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

by J. M. Hofer

  Creirwy climbed down to a lower limb and trained her bow on the swampy land below. Moments later, she cried out in a panic, “Climb the trees!”

  Unfortunately, it was too late for that—Bran saw something making a massive wake in the bog coming straight for him. Creirwy managed to shoot it with an arrow which made it easier to see, but it did not slow the creature down at all.

  “They’re everywhere!” Creirwy shrieked, loosing more arrows.

  Elffin cried out and Bran saw him disappear out of the corner of his eye.

  Irwyn was taken next, jerked away as if he had been tied to a horse that had bolted.

  Bran felt something like thick ropes wrap around his ankles and yank him down, despite the spear he had managed to lodge deep into the body of his aquatic attacker. He struggled to keep his head above water, but it was a fight he knew he would lose if the creature did not slow down. He could hold his breath for a goodly amount of time, but he was still only a man. He grabbed frantically at anything within reach—plants, roots, grasses—but it was no use. Finally, instead of resisting, he focused his efforts on taking quick breaths when he could, holding his breath when he could not, and praying the others were faring as well or better than he was.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had grabbed him, the creature let go. Bran seized the opportunity and pulled his feet under him in a flash, spear still gripped in his hand, and tried his best to gain his balance. The muck of the bog squished beneath him, causing him to stumble, and his eyes stung fiercely from the dirty water, but, after a moment, he was able to make out his surroundings.

  Looming before him was a structure of logs, branches and vines completely overgrown with thick moss. It was built upon a foundation of logs that had been lashed together like a raft. It creaked and groaned eerily as it shifted in the water, sounding almost as if it were weeping.

  Eager to get out of danger, Bran hoisted himself up out of the bog onto the floating logs. He called out for the others, hoping they had survived the ordeal, but to his dismay, no one answered.

  He walked along the wet logs, scanning the surface of the water, continuing to call out and listen for his lost companions, but still no one answered. He sighed. Now, what?

  Fortune or fate eventually led him to a ladder made from thick braided vines that disappeared into the mist overhead. He began climbing, hoping to encounter the others wherever it led. When he reached the top, he found himself upon a platform encircling a huge tree trunk. A hanging bridge stretched out before him, hovering just above the mist. It appeared to float upon a sea of clouds, and out of that sea poked a hundred treetops. It led to a sad and overgrown place far in the distance—a place he knew could only be the dwelling of Tegid Voel.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Path of the Moon

  Upon her return to the Isle after Beltane, Lucia made the decision to walk the Path of the Moon, something the sisters did when facing important decisions. She would take her oath in front of three sisters of her choosing, each of whom would give her a gift to take on her journey, for she could not take any of her own possessions except the clothes on her back. She would leave the village when the moon was full, and not return until it was full again. While on the Path, she would not speak, except to the Great Mother. She would hunt alone, eat alone, pray alone, and sleep alone. During the waning moon, she would ask the Great Mother to show her what must be burned from her heart, and during the waxing moon she would ask to be shown what must be planted in its place.

  At sundown on the night of the next full moon, Lucia put on the warmest robes she had and went to the motherhouse. There, she took her oath in front of Aveta, Rowan, and Elayn. The three of them blindfolded her and led her out of the village.

  Once they were away from the village they removed her blindfold and presented her with their gifts.

  Rowan came forward first and handed her a sharp hunting knife. “May you cut away the bonds that choke your heart, granddaughter. I’m so very proud of you.”

  Elayn gave her a fishing net with hooks tied to it. “May you capture all the answers you seek.”

  Aveta handed Lucia the torch she carried. “May you find your way through the darkness and return drenched in sunlight.” She kissed her on both cheeks and hugged her tightly.

  Lucia’s vow of silence left her only able to say thank you with her eyes. She smiled and turned to follow the path along the brook that flowed from the Sacred Pools.

