by Joanna Bell
And who better than Emma? She wouldn't tell anyone. She was solid. She was my best friend and she had my back. I knew that. So what if she thought I was a little nutty, as long as she didn't do anything else?
"You have to promise not to do anything," I said, still disbelieving that what appeared to be about to happen was actually going to happen. "No calling anyone, no telling anyone. You have to promise, Emma."
She looked me right in the eyes. "I promise. I won't tell a soul."
"And you won't think less of me. Even if you think I'm a little crazy, because you're going to think that – you won't let this affect our friendship. Promise."
"Well," Emma said, and I found I was actually comforted by how seriously she was taking things. "As long as this doesn't involve you telling me you're a serial killer or something."
"No," I reassured her, "it's nothing like that."
"OK, well then I promise not to think less of you. I promise that it won't change our friendship. I don't think it will – if anything it'll make us closer, don't you think?"
"I hope so," I responded, my voice heavy with what was about to happen.
We sat there looking at each other for a few moments, waiting. And then I spoke.
"So you know I told you they live in England, right? Willa and Eadgar?"
"Yes."
Was I really doing it? I was. My skin prickled with the anticipation that it could still go very wrong. But Emma was my best friend. I knew her, I trusted her. If I couldn't tell her, who could I tell?
Looking back, I see that my thoughts on Emma's reaction were incredibly naive. I very badly wanted her to believe me, and so I just convinced myself that she would. Or, if she didn't actually believe me, that my story wouldn't change anything between us.
"They do live in England," I continued, swallowing hard as I came up on the big reveal. "They just don't live... now."
Emma tilted her head to the side. "They don't live now? What do you mean by that?"
"I mean they don't live in 2016."
I let the words hang there in the air as Emma gazed at me. After a little while she shrugged. "I'm sorry, Paige, but I have no idea what you're talking about. You knew them when you were younger, you mean? Before 2016?"
There was a little inkling, then, in my mind. A little hint, something in Emma's expression telling me I shouldn't go any further. But, stubborn and already committed, I ignored it.
"No," I replied. "That's not what I mean. What I mean is they live in the past. As far as I've been able to tell they live sometime in the 9th century, in what would be East Anglia on a modern map."
Emma was silent for a little while, and then she laughed. It was an uncomfortable laugh. "What?" She asked. "Paige, you're joking. This is a joke, right? Ugh, I thought you were really going to tell me –"
"It's not a joke."
Poor Emma. She had no idea how to respond. I couldn't blame her, because I knew I would have been just the same way in her situation, as would everyone else we knew. "But," she said, searching for words, "what are you – how did you spend time with them, then? Are we even talking about real people here, Paige? Did you read about them in a book as a child and then imagine they were your friends or something?"
"Oh they're real," I assured her. "They're as real as you sitting there on the sofa, or me telling you all this right now. I've collected oysters with them on the beach outside Caistley, I've played hide-and-seek in the woods close to the –"
"Caistley? Is that where they live? Or, uh, lived?"
"It's where they still live, as far as I know," I replied, feeling a little wobble in my heart at that phrasing – 'as far as I know.'
"And Caistley is," Emma paused, "in the past?"
I nodded.
"And you're saying you've been there? You've been to the past? You're some kind of time-traveler?"
By that point in the conversation, I could already see that I was being 'humored.' Emma was being polite, but even she couldn't completely hide the horrified reaction I thought I glanced on her face for a split-second, before she turned away. And why wouldn't she be horrified? I know I would, if someone I knew and loved came to me with something that sounded like the delusions of a crazy person. But I pushed on anyway, stupidly hoping that if I just kept explaining the details, she would see how sincere I was and that would lead her to believe me.
"I guess I am, yeah. It's, uh, it's been going on a long time. Since I was 5 years old, just after my mom died. So I guess it never really seemed like that big of a deal to me."
"Just after your mom died?" Emma asked.
"Yeah. Why?"
