by Delle Jacobs
The circle widened, spinning in a slow turn about the stones, around the fires. Arienh rose to her feet, drawn by the compelling force. Closer, closer. Stepping into the circle, she raised her arms, to touch, yet not, upon the shoulders of the dancers. Daringly, she raised her foot to begin a dance that had been reserved for men since time began. The spirits drew her in, enclosing her with an aching, welcoming warmth. Of their own accord, her feet began the steps, surefooted, in complicated patterns that were both familiar and untried.
The circle expanded as if it meant to fill the earth.
Women. Her mother, gone so long, she could not even remember mourning her. Aunts, children she had not known, yet knew. Forms of those gone before her birth. She saw them clearly now, ethereally real, the old ones, who had always come at Beltane, who had been coming since long before her birth. Celt, Not-Celt, even the ancient ones. She knew them all by the way they touched her soul, knew the feel of their ancient blood still coursing through her veins.
She danced, danced with all of them, man, woman, child, Celt and Not-Celt. The pace quickened, whirled around the circle. Hands clasped living and spirit, the eternal living thread of time that had no beginning nor end. In the dance, she embraced them all, spinning back to a time when everything was whole.
Tears streamed down her cheeks in hot, stinging trails, and still she danced, caught each ghostly partner by the arm, swinging round, took the next, knowing each, loving, aching, hungering, mourning each one she had lost. Remembering the wonder that had been their lives, that she could never have again. Her feet flew through the rapid steps known to her only from watching, understanding now what she had never understood before, the true meaning of a ritual begun in time so ancient there were no words to explain it. It was as if she had been born knowing the dance, had somehow forgotten it, and it was reborn in her. Her throat ached from the pain of her sobs. But here, in the bosom of the dance, among those she loved, it was as if they wrapped her in loving arms and shared her suffering.
The pipe wailed its sadness, the harp plucked its joy. The dancers spun away into lines and pairs, changing, dipping and swaying, a rhythm like the restless sea. Arienh spun around, taking each new partner in turn by hand, or perhaps by soul. Tears poured from her eyes, and she let them flow freely.
Once again, the circle tightened, even though it seemed that all were still there. Across from her, she saw the Viking. Ronan. Drawn, perhaps, by the Celtic part of him, standing motionless within the circle as the spirits swirled around him.
He did not belong. The interloper. She ached for him. Yet had not the Celts once been interlopers? Had not the stone circle been built by the old ones, long in the distant past before there were Celts?
They swarmed about him, these old ones, whirled him in. The Viking melded with the spirits, joining the frenzied steps of the dance as if he, too, had been born with the knowledge.
As the Celts before him had done, as those before the Celts had done, the Viking joined the circle. For the circle was shared by all.
Arienh raised her hands, and the Viking's palms touched hers. His eyes darkened, smoldering with hungry longing as they danced, palm to palm, in the middle of the circle of swirling spirits.
Then would it be true that Vikings would dance with Celts? For surely, the circle would never end. Just as Arienh knew the blood of these ancient ones still flowed in her veins, so the Celts and Vikings would be remembered and revered by those still to come.
She was part of both past and present. And future. The Viking was a part of it all.
Life would go on. And the dead would always return for Beltane. They would never be lost.
She blinked at her fading tears, and through them saw the circle of dancers dwindle into shadows. The Viking was gone. The spirits departed. Niall. Trevor. Father. Mother. Grandfather. All of them, one by one slipped back beyond the mystical veil.
Clean, cold air rushed into her lungs with each new breath. How glorious it was to be a Celt. To be alive, and know one's world was filled with those beloved departed ones.
The circle of dancers was gone.
Had she seen it? Or imagined they were here? Was the Viking really a part, or had she merely wanted him to be there?
Arienh looked back at the women who sat, transfixed, on their blankets. Had they seen what she had? Or had they decided she had suddenly gone demented from that bump on her head?
