Legend of the Mist

by Veronica Bale

  Cook, it appeared, had exaggerated the degree to which young Friseal had ruined the meal, for while the pottage was indeed no more than mutton-flavoured barley and unfit to be served, there were also roast meats, pies, breads and cheeses to be had. And ale; barrels and barrels of ale which the Vikings consumed as readily as if it were water.

  “Your kitchen deserves high praise, as always,” Einarr declared between mouthfuls of roast mutton which he ripped from the joint clutched in his large fist. “If I were to say I look forward to returning to Fara each autumn for the food alone, it would not be far from the truth. Of course I also enjoy the company of your people, Chief Feh-ruh-ker.”

  “I thank ye, sir,” Fearchar answered humbly. “Cook will be pleased to hear it.”

  “Tell me, if you will, where is that delightful serving girl, the one with the ample—oh, I do not know your word for it but we would say arsch. You know the one I mean, ja?”

  “That is Brillidh.”

  “Ja, Bree-ah. As wonderful an arsch as ever I’ve seen. What is your word for it? You did not tell me.”

  “We would say bottom, sir.”

  “I think arsch sounds better,” Einarr remarked, and his companions at the high table chuckled in response. “I have not seen your Bree-ah or her arsch since I have returned. She has not come to any harm, I hope?”

  “Nay, she hasna. She has wed the barrel maker, Hamish, nearly a year ago now. They live in the village wi’ their wee bairn, a lad, just two months old.”

  “Ah, what a shame,” Einarr lamented. But he soon overcame his disappointment as a fresh pitcher of ale was brought to the table.

  Fearchar breathed a sigh of relief, and glanced knowingly at Iseabal, who sat on his other side and had been listening to the conversation. When Einarr had begun to ask where the girl Brillidh was, they had both thought he’d been about to ask after Norah, for their daughter had not appeared for the meal as she should have. Norah missing a meal was not unusual, and both Fearchar and Iseabal turned a blind eye to the absences, though it was improper. Their attempts to curb the girl’s strange behaviour had never done any good. But she had known the Norsemen were returning, had even been dressed specially by Iseabal for the occasion. She knew well she was expected to attend this meal. And to mind herself.

  “Where in bloody hell is she?” he hissed to his wife.

  “I dinna ken,” she whispered back.

  “Iobhar?”

  His brother, seated on Iseabal’s left, shook his head.

  No sooner had they rejoined the conversation at the table than the object of their irritation appeared at the entrance to the hall.

  To their dismay she was markedly dishevelled. Her fine silk tunic and the cream-coloured sleeves of her linen shift were smudged with dirt. What had the lass been doing, napping on a bare patch of dirt? Her rich, auburn hair was also dirt-streaked and discoloured, and the beautiful strands which that morning had been so artfully bound now hung limp and untamed about her face. She gazed around the room, her green eyes glazed and unfocussed. Then, catching her father’s furious glare from across the floor, she straightened and rubbed her eyes with the palms of her dirty hands, leaving further streaks of dirt to mark her unusually pale cheeks.

  Understanding too well the degree of trouble in which she had landed herself, Norah crossed the hall. The diners stared at her as she passed, fixing her with a variety of looks which ranged from curiosity to outright disapproval. She refused to acknowledge the attention, but her cheeks flamed red as she took her seat at the end of the table next to Garrett.

  I am sorry, she mouthed to her father across the distance.

  His daughter’s obvious regret over her absence doused the flames of Fearchar’s anger, though he rallied to keep them alive. Her innocent eyes, wide and trusting, held his across the table, begging his forgiveness.

  Begging his forgiveness, indeed! It was he who needed to beg her forgiveness for the bargain he had made three years past.

  His guilt over the union, he knew, was misplaced. He was chief, and she his daughter—by all rights his property. She would not be the first or the last noble’s daughter to be married strategically.

  For all its truth, Fearchar had never been able to see any of his children as property. To treat Norah as such now, fragile, mad Norah, whose unnatural disposition rendered her in need of his protection more than the others, ate at Fearchar’s conscience.

