Across the Sea (Islands in the Mist Series Book 2)

by J. M. Hofer

  She hoped he did not live far, for she had lived in the ocean for moons and her legs were weak and clumsy. Moving on land was much more difficult than moving in water. It would take some time to regain her strength. She stumbled along as well as she could, grateful that the man was not traveling on horseback. Thankfully, he walked quite slowly, as if he feared dropping the man-pup.

  The man took a road that descended from the cover of the trees down toward a castle that sat perched upon high cliffs at the edge of the sea. Ula smiled. Drawing closer to the sea gave her comfort and filled her with confidence. If she needed to, she could easily dive beneath the safety of its waters and disappear. She would not risk taking her sealskin with her, however—if it were discovered she was a selkie, she risked having it taken from her and would be trapped on land. Many of her sisters had met such a fate at the hands of men. She found a place to hide it and continued to follow.

  The castle was surrounded by a tall stone wall that went for some length down the coast line. It featured only one east-facing gate, guarded by two spearmen. Two high towers flanked the ends of the western wall facing the sea, topped with large red and yellow standards that flapped in the strong ocean breeze.

  The sun was setting. Ula waited until the sea swallowed it completely, and then made her way down to look in on the babe. If he were safe, she would return to the sea. If not, she would steal him away and take him to the women of the Isle. Surely, they would take such a special child into their care.

  She heard the man-pup’s cries as she approached and could scarcely bear it. It was as if he cried for her and her alone. She feared he felt she had abandoned him. She followed the sound of his cries, inching along the outer wall, looking for a window to peer in.

  The babe’s wails grew louder, and she felt her tunic become wet. She looked up in confusion, but no rain fell, nor was there any water on the wall she leaned against. She stepped away from the wall and felt the wetness freeze on her skin in the strong wind. She reached beneath her tunic and was surprised to discover milk leaking from her breasts. The babe’s howling grew more urgent, as if he could sense her nearness, and the milk flowed strongly in response.

  No longer caring about the danger, she walked boldly up to the guard at the gate of the castle. He peered at her. “Who are you?”

  Thankfully, though she had not spoken the language of men for some time, Ula understood. “I am Ula.”

  “What business do you have with Lord Garanhir?”

  So many of the words Bran had taught her were long forgotten, like pebbles pulled far out to sea. She found she could not answer him. Instead, she held her arms as if she were cradling an infant.

  The guard looked at her wet tunic and made the obvious deduction. “Wait here.”

  He was gone for some time. Ula waited in anguish, hearing the babe’s whimpering, knowing she had what he so desperately needed.

  The guard reappeared at last with the man she had followed to the castle. He said something to her that she did not understand, but then, to her relief, motioned for her to follow him. They moved toward the cries until Ula spied the babe’s golden head in the arms of a clearly exhausted woman. The poor thing was shaking. She grabbed him, opened her tunic, and put him to her breast, holding him close.

  The babe drank and drank, clutching Ula with his tiny fingers, and the entire household of Garanhir breathed a sigh of relief.

  ***

  “I’ve no idea where she came from. She doesn’t speak our language,” Elffin told his father.

  “Considering you caught her babe in a fishing net, and she has no proper clothing, I’d wager they were shipwrecked.”

  Elffin nodded. Caer Gwythno, his father’s castle, was the closest structure to the sea for miles around. It made sense that if she had washed up on the beach she would have sought help there. They were quite accustomed to taking in those whom the sea had bested, and were well-known for their hospitality. Elffin had seen to it that she was given bathing water, proper clothing and a warm bed for the night.

  As if she had sensed they had been speaking of her, the mysterious woman appeared in the doorway, holding her child.

  Elffin nearly gasped at her beauty, which was no longer camouflaged by her unruly hair and that horrible fishy-smelling sack of a tunic. Her skin was dark and perfect, and her hair, now brushed, gleamed as if it were still wet. She had huge brown eyes with thick long lashes that reminded him of his favorite stallion.

  “Please, come and sit by the fire,” Elffin stuttered, beckoning to her.

