Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  Now, Bodvar’s longship led twenty vessels south, toward the Sea of Lyonesse and the Lost Isle. Ogyr the raven circled above the flotilla. Around Gwenvael, battle-scarred warriors twice his size eyed him suspiciously as they stretched gray ropes that moaned against the strain of the wind.

  Gwenvael needed to trust his destiny. God threw him to the Vikings to do His work. Must he convert the heathens to Christianity? If so, he must study their language. On the first day, he picked up a few foreign words and decided he could quickly learn the barbarian tongue, which seemed simple compared to his native Gaelic.

  The Drakkars sailed for five days, anchoring at dusk to start again at dawn. Only once did the wind drop and the sturdy Vikings had to man the oars to the rhythm of the drums. Njal, the young interpreter, was Bodvar's son from an Irish slave. Njal taught Gwenvael many Viking words. Every so often, Ogyr would fly in reconnaissance then come back to the longship, leading Gwenvael in the right direction.

  On the sixth day, the flotilla came upon an island with its base shrouded in fog. Gwenvael thanked the Saints when he recognized the Lost Isle. It had not changed. High above the mist, the forbidding circle of stones stood at the top of a cliff, and above it, Mount Elenore rose, pink with apple blossoms.

  "Is this the isle?" Bodvar grinned in anticipation.

  "Yes, My Prince, the isle of the maidens." It looked peaceful, but Gwenvael shivered.

  Bodvar shouted order, and the Vikings furled the red and white striped sail, stretching the slick ropes. Then the drums beat the tempo, and the oarsmen dipped the oars and started pulling in rhythm.

  Gwenvael hid his apprehension behind a strained smile. Although he had renounced the old faith and its magic, he respected the Ladies’ might. Now he must brave the wrath of the Goddess along with the barbarians, and hope to survive. He sincerely hoped the Christian God would protect him today.

  When the Drakkars entered the fog, Gwenvael felt the rippling of unnatural forces and prayed to his new God as well as to the Goddess. One could never be too sure about the powers stirring the cauldron of human destiny. Even with good intentions, the Ladies of the Isle could prove unpredictable.

  As the mist thickened, the longships glided, keeping a safe distance from each other. To avoid collisions, one Viking on each ship blew his horn to signal their presence. The horns kept sounding and answering each other, muffled by the damp veil. The barbarians strained to see through the murk, and so did Gwenvael. Sensing a drop in temperature, he braced himself and tightened his hold on the rigging.

  The Vikings also shivered, despite woolen trews, fur vests and furry boots crisscrossed with leather strips up to the knees. Lusty anticipation vanished from the warriors’ faces as their eyes grew watchful and wary. Prince Bodvar’s helmeted head turned slowly. He reached for the axe at his belt, leaned over the side of the boat and sniffed, as if searching for clues.

  "Too quiet," young Njal whispered to Gwenvael. "He hates it."

  Gwenvael nodded and swallowed in an attempt to ease the lump in his throat.

  The Viking blowing the ram horn stopped and spoke to his warlord. No other horn had echoed the last calls. Frowning, the one eyed prince ordered the drum to cease. The rowers stopped. Faint cries, and the sounds of a far away struggle pierced the fog, but no other drum pounded. Bodvar’s face hardened. When he motioned for the drum to resume, the oars again splashed the water.

  Cries of terror at the prow stilled the oarsmen. A rogue wave unsettled the ship and washed over the deck. From the mist, a monstrous dragonhead emerged, loomed, then dove underwater to surface again. The prow of another Drakkar?

  Red in the face, Bodvar bellowed orders. Men raced the length of the ship as a sulfurous stench spread.

  The sea monster snarled and hissed. It was alive! A powerful tail lashed and sent three Vikings overboard. The black beast shattered the Drakkar's figurehead and pitched the longship at a steep angle.

  "Nidhogg!" Bodvar reacted as if he had seen the devil. Brandishing a spear, he aimed and let fly, but the weapon glanced off the slick hide of the sea dragon, which now dove and resurfaced on the opposite flank of the ship.

  "Nidhogg! Nidhogg!" The strange word, repeated among the Vikings, spread fear in its wake. In the churning water, floundering warriors yelled for help.