"Did you see them?" she asked Birgit as she sat again.
"The spirits? Of course not. I could hardly see you."
"They were there," Arienh said, but her voice sounded foolishly weak.
"One doesn't have to see them to know that."
"Nay, I mean it. Truly. I wish just this once you could have seen."
Birgit smiled, wide and dreamily. "Niall, too?"
"Aye. I told you."
"I wondered if he would come back. Once he died, I mean." Birgit swallowed a big, visible lump, and smiled. Arienh thought about how close Birgit and Niall had always been. "I thought he must be dead. Do you think you can let them go now, Arienh?"
Go? Had she been holding them here? Never had she cried for the dead, until the Vikings had come. She had always feared, if she ever began to cry, she would lie down and mourn so deeply she would never be able to get up again. Then the last of the Celts in this valley would have died out, for no one would have been strong enough to keep them alive.
But she understood now, she could not keep her grief buried forever. Perhaps those who were gone had needed for her to grieve for them. And sooner or later, she had to let it loose, and with it, let go of that terrible, possessive fear for all those who remained. Aye, she would lose them all someday, if they did not lose her first. She could not stop what was meant to be. But none were truly lost.
"Aye," she answered at last. "They will be back next year."
She sat in silence beside her sister, studying the flames, cherishing the moments past. The ancients, the vision of the Viking dancing with them. "Where are the Vikings?" she asked.
"I don't think they're coming back," said Birgit.
"I suppose not."
"We haven't been very nice, have we?"
She didn't answer. It was all such a tangle.
Birgit's pale eyes, almost golden by the firelight, stared at her demandingly "He deserves better than this, Arienh. You wouldn't be alive if it weren't for him."
"I know. But I don't think he wants me anymore. But I can't blame him for not understanding what I can't say."
"We were better off starving than we are with this kind of misery. Go to him, Arienh. You can think of something."
She shook her head, feeling a surge of moisture in her eyes.
"Nay, it's all right, Arienh. I am resigned. Their hearts are kind, you know that. And no mother can keep her son forever. If you don't do something, I will."
Arienh sighed. "If only they had found some other place to settle, someplace where Vikings have never been."
"Do you know what you just said?"
And it slowly came to her. That was what the dance was telling her. Ronan was right. It was only his Viking blood that kept them apart. Only what men of his kind had done before, what was said about them, none of it true of the man she had come to know and love. Nay, they would not harm Birgit, any more than they would eat children.
But they would take Liam, believing that they must. And no matter what Birgit said, it would destroy her.
From the dark edge of the bonfire, Mildread strolled casually in their direction, her hands clutching her heavy shawl about her shoulders. "Arienh, have you seen the girls?" Arienh caught Birgit's gaze, puzzled. Birgit answered, frowning. "I thought they were with you. Liam went to play with them."
"Aye, he came. But they said they were coming back here. I do not see them anywhere."
"They can't be far," Arienh said. "I think they were dancing around the stones just a moment ago."
But only silence came from the stones.
Togeth
er, she and Birgit rose from their blanket, shaking out their clothes. None of the children were in sight. And no childish giggles emanated from hidden places. She knew exactly where they would find them, clustered behind the stones, up to no good. She just hoped Liam wasn't playing with fire again.
With quieted steps, the women sneaked up on the far stones, pointing and signaling in hushed voices. Birgit took the left, Arienh circled to the right, each step careful and silent as they sneaked around the tallest upright stone, prepared to snatch children from certain devilment.
Nothing. Arienh fumbled about in the stone's shadow, but found no sign that the children had been there. Looking up, she caught Mildread's anxious frown from where she stood, next to the neighboring stone.
"Bring a torch," she said. Elli nodded and returned to the bonfire. Arienh pictured Liam stealing a spark of fire with a twig, sneaking off with the girls to light their own fire. Sometimes the boy's curiosity and mischief were beyond bearing.
A father would have contained him. Channeled his curiosity.