  It mattered not, though, for the bargain had been made. A bitter taste rose in his mouth as Einarr gazed down the length of the table at his bride-to-be. The Norseman’s sharp, cold eyes assessed his prize with obvious lust. Fearchar swallowed the outrage which welled in his chest over the blatant display.

  “I trust you will make the announcement soon, ja?” Einarr murmured to the chief.

  “Aye, I will. She will be yers as promised. I willna go back on my word.”

  “I did not think you would.”

  The meal continued with no further incident. The Norse diners provided the hall with the jovial voices of the increasingly drunk, and the Gallachs participated more reservedly in the conversation where they could.

  When finally the trenchers had been cleared from the tables, and before the ale rendered its consumptors too drunk to listen, Fearchar made his announcement. Slowly, and with his stomach churning, he pressed his hands to the slatted board of the trestle table and stood.

  “My friends,” he called into the roar of the hall. When his own hoarse voice failed to earn much notice, he called again, louder. “My friends, I wish to speak.”

  Gradually the conversation dimmed enough that he could continue.

  “These past years have been difficult on us all. We shall never forget those no longer at our tables, those no longer here wi’ us in this life.” Before the Viking presence in the hall could consider the remark a slight he added, “but we are fortunate to have made a new and powerful alliance in this time of uncertainty wi’ the great Einarr Alfradsson and his men. And though we have lost many whom we have loved, we, Clan Gallach, are stronger and better for it.

  “Ye dinna ken, however, that this alliance was bought at a price,” he continued, and those at the high table beside him stiffened visibly. Except Norah, that was, who stared blankly into the crowd. “Einarr’s men have returned to Fara each autumn, and have wintered wi’ us, teaching our men to defend our clan from the battle tactics of the Viking raiders, but we canna have expected they would do so wi’out something in return. Ye dinna ken, my friends, that a bargain were made to secure this alliance. And since Einarr has upheld his end of it, I must now uphold mine.”

  Fearchar swallowed thickly, his hands shaking and his voice growing unsteady. “And that is ... that is I ... I have agreed that our people will be bonded through the marriage of my eldest daughter, Norah, to Sir Einarr.”

  There was a gasp, and a general fluttering from the islanders in the hall as they looked to one another, wide eyed.

  Norah, though, did not immediately register her father’s revelation since she had not been paying attention. She’d found the words had been disjointed. They bounced off one another in her head, scattering into fragments of sound. But the sudden silence brought them crashing together into harsh meaning.

  Marriage!

  Her already pale face grew even paler. She gazed with slow horror at her father, not entirely believing that he was serious. The grave expression with which he gazed back at her confirmed he did not jest.

  Beside him, Einarr stood from the table. He peered down at her, his expression full of triumph. His chiselled, deeply tanned face surrounded by golden braids frightened her; his cold, blue eyes pierced her soul. Shattering the fine, delicate barrier which existed within her, which separated her sanity from her madness.

  She could not marry this man. He was not the one. Her life, her soul was inextricably connected with Fara. Whatever grand destiny, or sorry fate, awaited her, this Viking leader had no part in it whatsoever. Her madness was a like tale, a
legend in its own right etched into her being as if in stone. Though she could not read its words, could not decipher its meaning, the tale was unalterable.

  And it did not include the name Einarr Alfradsson.

  “N-No,” Norah stammered, shaking her head. “No, Father, I canna.”

  Fearchar’s face darkened. He had anticipated her disapproval, expected it even. But he had not considered that she would outright refuse in front of the entire clan and their Norse guests. Her shaking head and her flat denial of his will embarrassed him; embarrassed the proud name of Gallach.

  “Ye can, and ye will, lass,” he said evenly. “Get ye, upstairs. Now.”

  “Come, Norah,” Garrett urged beside her. “Come upstairs wi’ me, will ye?” Gently, he lifted her by the elbow and led her from the hall. Fearchar followed with Iseabal at his side; Iobhar trailed behind Einarr. No one else dared move or speak as they left.

