West

by Edith Pattou

  Neddy

  WHEN WE ARRIVED IN CALAIS, I received the letter from Rose. She told me briefly what had befallen, that she and Charles had gone to Skottland in search of Winn, and that Estelle was at the home of a woman named Berenice, with directions on how to find her.

  “What is the news, Neddy?” asked Sib, who had watched me read the letter.

  “Rose and Charles have gone to Skottland. To the Western Isles.”

  Sib made a small sound. I glanced at her and thought she looked pale.

  “How long ago did they leave?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. I think perhaps a week ago,” I said.

  We found the home of Berenice with ease and were overjoyed to see Estelle. She looked pale but assured us she was much better. She introduced us to Ben and his dog, Pip. She said too that there was a mule named Molly out back who was très jolie.

  Sib and I decided to take Estelle into Calais for a treat. Apparently Berenice had introduced her to her own favorite boulangerie. While Estelle was making up her mind among all the delicious cakes and pastries, I pulled Sib aside.

  “We must go after Rose and Charles,” I said.

  Sib agreed.

  “But it doesn’t seem right to drag Estelle along on what could be a dangerous journey,” I went on.

  “I know,” said Sib, “but I believe she is well enough to travel.”

  We had been so absorbed in our conversation that we hadn’t noticed Estelle inching quietly closer.

  “I will go with you!” she announced. “I am better now. And Rose said I did a good job of watching over Winn. I want to help find him.”

  “It is a long sea journey,” I said.

  I could see the mixed feelings cross her face. Clearly she was remembering the terrible seasickness she had experienced on the passage from Fransk to Trondheim. But abruptly her expression cleared.

  “I don’t care about the mal de mer. I will go,” she repeated, her jaw set.

  Sib and I exchanged looks. I could not think of any other alternative than to take Estelle with us. We would just have to make sure she was kept out of harm’s way.

  Rose had said they were going to Leodhas, an isle in the Western Sea, and from there were seeking another isle called Morae. I consulted with the captain of Soren’s ship, and he said the main port on Leodhas was a town called Stornoway. He knew of no island called Morae.

  “Then we will start in Stornoway,” I said.

  Estelle was especially sad when it came to parting from Pip and Molly, and I thought I saw tears in the old mountain man’s eyes when he bid the Fransk girl a gruff farewell. I made sure they were compensated for taking care of Estelle, even though Ben initially refused any payment.

  After replenishing the ship’s supplies, we set off for Leodhas.

  Rose

  STORNOWAY WAS ON THE EASTERN COAST of Leodhas, so we hired a cart to take us across the island to Garenin, a town on the west coast. We asked everyone we met on our journey about an isle called Morae, but no one had heard of it. By the time we got to Garenin, we were both tired and discouraged.

  Charles suggested that we could use a good meal, so we found the one inn in the small town that served lunch.

  We were soon seated at a table. Neither of us felt much like talking. We just sat there glumly and ate the watery onion beef soup we were served, along with some dry brown bread.

  “You two look as though you have lost your last farthing,” came a voice beside me. I turned to see an older woman wearing a blue scarf, drinking a flagon of ale.

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “Or perhaps a difficult road lies ahead?” she asked, glancing at our swords.

  “Yes,” I said again. “Or, rather, a difficult task.”

  “Ah, like making a rope out of ashes,” the old woman said.

  I flinched. I had had enough of ashes to last me a lifetime.

  “Very much like that,” said Charles, with a friendly smile.

  The woman chuckled.

  “I don’t suppose you know of a place called Morae around here?” I asked.

  “No, no place by that name,” she replied. “Unless you’re taking about the old tale of the Three Weavers of Mora?”

  “I might be,” I said, coming alert. Charles, too, leaned closer.

  “Aye, it is said there was a wee magic island that lay far off the west coast of Leodhas. In the old tales, it was inhabited by three weavers, who would tell your fortune and grant wishes. The weavers were called the Morae.”

  “And is there such an island?” I asked.

  The woman laughed. “No, dearie. Just in the old tales. If such an isle truly existed, ’twould be a barren, desolate place, fit only for seabirds.”

  The Three Weavers of Mora. An echecs set from the Morae. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “How far was this island said to be from Leodhas?” Charles asked.

  “Ah, many leagues, a hundred or more. But there isn’t such a place. And if there was, you couldn’t land a boat there, according to the old stories.”

  “Why not?” I queried.

  “Protected by a fearsome whirlpool, it is. Like the Corryvreckan, down by Jura, only worse.” She went on at some length about the deadly whirlpool surrounding an island she kept insisting didn’t exist.

  And all I could think about was where we could find a boat to get ourselves there.

  Neddy

  EVER SINCE WE HAD MADE THE DECISION to chart our course for Skottland, something in Sib had changed.

  She was distant and quiet. She seemed to either prefer to be alone or else with Estelle, who initially had been having a hard time with her seasickness.

  I tried to talk to Sib, but she always found an excuse to slip away, usually to be with Estelle. It made me uneasy. I began to worry that our newfound happiness was more uncertain than I had thought.

