Legend of the Mist

by Veronica Bale

  “What’s this now?” Iseabal sighed.

  “My Lady, he has emptied the barley groats into the pottage,” explained eleven-year-old Greine, entering the keep behind the two eight-year-old girls. “Only Cook didna ken he’d done it until the groats were cooked up and had absorbed all of the broth. So now Cook’s shouting that we’ll have nothing but mutton-flavoured barley to serve the heathen Norse.”

  “Yes, and his face is redder than Norah’s hair,” Roisin added, prompting a giggle from Aibhlin.

  “What are ye doing here then? Why did ye no’ take him out of there?”

  “We did try, my Lady,” Aibhlin answered, “but he’s crawled up on the top shelf above the ovens and we canna reach him.”

  “Oh for mercy’s sake, tell me the ovens arena lit,” the lady huffed and rushed from room, trailed by the girls.

  “Friseal’s bum is going to be as red as Norah’s hair,” drifted Roisin’s snicker as they descended the staircase.

  Norah smiled, imagining the scene in the kitchens. Then, with no reason to stay pent up in the sweltering keep, she descended the stairs herself for whatever sea breeze could be had from the outside air.

  Below, the hall was abustle with preparation. Clansmen and women, regardless of their station, scurried back and forth to prepare the hall for the arrival of their unwanted guests. It was the same picture every autumn when the Norsemen returned to Rysa Beag from their a-viking season. The first few days were always tense as the islanders of Fara readjusted to the presence of their conquerors. By winter’s first snow they managed to fall into a routine of sorts, to adopt a wary tolerance at the forced co-existence. That precarious ease disappeared, however, in the Vikings’ absence during the summer months, and by the following autumn the atmosphere was once again tense. It was a cycle that was proving to be as sure as the seasons themselves.

  Observing the frenzied activity as she passed through the hall, Norah was aware that she should be helping. The chief’s mad daughter she might be, but privileged she was not. Neither Iseabal nor Fearchar encouraged in their children the notion of status; each was expected to help where he or she could. No work was above Fearchar’s offspring if it was for the good of the clan.

  But the moment her feet touched the dirt outside the fortress, the familiar tug asserted itself against her breast once more. It was that indismissible yearning that pulled at her soul, called to her from the direction of the long-ago abandoned broch on the southern edge of the island. It was a tug that, when it came upon her, fell so swiftly that it left her little opportunity to consider whether or not to give in to it.

  This time was no different. Her body turned itself southward, her feet instinctively began following the invisible path that would take her over the gently rolling hills and shallow crags of that part of Fara which lay abandoned.

  The path was imprinted on Norah’s brain. She knew it so well, knew every divot and swell of the earth that she could have walked it in the dark. Did often walk it in the dark, when she was able to slip away from the sleeping clan unseen. With little difficulty and even less time, she crossed the length of the island, travelling, without seeing, to the place where the dense growth slithered up the side of the crumbling stone walls. That growth of scrub and bracken beckoned to her, lured her, promising that just beyond its blanket lay a hidden treasure.

  What the broch was doing there, why it had been built on the island’s southern tip, was not entirely clear. This side of the island was uninhabited, but not because the soil was unsuitable for farming, nor because the weather was particularly harsh. It was obvious by the remnants of low walls which still scratched the landscape that farms had once existed here. Even the southern shore showed signs of habitation where a neat, crescent-shaped beach opened to the sea, suggesting that a false harbour had once been carved there.

  Why, then, had it been abandoned? And more puzzling was the question of why it remained so. Fara was not large, its width easily traversable by foot. Why did none of the islanders know about this southern patch of habitable land? Why did curious children never undertake to play amongst the ruins of the broch?

  It was as if some intangible barrier, some ghostly hindrance, prevented them. Kept them away from this secret, sacred place without their realizing it. Without their being able to surmount it just as Norah was unable to surmount the urge to come here.

  Could it be? That the same pull which exerted itself on Norah somehow repelled the others?