  She reached the pools within a few hours. They were an inviting sight, with their warm waters and soft-looking banks carpeted in lush green moss. Their flowing waters seemed to laugh and dance as they tumbled from one pool to the next, spilling like jewels into the Great Pool at the bottom which led to the grotto. She spent the rest of the day soaking and thinking about what she hoped to accomplish by returning to the Isle.

  The day turned to twilight, and twilight to darkness, for the moon had not yet risen. She had only visited the pools in the company of other sisters, and only by day. They were far more intimidating by night. The steam rising off the pools moved and shifted into a great many different forms, and though some of them were beautiful, there were others that were eerie and grotesque.

  She got out of the water, built a fire, ate a modest dinner and waited for the moon to rise. Once her celestial companion appeared, she took the narrow path up to the top pool and got in. It was the hottest one, and her favorite. The waters wrapped around her like a warm blanket, calm and nurturing. Slowly, her apprehensions faded away. It was in this comforting solitude that she allowed herself to cry—not weep, but cry—loud, huge, sometimes angry, sometimes anguished, wailing. She cried for Gwion, for Aveta, for her mother, and for what she had given up with Bran. She cried for all those who had died at the hands of the evil that had taken so many. She convulsed with cathartic sobs for as long as they rose up in her, and then, empty and exhausted, she went down into the safety of the warm grotto below the pools to sleep.

  ***

  The next morning, Lucia began her journey to the other side of the Isle. There was but one narrow path to her destination. She had been told under no circumstances to stray from it, or she risked wandering the Isle for far more than a moon’s time. Some had never returned from walking the Path, and their bodies had never been found.

  Sometimes, an unknown sister would wander into the village looking for sisters who had long been dead, or whom they had never heard of. A sister to whom this had happened was known as a Lost One, and it was very important to make her feel loved and safe until the High Priestess could speak to her. It fell upon the High Priestess to explain what had happened to her and escort her to the safety of the grotto. There they would pray to the Great Mother together and ask that she be shown the way back to the time she had come from. The Lost One would sleep in the grotto, and invariably be gone by morning. Lucia asked her grandmother how they could be certain the Lost One had not wandered into yet some other realm. She had been reassured that the Great Mother could always lead her handmaidens home from there—the grotto was her domain, where the Trickster could not interfere.

  Lucia therefore picked her steps carefully, trying not to daydream, for she had no desire to lose the trail and become a Lost One.

  She was happy to find berries along the trail, for she could not leave it to hunt or fish for her breakfast. She turned one of her robes around and used the hood to gather them. Dappled sunlight shone down through the trees and it put her in good spirits. The weather was growing warmer each day. The spring flowers had already begun to give way to meadowsweet and poppies, and the grass was fresh and bright green, grown long with the ample rains of the past few moons. She assumed the other side of the Isle would be similar in terrain, but could not be completely certain. The Isle was full of mysteries, and making assumptions was something she had learned to abandon long ago. However, if it was, she would set up her camp near the lake shore. It was a safe place to light a fire, where she could fish for her dinner each night. She would be qui
te comfortable with her winter robes to sleep upon. Besides, she was not the first to have walked the Path. Likely, there would be things left behind by the others that she could make use of. She found herself wondering what she would do with all the days to come. It had not occurred to her that she might become bored or restless while on the Path.

  A strange feeling came over her, interrupting her thoughts. She looked up and saw a young boy, about the age of fifteen, making his way toward her. Gwion? His hair had the same golden radiance, a radiance that now also emanated from his skin. It was as if she beheld an angel, or a prince of the Fae. Her heart rejoiced. It must be his spirit!

  “Thank the gods I’ve found you!” he said.

  “Gwion?” she asked. “Is that you?”

  “No, it’s me, Taliesin!” he said, growing distraught. “Don’t you recognize me?”

  Lucia smiled and felt her throat tighten, because he looked so much like Gwion. She fought back tears, overwhelmed with a desire to put her arms around him.