  Gwenvael fell to his knees. He now understood how St. Columba must have felt before quelling the sea monster in the Loch Ness. May the Saint forgive Gwenvael for ever doubting the story.

  Amidst the creaks and moans of beams, oars broke and the mast cracked but still held. The longship heaved and rolled. The monster roared as it coiled and uncoiled, then rammed the Drakkar, sending men overboard.

  Drenched and shivering, Gwenvael seized a rope and pulled himself out of the way of warriors tumbling or steadying themselves on the row of round shields that lined both sides of the Drakkar. Weapons clattered to the deck. Axes and swords slid to and fro, threatening to slice anything in their path. A wave crashed amidship, drowning the screams of rowers.

  The barbarians thrown overboard clamored as they struggled in the gray waters. The snarling monster snatched them with sharp teeth and tossed them, like bundles of hay on a pitchfork, only to catch them in its maws. The beast decapitated one Viking, bit off another's leg, then cleaved a third man in two.

  Begging protection from the Christian God, Gwenvael stared, awestruck by the powers the Ladies had unleashed. From his position in the stern, it looked like a battle of will between Bodvar and the beast. They glared at each other, hissing insults and threats, oblivious to the destruction and suffering around them.

  With a powerful swat of its tail, the winged serpent breached the hull. Water churned into the ship's bowels as the Drakkar lurched and dipped. The mast splintered, sending whipping ropes and yards of heavy sail crashing across the deck. When the boat tilted, men yelled warnings and screamed in pain, tangled in the rigging of the fast-sinking ship.

  The monster rose once again. It hissed then dove, leaving its stink about the wreck. Dropped into the chilly waters, Gwenvael grabbed onto the crippled hull and tugged at one of the great wooden shields. It came free. Heaving himself on the floating shield, he paddled clear of the sinking Drakkar.

  Soon, the wreck faded in the thick grayness with the stifled cries of the wounded and the drowning. In the choppy water next to Gwenvael, Prince Bodvar emerged, grappling for a broken oar. He had lost helmet and eye patch, and the long scar that sealed his lost eye showed white on the weathered face.

  The Viking sank.

  "Eh!"

  Shaken by the massacre, Gwenvael could not let another man die. He reached with one hand and pulled up the Viking’s head by the hair. "Don't you drown on me. Are you whole?"

  Like a mad man touched by the gods, showing no sign that he had heard or understood, Bodvar stared into nothingness.

  "Nidhogg!"

  Chapter Two

  Lost Isle, the same day

  Exhausted by the strain of summoning the sea serpent, Pressine collapsed into the cool grass at the top of Mount Elenore. Her head swam as she lay, staring at fast scudding clouds, but she grinned. She had summoned the sea serpent all by herself. Such a stretch of her precious gift, however, had sapped her strength.

  Ogyr flew down in a flapping of wings and perched on a small bush nearby.

  "You did well, my friend," Pressine crooned.

  The bird cawed and tilted its head.

  "Thanks to us, the Goddess has destroyed this Viking fleet. It will show aunt Morgane how strong I am." But Pressine could not rejoice yet, not until she knew Gwenvael had survived.

  "Pressine!" Morgane called from the Orchard below. She sounded short and irritated. Why?

  Pressine pushed herself up despite her dizziness, picked the hem of her blue shift and strolled downhill on wobbly legs. When Ogyr alighted on her shoulder, she stumbled but caught herself. As she wove through the apple trees, pink blossoms snowed on her head, and the breeze carried their fragrance as it blew her
long dark tresses.

  Pressine stopped in front of Lady Morgane, heart pounding. "Did you see what I just did?"

  Morgane scowled. "I see all that happens on this isle."

  Like Pressine, Morgane wore the royal blue shift tied at the waist by a golden sash, but the Lady’s hair hung in a single braid down her back. She squinted into the bright sun that warmed the land after a long winter. "You should have consulted me. You were reckless to attempt this alone."

  "But I did it." Pressine refused to let her aunt spoil her victory.

  "Abusing our gift for selfish endeavors carries severe consequences," Morgane snapped.

  "I know that." Pressine ignored Ogyr who flew off her shoulder. "I only summoned the Goddess for help. She did the work."

  The lady pressed her lips together. "But wasn’t your goal to show off your strength? Possibly to impress me?"

