by Sandi Layne
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Info
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Preface
Glossary
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Preview of Éire's Viking
First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2013
Copyright © Sandi Layne, 2013
The right of Sandi Layne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-137-5
E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-138-2
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Cover image licensed by: ©Depositphotos.com /Algol,
© George Mayer | Dreamstime.com
Cover design by: Megan Dooley
www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/slayne
About the Author
Having been a voracious reader all her life, Sandi never expected to want to write until the idea was presented in a backhanded manner. Once the notion occurred to her, though, she had to dive in the deep end (as is her wont) and began by writing historical fiction. She has since written more than twenty novels—most of which will never see the light of day.
Sandi has degrees in English and Ministry, has studied theology, spent years as an educator, has worked in escrow and sundry other careers, but research is her passion. She won an award for Celtic Fiction in 2003, but as well as history, she is also fascinated with contemporary research and has self-published several novels in the Inspirational Romance genre.
She has been married for twenty years to a man tolerant enough to let her go giddy when she discovers new words in Old Norse. Her two sons find her amusing and have enjoyed listening to her read aloud—especially when she uses funny voices. A woman of deep faith, she still finds a great deal to laugh at in the small moments of the everyday and hopes that she can help others find these moments, too.
Acknowledgments
Though this novel was published before, in a different format, it is now serving a new purpose as the first book in a trilogy, and has undergone some changes. I need to thank a lot of people!
Kathie Spitz, my dear friend, who enjoyed this book enough in its original form to recommend it to others and who encourages me all the time with my writing.
The editing team, led by Erin Morgan, at TWCS, who convinced me to adjust a few things, cleaned up my former novel, and polished it until it shone. Thank you! Thanks to all the staff at TWCS for taking this on; it’s been a joy to work with you.
Many kudos to my cover artist, Megan Dooley, with whom I have worked before. Her art is inspirational.
My thanks to Thomas Cahill for writing his book, How the Irish Saved Civilization. Highly informative and thought-provoking, Cahill’s work eventually led to the story you’re about to read. I also thank the Northvegr online community for their insights into The Northern Way and for their patience with my ignorant questions many years ago. Thanks, too, to the Writers’ Roundtable of Phoenix (2003-2004), who critiqued this novel in its first draft.
And finally, many thanks and much love to my family. My husband and sons have been hearing about these characters for a very long time; they even help me out on occasion.
Thank you to everyone who has supported me in the writing of this book and to those who have read it. Writing stories is a delight and knowing others read them, a joy.
Preface
A note to my readers who have been here before
Éire’s Captive Moon is a new and improved version of my previously self-published novel, Captive Irish Moon. You will find hereafter a few changes, if you read the original work. There is a prologue, reworked from my award-winning short story, Turn of the Wheel. The glossary is more comprehensive and the prose much smoother as we begin Charis’s story. And since this story is no longer all alone in its eventual goal but is serving as the first book in my Éire’s Viking trilogy, you will find a few things are a bit different within. Small details, but they will help, I hope, as we conclude this book and move on to book two. The future books of the trilogy begin after the end of Éire’s Captive Moon, so do not be concerned that there will be less here than formerly.
Thank you for joining me. Again.
~Sandi Layne
Glossary
In alphabetical order:
Aesir – Norse – a god of the sea
Béar Mór – Gaelic – the constellation of the Great Bear or Big Dipper
bhaen sidhe – Gaelic – one of the sidhe that foretells death to they that hear it
cailín – Gaelic – young woman
cailleach – Gaelic – witch
Gaeilge – Gaelic – the Irish word for Gaelic
gaol – Gaelic – prison, place of captivity
hei – Norse – hello, a term of greeting
isea – Gaelic – affirmative, or “yes”
ja – Norse – affirmative, or “yes”
Jarl – Norse – a nobleman, like an earl
kvinn medisin – Norse – medicine woman, doctor, healer (female)
langhús - Norse - longhouse, usually a single-family dwelling
léine – Gaelic – a long tunic or dress
leman – Norse – sexual slave or bondservant
leigheasóir – Gaelic – healer (male)
lingua gente – Latin – common language, language of most men
lovsigemann – Norse – reader of the law
midvinterblót – A midwinter celebration in Nordweg
na – Gaelic – denial, or “no”
né – Norse – no
nomen tuus – Latin – What is your name?