  “I’ve used all the magic I know to find you,” he told her. “The twins and I were captured, along with many others. The ship we’re on sailed south along the coast for a day, but we’ve changed course and are now sailing east. I don’t know if our captors hail from the eastern shores or from somewhere beyond, but they are Saxon, and fly sails with a sigil of a raven holding an amber Hagalaz runestone in its beak. You must get this message to King Bran and my father, if they still live. Tell them to seek out Ula or Tegid’s help—they know the sea. I’m sure they can find us.”

  Gods, no! The thought of Bran’s village having been attacked brought on a wave of nausea, weakening her knees. “What’s your father’s name?” she managed to say.

  The boy looked despondent. “Lord Elffin, my queen. Perhaps in this realm you’ve forgotten us?”

  She had been told that visitations were a common occurrence in the part of the Isle she was venturing into—but to be so specifically solicited? With such an urgent message? Was that also common?

  She had taken an oath before the Great Mother not to return to the village, under any circumstances, until she had walked the Path completely—but the boy’s message was so urgent. How can I stay here for a month, perhaps risking the lives of Bran’s people?

  He looked so lost that she instinctively put her hand on his shoulder to comfort him. The moment she touched him, a surge of familiarity and love filled her heart, prompting her decision. “I’m sorry—I’ll find King Bran and your father…Lord Elffin,” she said, committing the man’s name to memory, “and deliver this message for you.”

  “Thank you, Queen Lucia—our lives depend on it.”

  “I promise.” Lucia nodded, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “But I’m no—“

  Before she could finish, a mist as thick as smoke rolled in, engulfing them both. When it cleared, the boy was gone.

  “—Queen,” Lucia whispered, finishing her sentence softly to herself.

  She began walking back the way she had come, but the farther she walked, the more doubtful she became. What have I done? Is this a test? Or the Trickster, attempting to fool me into abandoning my oath to the Great Mother? Torn, she paced back and forth along the trail, wondering if she should turn back or not. “Great Mother, what should I do?” she cried out to the moon in frustration.

  She was startled by how quickly the answer came to her.

  Stay the Path, honor your oath. Trust me.

  She nodded to herself and took a deep breath. She put the vision of the boy out of her mind and forced herself to turn around and head back toward the other side of the Isle, but every step was torture. Any vision I’ve ever ignored, I’ve regretted—I have to do something. She simply could not continue—not if Bran’s people might be in danger and she alone had been given the opportunity to do something about it.

  I couldn’t live with myself, Great Mother—please understand.

  ***

  The sisters averted their gaze when she returned to the village, refusing to acknowledge her. Again, a flood of doubt assaulted her, curdling her stomach with shame.

  There was only one woman she could turn to; one who might understand. She found her in the garden, hands deep in the dirt and hair hanging in her face.

  “Aveta?”

  She turned around and looked up, her face lined with worry. “What happened?”

  “Bran’s village has been attacked—a boy named Taliesin came and told me his people have been taken captive, and that I must deliver a message to save them. I had to come back. I couldn’t ignore it.”

  Aveta shook her head, a look of disappointment on her face. “The consequence for breaking an oath to the Great Mother is banishment from the Isle. You know that, Lucia.”

  “Yes, but surely, under the circumstances,” Lucia argued, feeling a wave of panic. Oh, gods, what have I done?

  Aveta’s face turned somber. “Come, she’ll be waiting. I’m sure the others have told her by now.”

  I’ll never see the Isle again, Lucia realized, her stomach dropping.

  They found Rowan not far from the village, in the small grove of trees she often sat within to pray. She was cross-legged on top of a flat mossy boulder, eyes closed, mouth moving, uttering words they could not understand. As they neared the grove, she said, “You have made an important choice today, Lucia.”

  Lucia noted the serious tone in her voice and prepared herself.

  “You are never to return to the Isle, for you have made the choice to trust your own voice over the voice of the Great Mother.”