  Norah shook her head as she drew nearer the broch. What a mad thought to have. There was no pull, invisible or otherwise. The others were not strange, she was. Whatever pull she felt from the abandoned broch was entirely in her head.

  Though her journey had taken less than an hour, in that time the air had begun to cool, and the constant mist, thin and low when she left the keep, thickened around her, drawing her into its haze. By the time she reached the remaining pieces of curtain wall, no higher than her knees in sparse stretches, the fog was so thick that she could not see more than an arm’s length in front of her.

  It mattered not. Her feet knew the ground over which she walked, her hands knew exactly when to feel in front of her for the smooth, slippery stones of the broch’s broken shell.

  Her fingers trailed along the contours of the crumbling walls, brushing over the moss that grew on them. It was like touching something that was a part of her, an extension of her soul. As it did every time she came here, warm, wonderful feelings stirred inside her, feelings that seemed tied to a memory of happier times ...

  It was all an illusion, of course. The workings of her mad, mad mind.

  But no one was around to judge her for her madness, no one to cast sly glances her way and whisper behind hands. Was there any harm in submitting to the feelings and memories?

  With her eyes closed she followed the line of the wall to the place where it had crumbled away completely, leaving a large gap through which she could enter the conical structure. These walls which outlined the broch’s circumference were of a double thickness, with a hollow, narrow space between. In that space still existed the evidence of wooden stairs, though the stairs themselves had long ago rotted away. Post holes wound themselves at regular intervals in an upward spiral where support beams must have been, and in the mortar high above the dirt floor, which had once been covered by a thatched roof, were the discoloured imprints of a long ago second and third storey.

  Norah had lived in the modern Gallach fortress all her life. The concept of such a structure, the broch’s odd construction, was foreign. And yet ... it was familiar. She knew its bones as if she had lived within them when they were complete. She’d stopped trying to guess at why that might be years ago. None of the answers she came up with were of any comfort.

  The ground floor inside the broch was dissected by short, inner walls which had once divided the now open area into different rooms. Towards the back, where the walls were better preserved, was the remnants of a permanent fire pit, its edges outlined by heavy boulders and its centre permanently encrusted by the charred remains of centuries of fires.

  This was where Norah liked to sit, to curl up on the dirt beside the fire and breathe in the scent of the mould and the dank earth. It was a scent which filled her with longing. With reassurance.

  Sometimes it happened like this, the unintelligible words of a song she’d never heard before echoed in the back of her mind. Of a sudden she would find herself murmuring their cant without knowing their meaning or from whence they came.

  It was so now. As she lay with her face pressed to the moist dirt, her lips rippled over the words that were not words, and the melody mingled with her soul, bringing her to a place that felt like home:

  Mitelu faeder nathar ce’in,

  Is menma discirr yfele bith mu,

  An-patel alys cechtar ethin,

  An gela’ed alys riceus dhu.

  Norah had lied to her mother when she claimed she could not help speaking this strange language of hers ... well,
perhaps lie was not the right word, but she had certainly not told the entire truth. For when she was at the broch, when she was alone and drowning deliciously in its spell, she did know she was speaking the words.

  As she whispered them now, as she trilled the melody around their syllables and rhythm, the blurred images of faces whispered before her eyes. They were faces she’d never seen amongst her clanspeople.

  These faces belonged here, in this place, among the secret stones of this ruined structure. They were beautiful, painted with swirling symbols that she’d never seen before.

  Symbols which she had, somehow, seen before ...

  By the time the words had run their course, by the time the melody had come to its close, the sun had tracked across the sky, the rolling waves of the sea had stilled, and the moon reflected its silver half-light upon the swelling mist which sheltered the broch, and Norah within it.

  * * *

  The rickety old cog was an eyesore on the open water with its wide, flat bottom to allow for maximum cargo and high sides to prevent pirates from boarding en route. Those features made it the perfect vessel for a ferry service.

