The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  Dropping to his knees, he peered into the hole. The aroma of a day long deluge met him in the face like a brunt force. He had no clue as to why he smelled rain from beneath his house, but he couldn’t rightly argue with his nose. He smelled it.

  He lowered his head further into the dark cavity, but couldn’t see a thing. Scurrying to his feet, he ran to the kitchen and snatched a flashlight from the drawer. Though fierce indignation had fueled him to impulsively rupture a hole in his bedroom floor, a heightened exhilaration for what might be discovered incensed him now. His feet couldn’t carry him fast enough down the hall.

  Sliding to his knees again, he turned on the flashlight and inspected the jagged gap. Below the fractured wood, about two feet in, was nothing but packed dirt. Cramming his body further in, he hung upside down from his waist and found nothing but a dirty crawl space with vents and pipes running the length of the joists.

  Disappointment crushed him and at that moment, he realized how much he had longed to find another artifact, or a bone comb, or anything that led him to believe he was, in fact, Dægan Ræliksen. At this point, he would’ve appreciated a mere glass bead or an old wooden spool from a weaving loom, just to prove his house was at least sitting atop some sort of historical settlement. A Scandinavian one would be better, but no such luck. He found nothing until he started to heave himself out of the hole and a flicker of something shiny glinted in the beam of the flashlight.

  Breath held, he directed the light back over the area. A tiny sliver of tarnished metal gleamed like diamond crystal. Reaching toward the find, his shirt snagged on the broken fragments of the floor, thwarting his efforts.

  He resurfaced from the hole and drove his boot heel against the remaining planks, widening the hole. Adrenaline surging, he grabbed a few of his archaeology tools sitting beside the chest on the bedroom floor and dove back into the large crevice. Crawling on his stomach, he inched his way across the dirt. With expert hands, trembling with excitement, he painstakingly brushed away the soil a little at a time. Bit by bit, the grandness of the object emerged. Though he still had no idea what he’d found, a combination of gold and silver materialized on what looked like the hilt of a dagger.

  With his heart in his throat, he carefully dug away the soil with a small shovel. He could hear his pulse thumping in his ears. The minutes of the afternoon turned into hours as he worked to unearth the small relic. By late evening, he was able to pluck the object from its delicate grave of dry dirt and ascend from the crude site of his do-it-yourself dig.

  As he reverently placed the item on the plastic on the floor, he realized the sun had already set. Darkness filled the room, save for the fading glow of his dying flashlight. He jumped to his feet and flipped the light switch, returning to get a good look at the piece he'd found.

  As he suspected, it was a knife still encased in a leather sheath. But until he could clean it thoroughly, he couldn’t discern its value. Using only toothbrushes and water, he cleaned the hilt of the dagger, removing the grime that had worked its way into every crevice of the elaborately decorated weapon.

  After hours of tedious work, he held the dagger in his palm. He stared in awe at the craftsmanship of the handle, his tired mind drifting into oblivion.

  ****

  “Which would you prefer to do?” I asked extending both the ax and dagger for her choosing. “Filet the fish, or cut the wood for kindling?”

  She looked at me oddly. “I have never done either.”

  “Then today is your most fortunate day.”

  I buried the battle ax in one of the logs and then grabbed her left hand, slapping the handle of the knife in it.

  “But I—”

  “Afraid of getting our hands a little dirty, are we?”

  “Nay, but—“

  “Hush, girl,” I said, spinning her into my arms, her back against my chest. “I will gladly show you how.” I snaked my arms under hers, sliding my hands down her forearms to the blade, and gently opened her constricted fingers from the handle, taking the dagger into my own hands.

  “Beautiful is it not? My uncle made it for me. Look how the gold and silver intertwine together. See how they twist and turn, drawing your eyes first to the contrast of their colors, but then eventually on the partnership they serve as they wrap around each other in blended beauty. And not to say that silver and gold are best only together, but there is nothing distasteful or frightening about their congruent existence. ‘Tis a stunning piece of artisan talent, would you not say?”