Birgit rubbed her hands, but smiled. "They can't be far. They just don't mean for us to catch them at their mischief."
Taking a torch from Elli, Arienh circled the outer perimeter of the stones. Of the seven children, none could be seen or heard.
"Maybe they got bored and went home," Elli suggested.
Mildread huffed. "They live all year for Beltane."
"Well, down the valley, then."
"The stream," cried Mildread suddenly. "Oh, not the stream. They're playing in the water!"
"Nay, we'd hear them," Birgit replied.
Arienh grabbed Birgit's hand and ran down the path toward the little rill that rushed out of the hills and joined the stream just above the Bride's Well. No sign of children.
"What could they be up to?" Terror trembled in Birgit's voice.
Beneath their feet, the ground vibrated, then rumbled, like the roar of floodwater broken loose from an earthen dam.
Horses? Horses with riders. Out of the depth of forest darkness came riders, barreling down on the clutch of women.
"Vikings!"
"Run!" Shrieking women scattered up the narrow valley sides. Riders thundered through, snatching up women. Arienh grabbed Birgit's hand, tugging her toward shadows and safety. Birgit screamed, suddenly wrenched away from her grasp.
"Help! Arienh, help me!"
"Birgit!" Arienh ran screaming after the rider.
Birgit's voice suddenly muffled as the rider, with his horse and his awkward prize, rushed on, up the hill, and plunged through the circle.
Arienh sped up the steep trail of the small gorge, and ran into the stone circle toward the Beltane fire, hoping the horse would shy from it. She was too late. No sign of them remained.
If she could just get away, get help...
Wait. Something wasn't quite right.
Pounding hooves grew louder. Louder, closer. She glanced over her shoulder just as the dark rider leaned from his saddle and swooped her off her feet. As a jolt of pain jabbed through her injured shoulder, she bit back a scream.
Kicking, squirming against the iron-hard band of muscle that pinned her arms to her side, she fought helplessly. The rider's opposite hand found the dagger in her sash and tossed away.
"Give it up," the rider shouted. "You're my prisoner now. I've caught you fairly."
She knew his voice, knew his scent. Knew the very feel of his arms around her.
Ronan. Up to more mischief than the children.
That would have been Egil, then, who had grabbed Birgit. Help me, indeed. Birgit had lied to her. Deliberately deceived her.
And glancing back over Ronan's shoulder, she saw the red-bearded blacksmith down on his knees before Elli as she stood beside the glow of the bonfire.
The little horse struggled under its double burden as Ronan goaded it across the circle and into the forest gloom beyond.
"Put me down. Ronan, stop this!"
"Nay, my sweet. You're my captive. What sort of Viking would release his captive? We'll be there soon."
"Where?"
"My secret lair. Vikings have lairs, you know."
If he kept going this direction, it would take them to the high knoll overlooking the stone circle and the Irish Sea. She supposed it was a good place for a lair, knowing his most likely purpose. She smiled. He cared, after all.
"What are you doing?" She laughed to herself at her deliberate tone of irritation. "The children. What did you do with the children?"
"Captives, every one. Wynne and Gunnar are holding them for ransom."
"Captives? What is this?"
"Simple, love. You expect us to act like Vikings. We're giving you what you ask for."
"What's the ransom?"
"Wives. Submit to us and be our wives, or never have your children back. Wynne and Gunnar will keep them forever."
The little horse whuffed as it climbed the slope, struggling against the steepness. Ronan halted the beast at the top of the knoll where the forest bordered the grassy plateau. He leapt down and lifted Arienh to the ground.
"What if I escape?" She caught herself rubbing her sore shoulder, and stopped. He hadn't meant to bump it.
He laughed. "You won't. You're much too curious."
Aye, she was that. "What about Birgit?"
"You're too late to rescue her this time. I'm sorry to tell you, but she has already surrendered. They are no doubt already handfast."