  I was also distracted by a series of events that slowed our progress. First, there was a spell of very bad weather, with winds that drove us off course. Poor Estelle suffered mightily.

  And then once the bad weather passed, we had two crew members come down with sickness, not the Sweating Sickness thankfully, but one that involved painful rashes and fever, and which Sib said could be quite contagious, so we had to take a detour to the port of Aberdeen to drop them off. I told them that we would likely be back for them after our journey to Skottland, but I also left them enough gold coins so that they could make their own way back to Njord if for some reason we were diverted or detained.

  As a result of these delays, I calculated that we were at least two weeks behind Rose and Charles.

  Rose

  THE CURRACH REMINDED ME of the kyak in which Malmo and I traveled along the coastline of Gronland up to Tatke Fjord, except that it was larger and it had a small sail one could use to catch the wind. There were paddles, too, to use if there was no wind.

  It was the woman back at the inn who had directed us to the boatman, although when I asked where we could find a currach to rent or buy, she looked at me as if I was deranged.

  “You’ll not be after trying to find the Weavers of Mora?” she asked in some alarm.

  “Of course not,” I said, with a laugh. I went on to make up a story about how we wanted to do some fishing while we were in Leodhas.

  I’m not sure if she believed me, but she directed us to a boatman called Macdeag down near the harbor. When we took our leave, I thanked her and, just before walking away, she called to me, “If you find a way to make that rope of ashes, you be sure to come back and tell me the tale.”

  “We will,” Charles said with a smile.

  The man Macdeag was willing to rent us a currach for a reasonable price and didn’t seem to mind that we couldn’t tell him when we’d be returning it.

  There was little wind, and the day was mild. We had provisions enough to last us six days on the water. If we had not found this mythical island in three or four days, we would need to turn back.

  At twili
ght of our first day on the water, Charles suddenly said to me, “Nyamh, if we ever do reach this island of the Morae, what do you think we will find there?”

  “I think we will find ou . . . your bairn,” I tripped over the word, catching myself just in time. “And the Troll Queen.” I shivered, remembering the invisible hands around my throat.

  He must have sensed my feeling, because he replied in an encouraging tone, “We have our swords. You have the wind sword.”

  I had told him of my encounter with the queen when she was a dragon and how I injured her by throwing the sword through the air.

  I gave a short laugh. “Somehow I don’t think that I’m going to get away with just flinging it at her again.”

  “No, perhaps not,” he answered.

  I almost made a joke about how maybe I could wash another shirt, but caught myself in time, realizing he would have no idea what I was talking about.

  “Anyway,” I said, “I am glad it is the two of us.”

  “So am I,” he replied in a quiet voice.

  I smiled, then blushed, looking down.

  * * *

  The weather stayed fair. A light rain fell on the afternoon of the second day, but not enough to require us to bail.

  By the third day, we began to get discouraged. The horizon of sea and sky stretched ahead, unbroken by any sign of land. We agreed, one more day. But one day turned into two, then three.

  At the beginning of the sixth day, we knew we must turn back. We had already gone too far. Despite being very sparing in what we ate, we knew our provisions wouldn’t last us the journey home.

  But just when we were on the verge of turning back, I heard a dull roaring sound. Charles heard it too, and the farther west we traveled, the louder it became.

  Finally I saw it. An outcropping of land, a dark gray mound rising above the sea.

  The sea was getting choppier.

  “The whirlpool?” Charles asked, and I nodded, uneasy.

  The noise grew louder and louder, and it became harder to paddle, to control the small currach. It was moving fast through the increasingly turbulent waves.

  My heart was pounding, and I gripped the paddle tightly. Charles and I exchanged tense glances.

  I peered through the spray sent up by the waves, trying to get a clear view of the island we were fast approaching. There was a low mist over the isle, so it was hard to make out any details, if there were any buildings or trees on it.

  The currach was suddenly rocked by a particularly large wave. As we rode it to the top, we saw we were on the very lip of a vast, churning whirlpool.

  I let out a cry, paddling backwards as hard as I could, but it was too late. We were caught in the swirling waves and seemed to be on the verge of being sucked downward into the seething maw of water.

  The paddle was snatched out of my hands, and the currach began to spin around faster and faster.

  All at once, an extraordinary thing happened. It seemed almost as if the waves became a fist that grabbed the currach, raising it up, swirling it around, and tossing it high in the air.

  I landed with a crash on a hard surface, and everything went dark for a few seconds.

  When I opened my eyes and blinked, I saw that I was lying on a rocky shore. The currach was a few arm’s lengths away, and one side of it was smashed in. My head hurt, and my thoughts were fuzzy. I reached up and found that I was bleeding from the right side of my forehead.

  And then I realized. I was alone. There was no sign of Charles.

  Book Four

  NORD

  Wind and water will my witchcraft lull, then fearlessly fare thou forth.

  —The Edda

  Estelle

  THE mal de mer WAS HORRIBLE, worse than I remembered. Like the last time, I was sure I was going to die. Tante Sib said it was partly because of the stormy weather.