  Norah’s chin swayed from shoulder to shoulder absently; her vision blurred and the hall darkened. She felt the light touch of Garrett’s hand on her elbow, perceived the colours of objects as they slipped past her on her way. Her knees bent and lifted her feet one after the other as she mounted the wooden stairs of the keep. Conscious action, however, was not behind any of it. Her mind had turned inward, revolving at a furious pace.

  She could not marry Einarr, she simply could not. She did not know exactly what her fate was meant to be, but this was not it. He was not it. He would take her away, take her over the water. And water would be her end. Did the man not see that? Did Father not see that? They had to know that she would die if she married Einarr Alfradsson, they simply had to!

  “Father please, I canna marry him,” she begged when the group reached the upper floor of the keep and the door shut behind them. The fire was not lit, and the last of the evening light was disappearing rapidly, swallowed up into the mist which spilled into the room over the windowsills.

  “Enough, daughter,” Fearchar insisted. “Ye’ll marry him. Ye’ll do as I say.”

  “I promise, I will be fair and gentle with you, fifla,” Einarr put in. “You will want for nothing as long as you are an obedient and good vif.”

  “But—but I canna be yer wife, sir. I’m sorry, but ‘tis impossible.”

  “Norah, for heaven’s sake, shut yer trap,” Iobhar growled. “Ye dinna have a choice, lass.”

  “This were yer destiny three years past, daughter,” Fearchar agreed. “It’s time ye meet it, for Einarr has been patient.”

  “Patient?”

  “It were yer father that asked the marriage wait a few years,” Iseabal explained gently.

  Norah looked around at the occupants of the room, taking in one face after another. They all stared back with a range of expressions: Iseabal and Fearchar with concern and regret; Iobhar with impatience; Einarr with satisfaction. Garrett was the only one among them that could not meet her eyes.

  “Garrett?” she implored, her voice wavering.

  He raised his chin and lowered it again. “Aye, Norah, Father speaks true. ‘Tis time.”

  “Ye ... ye kent? Ye kent and ye said nothing to me?”

  “What would I have said even if I could have?”

  The realization that they had all conspired against her—all of them, even Garrett—washed over Norah like the waves of the winter sea. Her knees buckled and she sunk to the ground. She’d been betrayed by the people who were meant to protect her. Dazed and silent, she stared into the empty fire pit.

  “Well then, that’s settled,” Fearchar said heavily. Addressing Einarr, he concluded, “We’ll back to the hall, sir. Norah, I think it best ye remain here for the rest of the night. Collect yerself, and make peace wi’ yer future, aye?”

  They departed quietly, leaving Norah alone in the keep. With only the silent mist for company. It swirled around her, enveloping her in its folds.

  She wished bitterly that it would swallow her into oblivion.

  * * *

  Night settled over Fara, shielding its sleeping inhabitants under its black, starless canopy. Most of the Norsemen had returned to their fledgling settlement on Rysa Beag hours ago, and the grey dawn was still hours away.

  The stifling heat of the day had broken temporarily, forced to recede by the cooler air of the night; though still it was not as cool as it should have been for autumn in the Orkney isles. The slight drop in temperature had caused the normally translucent mist to thicken, to congeal and spread itself over every dip and peak of the land.

  Norah had watched the mass of fog grow and move over the island from the open window of the keep. When the others had retired to their beds, she could not find the sleep to which they so easily succumbed. She had lain, her space encroached upon by a sleeping Roisin, and listened to her sister's steady breathing and the occasional restlessness from dreams. But her eyes had remained open, the longed-for heaviness of her lids elusive. Frustrated, she had ventured into the common room, and had curled up on the windowsill to watch the formless black shapes which loomed in the distant landscape.

  It had not taken very long for the sea to begin its call to her. Its gentle rhythm met her ears, settled itself into the hollows and then crept further into the sanctity of her mind. Frish, frish, it whispered, flowing and ebbing in invitation. Frish, frish; pulling her soul to the inevitability of a watery grave.