  It’s happening—I’m to be banished. In desperation, she told her grandmother the story of the boy who had appeared to her and his urgent message, but it made no difference.

  “Your path winds elsewhere, now, Lucia,” Rowan said, coming down off her rock. “Your time here with us is finished. Know that I do not judge you. We bid you blessings on your journey.”

  “But, Grandmother—“ Lucia said with a sob.

  Rowan took her hands. “If the Great Mother told you all would be well, it would have been. I pray that, one day, you will have the courage to trust her. She sees more than you could ever possibly see on your own, for she looks down upon all things at once, in both time and space, and sees how they are all woven together.”

  Lucia knew it was pointless to argue. She wiped the tears from her face and embraced her grandmother in farewell. “I’ll leave at once,” she whispered.

  Her grandmother nodded, and the sad disappointment Lucia saw in her eyes broke her heart. Rowan climbed back up on her rock and returned to her prayers.

  Aveta put her arm around Lucia’s shoulders and led her back to the village. “I’m coming with you,” she announced once they reached the hut they shared.

  “No, Aveta,” Lucia protested, shaking her head.

  “Say whatever you like, but I’m coming with you. Creirwy is a woman now, and though she may not know it yet, I know she won’t be returning to the Isle. I’ve seen her future. She’s far too adventurous to live out her days here. With the two of you gone, what reason do I have to stay?”

  Lucia smiled and hugged her tightly, inwardly awash in relief and gratitude. Thank you, Great Mother. Thank you for Aveta.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A Wager for Ula

  Bran counted the rungs on the rope ladder as he climbed them, the cask of wine still lashed to his back. Five times twenty. He knew the narrow plank bridge that stretched out in front of him hung perilously high in the air.

  A sea of mist shifted all around the bridge, revealing and then reclaiming it, as it swayed precariously back and forth. He took a tentative step out onto the first mossy plank, testing its strength. It creaked threateningly, but did not give way. He moved slowly, plank by plank, praying the bridge would continue to hold him as he made his way across, counting the planks as well. It was the only way to gauge distance and height within the confusion of the mist. Twenty, two times twenty, three times twenty…

&n
bsp; “Ah,” he sighed with relief when his foot finally felt something solid and unmoving. He stepped off the rotting bridge and surveyed his surroundings, listening carefully before venturing any further.

  The mist had thinned out somewhat. He spied a strange structure in the distance, built from all manner of things—river rocks, tree logs, pine cones, pieces of sunken rafts and boats, oars, and even bones. They were lashed together from equally strange items, all clearly found at the bottom of the lake. Everything smelled of rot. He ripped a piece of his tunic off to tie around his mouth and nose before venturing into the maw of the ghastly castle.

  Inside was far worse. Dozens of skulls hung from the ceiling, no doubt as a warning, for they served no structural purpose. Did Tegid Voel kill all these people? Or did they drown? How did they come to rest in this macabre place? It was nearly as bad as the Underworld. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Murderer!” a threatening voice echoed through the corridors of rotting death, causing Bran to jump. “Where’s me selkie?”

  “Ula sent me here,” Bran called out, his heart pounding. “Please, Lord Tegid, let us talk, face to face.”

  There was no answer.

  Bran noticed the cask felt tremendously heavy in its sling, as if a small child had come along and hung from it. He slipped it off his shoulder and dropped it to the ground. “I’ve brought you a gift—wine of the Isle.”

  Within moments, Bran felt Tegid Voel looming over him.

  “Come, then, Murderer,” he ordered in a sinister tone. The sound of his voice issued from far above, sending chills down Bran’s spine. He had never met a man taller than himself.

  Tegid Voel easily snatched up the cask with one hand and grabbed Bran with the other, yanking him off his feet and dragging him down the muddy corridor to a nasty chamber. A large smoke hole in the roof let in a bit of weak light from the grey and overcast sky, revealing sparse furnishings fashioned from bones and stacked rocks.