I watched my friend lean back on the couch and put her hands over her face for a second. When she looked back at me I could tell she still wasn't buying anything I was saying. "Just after your mom died, Paige? That's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it? Hasn't it ever occurred to you that maybe a 5 year old who just suffered an extremely traumatic event could come up with a fantasy world or an imaginary friend as a way to cope with it?"
I felt my spine stiffen with offense when Emma said that. "Well," I replied, "I suppose it probably would have occurred to me if Caistley was a place I only remembered from being a little kid. But I kept going there. That's what I'm saying. The last time I went was over two years ago. I know the difference between a dream and reality, Emma. Don't you think you would, too?"
"Are you getting upset with me?" She asked, noticing the change in my tone of voice. "Paige, you must have known I would be skeptical. It's like you said – you're telling me something unbelievable. You can't be mad at me, can you?"
She was right. Of course she was right. But I was still irritated – probably more at myself for ever thinking it would be a good idea to tell anybody else about Caistley.
We continued to talk for awhile – quite a long while, actually, over an hour. Emma asked questions about Caistley, and Willa and Eadgar, and I answered them. But I knew Emma by then, and so I knew she was just being polite. I'd seen her do that before, pepper someone she didn't like or wasn't interested in with questions, feigning an interest she didn't feel. I didn't know if it was a personal quirk or something to do with her Britishness but it didn't feel good to have it directed at me. I felt patronized, humiliated by her lack of belief – which she did not have to state out loud because it was all over her face, and evident in her body language.
And as much as she'd promised nothing would change, it was like I could already feel her pulling away, putting distance between us.
I cried when I went to bed that night, because I knew it had been a mistake to tell Emma, and I knew that my hopes that it would bring us closer together had been dashed – and the opposite affect achieved. I cried for Willa and Eadgar, too, because I missed them and because I still couldn't get the thought that they were out there somewhere, wondering if I was alive or dead, out of my mind.
What I didn't do was drink. I had that one thing going for me. Sleep came blissfully quickly and all night my dream-self ran through the sun-dappled woods outside Caistley, a child again.
In the morning I woke up and stayed in my room until I was sure Emma had already left so I could avoid an awkward situation at breakfast. I had decided, and seemingly during the night as I slept, that I was going to go back home for the weekend. And when I was at home, I was going to go to Caistley again. It was the autumn semester of my junior year and after the disaster that was trying to tell Emma about my childhood experiences in another place and another time, I simply realized that nothing was going to make me feel better or reassure me that Willa and Eadgar were safe and fine and not worrying about my whereabouts except seeing them, speaking to them again.
It was asking for another awkward situation, I knew that. My friends were very likely going to be furious with me for abandoning them without a word. But I couldn't just let them go. So I went home on a Friday evening after my last class got out and had dinner with my dad. After he went to bed I convinced myself to make a short trip to Cai
stley that night, just to see if everything was still in place, if the tree still took me to where it always had, and then to go again the next day when it was light and Willa and Eadgar would be up and about.
As I lay my hands on the trunk of the tree, I was even thinking about possibly staying the night in the woods outside Caistley, if it was warm enough. Eadgar and I had built a crude tree-house when we were around 11 and 12, far enough off the ground to be safe from any animals, and I thought it might be nice to re-experience it. Of course as soon as I got there and saw that strange orange glow in the sky – the one that was to lead to the events that would change my life forever, I forgot all about the tree-house.
Chapter 16
9th Century
I am in the Jarl's roundhouse, alone now after the servant girl who had come in with an armful of fresh logs with which to stoke the fire has left. Gudry and Anja bathed me again after the feast, and I am now dressed in another silk tunic. At the back, it dips so low I feel the breeze on the top of my buttocks when I move, and at the front the fabric has been wound around a thin necklace of hammered gold around my neck. If I so much as lean the wrong way, my breasts will fall out. It's garments like the one I am wearing right now for which the term 'side-boob' was invented. I smile, very briefly, thinking of the term – thinking of the world of cars and shopping malls and celebrity tabloids for sale at grocery store checkouts. And then I look around again, and see where I am, and think about who will be coming for me soon.
