But when he sat down to write his refusal, something had stilled his hand over the parchment, something he couldn’t explain but which sat deep within his breast, urging him to go. Quietly and unwaveringly it insisted that he needed to see this unimportant little scrap of land protected by his brother’s fearsome reputation.
For days—weeks, even—Torsten ignored the impulse, pretended it did not exist. Pretended that the nagging little itch was entirely his imagination. It was no use. By day he would find himself staring out over the crowded, dusty streets of whatever village he happened to be in, seeing not the hustle of activity but the rhythmic lapping of blue-green waves upon a rocky shore. And by night ...
By night that rhythmic lapping turned into a song, its gentle melody deceptive and frightening in its power over his unconscious mind. In his dreams he yearned for that unknown shore, so much so that when he woke he could feel its residue as an ache deep within him. Over time the ache intensified so that he woke trembling and perspiring in his bed. It was then that he knew his journey to Fara was inevitable.
“You would leave me here to fend for myself among these heathens?” Gulnaraj had said when Torsten told him of his decision.
“You are twice the size of most of them, and much better fed. Besides, you have your son at your side, and he is nearly as tall as I.”
“He is, though he does not have your strength, and between you and me, I wonder if he’s not a little soft in the head.” Gulnaraj paused and, with defeat clear on his dark, age-lined face, he shrugged his shoulders. “Since I cannot change your mind, my friend, I wish you luck. And here,” he added, digging into the pocket of his white linen trousers and offering his closed fist to Torsten. “Something for your brother’s bride.”
Torsten had held out his hand, and when Gulnaraj dropped the object, he gasped. Glittering on his open palm was a large, sparkling ruby set into a frame of Persian gold. The piece was suspended on a delicate chain and was so beautiful that Torsten shook his head, startled by his partner’s generosity.
“I cannot accept.”
“I insist. I would not have traded for it if I had not been reminded of you when I saw it.”
“Of me? How so?”
Gulnaraj thought, pursing his lips. “Perhaps ‘reminded’ is not the correct way to describe it. When I saw the necklace I was taken by the ruby in particular. Something about it made me think of you, made me feel you might have a need of it one day. It appears my hunch may have been right.
“I am glad to have something to give you,” he concluded when Torsten shook his head. “You have been a good friend to me, and I wish only the best for you and your family. Mind you come back safe and sound, though.”
“Ja,” Torsten had agreed, slipping the pendant into a small breast pocket sewn on the inside of his tunic. “You keep well yourself.”
With a firm, fond handshake, Torsten took his leave of his partner.
His journey home was made over land, and took him most of the summer to complete. By the end of the season he reached the southern tip of Norway. Just as the wave of heat was spreading out over the northern peninsula, he charted a private ferry to sail further south, to the cluster of small islands known as Orkney.
When finally they reached Fara’s vacant shore, the tired boatman held out his callused hand for payment. Torsten removed a small, leather draw-string satchel from around his neck, and retrieved the correct amount of gold coin plus a bit extra for the man’s troubles. With a nod of thanks he disembarked from the small craft.
He did not turn as the hull slid back from the rocky beach and retreated into the moonlit sea, its wooden bottom scraping against the rough surface with a groan. The mist, which from afar had first suggested the presence of land, licked at his legs. The soles of his boots crunched over the stones which stretched from the water to a short ledge of eroded soil. Scrub and grass hung listlessly as if too tired to lift itself back onto the land.
It was nothing Torsten hadn’t seen before, an island like any other. And yet there was something disconcerting about hearing the crunch of the rocks as he trod over them. Something unsettling about the mist which, in its thickness, seemed to follow him as he waded through it. If he didn’t know better he might think it were drawn to him, a conscious, sentient mass seeking him out.
Perhaps, though, it was not the mist that was unsettling, nor was it the sound of the stones, but rather that they were both so ... familiar.
Torsten shook the sensation off as he climbed onto the ledge of grass. One beach was just like another and he had seen so many. That was all that was familiar about this one. But the explanation was not enough to dislodge the notion that he had ... what? Been here before? Impossible!
He walked slowly, musing as he followed the line of the ledge around the shore. He supposed he should try to find the village and secure a place to sleep for a few hours until dawn broke. With any luck, he would find Einarr’s lodgings directly, but if not then perhaps some peasant villager wouldn’t mind if Torsten curled up with his animals. Beasts were warm, and it was not beneath him to take advantage of such a luxury no matter its source. Yet still he continued to wander, continued along the ridge where the land met the beach though the village most certainly lay in the other direction.
His wandering path followed an easterly route. It sloped gently upwards, unlike the main foot path leading inland which pitched steeply upwards from the harbour. At a point where the ledge had risen above the water to the height of two men, the path ended where the ground thrust upwards into the sky, creating a steep cliff with a rock face that plunged into the sea below. At its peak the mist thinned, and a haloed moon filtered through its sheer curtain.
And there, silhouetted against the silver glow, was a sight which stilled Torsten’s breath. For perched on the edge of the cliff above ... was a maid.
