Legend of the Mist

by Veronica Bale

  “Losing is losing,” Einarr insisted. “There are no cheaters in war, only those clever enough and bold enough to win at all costs.”

  His proclamation was met with a round of gruff cheers by his men, while his opponent eyed the back of Einarr’s cards warily.

  “Dinna ye worry, I’ll watch his cards and see that he plays fair,” Norah assured her clansman.

  “I thought you did not play,” Einarr tossed over his shoulder.

  She smiled slyly. “Aye, sir, I dinna. But that doesna mean I dinna ken how to play.”

  A beam of pride shot through Torsten at his lady’s wit. Then he immediately chastised himself for thinking of her as his lady ... again.

  As the game got underway more spectators gathered. Large, powerful shoulders from both sides jostled each other for space. Norah and Torsten had begun the game a respectful distance apart, but slowly found themselves being pushed closer and closer until their arms were pressed together.

  The moment they touched, Torsten lost the last fragment of concentration he had for the game. His heart thrummed in his ears as her scent and her presence overwhelmed him. His entire body yearned for her. He imagined slipping his arm around her waist and pressing his lips into the hollow of her neck. He imagined burying his face in her silky hair. His ill-advised dreaming began to assert itself dangerously against the fabric of his braies, and he began to panic for if he did not stop, his desire for her would be visible to everyone.

  Worst of all, he thought she sensed his inner turmoil. And was enjoying it! She gave no outward sign of it, but he could read her thoughts by her very presence ... if such a thing was possible.

  Which it was not.

  Ridiculous!

  Odin’s arsch, what was happening to him?

  The moment the game ended he made his excuses and left the hall in much the same way Garrett had: as if the floor beneath his feet was made of brimstone. Little good it did; the moment he stepped outside into the night air, thoughts of Norah returned.

  Damn the incessant fog and heat! It was disorienting; did nothing to help a man clear his mind. Angrily he kicked at the rippling blanket, sending a wave of white up in front of him. As it sifted back down to earth, the mist closed in around him, blinding him with whiteness.

  Was it his overwrought nerves, or had the mist had acted ... consciously?

  Before he had a chance to dismiss the notion, he saw it: a face. Her face. But not quite. The shape was slightly longer, the eyes more like the shape of almonds, as exotic as the fruit itself. The hair, though, was the same deep red, like blood, and wrapped in a band of gold.

  And a symbol, a symbol which was frighteningly familiar and yet which he’d never seen in his life, was painted on her cheek. Pale blue.

  She smiled, reached for him, and called a word which he didn’t quite hear, in a language he did not know.

  Or not a word, but perhaps ... a name.

  His mind was shattering, it must be! Furiously he waved his arms through the mist, disturbing the illusion, and tramped towards the harbour where he jumped into one of the empty row boats tied loosely to the stone dock. Gripping the oars fixed to the sides he rowed himself back to Rysa Beag at full speed. Though his arms soon began to burn from exertion, not once did he slow.

  Even the distance gave him no reprieve, for that night his dreams were assailed by faces. Painted faces with the same symbols of blue; beautiful faces which called to him, beckoning him home.

  “Have fun last night, Torsten?” called Freyr the next morning. He grinned devilishly as Torsten slinked out of Einarr’s lavish timber dwelling.

  “What are you on about?” he replied, annoyed.

  “We heard you moaning across the way all night. My first thought was that you had a woman in your bed entertaining you; only I know there are no women here. Entertaining yourself were you? Might want to keep it down a bit like the rest of us do so as not to disturb those who want to sleep.”

  Torsten scowled and brushed past the Viking captain, swearing at him as he did.

  “Don’t be so sensitive,” Freyr laughed, “you’re not the only one who misses a nice, soft fitta.”

  At the morning meal he found himself repeatedly gazing across the room to where Norah sat, at the end seat of the high table. The recognition which he’d felt the first time he saw her was no longer an intangible notion that he couldn’t explain.

  It was a boulder that had been thrown at his head, leaving him dazed.