Eirik. The Jarl. A sharp-toothed frisson of anticipation runs the length of my body at the thought of him. He is on his way to see me. Where is he? An hour away? Twenty minutes? Twenty seconds? And when he gets here, what will happen?
I am standing, walking around the roundhouse, nervously picking up objects and putting them back down again. The bed has been piled even higher with furs tonight, some of them silver-grey and tipped with white, others as black as the night sky. I gaze down at them, trying to get a handle on how I feel.
How do I feel? I don't know, I can't tell. I'm wound up tightly, I feel that. I feel a thrum of energy running under my skin, a certain tremble that threatens to seize my fingers as I hold them out in front of me and watch the firelight flickering between them.
Am I afraid? Yes, I think I am afraid. But then, the natural follow-up question – do I not want to see the Jarl? I cannot answer yes to that one. So how is it that I am both afraid and filled with a jumpy kind of longing? How is it that the thought of one of his big, rough hands on my body both thrills and intimidates me?
As I'm wrestling with these questions, aware that I might not have the time to ponder for long, the leather flap door opens and there he suddenly is.
I look up at him, at first because the simple act of him entering the roundhouse has drawn my attention and then because I can't look away. I have never seen a man like the Jarl before, and by that I don't mean I have never seen a man dressed in leather and furs or a man who wears his hair long and braided, with the braids near the front pulled tightly away from his face – although it's true, I hadn't seen a man like that before I met the Jarl. But it isn't what Eirik wears that draws my attention the way a burning torch draws moths to its light, and it isn't his hair or even his great height and breadth. It's something else, some inherent quality, a kind of purely male mastery that I have realized, after spending time with the Vikings, is not often to be found in modern men.
"Paige," he says, not moving from where he is standing in front of the doorway. "Are you warm girl? I told Hildy to send someone to build up the fire – did she do it?"
"Y-yes," I respond, my voice a whisper.
The Jarl unties a leather strap at his waist, unwinding it once, twice, and then setting his sword aside with a clatter. He is big, the kind of big that would make most men his size unwieldy, but instead of lumbering or stomping, Eirik moves like a panther – swift and powerful even in the smallest movements.
I am still standing up. The Jarl slides one of those rough-skinned hands, that I was thinking of not five minutes ago, around my neck and tilts my head up to him, rubbing his thumb over my chin and studying my eyes. Then he lies down on the bed of furs and reaches for a slice of apple on the wooden plate that has been left for him, should he get hungry in the night. I stay where I am, as if frozen to the spot.
"You're afraid."
"Yes," I reply, awkwardly resting my arms stiffly against my sides as I develop a sudden consciousness of their existence.
"It's as it is," Eirik says calmly, swallowing the apple as I try to decipher what he means. "You seem more afraid than most, though. Most, you can see behind their eyes that they want the thing they fear. You I'm not so sure. Maybe you prefer other girls, like yourself?"
I do a double-take at that comment. Have I just been asked if I'm a lesbian? In the 9th century?
"I, uh –" I start. "I –"
Eirik laughs. "You Angles are such funny people. Some men are born wanting men, and some women are born wanting women. What use is there in pretending it doesn't occur? As it is, girl, am I describing you accurately? Does your center grow soft and wet only at the thought of another's center doing the same?"
I shake my head no, just a little, and mumble the word 'no.'
"What was that?" The Jarl asks, his eyes demanding a clearer, louder answer.
"No," I say again, louder.
He reaches out, then, and caresses my ankle, slipping his fingers up over my calf until my knees feel as if they might just give way. "I'm teasing you, girl. You think I couldn't smell the hunger on you the other night?"