  I could tell her breath was caught deep within her lungs as I remained close for quite a long time, not the kind of instruction she would think necessary to learn the skills of filleting a fish. But she liked it—loved it, as far as I could ascertain. The flesh of my arms rested on hers and my chest rose and fell against her back with the rhythm of my slow breathing. My wet hair tickled her bare shoulders and my breath seared through her as easily as a hot coals in butter.

  “Now to begin, you must forget all you think you know about weapons and hold this knife with a gentle, yet steady hand, as opposed to the steel grip you had just before. Then find a good smooth rock to lay the fish upon, hold it by the tail, and skim the blade just below the layer of scales with one long stroke. Do so until all the scales are removed, but be careful not to go too deep or you will cut away the meat right with it. Understand?”

  She took a deep breath. “I think so.”

  “Good.”

  “What about its head?” she asked, scrunching her nose in disgust.

  I released her and gave her backside one solid swat as I walked away. “Chop it off.”

  ****

  Leif’s eyes flashed open, his head whipping in all directions around the room. He panted in quick shallow breaths as if he had actually run a marathon in the course of his vision. Seeing the dagger in his hand, he realized it was the exact weapon he had used to show a woman how to filet a fish. A woman who looked like Lorraine, smelled like Lorraine, and felt like Lorraine in his arms.

  Grabbing his notebook where he’d jotted down facts and mapped out his ancestral lineage, he searched for a man who was a tenth century blacksmith and craftsman. Flipping through his notes, he came upon the last names written on the page, the place where his research had ended. Magnús, brother of Rælik, son of Baldur.

  If what Lorraine and Patrick said were true, and he was Dægan Ræliksen, then Magnús Baldurssen could very well be his uncle, the man who’d crafted the dagger.

  He sat back, thinking. Names and dates didn’t lie. The surnames matched up. Could it be?

  Leif closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm his rising emotions. There it was again; the smell of rain.

  Patrick’s words echoed around him. What Lorraine has told you is the honest truth. There’s no denying who you are. But until you go in that house and dig up the evidence for yourself, you’ll never know who you used to be.

  Grabbing his flashlight, brushes, and shovel, he plunged back into the hole. All night without sleep, between the confines of the dusty ground and the floor joists above him, he lay on his belly searching, sifting, digging. He lost all sense of time through his passionate crusade. He didn’t eat. He didn’t stop to rest. The only thing that interrupted his expedition was changing the batteries in his overused flashlight. He labored for days on end, ignoring the deprivation of sleep racking his body.

  About to give up, he rolled to his back in exhaustion. A layer of sweat and dirt covered him from head to toe and nothing felt more comfortable than closing his eyes and sleeping right where he was. Forcing his eyes open, he looked at the wood supports running inches above him. He felt as if he were lying in a coffin, imprisoned by an overzealous dream. There is nothing else buried here, he tried to convince himself. He was finished. His mind was weary, his muscles fatigued.

  Struggling to roll over on his belly and creep his way out, he staked his hand-held shovel in the dirt to tow his somnolent body toward the opening. But it didn’t sink as deeply
as it should, hindered by something beneath the curved blade. At first, he thought he’d just been too dog-tired to break the ground. With a little more heart, he drove it in a second time and unmistakably felt something below the surface interfering with his attempts.

  Like a desperate dog digging for his precious bone, he dug away the soil. By rights, he should have gotten bombarded with a cloud of dry dust and dirt filling his lungs, but the only thing he could smell was rain.

  Clear, clean, refreshing rain.

  Disregarding the need for delicate hands, he reached into the dirt and wrapped his hands around something pliable, ripping it free. Holding what seemed to be a leather satchel, he scurried on his elbows to the opening and climbed out.

  Sunlight, streaming in from his bedroom windows, pierced his eyes as he fumbled with the ancient shoulder bag. He opened it and reached inside, pulling out a leather-bound book. Though the encasement had seen better days, the book itself looked brand new.