  “You’re going to have to get in line, I’m having the first turn,” said the man next to him.

  “Are you krasa?” demanded Torsten. “Einarr will have your head if you touch her. And then I’ll have your arsch.”

  “What do you mean touch her? I was talking about that dunga next to her.”

  Torsten’s brows pulled together. “That is her brother, and I suspect he might kill any man that tried to crawl into his bed.”

  The man looked at him as if he had worms crawling from his ears. “Now I think you are the one that’s krasa. I’m talking about fighting the veslingr, not buggering him.”

  Torsten shook his head, feeling rather foolish. “Of course you are, forgive me. Why, what’s he done?”

  “You have not noticed? I thought that was what you were staring at. He’s been giving us challenging glares the whole meal. The boy needs to be taught a lesson, he does.”

  From across the room Iobhar noticed the attention Garrett was attracting.

  “Dinna be testing them,” he warned his nephew. “There’s no’ a one of them that willna hesitate to take up yer challenge.”

  His warning came too late, for the Norseman who had been talking to Torsten had already made up his mind. As soon as the diners had filed out of the fortress to begin their day, a large hand clapped onto Garrett’s shoulder just outside the main entrance.

  “You want fight?” the man said in poorly articulated Gaelic. “You look bad at me, you fight me, ja?”

  “Come on, leave it,” Torsten said to the man in Norse.

  But Garrett welcomed the confrontation. He stepped forward, rising to the larger man’s invitation. The man grinned and began walking backwards, his arms open, daring Garrett to follow him farther onto the open ground.

  “Ye bloody fool,” Iobhar barked, gripping Garrett’s arms and holding him back. “Ye’ll ruin everything we’ve achieved here, and that’s after he splits ye in two.”

  “I can take him,” Garrett growled, straining against his uncle’s grasp.

  “Ye’ll no’,” Fearchar commanded, wrapping his arms around his son’s waist. “I forbid it, lad.”

  “Leave him be,” Torsten repeated to his comrade. “What will you prove by killing him?”

  “I’ll prove that he’s a Hruga uskit’r, that’s what,” the man snapped back, eloquent in his own tongue.

  “He is the brother of Einarr’s bride. Einarr will not thank you for killing him.”

  Torsten did not need to say anything more, for it was clear that there would be no fight. Garrett was already being pulled back into the fortress by a number of his clansmen.

  The Norseman who had instigated the confrontation sneered. “Looks like I won’t get the chance to kill him after all,” he announced to his companions. “It is time for the little barn to have some warm milk and a nap.”

  Taunting laughter filled the air. Norah, who had witnessed the transaction, stared after Garrett with sympathy. Then, glancing at the faces remaining, she realized with chagrin that a number of curious young eyes had witnessed the scene as well. They stared after Garrett, some in awe, some in fear, and some in confusion over what had just happened.

  “Come children, shall we see if Lady Iseabal will tell us all a story?” she said brightly.

  “Yes, please,” answered a chorus of small voices.

  “Oh, really, ye wee devils, canna ye go play?” Lady Iseabal sighed. “I’ve work to do.” When they would not let her go she relented. “Alright, alright. Come then, gather yers
elves round.”

  “Here, my Lady? Outside?” Greine queried.

  “Why no’? I dinna think I want to be inside wi’ sour old Garrett anyway.”

  Arranging herself on the ground in as ladylike a fashion as she could, she waved the excited children closer. Even Cinead stayed to hear one of the lady’s beloved stories. He stood himself behind the group, a little behind Norah in a protective stance. A shepherd to his flock.

  To Iseabal’s surprise, a handful of Norse remained to hear the story as well, and stood in a semi-circle behind the group of children.

  Cinead glared at the two men immediately flanking him, and folded his arms tersely over his scrawny chest.

  “I wasna expecting such an audience,” Iseabal laughed nervously as the mist closed over her lap.

  “We are many of us fathers, too,” Freyr answered. “It is always nice to hear stories we ourselves have not told hundreds of times over. You do not mind, do you?”