My cheeks begin to burn. They burn even brighter when I look down to see that the leather wrapped around his thighs has fallen open. As soon as I see it I turn away, as if my eyeballs might be scorched by the sight. I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my throat.
Eirik chuckles, utterly at ease with himself and his own arousal. "What is it?" He asks, and we both know he knows perfectly well what it is. "I don't believe you've never seen a man in such a state before. Besides, it's you who caused it. I'd be willing to guess that if I was to slip my hand up under that tunic, you'd be as slippery as a sun-warmed oyster."
As he speaks, the Jarl pulls me down onto the furs and does the thing he's talking about – slipping his hand up under my tunic. I don't breath at all as he pushes the silk out of the way, watching my eyes closely for a reaction.
It happens automatically, the second I feel his fingers on my sex, sliding between my lips. I reach down and push his hand away, even as a strange little sigh escapes my mouth, and then I look up, suddenly fearful when I realize what I've just done.
But the Jarl isn't angry, or even slightly upset. He's looking at his finger, shiny with my wetness, and then at me. "You're not afraid of me, girl. You're afraid of yourself. You've no need to worry, Paige with the pink cheeks. It's as I said – I won't rape you. You can relax, let yourself lie easy on the furs."
What does he mean when he says I'm afraid of myself? I don't know. I also don't know that I can trust him not to force himself on me, even as I'm not at all sure that he isn't the only thing I want.
"No," he says, his voice a low rumble, "I won't take you against your will."
The Jarl's eyes slide down from my own. The thin fabric of my tunic has slipped, half-revealing one of my breasts. I exhale quietly as he runs his thumb over it and the nipple pebbles under his touch.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, leaning in unexpectedly and closing his mouth around it.
I gasp loudly, shocked, almost undone by the syrup-thick sweetness of the sensation.
"There," the Jarl whispers, drawing me into his mouth. "There you go, girl."
Things are moving fast inside me. Thoughts, desires, it's all suddenly sped up, like a roller coaster rushing down the slope after a long, slow climb. Maybe not thoughts – I'm not thinking. Eirik pulls my tunic the rest of the way off my breast and takes it in his hand and my hands sink into his hair as I pull him into me.
"
Oh my God," I breathe, reaching, grabbing desperately at him.
And then he stops, his hands tight on my wrists. He's laughing. I'm not laughing – I'm lying on my back, breathless, not entirely sure of what just happened. I can't think. I don't feel like I can breathe. Eirik looks down at me, his eyes a deep, stormy blue.
"I told myself I'd be soft with you, girl. A man knows how to be soft with a maid, how to take his time. And I'll take my time with you. But you make it difficult when you reach for me like that, when you look at me as you are right now, with all the things you need from me written all over your pretty face."
He's not kidding, either, about it being difficult. Even his voice sounds different – slower, deeper. He's holding back. An ache between my legs, one that I'm only just now dimly aware of, makes itself known. How can that be? If I 'fear' anything it's specifically that – the pain. Although I only saw him for less than a second, Eirik's manhood is of similar proportion to the man himself. How can I want something at the same time that I fear it? I don't know. I don't know. But I do.
I open my mouth like I'm doing everything else tonight – out of instinct, not consciousness. The decision is never made, my lips fall open for him because there is nothing else that could happen. And when they do, he slips his tongue between them and tightens his grip on my breast, squeezing and caressing until my body sings. When he stops, I'm panting.
There are no more words left in me. Whatever the time was for words is over. I reach up to my throat as the Jarls' eyes bore into me, and pull the top of the tunic out of the gold necklace, revealing my breasts completely. I see something in his eyes, then. A naked, animal thing. And when I see it, at the same moment I know in my heart that it won't be denied, there is no part of me that wants anything other than to indulge it.
"It's too much now, girl," Eirik says, grasping the tunic in his hands and yanking it the rest of the way off. He moves on top of me, pushing my thighs apart with one hand and I realize it's going to happen. Right now.