I pause here to add my own tale, as I do not know the middle as well as the present. The journey to Jæren I owe to the capricious northern wind. My merchant friends and I had hoped to encounter Frankish refugees in the land of the Danes, but a storm and veil of lightning pursued and lashed our ship to the inlet of the Northern folk of Jæren. Battered and listing, we struck to our oars as a vessel finer than any we had seen came beside us. The women sank in fear, holding their children to their chests as the bitter, cold waters filtered through splitting cracks in our ship.
“What have you to trade, Southerners? From whence have you come?” A booming and commanding voice broke as thunder across the bow of our ship. I sunk into my robes in hopes no Viking would take a closer look at a man outside their faith. I huddled to the back of my brethren, fearing the reception I had received at the hands of Saxon brutes and their flogs.
“We hail from Frankish waters. We come laden with salt pork, spices, bolts of fabric, metalworking tools and jewels to sell. We hoped to trade with the Danes, but our ship cast us here on an unsavoury wind.” The merchant captain lilted in a broken language half of Dane half of the North. The booming feet of Modthi Einridsen hit the timbers of our ship and for my part I feared he would hit through.
“I could make use of your wares. Come. Eat and trade stories and tomorrow we will see to your ship.” His beard kept well on his rugged, wild face, framing eyes bluer than any southern waters. The pinnacle of a Viking, blond hair he plated back in rows and braids down the furs and wools of his simple clothing. Modthi helped bring our ship to shore and aided us in retrieving any wares which would be further damaged from the crack in our hull. Women folk rushed round chattering at our merchant wives, asking of hem lengths, loom patterns, spice blends and other such feminine conversations. For our part, we all answered as well as we could, filling in our speech with common tongues and gestures where our vocabulary was poor.
My trunk I heaved, sitting upon it when I could not for its weight and my hungry fatigue, heave on. The thunder of feet stole my ears and I looked up as a hunting party raged into the seaside village, with a giant beast of a man at the fore. Magni’s raven hair was plated with silver and gold beads and trinkets. He was twice taller than our merchant’s spindly, weak-boned son Joannes. I spied none of the milk of human kindness in Magni’s eyes as I had in his brother, who bounded to meet his kin.
“Brother! Good news! Thor has brought us merchants on the wind! I’ve begun a feast in their honour, they come with stories and goods! Look! What a bounty, eh brother?”
Magni spat on the ground and shouldered his full laden leather pack to the soil. His scalding eyes, blue as aged ice, bore deep into my chest. I shrank and curled in my cape and robes.
“We have too many mouths. Take their goods. Send them back to the sea.”
“Brother!” Modthi bellowed, pulling his brother’s arm, “They come bearing gifts and supplies. Their benefit outweighs their cost.”
“Winter is upon us early. How many of ours will starve for new mouths? Look at them. None are ready for our long nights.”
“I will not abandon travellers sent on a fair wind.” Modthi craned his neck. The brothers stood as the village quieted until Magni pushed past Modthi’s shoulder and picked up his hunting pack. The village burst back into preparations and Modthi came to where I, all on my own, tugged at my trunk.
“What manner of man cannot carry his own chest?” Modthi’s thick and welcome voice tugged at my bone-cage. My ribs rattled with the boom of his sound. I stood and pushed my hands against my back.
“A weary and underfed one. We meant no trouble to your people. If we are given the tools and pitch to repair our ship, we can be on our way.”
Modthi shrugged and put his hands to either handle of my trunk and lifted it with naught but a whisper to the wind.
“Another few days and the waters will be too treacherous and too cold for a ship of your construction to survive the breaking storms. I see no wares from you, unless the others have claimed them.”
“What I give comes not from earthly things… may I know the name of the man who saved us?”
“Modthi Einridsen. Brother of Magni, our Jarl. Your accent amuses me, from whence do you come?”
“Francia is my birthplace. Constantinople the home of my youth. I had hopes to return to Francia, or to lay my claim in Dane lands.”
“Constantinople… I have heard of such a place.” Modthi then grew quiet as he walked my trunk up the hill toward a long house of wood and grass roof. He set my trunk down in the corner and placed his hand on the latch.