  The cog had set off from the Scottish mainland that morning, commissioned to bring passengers to and from the islands of Orkney and Shetland, and arrived at its last stop in Fara’s harbour as the sun was setting. Though it had been long, the journey had been rather uneventful, for the surprising body of still air which had settled over the region, irritating its inhabitants with its muggy heat, had calmed the seas, making them perfect for travel.

  Garrett was the last of the passengers to disembark that day, for none were interested in visiting the small, inconsequential island of the small, inconsequential Clan Gallach. Indeed his departure was not even remarked upon by the ferryman who, as soon as his final customer was discharged, pushed off the mist-drenched beach without so much as a farewell grunt.

  It had been three years since Garrett had been home, three years spent in Scotland with his uncle Elisedd, chief of Clan Campbell. There he’d fought alongside his mother’s kin, warding off the attacks of the rival MacDonald clan, and instigating enough of their own in return. The rivalry between the equally powerful Campbells and MacDonalds had been raging for longer than anyone could remember; the reasons for the feud were only slightly better remembered.

  In his time away, Garrett had honed his skill with a sword in the Scots way, the way of his own people—not of the Norse. His own people were fierce in their own right. Perhaps not as fierce as their island cousins but fierce enough. Garrett had learned much in his time with Elisedd, and had grown much as a man.

  Though for all his growing and learning, he still could not find it within himself to defy his father. And this is what had brought his booted feet to Fara’s shore once more. Fearchar had sent summons to his son in Cowal, the lands of the Campbells, to return home. The dreaded time had come: Norah was to marry the Norseman this summer, and Garrett was expected to attend. However much he might loathe the arrangement.

  The event was to take place a year later than when it had originally been planned, and though Garrett did not know the reason for the delay, he was glad of it for Norah’s sake. And for his own, for it was a year’s reprieve in which he could ignore the sting of his betrayal of her.

  He had missed his home, but he did not want to be here now. This marriage would be the end of Norah’s world, and he had no desire to watch the ceremony, the fatal thrust of the knife into her fragile breast.

  Garrett had told his father that a marriage to the Norseman would kill her, and it was still true these years later. As much as he loved his first-born sister, Norah was not right, not of the world in which the rest of them lived. She belonged to Fara in a way that none of the islanders could, and she would not survive being taken to Rysa Beag or Norway or wherever else that Viking beast might see fit to take her.

  But he could do nothing to stop it, and not only because of his inability to defy his father. In his time with the Campbells he’d come to understand what ruling a clan truly involved. The wisdom of his father’s bargain, no matter how devastating to his daughter, was for the good of the clan. And it had proven fruitful. While the raids continued on the islands surrounding Scotland, and even on the mainland itself, Fara had escaped the carnage.

  Garrett was no fool. As much as he would have liked to believe this was luck, he knew it was because the word had spread that Fara was under the protection of Einarr Alfradsson. The warriors of Clan Gallach were well trained by the Norseman’s hand, but so far they had never had to use their training to protect themselves. The clan’s safety, purchased with Norah’s very life ... there was no denying that it had been wise.

  It still made Garrett sick to his stomach to think about it.

  Hoisting his sheepskin pack onto his back, his claymore sheathed and protruding from beneath it at his right shoulder, he headed up the sloping, rocky beach. Ascending the steeply pitched foot-path that would take him towards the village, he kicked the low-lying mist into ghostly tendrils as he climbed.

  The village had not changed much since he’d seen it last. The modest stone dwellings with their turf roofs were still painted over with moss. Sheep still roamed the open fields, contenting themselves with the emerald grass beneath their hooves. The villagers waved to him as he passed, tossing up shouts and smiles of delight.

  The ones killed in the raid three years ago were still gone. That had not changed, either. Garrett waved and smiled to the villagers in return, though it was stiff and did not reach his eyes.

  His uncle, Iobhar, was the first of the fortress’ residents to encounter him. The man’s weathered face spread into a wide grin, and his arms opened wide.

  “Garrett! Welcome back, lad, we’ve missed ye so!”