  She took the chair by the hearth and smiled at him, opening her blouse to reveal a perfect breast, which her infant quickly latched on to.

  Elffin tried his best to hide his desire as he regarded her. She and her babe were complete opposites—she, dark of hair and complexion, and the babe, blonde and fair. He shone like a tiny star within the dark velvet night of her long hair, which hung around him protectively as he nursed.

  From that moment on, Elffin’s head was filled with thoughts of where she had come from and what had happened to her. The lad’s father was likely Saxon. He supposed she had been taken in one of their raids, and done with as all women were, hence the babe. Perhaps her captors had been planning to raid his own shores as well, but the gods had seen to it that only the innocent had come to set foot upon them. He liked that idea, so it became the version of the woman’s history he carried in his mind.

  ***

  Fortune smiled upon the household of Garanhir from the moment fate delivered the pair to its gates. Fishing nets came in filled to bursting each morning, hunts were successful, and everyone’s mood grew lighter.

  Elffin noticed a few tiny and strangely beautiful things happening as well, like the patch of cowslips springing into bloom overnight beneath the window outside where the two slept, and the butterflies that would occasionally flutter in through that same window and alight at the edge of the baby’s cradle. Animals seemed instinctively drawn to the child. Unless ordered elsewhere, his father’s dogs remained by the boy. They followed at his mother’s heels whenever he was in her arms, and slept protectively beneath his cradle at night.

  Elffin’s father was a superstitious man, believing whole-heartedly in signs and omens. Elffin often found this quality vexing, but he was glad of it now, for his father insisted the woman and her child had been sent by the gods and must be allowed to stay as long as they wished.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Clan of the Oaks

  Spring arrived in the valley like a young maiden, eager to awaken the seeds sleeping beneath the earth. She whispered to them of the sun’s glory, coaxing hopeful green shoots and tight little buds from their winter hiding places with the promise of his warmth and affection.

  Bran rolled out of bed at the first sound of birdsong. He grabbed a few buckets and headed down to the river to fetch water for his house. He enjoyed waking before everyone began clattering their breakfast pots about. It made him feel as if the world belonged only to him and the animals. The first blush of morning had begun to kiss the sky in the east, and the air was cool and fresh. He took a deep breath and sighed with contentment. This was the clan’s second spring in the valley, and something in his bones told him it would be even kinder to them than their first had been.

  Thoughts of spring led to thoughts of Lucia, and his heart quickened. She would be coming with the sisters in a few days to celebrate Beltane with them. Over a year had passed since he had seen her. After the battle at the Crossroads, she left to deliver the terrible news of Gwion’s death to the boy’s mother. He had expected her to return soon after, but, to his deep disappointment, she had chosen to stay and live among the sisters instead.

  Her decision had hurt him more deeply than he dared admit. In an effort to put it behind him, he put all his focus on the settlement of the clan and tried not to think of her. She had not been easy to forget, however. Since she left, he had dreamed of her often—so often, in fact, that he was nearly convinced she had placed
some kind of spell on him. No woman had ever affected him in such a way.

  He reached the river and filled his buckets, thinking of the vivid dream he’d had just the night before. She had come to his bed wearing nothing but gold bracelets, her red hair unbound and shifting around her breasts as she walked. Everything had been dark except for her bracelets, which glowed with a warm light and illuminated the room. Mesmerized, he watched her hands move up and down his body, coils of light around her wrists as she caressed him. He had awoken covered in sweat, his loins swollen and aching for her. He could have sworn he had even smelled her in the air for a few moments after waking.

  “Is that it, woman?” he asked aloud. “Have you bewitched me?” He stared up at the clouds, as if they would answer him, and then shook his head.

  Enchantment or not, he could not deny that he loved her. He knew it before she left, but once she was gone, his feelings for her became what he could only compare to some kind of malady. That was also when the dreams had started. After a few moons of her nighttime visits, he nearly attempted a journey to the Isle to ask for her hand. In hindsight, he was glad he had not done so. The last year and a half had given him the opportunity to offer her so much more than he could have then. He smiled as he thought of everything he and the clan had accomplished, which was astonishing, by anyone’s standards.