“Keep it shut. By my gods, keep it shut. Mention no more of Constantinople. You are a merchant from Francia. No more.” He whispered, his warm hand on my shoulder. I obeyed and said no more, eating and making merry with the village and the merchants. I was but an unwed merchant for some time, until in the hours which man and woman slept Modthi came to my side with a lamp. I put my most precious possession in his hands; a leather girded text of our holy scriptures. I watched as eyes unclouded by generations of idol worship hearkened to my orations of our Lord the Christ. How I came upon such an expensive prize is another tale for the deathbed that awaits me, for my part I confessed and pleaded until I felt redeemed. Of course Modthi could neither read nor understand the latin, but I was there to guide him. Perhaps it was my humility at my forgiven sin which brought Modthi to the gate beautiful, as the beggar at St. Peter’s feet.
“A God of mercy! Can it be true?” Modthi whispered to the night. He clutched his woollen tunic and beat his chest. I, in the tempest of the moment clasped my hands around his fist and let the words spill from my mouth,
“Yes! Yes, that is the Christ. The Christ is mercy, the Christ is grace. For he has paid the blood-price on all our sins. Our lives. We live in the freedom of his favour. We have naught to do but honour Him, and thank him for his gift of eternal life.”
Modthi’s teeth shone in the midnight hour, lit upon only by the small oil lamp between us. “A life without blood. What god would do this?”
“He lived as a carpenter and became our eternal king. The Christ! It is only the Christ.”
Hot tears splattered on my hands, and I cast my eyes to his weeping face. Modthi’s forehead fell to my own, and the mighty Viking wept freely in my arms. I poured oil of myrrh on his forehead and blessed him with a scrap of bread and taste of mead, for I had no wine. Modthi became my first convert in the land of the Northmen, and soon he forsook his birthright of horror and death to the blessing of the Christ. Yet, the cost was as grave as the coming autumn, and it would forever mark all our souls. Modthi cast off even the name of his birth and took Ragnar in its stead. Would that I had drowned before Ragnar first laid his eyes upon my frightened brow, but for the grace of his eternal sanctification…
“Caleb? Caleb, you’ll miss your dinner.” Delilah pushed at Caleb’s shoulder. Caleb jolted. He closed the journal with a rush and stuffed it in the thin compartment provided in the seat front.
“Yeah! Yeah, I’m… yeah.”
“Were you asleep? You did tell me to wake you for dinner, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, Delilah. Yes, I did.” Caleb patted her hand and sat up, thanking all that was holy they had flown Dutch and gotten a proper meal.
Chapter 7
The Vancouver Art Gallery’s facade loomed over Finnegan as he left the front seat of Ahmed’s Toyota. He waved and flicked five stars on the app. Ahmed was kind enough to give Finnegan a once-over on the lay of the land, apps and the eccentricities of Canadians. One immigrant to another, eh? Eh! They say ‘eh’.
Inside the Gallery, Finnegan saw nothing but a few staunch academics who talked more than they ought and listened less than was wise. Maybe someone would open a door for him. The girls would love a bit of art. His mind flashed to Bea's tired face. Would she put on mascara and some blush if he called her number? Queen Selyka liked babies... Wonder what Bea would say to a free sitter?
A young man
in an ill fitting button down bumped into Finnegan's shoulder.
"Oy! Steady on." Finnegan said, turning from the pastoral scene of kids frolicking on a beach made of plastic.
Still nothing but a painting or two about Ravens and indigenous land. Didn't help him much in finding Ray. Finnegan got himself a coffee and pastry at the gallery cafe and sat outside sipping out of his paper cup.
"Here's a sight I thought I'd never see." A frigid breath slunk across Finnegan’s shoulders.
"Carolee?" Finnegan huddled in his woollen coat, inching back from Queen Selyka's black dressed Valet.
"Aren't you on house arrest?" Carolee said. The Vancouver sky milked over in a curdling grey. Rain cursed down like spittle from a boxer. Finnegan gulped a mouthful of pastry. He watched the groaning sky and sat a step higher, to look the grim woman in the cheek. Eyes? He wasn't a lunatic.