  But the pull did not terrify her, not this night. Instead the pull intrigued her, fascinated her. The waves sang their haunting song, promising her death, and Norah found this time that she wanted to listen, was enchanted by the promise.

  Her desire to submit to the sea’s call overwhelmed her. She knew not if she consciously allowed it, or if the pull of the sea was so strong that she could not resist it. Whatever the reason, it called her now and she had no strength to ignore it. No want to ignore it.

  It was this pull, this dark, frightening connection to Fara and to the sea which surrounded it that her father had not understood. Nor her mother, nor Uncle Iobhar, who usually turned a blind eye to her episodes of madness.

  Not even Garrett had understood she was incapable of resisting her fate, her true fate. It was not to marry Einarr Alfradsson; she would die if she did. The sea told her so. It beckoned her, invited her to release her burden beneath their soft, smothering laps instead. To die the way she was meant to die.

  With only a dim awareness that she was moving at all, Norah climbed down from the stone windowsill, helpless to stop what the sea had started. Entranced, she glided over the wooden floor of the keep and noiselessly descended the staircase. As if watching herself at a distance, she allowed the pull of the water to guide her towards it.

  To encourage her to submit to the death she was meant to have.

  And she would submit. She was not afraid anymore.

  It was time to meet her destiny.

  Eight

  For the past several days an unprecedented wave of heat had been smothering the lands of Skaney. Danes, Swedes, Norwegians, and all those other petty tribes which still refused to relinquish their autonomy to these newly recognized high kingdoms suffered as one people an inescapable coating of sticky sweat. It bonded skin to clothes, to leather saddles, and even to itself in the most uncomfortable of places.

  Reaching at long last the shores of the island called Fara, the first thing Torsten noticed was that this mass of unseasonably warm air was plaguing the inhabitants on the northern coast of Scotland as relentlessly as it was the people of his homeland.

  The second thing to impress itself upon him was the mist. It hovered over the island’s beach like a cloak, and was so thick that when the small craft, which he’d charted to bring him the short distance from Norway to Orkney, reached the beach, its hull appeared to cleave it in half. It was a mist made worse no doubt by the temporary reprieve from the oppressive heat brought by the night air.

  Torsten had never seen a mist like it. It curled about his ankles as he hopped from the craft to the pebbled shore, and slid up his calf as if to dra
g him down into an unseen netherworld.

  Somewhere on this desolate island of rock and mist was his brother. Torsten had not seen Einarr in three years. After the raid on Bjarmaland, Torsten made good his promise and had taken up trading—wool, at first, then silk.

  It was quite by accident that he stumbled upon a connection to the spice trade. While negotiating a purchase of crude silk in a tavern in Antioch, Torsten had become involved in a brawl between a trader of cassia spice and the man’s would-be customer. Having stepped in and prevented the fisted dispute from escalating to daggers, Torsten made a friend of the cassia trader, whose name was Gulnaraj. Recognizing not only the advantage of the Norseman’s brawn but also his natural ability to negotiate with a cool head, Gulnaraj offered Torsten a partnership. From that day Torsten had travelled the lands of the East, learning the intricacies of cultures about which he had never dreamed before.

  One year had turned into two, and two had slipped into three. In all that time, Torsten had stayed away from Einarr, away from Hvaleyrr and the reminders of the awful things he’d seen and been a part of. Even at his father’s death Torsten had not returned. His work was a distraction, and he was perfectly content to lose himself in it. Anything to avoid the war and murder into which his brother dragged his men; which his father, until his passing, condoned.

  No one in the East knew of Harald Fairhair; no one in the East would have cared about him even if they had. For that reason alone the East suited Torsten perfectly.

  Einarr must have sensed his brother’s inner turmoil, for he had not once asked Torsten to come home. But now Einarr was to be wed, and the long silence between the two brothers had been broken that spring. When he received Einarr’s message, forwarded to him from Hvaleyrr through a contact he’d left in the eastern lands of Aksum, Torsten had initially been inclined to reject his brother’s request. Seeing Einarr and his men would bring back a flood of memories, of dead faces, which he’d worked so hard to forget.