Torsten was so taken by the sight of her, so enchanted by it, he did not at first realize that his initial reaction was to think it perfectly natural that a maid be standing there. No, more than just any maid, this particular maid. Indeed her figure on that cliff seemed as connected with this place, as much a part of it as the crunch of his boot soles on the stony beach or the mist which lapped at his shins. Her dark hair spilled over her shift and rippled down her back in a cascade of glossy, deep rose ...
That observation brought him to his senses. Why had he thought her hair rose? For all he knew in this hazy darkness her hair might very well be raven-black. Still, he could not quell the idea that those long, satin strands were a deep, luxurious red, and he wondered for a moment what it might feel like to slide his fingers through them.
Watching this unknown maid, a strange ache settled into Torsten’s chest. Her figure was beautiful, a form so perfectly curved and arched that it resembled the marble sculptures he’d seen in lands like Lacedaemon and Sparta.
But the beauty he found in the maid’s figure was not for its form alone. In his travels Torsten had seen many beautiful women, with bodies as alluring as hers. For reasons he could not fathom he thought her beautiful because ... he knew her.
How long he had been staring up at that cliff he did not know. He could have gone on staring until dawn. So he was not prepared for the shock which came next. Raising her arms as if they were wings the maid tilted her face to the hollow light of the moon—
And stepped off the edge.
Gasping audibly, Torsten turned and sprinted headlong down the ledge until he was low enough that he could jump to the shore. His mind was focussed on nothing but the image of the maid and the point where she had splashed into the undulating sea.
By the time he made it to where the beach met the cliff’s face—she had not resurfaced.
* * *
The water closed over Norah’s body with a clap that hurt her ears. It was cold, in stark contrast to the mild air above it. The shock of it caused her to inhale sharply; frigid water flooded her lungs in response, scraping down her throat like shards of glass. Immediate dark ov
erwhelmed her, like a lid being shut on a tomb. So dark that she could not see her hands as they paddled involuntarily.
A ringing sounded in her ears as her lungs struggled to breathe air that was not there. A high-pitched ringing that ... no, wait. Not ringing. Laughter. The sea was laughing at her. Triumphant in its victory, it wrapped wraith-like fingers, soft as a breeze, around her legs, her waist, pulling her down.
Norah did not fight; she allowed the sea to drag her to its floor to whatever watery death it had in store for her. Gradually she began to succumb to the lack of air. Her head grew hazy, her eyes grew heavy, and the screaming pain in her lungs began to fade.
As her consciousness slipped away from her, the faces reappeared behind her eyelids. They drifted, floating like clouds through her mind as they did when they visited her at the broch. Painted faces, decorated in swirling designs with an unknown but important meaning. The faces smiled their lovely smiles at her, reassuring, as she was drawn ever downwards by the invisible hands of the sea.
And then, in the few seconds before she lost consciousness entirely, she felt the sea tightened its grip. Strong fingers dug into her flesh; thick, unyielding arms wrapped themselves around her waist, pulling her in sharp, jerky movements.
The last sensation that made its mark upon her dying mind was the feel of rushing water over her body as she was dragged swiftly to the bottom of the sea. Where she would lie for the rest of eternity.
* * *
Nothing ...
Blessed, blissful nothing ...
No taunting sea, no pulling, watery hands ...
No shameful madness ...
Norah had never known a peace like this, a serenity so profound that even in death she could not help but smile. Her lifeless body sensed nothing but the warm, strong arms which enveloped her in their embrace. Contented, she snuggled into them, pressing her cheek against the firm chest on which her head lay. Perhaps she was imagining it, but she thought she felt a jaw resting atop her head, and soft lips breathe into her hair.
It felt nice. She felt nice. Safe. Protected.
And right. Above all, everything felt right.
Gradually the profound serenity dissipated, like the mist under the midday sun, as her senses returned.
Strange ... the arms which embraced her were moving. Jostling her back and forth roughly. With a moan, she shook her head and burrowed her face deeper into the chest, but the arms offered no respite.
The jostling turned to thumping against her back. Or perhaps the jostling had been thumping all along. The force was so strong that a surge of water gurgled up from her throat and spilled from her mouth. And then the unpleasant thumping was forgotten, replaced by the blinding pain of her lungs as they pulled ragged, raking breaths into her chest.
She was not dead. The sea had not claimed her soul. The arms which held her were not those of death, would not be dragging her to the pits of hell this night ...
Norah’s eyes flew wide. Arms—whose arms?
Slowly she peeled herself away from the chest against which she leaned. Her bleary eyes scanned upwards, taking in a wet tunic slicked tight to a contoured stomach. Upwards over a powerful chest which melted into a sleek neck, a faint pulse murmuring beneath the taut skin at the throat. Upwards still, past a well-defined jaw, full, strong lips and then, finally, a pair of pale eyes.
A gasp flooded her body. Not of indrawn breath, but rather of every facet of her being inhaling at once in a chorus of recognition. It was the eyes. Some intangible thing about the eyes, rooted deep beneath the surface. These eyes belonged to this island as surely as she herself did. As surely as the broch and the mist.
At that precise moment there was a shift in Norah’s lonely world. In a way that made no sense—everything was clear. He was important to her, this man; important to the path on which she’d been set in this life.