"Magic arrest, not… I can leave, go anywhere, do what I like, just… No magic. Them's Caleb's rules, them's the rules I follow out here." He curled the top of the paper pastry bag over itself and cuddled his coffee between his shivering hands. The air had begun to chill, seeping into his woollen coat with the onset of Carolee and the rain.
"Her Majesty wants to know what's holding up traffic. Your ghost sent a songbird. This is what you get." Carolee folded her arms over her chest, black sweater sagging like old wings on a dim painted hawk. Finnegan's lips trembled. He licked them and stared at the granite overhang of the gallery.
"I'm sightseeing. Taking a vacation, eh?"
"You owe it to the Fae to keep your portals open, leprechaun."
Finnegan grinned and pulled his coat collar up his neck.
"Got locked out."
Carolee groaned and rubbed her marble cheek with a wrinkled hand. "And you're on Mauthisen's list."
"One more strike..." He stomped his foot and nodded. Carolee shut her eyes and pulled her face to the rain, soaking it in. A Rottweiler on a long lead, Carolee paced, chasing the warmth out of raindrops.
"Are there any active doors in Vancouver?" Carolee asked, picking red blotches out of her fingernails.
"Sure!"
"Where?"
"Don't know." Finnegan shrugged. Slurped his warm coffee.
"Finnegan!"
"Don't have my book, I haven't memorized it!" Thousands of doorknobs worlds over and Carolee wanted an account by rote?
"You're a piece, Finnegan. A piece."
"I could…”
"Finish that thought and I will slit your throat on the city street.” Carolee stuck a talon-edged nail in his neck.
"I see the Queen still values your talents." The Leprechaun stared at a Lebanese donair vendor across the street. The smell of cooked meat sunk into the pit of his stomach.
"Her Majesty doesn't like boring Master Mauthisen with internal matters. I don't get bored."
"See any Ravens? A pair, perhaps."
"Ravens? In Vancouver? What are you going on about?" Carolee cocked her head askew. Her eyelids pulled over hooded eyes.
“Bird watching. Quite interesting, you see a bird and write it down in a little book! And then you meet up with the chaps and talk over a pint. Fascinating tradition.”
“Elf! What are you doing in Vancouver!?” Carolee pulled Finnegan up with a hand on his shoulder. He yelped and clenched his teeth, staring at the pavement by Carolee’s booted feet.
“I was edgy! Needed a breath of fresh air! Didn’t mean to get stuck! Just… just needed a break from me pub!” Finnegan grabbed at Carolee’s fingers, burning with the rigid cold of her sickly skin.
“Why did your ghost send a songbird!?” Carolee shook him. He let go.
“Einridsen’s fallen for a mortal! He’s… he’s in bed with a human girl, pretty one too. Thought… thought Her Highness would have a laugh!” Every fibre holding Finnegan’s coat to his body begged him to keep the news about Caleb shut in his own heart and mind. Carolee on the prowl was bad enough, her Majesty on the trot?
“Why are you looking for ravens!?”
“Gee, shake the baby and they’ll put you away.” The hearty voice which struck Finnegan’s side came with a disembodied feminine sigh. Finnegan dropped. His back collided with the granite stairs. He groaned. A soft hand wove under his armpit and pulled him away.
It was Livia.
“Wh-b-“ Finnegan whimpered. Livia shook her head. Finnegan shut his mouth and pulled away with the human girl. Standing two steps down from Carolee, Raynar Einridsen was eye-to-eye with the Fae Queen’s executioner. Ray’s blond goatee pulled as he smiled and wove both arms over his barrel chest. Taller than a doorframe, Ray peered across Carolee’s ashen face. She pursed her lips and exhaled through her nostrils.
“Out of the way, Einridsen. My Lady won’t tarry on her business.”
“And I won’t tarry on mine. Tarry? Dude, Carol. Hey Liv! Folk say ‘tarry’ anymore?”
“No one says ‘tarry’.” Livia shook her head.
Raynar grinned. “Losing touch, pussyfoot.”
Carolee’s irises widened. Finnegan huddled in his coat and gripped Livia’s hand. He pulled her back. Livia glanced at Finnegan and said nothing.