  Pressine looked down under Morgane’s steely stare and sighed. "Perhaps, a little."

  "We must not take pride in our special abilities, child."

  "I am sorry." Pressine had enough of one curse on her head, she could not afford to anger Aunt Morgane.

  "You look tired." The Lady’s voice softened. "But you handled the summon flawlessly." The lady almost smiled but not quite. "Next time, let me know before attempting something that dangerous."

  "I will." Pressine basked in the recognition. The Lady rarely praised anyone. "I want to make sure Gwenvael is safe."

  "I sent rafts to fetch the survivors." The Lady started down the slope. "I wonder whom the Goddess decided to spare."

  Pressine followed at a sedate pace. From this height, she could see most of the island bathed in sunshine, and all around, the magic mist that hung low on the water, like a crown one mile wide. Overhead, Ogyr uttered happy shrieks.

  Morgane glanced over her shoulder. "Your reckless enthusiasm may turn against you someday." She sounded concerned. "We need not provoke the Vikings."

  "But we won," Pressine crooned, in an attempt to charm her way to forgiveness.

  Shaking her head in surrender, Morgane kept walking. "Yes, we did, for now..." When she stopped and turned to wait, her gray eyes softened and she smiled. In that instant, Morgane’s ageless face bore a striking resemblance to Pressine’s mother.

  Pressine cast away the thought. She hated her mother for cursing her.

  "You need to learn patience, child." The mild reproach in Morgane’s voice stung Pressine.

  "You speak like old Merlin." Pressine braced her steps, unwilling to show her fatigue as she caught up with her aunt. "And despite your youthful looks, you think like a crone."

  The lady exulted in a clear laugh. "You will, too, in a few centuries. Power comes to us before wisdom, child, but you will learn, in time."

  Time... There would be plenty of that.

  Morgane grew serious and squeezed Pressine's arm, leading her down the gentle slope. When they reached the circle of stones that crowned the plateau, at the edge of the cliff, the lady sat on a stone bench facing the sea.

  "The rescue rafts have not returned yet." She patted the space beside her. "Come sit."

  Pressine obliged her and dangled her legs as she looked out to sea above the magic fog. Nothing she could do but wait to find out whether or not Gwenvael lived. Dear Goddess, although my brother is now a Christian, please have mercy on him!

  "Did you think about my proposition?" Morgane’s clear voice pierced the breeze.

  Pressine frowned at the reminder. Although she understood the necessity to rally the country against the Viking hordes, the sacrifice seemed enormous. "You mean my marriage to that old king?"

  Morgane snorted, a strange sound from such a lady. "Thirty-five is not old, child."

  The spring breeze made Pressine’s blood rush with strange stirrings. "Is the king handsome despite his age?"

  "He is brave and wise." Morgane cast her a side glance. "A widower."

  "I would have preferred a dashing young man to take my maidenhood." Pressine bent over and plucked a buttercup from the grass, then tucked the flower in the braid crowning her dark tresses. "They say you never forget your first lover."

  "Indeed." Morgane gazed faraway to where the sky met the sea. "I will forever remember Achilles."

  "See, what I mean?" Pressine crossed her legs like a scribe on the stone bench. "That is the kind of man I want to marry. Not an old king."

  "Demigods and heroes make terrible husbands, child, believe me." A faint smile brushed Morgane’s lips. "But you should have seen Achilles before the ramparts of Troy, shouting insults to Memnon."

  Pressine patiently indulged her aunt as the chirping of sparrows intruded. She hoped that when she reached Morgane's advanced age, she would refrain from recounting the same old stories.

  "...what a glorious combat, when he killed the Prince of Ethiopia..." Morgane’s gaze searched the azure sky. "Of all the men I loved, Achilles still haunts my dreams."

  Pressine’s sigh escaped unbidden. "I guess any kind of service to the Goddess must be better than rotting in this secluded place. I miss home. Does the land of Alba resemble my native Bretagne?"

  "Elinas of Dumfries rules over the tribal kings and barons of Strathclyde. You will enjoy the lakes, the forests and the bubbling springs." Morgane’s expression remained neutral. "The country needs a high king to unify and protect the land."