Nordweg – Norse – Norway
Norns – Norse – goddesses of fate
Ostman – Norse – a name the Norwegian men called themselves
Oran Mór ??
rath – Gaelic – village
sidhe – faery folk of Irish folklore
skipniu – Norse – longship
Store Bjørn – Norse – the constellation of the Great Bear, or Big Dipper
trell – Norse – slave
Valhalla – Norse – the afterlife where brave warriors go when they die
vikingr – Norse – derived
from the Anglo-Frank - men who raided and pillaged
völva – Norse – wise woman, “wand carrier”
wergild – Norse – the monetary value placed on a man, which would be repaid to his family in the event of the man’s death
wyrd – Norse – fated destiny
Prologue
The scream that pierces the mists, shocking my heart and sending the winter creatures scampering to their dens, does not belong to the chill tranquility of the forest.
It comes from the southwest, inland from my village. Using all the instincts my craft has bestowed upon me, I’m following the scream’s trailing echo at a run. I am old as my people count years. I have fifty winters to my tally. The mystery of my long life on the Earth plagues me, but I feel, in the faint sounds that dwell in the fog, that I am about to find my answer. So I run.
I am Achan, son of Liam, and I have been the leigheasóir of Ragor for thirty winters, treating ailments and healing wounds as the healers have done long before my birth. Long have I heeded the turns of the seasons and the signs of the land. Sometimes my heart tells me it is time for something—a change—and I must follow the calling laid upon my life. I notice the cycle of the seasons as I meditate upon the mysteries and wonder if it is time for the Wheel to turn once again. Have I been of any real significance on the Earth? I am the healer, but I feel that all my efforts for my people have made no difference in the world.
This has been the longest winter in my memory, and I have seen more winters than most. Is the length of this season a sign that the Earth is tired? Needing rejuvenation? Is my purpose to provide it?
But can I lay aside myself for the good of my people? Who will serve as healer if I leave them?
It is as much the winter of my life as it is the sleeping season of the Earth. I am seeking an answer, the purpose of the ache that holds my heart like a stone fist. I am like an animal in the snow, seeking that which would bring life back to myself. My footsteps are light on the frost-webbed ground. Bare, ancient trees make way for me as I pass. What animals that are up and about are old friends and are not disturbed as I move through their territories. On the surface, it is eminently peaceful.
But then another scream—weaker than the first—belies the calm. It sounds from below, and the dying echoes of a woman’s cry skirl along the misty tendrils at my feet. I scramble to find the origin of the cry as it fades completely and I find a neglected wolf den. My breath is puffing out in white gasps by now, but I dive headlong into the narrow passage—the former home of a mother wolf.
How the woman came to be in the dark, damp-smelling place I will never know. There is a radiance here—a radiance that is solely due to the woman in travail, here in the beaten earth.
Is she one of the sidhe? One of the bhaen sidhe with her screaming, sent to warn me of my own death? Is this my purpose in wandering, to have my sacrifice confirmed? I can almost feel my old bones freeze in my flesh at the thought.
A gasp, faint as the memory of a breath, comes from her when she sees me. A garble of sounds issues from her pale lips. Pale lips; the woman is pale everywhere. Her hair is the color of a moonbeam through the fog. Her skin, the white of early dawn. Her eyes are so pale that at first I think they’ve no color at all, and that frightens me so that I reach for the talisman of knotted, wrought silver circles I wear over my heart.
My fear dissipates as I realize her eyes are merely a light shade of gray, more pale than old love. Though they lack color, the eyes are full of fire. She seems to be a queen, here in the underground den. Her garments, though wrinkled, are finely woven. Embroidered, they speak of wealth and rank among her people.
“What do you want?” I ask.
I don’t comprehend the sounds she makes in reply, though her eyes communicate eloquently. You will help! The command flashes in them, making sense in my mind and I find myself nodding without thinking.
She shifts her body against the earth and I see, in the eerie radiant darkness that surrounds her, the head of the baby she is trying to bring into the world. Still unsure as to whether this strange lady is even human, I move forward to help in the birthing, as I have helped hundreds of babes.
The woman moans—a despairing sound that barely reaches my ears. I focus on the small bit of life that seems to have to push its own way into my hands.
“Come, cailín,” I say in my best encouraging tone—the one I use with women exhausted after long labor. “Almost done. Let me just go find a shoulder . . .”
In the next moan, she pushes out a small head covered in blood and tissue. I grit my teeth as I search for the shoulder that would ease the rest of the delivery. Slick newborn skin meets my fingertips. “Ah,” I whisper, “there it is.”