  “Of course no’, sir. Now then, wee bairns, what story shall I tell?”

  “The one about the priest and the faerie,” chirped Roisin.

  “Nay, I’m sick to death of that one,” Cinead barked.

  “The warrior and the gull, Mama,” Friseal called as he plunked himself down on his brother Madeg’s lap.

  “I told ye that one just last night,” Madeg said, his newly changing voice cracking awkwardly.

  “What about the legend, my Lady?” Greine suggested, glancing shyly at the Norsemen from under her lashes. “Our guests havena heard it before, and ye havena told it for a long time.”

  “Legend?” inquired one of the Vikings.

  “Aye, the legend of Fara’s mist,” Lady Iseabal confirmed, allowing a touch of mystery to colour her voice as all good storytellers do. “Would ye like to hear it, gentlemen?”

  Raising their brows to one another, they shrugged their powerful shoulders and nodded their great heads.

  “Fine then,” Iseabal began. “Many centuries ago—just how many no one kens wi’ any certainty—there were a lovely young lass who lived on the island of Fara. Her beauty, ‘tis said, were unparalleled. Her lips were as red and full as an English rose; her skin as smooth and fresh as cream. And her eyes: such beautiful eyes they were, eyes the colour of the sea before a storm ...”

  Torsten, too, had stayed. Not because he had any interest in hearing the story, but because it was where Norah was. He had set himself directly across from her so that he could gaze upon her face as often as he wished. Her eyes, today a soft spring green, swept over the gaggle of children with something akin to maternal pride. The expression on her face squeezed at Torsten’s heart.

  Forget for a moment that he could not bear the idea of her marrying his brother, this maid was simply too good for Einarr. Too pure and gentle.

  Simmering over the thought, Torsten listened to the tale Lady Iseabal wove with only half an ear. At first.

  As the story of the legend progressed, however, he found himself absorbed in her words. Like a moth drawn to the flame that would burn it. The lady of the mist; her love for the warrior; the battle. He’d never before heard this story told.

  And yet he knew it.

  With dawning horror Torsten listened to Iseabal’s account of the fighting, and images began to swirl before his eyes: a legion of warriors marching in perfect formation; brass helmets adorned with crimson plumes; tunics belted with the Roman balteus; swords strapped to uniformly armoured backs. They swarmed the island, their movements precise, their tactics deadly.

  Then, more swirling images of the helpless pictii warriors—the painted people, the soldiers called them. Their symbols of woad ran red with their own blood as they were cut down in droves, defenceless against this new and unbeatable army.

  He nearly cried out at the last, merciless image to show itself. He saw Norah ... or not Norah ... watching helplessly, her green eyes wide with terror. Her beautiful mouth opened, and she screamed as a soldier raised his blade high.

  But not for her; it was not she who would receive its fatal blow. The gleaming steel of the sword flashed in his eyes as it swooped down in an arc and then ...

  Nothing. Blackness. The vision was gone.

  “Heartbroken, the maid cast herself into the sea, unable to bear the thought of a life wi’out her love. But here, children, here is where tale turns to legend. Ye see, it is said among the islanders that, to this day, the lady drifts in the mists of Fara, her spirit hovering over its rocky shores and gentle hills. In this ethereal form she shrouds her island, waiting for her lost love to return to her ...”

  When Iseabal had begun her story, Norah knew that Torsten was watching her, knew that he had placed himself across from her so that he could observe her. But soon it was she that began watching him.

  As soon as Iseabal spoke of the warrior, and of his love for the maid, the blood drained from Torsten’s face and his attention turned inward. He was seeing something in his mind’s eye. She knew what it was like to experience such visions all too well. They dominated the senses, took away one’s sight and replaced it with things seen long ago.

  Torsten was seeing things from long ago now. He was remembering. Just as she remembered watching him, her warrior love, die by the sword of a Roman soldier. Just as she remembered the call of the sea, that cruel, taunting call that offered release from her unbearable grief in exchange for a watery grave.