  And it is true that after a few days, the weather calmed and I didn’t feel quite as bad. Tante Sib made me eat biscuits and drink water and suggested I come up on deck with her. At first I said no, shuddering at the thought of looking at all that water, but she insisted, saying the fresh air would do me good.

  I didn’t feel better right away, but Tante Sib told me to pay attention to the wind on my face, telling me it had a name. I had never heard that winds had names except north, south, east, and west. But she told me there were many different winds, and she started naming them.

  The names were so magical, along with the stories that went with them, that I forgot all about feeling sick. Tante Sib said that next time she would tell me about wind music.

  After that I felt fine, no mal de mer at all, and Oncle Neddy teased Tante Sib about my miraculous cure. She laughed and said that the wind could do all sorts of wonderful things.

  I was very grateful to Tante Sib. But I also started to be worried about her. Once the ship got closer to Skottland, she seemed sad. Different. Except for talking to me about the wind, she didn’t talk much at all. I would find her at the railing looking out at the coast of Skottland in the distance, and she looked very unhappy.

  I asked her if she had the mal de mer now. And she laughed a little, saying no.

  “But why do you look so sad?” I asked.

  “Do I?” she asked, a little surprised.

  “Yes, you do,” I said.

  She was quiet a few moments, before turning to me, her face serious.

  “Don’t tell Oncle Neddy this, Estelle,” she said, “but it has to do with coming back to Skottland. It is the first time in so long. And not all my memories here are good ones.”

  “What happened to you in Skottland?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t talk about it, Estelle,” she said, “but please don’t worry. I will do my best to be happier. I have a few favorite winds here in Skottland that always cheer me up.”

  Rose

  I STOOD UP, SWAYING. I stumbled over to the currach and saw that miraculously both my pack and Charles’s, along with our swords, were still nestled in the bottom of the boat.

  I pulled my pack out and found a cloth, which I pressed against my forehead. It came away soaked with blood, so I kept it there, applying pressure. Depending on how deep the cut was, I was going to have a whole map of scars on my face.

  I stared out at the roiling whirlpool that had just spit me up on shore, looking desperately for some sign of Charles. It seemed impossible that I stood here, still alive, not chewed up into little pieces by that deafening morass, and I shuddered to think that Charles might have been sucked down into it.

  I gazed out beyond the maelstrom, searching the horizon. Perhaps Charles had been thrown out of the whirlpool the way I had, in a different direction. But I saw nothing.

  I stood there for some time, pressing the cloth to my head. Then I turned and looked at the land I was on. It was a small island, though not as small as I’d initially thought. The thin mist still hovered over it, but I could clearly see a building not far inland.

  I had to believe Charles was not dead, that he had somehow escaped the whirlpool. And I knew that he would want me to continue on, to find his son, our son.

  Leaving Charles’s pack and sword in the wrecked currach, I hoisted my pack with the wind sword inside onto my back, and still holding the cloth to my forehead, I started toward the building.

  White Bear

  WHEN WE HIT THE WHIRLPOOL, it had felt like I was soaring, like a red ball being tossed high into the air. And then I plummeted down, landing hard in cold water. I sank deep beneath the waves, and instinctively pushed myself up, kicking hard with my legs.

  I surfaced with a gasp and, seeing a floating piece of wood, which turned out to be one of the currach paddles, I grabbed hold of it. I floated there, getting my breath back.

  I looked around and was stunned to see no sign of the island, the whirlpool, the currach, and most importantly, Nyamh. As far as I could see, I was a speck in the midst of a vast open sea.

  I looked up and saw the sky was rapidly filling with cl
ouds, dark and ominous. A storm was very close.

  Rose

  THE BUILDING LOOKED LIKE A BLACKHOUSE, which I had been told was a common sight in the Western Isles of Skottland. It had thick stone walls and was thatched with a combination of tar and turf.

  As I approached the entrance, I slowed. I lowered the cloth from my forehead for a moment and found the bleeding had mostly stopped. I stowed the cloth in my pocket, feeling as I did so for the key Urda had given me. I took a deep breath and walked up to the door.

  But there was no lock on the door, nor even a handle, so I pushed on it, and the door swung open easily. I entered.

  The light was dim at first, and I held out a hand so I wouldn’t bump into anything.

  “I win!” called out a silvery voice.

  “Ah, but you helped,” said another voice, which was also lovely but slightly deeper. “With the whirlpool.”

  “Only a little,” came the first voice, with a high-pitched, melodic laugh at the end.

  I peered into the gloom, and as I did, the light brightened and I could see where I was. It was a large room, very similar to our great room back in Trondheim, with simple furnishings and a hearth at one end. There were many candles, on tables and in wall sconces, which now flickered brightly.

  Sitting at a long table, much like the table where my family ate their evening meal, were three women. I stared at them, blinking my eyes a few times, not quite believing what I was seeing. For the three women were exactly identical. Each had smooth, pale skin and pale hair. I had thought Sib’s hair to be pale, but the hair of these three women was paler still, almost transparent, as though you should be able to see through it and yet you couldn’t. Their eyes were pale too; from a distance, they appeared to be all white, which gave me a shuddery feeling, but as I drew closer, I saw that their irises were translucent, the color of uncooked egg whites.