She gasped. "Married? But she's…"
Even in the darkness of the forest, she could see his angled brows flipping wickedly. "Egil doesn't care. She is his captive forever. She will be forced to accept Wynne's pampering and the assistance of Viking as well as Celt."
Arienh hid her grin. Even if Ronan couldn't see it in the darkness, she knew it would infect her speech.
"And you, my haughty prize, will submit to me."
She could grow to like this game. "Submit to a Viking? Never."
At the edge of the forest, she spotted a bower of bent branches trimmed gaily with spring flowers, and floored with the fur of the great white bear. So that's what the men had been doing that had kept them away from the village all day. Someone had snitched about the Celtic tradition of lovers. Most likely Birgit. If not Mildread. Or Selma. Liam, without question.
It was no wonder everyone had been rebelling. She was still treating them like they were her children, needing her to decide everything for them. But her children were growing up. And they knew this time, she was wrong.
The moon just before morning, full and bright, bathed even the grassy slopes with its silver. His arm slid about her waist, and she leaned into him, standing by the bower he had built at the crest of the knoll. The sky opened to sparkling darkness surrounding the brilliant moon. The dark sea, humming its eternal music, sent crests of rolling whitecaps skimming over its surface like little boats seeking the shore.
He wrapped his arms around her, unwittingly catching her injured shoulder that had been jarred by the rough ride.
"Ow!"
"Your shoulder? Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot."
"Some Viking you are. A Viking would never apologize."
"I suppose I don't make a very good one. But then I've been trying to tell you that."
She had to laugh. He was her Viking, always would be, in her heart. How odd it was that when he made her dream come true, she had refused to accept it.
He stood behind her, massaging her sore shoulder gently, a tender, loving touch. Yet when she had expected him to toss her onto the furs in his naturally exuberant way, he held back. For what?
"I dreamed for years of coming back here," he said, "but you are not at all the woman I expected to find."
Was he disappointed in her? She was not much of a woman. Too harsh and abrupt. Not particularly good at the things a woman ought to be doing. She leaned back against him, turning her cheek to rest against his shoulder, wishing she could be more like the woman of his dreams.
He tu
rned her in his arms to face him, and let his huge, gentle fingers brush back the loose strands of her hair, a hopeless struggle of power against the early morning wind.
"But that girl would never be enough for me now," he said.
He cupped her cheeks in his hands. "You are the wind and fire, you are the stones. You are my magnificent Celtic warrior woman. You are my dreams as I never dared dream them. Be my wife, my love."
He was so beautiful. Never had he been so beautiful as he was this moment. She let her fingers trace the edge between moonlight and shadow on his face, newly discovering the wonder.
There was a time for surrender, after all.
She felt released. Giddiness came over her, and she giggled like a young girl. "My Viking. Even if you don't make a very good one."
He laughed, and great, smoky wickedness rapidly darkened his eyes. "Blood will tell."
With a swift arm behind her back he swept her down onto soft furs so quickly that the breath was almost knocked from her. Just as quickly, he threw his huge body atop her, pinning her down from her lips to her toes. His knee slid between her knees as his hands laced into her hair and wound it through his fingers. "I'm going to make love to you until you are silly with passion and pleasure."
His lips descended to capture hers, slanting across her mouth and gently forcing access. She savored the lush, sensual pleasure. "You're going to ravish me?"
"Won't be necessary," he retorted. "You'll give me everything I want."
That was the truth.
The dark fringe of his eyelids shuttered down over his eyes as he lowered lips to capture hers. Above her head, the early morning sky lightened and flickered through the bower of bent branches. She wiggled her arm around his waist beneath his tunic. He stiffened and groaned.
Once again his lips found hers, but did not linger long before blazing a searing trail down her throat while his fingers caught the hem of her kirtle and raised it.
A shiver fluttered up her skin from the cool air and his fingers that skimmed along her hips and up her sides as the garment lifted, momentarily blocking her view of him.