  These visions were not madness. They were memories. And she was not the only one who possessed them.

  She let Torsten leave when the story ended; she did not follow. His distress was evident, and was noticed by more than just her.

  “Torsten,” the one called Freyr shouted after him. But Torsten did not stop.

  He was not yet ready to admit to himself what she already knew: that he had lived a life before this one. And that she had lived it with him.

  The legend of the mist was their story.

  Though he did not accept it now, he would in time. And time was something she could give him, for fate was not yet ready to alter the course which others expected them to follow. Whatever form it chose to take, her destiny lingered still in the distance.

  Twelve

  When dawn broke the next day, Torsten was not aboard any of the birlinns or smaller vessels which arrived at Fara’s harbour. Nor the next day. Nor the next. He stayed away, though the pull of the island across the channel was almost unbearable. Long hours he spent staring across the water to the mass of white fog, his thoughts rolling about in his brain like a boiling kettle.

  This desire he felt for Norah, his brother’s betrothed, was unconscionable. It was a desire which went far beyond lust—though he could not deny that his lust for her alone was enough to shatter his mind. He wanted to possess her, to possess every part of her down to the smallest thought that might flutter through her mind. And he wanted her to possess him just as completely. It was a desire which he’d never before imagined could be possible.

  He stayed away to rid his mind of her. Of Fara. Little good it did him.

  He filled the agonizing hours with busywork. Freyr was in need of furniture for his growing family; Einarr’s captain may have built a beautiful, two-storey timber home, but he had yet to add beds in which his family might sleep, or tables at which his family might eat their meals.

  Torsten appreciated the company; the mindless prattle Freyr offered was a distraction for his wandering thoughts. But Freyr, like all the others, journeyed to Fara at least twice daily to enjoy the hospitality of the Gallach chief. His absence left Torsten with more time alone than he would have liked.

  In between the time he spent crafting his goods Torsten would occasionally swim in the waters that licked at Rysa Beag’s shore. The heat which continued could be unbearable at times, and he craved the cool water on his skin.

  Alone, he would travel to a narrow strip of untamed beach from which Fara could be glimpsed in the distance. Here, the floor of the sea dropped steeply, allowing Torsten to pull himself down
, down as far as he could go before his lungs began to ache. The further down he went the colder and darker the water became. He welcomed the numbness it brought to his tortured mind.

  But all too often he would realize when he surfaced that he was much closer to Fara than he’d thought. No matter which way he faced when he descended he found himself heading out to the distant, misted island when he re-emerged.

  He would have blamed it on the current, except that the current which passed between Fara and Rysa Beag was weak, and should have dragged anything in its path out to the open sea.

  After three days of his self-imposed banishment, Torsten reached his breaking point. Staying away was doing nothing to cure him of the desire for either Norah or her island.

  It was rather convenient that Einarr provided the perfect excuse for his return.

  “I’ve had enough of your brooding,” he stated late one evening when he returned to find Torsten sanding a set of benches he’d carved for Freyr’s hall. “You’ve built enough furniture for all the houses in Skaney. I’ll have you know that the Lady Iseabal has asked for you several times. She worries that you do not come because she has offended you in some way.”

  “Of course she has not offended me. Never in my life have I encountered such hospitality. The fact that it is offered to us Norse barbarians on pain of death makes it all the more remarkable.”

  “I’ll ignore that,” Einarr grimaced. “Then what is it, the food? Is there not enough ale to slake your thirst?”

  “Stop being an arsch. We’re not all gluttons like you and your men.”

  “Then tell me, why do you not come?”

  Torsten hesitated, unable to find a plausible explanation.

  “If you have no reason, then I must insist you end this little hiding you’re so determined to carry out,” Einarr demanded. “Come back. I have not engaged in training with the Gallach warriors in quite a while, not since we’ve returned from the a-viking season. The men and I were keen on holding a quick lesson to sharpen their skills tomorrow after we’ve broken our fast.”

  “You’ve been training them for three years. Their skills are not sharp enough after all that time?”