With practiced ease, I shift the baby’s body and slide her the rest of the way out of her mother. I say her, for the infant is a girl-child, silent and still. This is worrisome.
There is nothing to wrap the baby in, so I shed my outer tunic and lay it on the dirt for the baby’s blanket. I’d clean her immediately, but her mother needs me most urgently.
Though I try, I cannot save her. She is not of the bhaen sidhe, after all.
The baby has not yet cried. I leave the wee child in the comparative warmth of her birthplace while I take the poor, pale mother to the surface.
My people of Ragor—my rath—have many beliefs. One is that the body is just a husk, a temporary residence for the spirit, the living breath of a person. Another is that we each are here to serve a purpose in life or in death, and all is subject to the whims of the Earth and her forces. When the breath of life has left the body, that body is just that . . . a body. What purpose does such have in the circle that is Destiny?
Meat. It is the natural way of things that meat provides nourishment to those seeking food. We do not, understand, consider men in this light. The meat of other creatures of Earth is here for our sustenance, as we are here for the sustenance of others. Thus is the balance maintained.
I brush my hands free of the lingering presence of the dead; the little girl needs me more than her mother. The babe is still wrapped in my tunic, her eyes open wide and looking around at the place in which she finds herself. Roots cling to the earthen ceiling above her, but she can’t see them, can she?
It takes me a moment to realize that it isn’t dark. The little lass with the abundant crop of pale hair and large, solemn eyes—like her mother’s even at her birth—shines in the wolf’s den. Unnatural? I cannot say.
I am destined to preserve the lives I can. Here is a motherless girl-child and I will, of course, take her back to Ragor with me. She needs a wet nurse, to be sure, and someone will have to raise her. Train her.
I have a feeling about her. A feeling that she’ll need training of a special nature. Healing or leadership maybe. How complicated might her life be?
Overwhelmed, I bind the baby close to my skin to keep her warm aboveground. Here she nestles, wrapped in the leaf-hued tunic underneath my flax-shaded shirt and cloak. She watches my face with a most unusual concentration.
“What am I to do with you, wee one?” I whisper as the cold air hits us.
Odd as it seems, I half expect her to say something. No, I am not touched by the sidhe.
Is she?
Strangely, the animals avoid us as I carry her back to Ragor. I see only the white tails of the deer as they dart from us, hear only the whispers of tiny feet as the smallest of the forest dwellers seek refuge from the cold and mist. I feel almost as if I am in the Otherworld, mired in confusion and wonder about the babe in my arms.
I have children of my own, of course. My wife and I have had ten children together, five of whom reached adulthood, three of whom still live. These children and our many grandchildren are blessings to us. One cannot have too much proof that the Wheel still turns.
None of my children would be able to care for a newborn, as they were not nursing.
The smoke from the hearth-fires are hard to see in the mists as I come out of the tree
s. “Here we are,” I say to the girl, my breath gusting in a small patch in front of me.
“Achan!” My wife, Nuala, appears, so swathed in cloth that only one who knows her well could recognize her from a distance. “I wondered where you’d gone off to, man.” As we draw near to each other, I see the familiar way her dark eyes rake my body. Suspicious, concerned and curious. That’s my wife. “Hold there, Achan. What is it you’ve got there under your shirt?”
I smile at her tone. She thinks I’ve gone daft. Well, it is her right. “Now, woman, don’t go after me. You’d not guess what I have here in a full moon of summers.”
“Achan! I’ll clout your ears for you, healer that you are or no!”
“No, you won’t,” I say gently, putting one hand up in a placating manner. She calms down and I beckon her nearer. “Let me show you.” Slowly, I peel back the layers of cloth that shield the babe from the wintry air.
Nuala gasps. “By all that breathes, Achan, where did you find her?”
I relate the tale to her and she listens with an open mouth.
“We will take her,” Nuala states when I finish. She is the leader of our people and her words carry authority even to me, her husband. “Elspeth, poor lass, lost her babe only yesternight.”
“I forgot,” I admit, bending to nuzzle the pale child in my arms. “Elspeth will be a good nurse.”
Nuala’s lips appear firm as she takes the baby and stares into her face. “You, Achan, will have the raising of this girl-child.”
“Nuala, love, you are far more fit.”
Command sparks in her lined eyes, reminding me a bit of the mother who died just before. “No, you. I see her as a healer.”
Her words echo with unusual power within me. Here, then, is the reason I have outlived so many of my old friends, the reason I am still hale and whole, able to fulfill my duties as Healer.