  Garrett slowed, allowing his uncle to close the distance between them, and leaned into the man as he was embraced enthusiastically.

  “Uncle,” he replied, his voice hiccupping from the force of Iobhar’s joyful thumping upon his back.

  “Let me look at ye.” Iobhar stepped back and held Garrett at arms’ length. “Aye, ye’ve grown, lad. I didna think it possible, ye were already nearly as tall as Fearchar when ye left us. But ye have. Ye’re quite the man, I’d say. Yer father will be pleased.”

  “Thank ye, Uncle. Where is Father, d’ye ken?”

  “Oh, he’s around, though I’m no’ sure where just now. Yer mother’s inside fussing over the little things. Come in, come in. Give her yer greetings before the meal is served. I think it will be soon that our Norse friends will arrive.”

  Garrett allowed Iobhar to lead him inside and into the hall where, indeed, Iseabal was fretting over the irrelevant matter of the placement of the trestle tables. The air inside was stifling from the heat. The centre pit, though laid ready with cut turf for a fire, was unlit, a thing which had never before been seen on Fara at this time of year. The window coverings, too, were drawn back as far as they could be to admit whatever breeze might find its way in through the narrow windows.

  “Garrett?” the lady gasped when she laid eyes on her son.

  She rushed forward as Iobhar had, her arms widespread, and embraced Garrett with a motherly affection so strong that he realized only now how much he’d missed her. He returned her embrace, and thought to himself that the last time he’d held her it had been hard to put his arms around her for the bairn in her belly. He was wise enough not to remark on the fact, though, for sadly the news had come to him in Cowal a year later that the child, a boy, had died only months after he was born.

  “By God, my son, ye look so different,” Iseabal said. “So much wiser. Like yer father, I think. Ye have the look in yer eye of a man that’s seen life.”

  “Mother.” Garrett managed. After a short pause, he added, “does she ken yet?”

  Iseabal pulled back and regarded her son warily. Then, passing a worried glance to Iobhar beside him, she shook her head.

  “She doesna. And she willna until it’s announce
d at the meal so ye’ll no’ be telling her anything.”

  “I dinna ken that it would do any good if I did. Where is she?”

  “I havena seen her since this morning. Have ye, Iobhar?”

  “I saw her earlier this morning as well,” Iobhar answered, “but no’ since then.”

  Iseabal sighed. “She’d best be back soon, for our guests will be arriving. And ye, son,” she added, “had best see yer father before then, too. He’s missed ye something fierce.”

  “Aye, I shall,” Garrett promised. “And the wee ones. Where are they?”

  “They’re in the village,” Iobhar replied, “thought I wouldna say Madeg is so wee anymore. The lad’s fourteen years this spring past and looking much as ye did when ye were that age. A strapping lad, is he.”

  Garrett nodded, pleased that his brothers and younger sister were well. But his pleasure was dampened by Norah’s looming fate, and he could not bring himself to smile. He left without another word.

  “Has Fearchar made the right decision, Iobhar?” Iseabal fretted once Garrett had gone.

  Iobhar breathed heavily. “I dinna ken, my Lady. But it doesna matter, for the deal has been made. If ye deny Einarr his bride and all the alliance and power she brings wi’ her, we’ll no’ have to wait for a raiding party to find us, the Norsemen in our midst will be the end of us.”

  “They are here,” called a voice from outside the hall. “They have landed at the harbour.”

  “We’ve no more time to debate the matter, I fear,” Iseabal sighed.

  “Aye,” Iobhar agreed. “Let's get it over wi’ then, shall we?”

  Seven

  The grand feast commenced as it had in the two autumns past since the alliance was forged, with half the diners in the hall growing steadily more exuberant, raucous and drunk, while the other half tolerated the joviality with stoic grace.

  Einarr and three of his highest ranking men sat at the high table with the chief and his family. It was an honour afforded them by virtue of the respect that they demanded without having earned, and the fear which they continued to instil in the people of Fara.