  Hands shaking, he divided the book and laid it open in his lap. Brightly colored hand-drawn pictures of saints, holy men, and a haloed infant adorned the pages, with stylized handwriting, similar to calligraphy, embellishing the rest. Every vellum page was without smudges, blemishes, or age.

  He found the book Lorraine had spoken of. Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander. His memories took shape.

  ****

  “No one knows of this space, Mara, save you. I built this after my longhouse was erected, so I could dig beneath the floor without anyone knowing. ‘Twas what my father did to protect this book and it proved to be the best way of keeping it a secret.”

  “Why would a book need be kept in secret?”

  “Because of its value,” I said straightly. “In sentiment as well as its weight in silver.” I reached low inside the dark hole and pulled up an old leather satchel weathered by time. I held it as though it were a fragile newborn babe and blew the dust from its top. “This, love, is what saved my family years ago—twice even.”

  “Saved your family from what?”

  I carried it over to the edge of the boxbed and sat down, staring at its sacred packaging. “From starvation.”

  Mara sat up straighter. “How does a book keep anyone from starving?”

  “Before I tell you how, you should first know that I used to have another brother. A twin brother named Domaldr.”

  ****

  The name caught Leif by surprise. The vision that overcame him dissipated and he remembered how Patrick had mentioned Domaldr in his rant. He had to know more. Burying his nose in the book, he drew in a long breath of rain and allowed his buried memories to surface again.

  ****

  “One day, my father awoke to a warm, sunny morning. He looked out over the fjords and the ice on the sea was beginning to melt, far sooner than usual. To father, ‘twas a sign. And fortunately for all of us, he took a chance. He ventured out onto the crusted sea, braving freezing winds and floating ice. He journeyed alone in a small fishing boat around the entire southern perimeter of Norway until he could sail northeast toward Gokstad. There, he traded his last possession: this book.”

  “He traded it?” Mara asked. “To whom?”

  “A holy man. My father had heard of his conversion to your Christian religion and knew he was probably the only one who would know its worth.”

  “Did he?”

  “And then some. My father came back with a new crew of men, a bigger boat, and enough food and wool for three winters.”

  “One book did all that?”

  “Ah, but ‘tis not just any book, love,” I said scooting closer. “This book is said to have survived both a downpour of rain, and a watery grave in the Loch Rí, yet its pages remain as dry as the day it was written.

  “And you believe that?”

  “I should be asking why you do not. ‘Twas your Saint Ciarán who first possessed the book. If I remember correctly, the story goes that he was sitting on a bench outside the monastery of Clonmacnois reading from this very book, when visitors came. Like a good host, he fed and gave rooms to his traveling friends and forgot all about the open book he had left on the bench. That night, it rained like never before, but in the morning when he rushed out to retrieve the book he thought ruined, all the pages were dry, even the place in the grass beneath the bench where the book had lain.”

  “You and your stories, Dægan.”

  “Do you not like them?”

  “I do, but you are so well-versed in telling them that ‘tis hard to differentiate tales from the truth.”

  “Fine. I shall stop.”

  “You cannot stop now. What about the watery grave?” Mara asked skeptically.

  “‘Tis also said that this man was on a boat on the Loch Rí with many other dedicated followers. The book was still in its satchel, but one of the monks was careless and dropped it over the side of the boat where it sank to the bottom of the gray lake. To Ciarán’s disappointment, he left the water that day empty-handed. Time passed and one afternoon, the cattle, being hot from the summer sun, waded in the cool water of the Loch Rí. As one of the cows came out, the satchel was tangled around its leg. When Ciarán saw this, he rushed toward the cow and unhooked it, finding the book untouched by the water.”

  Mara gave me a sideways glance. “As a child, my mother told me that story, but I just thought ‘twas a good fireside tale. Surely, that could not have really happened.”

  “How is it that you doubt the existence of a magical book, but not of your Christ rising from the dead after three days?”