  "I would have preferred a Scot, a Pict, even an Angle." Just mentioning the wild northern tribes filled Pressine with tingling curiosity. "Britons are so tame."

  Pressine hated the assignment, but she had sworn to serve the Goddess.

  Morgane smiled. "I need a royal virgin to seduce him into marriage, a delicate and vivacious beauty wielding the might of the Goddess. With such a brilliant mind, you are the perfect choice."

  How Pressine resented Morgane's manipulative ways.

  The Lady smoothed Pressine's dark hair. "What man could resist these lustrous tresses? Or those eyes, clear as a mountain stream in sunlight?"

  Pressine pulled her head back. "How do you propose I make him high king over all of Alba?"

  "Do not fear." Morgane squeezed her hand. "The Goddess will provide opportunities and give you signs. Will you obey Her will?"

  Although her heart grew heavy, Pressine knew she must obey. "Do you think I can learn to love Elinas, in time?"

  Brushing a small sprig from her shift, Morgane sighed. "Do you know the hardest part?"

  "No." What terrible secret had Morgane kept from her?

  "It is sad to see your mortal lover whither and die while you remain young and vibrant." Morgane paused. "And never underestimate the power of the curse."

  "Aye, the curse..." The mention of it made Pressine shudder. She now understood its severity and felt the oppressing threat closing upon her. "I wish I could forget Mother’s cruelty. She ruined my life."

  "Hush, little one." Morgane patted her hand. "Nothing you can do but accept your fate. King Elinas must never see you in childbed."

  "But, if by misfortune he does?" Pressine’s throat clenched and her voice cracked.

  "You will lose each other," Morgane said, matter-of-fact. "The kingdom will wither, the wealth dwindle, and the king’s sons be cursed for nine generations." She stared into Pressine's eyes. "So, will you wed the Briton king?"

  Pressine straightened her back and forced down her dread. No one would ever accuse her of shirking her duty. If the Goddess requested she marry King Elinas, so be it. She took a deep breath. "When do I leave?"

  "Tuesday, of course. Have you learned nothing of our ways? You of all people should know the most auspicious day to start on a journey."

  "Tuesday?" It seemed so sudden.

  "You have three days." Lady Morgane rose and glanced down to the shore below. "The first raft is emerging from the mist. Let us go meet the survivors."

  Still stunned by the news of her impending departure, Pressine surveyed the beach below. Beyond the surf, a raft approached to the slow rhythm of a paddle. The
priestess who had guided the rescue boat through the mists stood on the flat deck.

  Pressine scanned the sitting figures huddled on the raft. Dear Goddess, please let it be Gwenvael! She stood up and hurried down the stairs cut in the face of the cliff, a steep shortcut to the beach below.

  Gusts of wind whipped her shift, and sea spray dampened her hair. Behind her, Morgane followed at a lady-like pace. A second raft emerged from the mist as Pressine reached the base of the cliff.

  She hurried toward the shore, her booted feet sinking into sand. The boatman leapt into shallow surf and dragged the boat onto the wet sand. The silhouettes on deck slowly unfolded.

  Desperate to find out whether or not her brother lived, Pressine searched the shivering refugees.

  Although she had prayed, the Goddess offered no guarantees. Magic often worked in unexpected ways. Sometimes, it escaped the bonds of the spell and took a life of its own, crushing everything in a destructive frenzy. And on occasion, Pressine had seen people spared by the sea serpent, only to go mad or die of fright.

  "Gwenvael!" She called toward the gathered survivors.

  When a young man looked up and waved, she ran to her brother. Relief washed over her. Thank you dear Goddess for sparing his life. She hugged him tight and felt his laugh against her chest, then she held him at arm’s length.

  "I was spared, sister." The Culdee tonsure made Gwenvael look older. Salt water had reddened his eyes in a pale face. He turned and nodded toward another youth, who supported a dripping giant with long flaxen hair. "This is Prince Bodvar and his son Njal."

  A horrible scar twitched on the Viking’s face, as a single blue eye stared into emptiness. Pressine shuddered. She recognized the warlord from a vision, but the man had changed. He looked as if he had just visited the land of the dead and would forever gaze upon it.

  "Nidhogg!" the barbarian blurted in a daze. An empty scabbard dangled on his thigh as he leaned heavily on the youth.