Whatever her fate, he was meant to be a part of it.
The moment of revelation was a brief one, and Norah tempered it swiftly. Clearing her throat, she slid away from the stranger who had pulled her from the water. Her arms shook as she did, weakened from her ordeal.
The tremble in the maid’s fragile body alarmed Torsten. Instinctively he reached out to assist her. There was an energy from where her body had rested against his. It radiated across his skin and through to his core. That, too, alarmed him, for he had felt it the instant he found her beneath the water’s surface.
“Are you alright?” he managed when he found his voice.
The maid gazed steadily into his eyes. “I—I think so,” she said, her own voice hoarse.
“Would you mind telling me, then, why in the fires of Muspelheim you thought you must end your life by jumping off a—a ...”
There, Torsten faltered as he searched for the Gaelic word for “cliff.”
“I didna want to—”
“You did not want to die? What did you think would happen, then, fifla?”
Norah began to protest, but thought better of it. She had meant to say that she had not wished to end her life. That the sea had willed her to jump. But how could she explain such a thing?
She studied the man’s face closely. His features were set in a mask of anger, but his expression did not hide the fear which the incident had caused him.
She’d seen those features before, represented in another who had entered her life in recent years.
With quiet confidence she stated, “Ye’re one of Einarr Alfradsson’s clan.”
“I am his brother, Torsten.”
“Ye have the look of him.”
He snorted. “So I have been told. In fact, I had hoped to find his lodgings and announce my arrival, but was diverted by a certain maid atop a—a ... mighty Thor, what is your word for it?”
“The word is cliff,” Norah answered, biting back a giggle. “I wonder at yer timing, though, sir. Ye meant to surprise him as he slept?”
“Well ... no. I have travelled without rest for many days. I had not planned the hour of my arrival.”
“Then I’m sorry to disappoint ye, but Sir Einarr returned to his lodgings—on his own island—after the evening meal. As he does every night wi’ his men.”
Torsten blushed at the maid’s laughing tone. Of course Einarr would be on Rysa Beag. It was, after all, his stronghold. Why had Torsten thought his brother would be sheltering on Fara?
Why indeed! Torsten knew the answer to that question without having to give it a thought. He hadn’t thought; that had been the problem. Ever since Einarr’s summons had come for him, Tosten’s usually sharp mind had been clouded by the name of Fara, by that nagging itch that called out to him, begging him to come home.
Wait ... home? Had he just thought the word home?
He extinguished the thought angrily. What was happening to him?
Norah waited patiently for the confusion which flickered across the Norseman’s face to pass. “Ye’re welcome to make yer lodgings in the barracks wi’ the men until morning,” she offered.
“Ja, I think that would do fine. Thank you.”
A silence followed, a pregnant silence in which their eyes met. And held. The moment was fleeting, and when it passed they both made to stand. Norah’s weakened legs wobbled, and Torsten thrust his arms out to assist her.
Carefully, almost tenderly, he threaded his arm around her waist to help her walk. He held her close—closer, perhaps, than he needed to, but the maid did not pull away. Curious how his forearm seemed to nestle into the curve at the base of her rib cage, like the curved joints of the logs in a longhouse.
Curious how she seemed to shift into him ever so slightly, as if this were a dance they’d performed many times before ...
In silence Norah led them through the shimmering mist in the direction of the fortress.
“Can you reach your bed unaided?” he asked once they arrived.
“Aye, sir, I can make it. Thank ye for yer ... yer help.”
“You are welcome, fifla. I hope I shall not have to offer it
again under similar circumstances.”
With a final, lingering glance, Torsten turned and strode away into the darkness.
“Ye willna,” she whispered to his retreating form.
* * *
In the few hours before dawn Norah found sleep, though it was plagued by dreams. Dreams of the beautiful faces; of the broch; of laughing and feasting and dancing. Of voices which spoke to one another in a language she did not know.
These dreams were not new to her, she had them often. But this time there was another element to the visions which played behind her eyelids. Another face, one which made her heart soar and her body sing. It was a face as connected to the island, to the broch, to the mist as she herself was. A face which, just hours before, she’d opened her eyes to find when she’d been pulled from her death at the bottom of the sea.
She awoke to the gentle glow of a misty, muggy dawn, before anyone else in the keep had risen. Silently she made her way to the window ledge in the common room and perched atop it.
She’d been here like this, in the same spot and the same position, the night before—it seemed a lifetime ago now. Before, the sea had called to her. It had exerted its pull on her soul, calling her to her death.
But now ...
Now the sea was silent, the pull barely perceptible. For the first time in her life the taunting, merciless melody of the waves was nowhere to be heard.
Nine
The next morning the hall was filled with the din of uneasy chatter. Islanders and Norse alike milled about, not quite sure how to behave in light of the previous night’s announcement—and what had happened after.
No one knew what had taken place behind closed doors when Norah was dragged off to the keep to be dealt with. And they were afraid to speculate.
The chief and his family gave no indication one way or another. When the food arrived, they took their places at the high table as usual, and ate their meal with quiet pride. The rest in the hall followed suit, but watched those on the dais surreptitiously.
Legend of the Mist Page 9