  On his way home, he took a detour, ambling past the paddocks and stables. He found the rich smell of manure comforting. The village was still sleeping when he returned. He set the buckets of water outside his door and headed for the mountain fortress.

  His thighs burned as he made the long, slow climb up the mountain. He had made the climb every morning since settling in the valley, remaining vigilant against becoming accustomed to luxuries. His breast filled with satisfaction as he beheld the new lookout tower. News of Saxon raids had become increasingly frequent over the past year, so he and the clan had expanded the fortress, begun carving escape tunnels through the mountain, and built the tower. It was then that they had discovered that the mountain, too, had blessings in store for them.

  Led by the expertise of the Northerners, they had patiently chiseled away at the inner walls of the mountain, removing the stone from between her bones. As the moons passed, she began to trust them, like a woman in the hands of a kind and capable lover. She yielded to their axes and shovels, whispering to them of her precious secrets. Being sons of the earth, they listened and were amply rewarded.

  Bran remembered the day Maur had run down from the mountain with the good news, red-faced and panting. “You must come with me!” he had cried. “You won’t believe it if you don’t see it for yourself.”

  He knew Maur never ran unless he had a good reason to, so he reluctantly agreed to follow him into the mountain to see what he was so excited about. The damp smell of the cold stone as they entered the tunnel had been horrible—he had not been underground since his long entrapment in the caves. His dread faded, however, when the reason for Maur’s morning jog was revealed.

  “Look at this, my friend.” Maur chuckled, holding his lantern high. The lamplight revealed wide ribbons of gold shimmering through the cavern walls and ceiling. “There’s enough gold in this goddess of a mountain for the dowries of a thousand virgins.” Maur whooped and hollered, smacked him on the back and passed him a flask. “We’re bloody rich, my friend! Rich as thieves!”

  “I’ll be damned,” was the only response he had been able to muster.

  From that day on, the mountain was known as Mynyth Aur—Gold Mountain. They had worked through the winter and managed to remove a tremendous amount of ore, yet much could still be seen resting within the mountain walls. It gleamed in large marbled rivulets all through the large cavern that had now become the main hall of the fortress. The sight was breathtaking when firelight shone upon it—it filled the entire chamber with a warm glow, reminiscent of a late summer sunset. He had requested fittings be made for a hundred torches, and had then personally hammered them into the cavern walls. It was magnificent when they were all alight—another thing he looked forward to showing Lucia.

  He looked down at his feet, wondering how much more gold there might be beneath them, deep within the mountain.

  Many took the mountain’s gift as a final confirmation that he was indeed the High Chieftain of prophecy sung of in the old ballads. That fall, at the festival of Samhain, they unanimously bestowed the title of Pennaeth, Chieftain, upon him.

  The first thing he had done as chieftain was convince everyone to abandon their old sigils and embrace a new one—one he felt united them all—the Sacred Oak. Now, they no longer referred to themselves as Easterners, Southerners or Northerners, but simply as “Oaks.”

  He had tried his best to remain worthy of his new title, but often doubted himself. It was no small thing to be responsible for several hundred men, women and children. Though in name they were now all one clan, there were still many differences of opinion that caused problems from time to time.

  Knowing how important decisiveness and authority were in leadership, he shared his concerns only with Islwyn. The old druid was far wiser and knowledgeable about the world than he had first given him credit for. He was as wise as Talhaiarn in many ways, and perhaps even wiser in others.

  He stopped his ascent and turned around, looking down toward the forest where Islwyn lived. He pictured him brewing his morning tea over the small cooking fire in his modest hut, and smiled. What will I do when you leave me, old man? Who will I talk to then?

  A raven squawked at him from atop the fortress, as if to say, “Hurry up!” He plodded up the trail to the summit, just in time to see the curve of the sun beginning to appear from behind the mountains. The cool morning breeze licked the sweat from his brow as he gazed out over the valley. So peaceful. He found it hard to believe that only a few years ago it had been littered with corpses.

