was climbing down to free it.
She could have waited with the others, but she spotted a couple of lads who she knew would seek some sport at her expense, so she back-tracked a little way and took a path to the river. With any luck, the lack of rain would reduce the flow, and she knew a spot where it would meander into little more than a stream.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t bargained on the late summer undergrowth narrowing the path, making it impossible for her to walk straight through without the pails catching on the verdant bushes. She tried walking sideways, but this slowed her down, and the sidesteps quickly became uncomfortable. Twisting her upper body so the pails were in front and back of her proved a little faster, but she had to concentrate hard to keep them from tipping.
A sneaky bramble decided she hadn’t suffered enough for her impatience and tripped her up, and the children’s rhyme about Jack and Jill mocked her. Thankfully, unlike the rhyme, nothing broke, and she gave up her efforts to use the yoke, carrying it in one hand, and the pails in the other. The dratted thing got too heavy, too quickly and, no matter how she tried to juggle, it continually snagged on things in its efforts to tripping her up again.
When she finally reached the river, Senna’s anger at the injustice of so many things going wrong boiled over. She threw the stupid thing on the ground, gratified at the thump when it hit the ground. Whenever she fell, a noise that loud would mean pain, and probably a bruise. Serve it right, silly old thing.
Although it was just a carved piece of would, the idea it might have suffered felt like just deserts, as her grandmother was fond of saying. Before she had time to berate herself for being nasty, the thing bounced, knocking the pails and sending them tumbling down the bank.
Launching herself in pursuit, she barely managed to catch them before they tumbled into the stream. She gave them a sound scolding, using phrases borrowed from several different angry adults.
“I don’t think they will risk disobeying you again.” A low chuckle had her whirling round to confront a tall lad looking down from the bridge.
Normally, she would not have dared to speak to an older boy, let alone chide him, but her anger exceeded her adherence to social niceties. “Your mirth is unwarranted and unwelcome. I would ask you to desist from your pitiful attempts at wit.”
“Apologies. I meant no offence. I would offer assistance, but I suspect someone with your skills would not accept.” Dipping his head, he sauntered across the bridge; his barely masked sarcasm suggesting he’d watched her for some time.
On any other day, Senna would have scorned his offer, struggling on her own until she succeeded, no matter what the cost. But she still vibrated with shame after the many lessons in humility, so she hailed him. “Wait. I’m not too proud to ask for help.”
He halted; his expression requiring reassurance.
She gestured helplessly. “I had enough trouble with the bothersome thing when the pails were empty. I have no idea how to get it on my shoulders when they are full.”
He nodded gravely. “It’s a lot trickier than you might think, unless you know the knack. Find two platforms of about the same height.”
“Like tree stumps?”
“That would be ideal, but rare. If you can only find one, maybe build something of the right height, but remember, it has to be the right distance to match the grooves on the yoke.”
“Could I hang the pail off the ends of the bridge?”
“Possibly, but that would be much more difficult.”
Not far from the bridge was the perfect tree stump, with a flat-ish top at her waist height. A little distance away, about the right distance for her yoke, lay a pile of logs. He showed her how to stack them to create a stable platform, topped with a nearby slate slab which happened to be the right size.
She folded her arms. “How strange that all these object are exactly where they need to be.”
He glanced at her. “Do you think so? You cannot imagine that anyone else with a yoke might consider this a good place to fetch water?” A cheeky wink robbed her glare of its power.
“You have a sister, then?”
“Nope. My poor parents had given up when I came along. Ma calls me her little gift from the Goddess.”
“That sounds like a mouthful. What does your father call you?”
“Naught but trouble. When he’s in a good mood. I’ll spare your blushes for the rest of the time.”
She worked out it was not complimentary. “What do your friends call you?”
Another cheeky grin. “They don’t.”
Senna’s frustration gave her the choice between a sigh and rolled eyes but she resisted both against his intense scrutiny, feigning indifference.
“All right, since you are so desperate to know my name, I’ll tell you. It’s Jarl.” He held out a hand.
She felt quite justified in treating him to his own tease, gazing at his o
utstretched hand without moving a muscle despite the ones in her arm twitching to respond with the natural response. What she didn’t expect was the power of his grin, which widened as he delighted in her reaction.
“Well met, Mistress Steadfast. I shall have to work a lot harder to become a worthy opponent.” He bowed deeply.
A brief incline of her head acknowledged his praise and she forced a chilly tone in her voice. “Senna. I’d like to say I’m pleased to meet you, but that remains to be seen.” She did not dare shake his hand, concerned that his touch might prove even more potent than his gaze.
With a laugh, he requested the pails, which he set on each platform. He then demonstrated how she could bend down and wriggle the yoke under the handles of both pails. He straightened, showing how they balanced without too much effort, then handing her the yoke.
She copied his move, pleased with how easily she managed it. When the pails were full, it was a little trickier, but he showed her another trick to stop the handles from falling down.
He checked to ensure she could set the pails back down on the platforms, suggesting she wriggled her shoulders to release the tension of carrying such a load. “Good. Now you know the trick, you will be able to do it on your own next time.”
She frowned. “Next time? What do you mean? I can do it now.”
“And have my mother berate me for my lack of chivalry? I don’t think so.” He shouldered the burden easily. “Come on. We have to get this through the narrow path without spilling a drop. Watch me and learn.”
Clicking her tongue had no effect once he’d made the decision to help; she had little choice but to follow as he hurried past all the predatory undergrowth without a stumble.
They reached the village square just as the man emerged, bearing the offending bucket to a spontaneous round of applause. The queue of people waiting had grown and she was happy to have made the right choice.