“Go home.” Raynar enunciated into Carolee’s face, leaning over her as she scowled. The rain pelted the ground, opening in an onslaught heralded by twin raven calls. Finnegan pulled Livia toward the Gallery’s outer wall and the relative safety of a high roof.
“Stay here, Lassie.” Finnegan groaned. Livia went to speak, eyed the rain and shrugged.
“It’s just rain.” She said.
“Sure!” Finnegan smirked mirthlessly. “Sure.”
Raynar whispered and Carolee gesticulated in the downpour. Folk ran for cover, Finnegan kept his eyes on the sky.
“Do you see them?”
“See what?”
“The ravens.” Finn said.
Carolee’s shoulders sagged and she spat next to Raynar’s shoes. Moving her fingers in cantrips, she spread them wide and a chasm opened next to her feet. She hopped through it, and it closed with a rip and a shudder. The black ground, where Carolee had opened the chasm fizzled and popped in the dwindling rain.
“Raynar Einridsen, as I live and breathe!” Finnegan reached.
“Finn… what are you doing here? Thought my son put you on house arrest.” Raynar padded up and put his arm around Livia’s shoulders, leaning down to kiss her forehead.
“Magic arrest. I can… eh… How are you, you codger?”
“Great! What got you out of the Pub, man? Carolee was visualizing your carotid sliced in twain.”
“People don’t say twain.” Liv chimed.
“Half? Do people say half?” Ray asked. Liv nodded.
“Your son’s gone searching for this.” Finnegan pulled out the ashen paper from his pub. Ray’s eyes clouded over. He leaned against the Gallery’s pillar and rubbed his lips and chin with a hand. Liv wrapped her fingers into Raynar’s, tugging it down and staring into his falling face.
“Where is he?” She whispered.
“Lost contact at Delilah’s.”
“Delilah!? She’s not involved, is she?!” Raynar bellowed.
“My fault. I made him a door, thought it would take him home. Didn’t realize…” Finnegan shrugged, taking his paper back and tucking it in his coat pocket. Ray walked away from Liv and Finnegan, sitting down on the granite steps of the Vancouver Art Gallery. He wrung his massive hands and stared at the trees growing across the street.
“Cale’s got no home, Finn. He won’t take my financial help, hasn’t in a while. Just keeps moving. It’s my fault, I should’ve been taking better care of my son.” Raynar said.
Finnegan sat down beside the monolithic man and nudged his shoulder. “Parenting’s never done, is it? You’d think a two hundred year old man would be able to take care of himself.”
Ray laughed, shaking his head. “Delilah’s door, huh? Any chance it’s still open?”
Finnegan blinked. He stuttered.
“Huh!�
��
“Do we know her address?” Livia asked, inspecting her nails. The men looked at each other. Finnegan bit his lip. Raynar cleared his throat. Livia rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone.
“What's her name?”
“Delilah Micheva. She lives near English Bay, I know that.” Finnegan shrugged when Raynar’s eyebrow rose.
“Always know the names and vague locations of your enemies.”
“She’s not listed. What is she like? What does she do?” Livia looked up from her phone.
“Oh, she’s a whore.” Finnegan said, nodding his head. Livia blinked and worked her lips.
“She’s a con artist. Does the high priced escort thing on the side. Kinda like a… courtesan from back in the day. If it’s shifty or slightly mystic, Delilah’s got her fingers in it.” Ray said, running his hand in his chin length blond hair.
“She’s got a view of the beach from her flat. It’s a penthouse, or close to. Was in there once, to set up her kid’s door.”
“Delilah has a child?” Raynar’s eyes softened. His brow furrowed and he looked to the skies above, as if some drawing of the winds would maneuver the clouds in a revealing fashion.
“A daughter. Little thing’s not so bad, really. Met Her Royal Highness the Princess Astraea at boarding school. Thick as thieves, those three. Princess Astraea, her consort-in-training Liam and… what’s her name? Delilah’s girl. The Queen hated it at first, but took a shine to the child. Delilah might be forbidden from the Fae Lands, but her offspring isn’t. That girl’s door is our last ticket in. Charmed it so the magic’s always open. No one would dare enter Delilah’s house anyhow.”
Son of Abel (The Judge of Mystics Book 1) Page 6