  He reached up and fingered his heavy neck torc, as he often did while deep in thought. It was the first object fashioned from the mountain’s gold. The second was his cloak brooch. Einon had commissioned them from the clan’s best artisan and presented them as gifts to him. He had worn them with pride ever since. Inspired by their beauty, he had commissioned the next piece of jewelry himself—a brilliant ring for Lucia, set with a smoky topaz he had taken off an enemy chieftain long ago. He wore it on his little finger to keep it safe until the night he would offer it to her and ask her to be his queen.

  He glanced down at it and smiled. She was the only thing in the world his heart still longed for.

  ***

  “How go the preparations?” Bran asked his sister the next morning.

  Seren smiled. “Everything will be ready. The men have nearly chopped all the wood.”

  Beltane was foremost a fertility festival, and fire played an important role. Tremendous amounts of wood were required for the bonfires that would burn from dusk until dawn.

  “And the feast?”

  “Thanks to Idris, we have two boars to roast, and we have a good many salmon as well. The women are baking barley bread and oat cakes that we’ll serve with butter and cheese, and the children have already foraged several baskets of nuts and mushrooms.”

  “And the ale?”

  “Maur has sworn we have enough to keep the entire clan and a hundred guests drunk for days.”

  Bran chuckled. “Finally, we’ll have a proper celebration. It’s been too long.”

  They had not celebrated the festival days in their traditional manner since before the war, and certainly had not enjoyed the luxury of a good feast. Drunken warriors were useless warriors, and such a risk they had dared not take with the cauldron-born about. Now, thanks to dear Gwion, the cursed walked the earth no more. They could sing and dance and drink like they used to.

  He left Seren to her work, engaged in his own until dusk fell, and then prepared to meet with his council in the motherhouse. Tonight was New Moon. As was their custom, they would sit down to discuss matters at hand, drink and break
bread together. It was the only night of the month that Islwyn journeyed up from the small hut he had built for himself down in the Grove, as he preferred the company of trees to that of people.

  Maur was the first to arrive. “Pennaeth!” he roared, swinging his belly through the door and raising a hand in greeting.

  Bran smiled and hoisted his ale. “Maur! Come and join me in some drink!” He motioned to the young maiden who attended him and she rushed to fill Maur’s ever-ready drinking horn.

  Maur’s eyes lingered for a moment on her breasts, and then he smiled and raised his horn in Bran’s direction. “To your long and prosperous reign!”

  “May your children be plentiful!” Bran responded in kind.

  Maur nearly choked on his ale. “Damn, that’s the one thing I have plenty of—bless my purse instead!”

  Bran laughed and they drained their horns. Just after the serving maiden refilled them, Einon arrived.

  “All blessings upon you, Pennaeth.”

  “Uncle!” Bran refused to observe formalities with his own blood. “Speak to me of our gold. How do we fare?”

  Einon grinned. “We’ve hammered out several hundred pieces, ready to sing.”

  “Several hundred?” Bran stood and clapped him on the back. “As long as they don’t sing too loudly, we shall want for nothing this winter.” He knew where winds carried rumors of gold, thieves and raiders soon followed. They would need to trade modestly, and in many different places to avoid calling undue attention to their new-found fortune.

  Neirin arrived next. “Good evening, Pennaeth.”

  Bran had grown to respect Neirin over the past few years. He had grown from an arrogant young man into a much wiser one, rising to his responsibilities with honor. Whether it was the humiliation he suffered by allowing himself to be fooled by Cerridwen, or the terrible and violent death of his father, the hubris that once ruled his actions now appeared to be gone. He had grown his hair and beard long in the tradition of the Northerners since joining the clan, and Maur had all but wanted to adopt him for it. Many of the Oaken youth borrowed freely from one other in their manner of dress or ornamentation, which Bran found encouraging. It contributed to the solidarity of their clan.