  “Because Christ’s rising was called forth by God Himself. With all due respect, Dægan, this book is just legend, and your father was fortunate enough that someone believed in that foolishness.”

  “Foolishness, aye?”

  “I am afraid so,” Mara said, nodding her head.

  “Then open it.”

  Mara scoffed. “Well of course it shall be dry. You had it stored beneath your closet for many years. My opening it, after all this time, will prove nothing.”

  “Open it,” I said again. “If you can read, then open it.”

  Mara sighed and took the satchel from my hands, laying it in her lap. I watched her, knowing the smell of aged leather filled her nostrils, as did the faint smell of rain. She paused, taking in another breath and furrowed her brow

  “Cannot imagine why anyone would smell rain on a starry night like tonight.”

  “I never said that I smelled rain.”

  “You did not have to. Everyone makes that face when they hold the book.”

  Mara ripped open the satchel and pulled it out. “You must be out of your mind, Dægan. I—I…” Mara’s eyes grazed over the cover, her mouth dropping slightly as she lifted it up. “I do smell rain.”

  “Now open it,” I commanded sweetly.

  And Mara did. She flipped through the pages quickly and found that every page was dry, unsmeared and perfectly legible. She read a few lines from the middle of the page. “This is a book of the Gospels.”

  ****

  Leif gasped and his eyes shot open. Like a dam bursting under pressure, his memories flooded back. He remembered searching for the book on the Isle of Man and almost dying in the process. He remembered how he had returned home with it and gathered his father’s people for the daunting exodus ahead of them. He remembered how he had settled upon Inis Mór and dug beneath his longhouse to hide it. And more importantly, he remembered Mara, his wife, with whom he shared the sentimental book.

  An elated smile gradually tugged on his lips. A sensation of joyous retribution surmounted his every thought. It felt as if the shackles of his obscured memories had broken loose and nothing else could hold him back. He was free, liberated by the past he had repressed for so long.

  Leif had uncovered the missing link of his ancestral lineage. His family tree had stopped at a man named, Rælik, and he’d wasted so much of life trying to connect the next branch, when all along, it was him. If not for Lorraine and Patrick, he would h
ave likely gone his whole life carrying around a notebook with a missing space beneath the last bracket.

  In utter delight, he grabbed a pencil and his notebook, and filled in the name below Rælik’s.

  DÆGAN RÆLIKSEN

  And beside that, he wrote in MARA (Princess of Connacht).

  He leaned back and admired the way the names looked, like they were meant to be written together, ageless through history like Romeo and Juliet. He thought about how Lorraine would enjoy that cliché and suddenly panicked.

  What day is it?

  He had no idea. For all he knew, a week could’ve have gone by and Lorraine was back in the States by now. Jumping to his feet, he stuffed St. Ciarán’s book of the Gospels back in its satchel and tore out of his bedroom, running into Kristoff in the hallway.

  “What the—”

  Leif could barely contain himself. “What day is it?”

  Kristoff stared at him, gawking at the dirt covering his clothes, hair, and face.

  Leif shook him. “What day is it!”

  “Monday,” he retorted, waving his hand in front of his nose as he grimaced. “Time for you to take a shower.”

  “I don’t have time,” Leif muttered as he tried to squeeze passed.

  Kristoff grabbed him by the arm. “Where are you going?”

  “I have to see Lorraine. I have to get to her before she leaves!”

  “Like this?” Kristoff sneered, gesturing over Leif’s dirt-ridden body.

  Leif skirted into his bathroom, taking a gander at himself in the mirror. His hair was clumped together with sweat and mud, his skin was soiled, and even his lashes were dusted with dirt.

  He couldn’t go to her in this fashion, but he feared he’d be too late if he showered. There wasn’t time for preparation. Patrick was a man of his word and he knew he had to stop her from leaving Ireland. Somehow, someway, he had to get to her and let her know he believed her. That she was the reincarnated Mara and he was her husband, reborn in the same lifetime, destined to be together for all eternity.