Chapter 1 #2
The shadow dipped, rattling the thorn-cloaked brush, then burst upward with fanned wings, screeching overhead. Freya ducked with a cry, covering her head as a great owl swept into the night sky.
She let out a shaky breath, then laughed at herself and pressed on toward Lealt. Everything was as it should be. It was only her imagination conjuring boars, wolves, and mad fathers lurking in the wood.
The small village of Lealt, perched on Jura’s eastern shore, was quiet and calm when she reached the distinctive green door of Fraser MacSorley’s longhouse. She knocked once, and the door swung open.
“Freya!”
Dozens of children and their parents from the island greeted her as she slipped into the crowded home.
Fraser’s wife, Gavina, pressed a warm cup of mulled wine into her hands. “Did you have trouble getting out tonight? You’re late.”
Freya kissed Gavina’s petal-soft cheek, letting the touch chase away the night’s chill. “Only trouble rousing my bones. I was so snug in bed it was hard to face the walk.”
“Aye, hard to fathom harvest is here already. Willnae be long until the long nights of hiems.”3 Gavina smiled and nudged her toward the center of the longhouse as the villagers filled the benches along the walls. There were so many now that little room remained around the fire for recital.
Freya took a long drink of the wine, swishing it over her tongue to wake it from slumber, then passed the cup back into Gavina’s hands. Clearing her throat, she circled the fire at the center of the longhouse as the children scurried forward, scrambling for the best seats.
The longhouse grew quiet as Freya drew her cloak closed, the North Star stitched at its center wrapping her in its sparkling secrets.
Little voices rippled with giggles and anticipation.
They knew the Storyteller would not come to life unless they hushed, yet excitement kept them from perfect stillness.
When the moment reached its pitch, she closed her eyes, hood drawn, and let the bard’s voice roll forth.
“Good evening, kind children.”
At once their feet began to stomp in greeting.
Smiling, she swept her cloak back and forth, first to one side of the longhouse, then the other. “That’s right, you must stomp. Our feet chase away the darkness, like stars appearing in the night.”
She strode along the benches, drinking in their eager faces and delighted giggles, the rhythm of small feet echoing like drums. “Are you weary, being up so late? Perhaps I should leave and return another night, when you’re rested.”
The giggles turned into squeals as little feet hammered faster, harder. The sound swelled like driving rain circling the longhouse. Freya cupped a hand to her ear. “Ahh… yes. I hear the darkness retreating… it’s almost—”
The oldest lads leaned back on their arms and stomped with all the might they could muster.
“Aye, it’s gone.”
Fervent squeals replaced the stomping, and Freya smiled at the joy on each child’s face as they waited for their story. “What a wonderful year it has been for those of us who love the light and hate the darkness of evil. Who will remind me why we have done so well?”
Hands shot up around the room. Freya pointed to a small blond boy with a freckled nose. “The Shield!”
Cheers erupted, parents joining in with claps and hoots.
Freya nodded, circling the fire on her toes in a victory dance. “Aye, the Shield. Who can name its members?”
Hands waved frantically.
Freya extended her arm, opening into an elegant point. “You there. Name the first and best member.”
A little girl with blond braids sprang to her feet, bouncing. “That’s easy! Beithir!”
A tall boy in Lochbuie plaid groaned. “Och! I wanted to say him. He’s my favorite.”
Freya chuckled. “That’s all right—there are many. Share with us your second favorite.”
The boy rolled his eyes. “I should think it obvious—Lightning. He’s the chieftain’s son, a son of Jura, and the fastest of them all.”
Every boy, MacLean and MacSorley alike, roared their agreement, fists drumming on their knees in support. Freya’s heart warmed. Years of stories had done their work. Calum was near the top of their memory.
“Aye, Lightning,” she echoed, then paused. “Who is his best mate?”
“THUNDER!” shouted a boy with a painted-on mustache near Gavina. The parents burst into laughter as he fumbled out a bow made of sticks. “He shoots the Wolf’s slimy forces dead!”
Freya laughed. “Aye. Name another.”
Hands shot up around the room, children propping up aching arms with their free hands and oooh-ing in desperation to be chosen. Freya pointed to a dark-haired MacSorley lass.
The girl flexed her arm. “Rock.”
Freya nodded and rolled her Highland brogue thick. “Rrrock! Tha’s right—the fearsome Highland munro who can bendae a bar of iron and wrestle a man with one hand tied behind his back!”
Two boys instantly leapt onto each other in a show of strength, rolling in the dust with wild laddish whoops. Cringing, Freya hurried over and pried them apart. “Now, now. We must behave if we want the story…”
The boys released one another and sealed their truce with a solemn handsál.4 “Much better,” Freya affirmed. “Now, can someone name the last four?”
The MacLean boy nodded, triumphant. “Sea.”
Freya giggled and pointed to Arne, the little red-haired boy who lived beside her father’s longhouse. “Arne, perhaps you can name another member of the Shield. There are three left.”
Arne ducked behind a table, then popped his head out. “Shadow—the great trickster.”
“Charger!” shouted a freckled lad, slapping his thighs to mimic hoofbeats. “He’s the newest member. Irish, like my granny.”
Quivering hands shot higher, waving frantically.
“One left,” Freya mused, tapping a finger against her chin as though she were lost in thought. “Who knows it?” She stopped before a shy girl. “Do you?”
The girl blushed and nodded. Freya waited, but the whisper was so faint it barely carried.
Arne groaned. “Speak up, ninny-niaw!”
Rolling her eyes, Freya dropped to her knees, her cloak pooling around them both. “Kindness, children. Remember—or the Storyteller will go away.”
Arne clamped his mouth shut, pantomiming a pin through his lips.
“That’s better. Now, would you like to whisper it in my ear?”
The girl nodded, enfolding her hands like tiny paws around Freya’s ear. “The Lion,” she breathed.
Freya smiled. “Ah, well done! My young MacLean friend has named the courageous Lion.”
The room erupted in applause, but one insistent hand at the back kept waving. Anticipation bubbled in Freya’s chest. “One hand remains. What say you?”
A gingery girl flapped her arms like wings. “The Bird. We’ve forgotten the Bird.”
Cheers filled the longhouse, the children sensing the tales were drawing toward their stirring conclusion.
“He’s the best one,” Arne gasped. “He can turn and do tricks, fly through the air—and the way he scaled Staffa with the Lion. Och!”
“That’s right,” Freya intoned, moving to each candle, cupping a tallow rush light in her hand before blowing it out. “We first heard of the Bird in the Tale of the Imprisoned Lion, when the brave Bird healed the Lion and sailed across the Hebrides in search of the Beithir.”
She circled the longhouse, reached a taper, and snuffed it. “Then came the Night of the Flaming Arrow, when Lightning dared to ignite the Wolf’s trebuchet and fled into the darkness faster than—”
“Lightning!” a boy cried, bouncing so hard he nearly toppled.
For an instant, Calum’s face flickered in her mind, smooth and smiling, as she moved to the next candle.
“Dinnae forget about Shadow’s Trick,” Arne called.
She snapped her fingers beside her head.
“Och, how could I forget the shifting Shadow?” She grinned, blowing out another taper.
When the children settled again, she went on.
“And last week, we heard the Tale of the Bird That Flew, when the magnificent creature swooped into Staffa and pillaged the Boar and the Wolf, stealing their war gold.”
A small boy held a whittled bìrlinn, sailing it on unseen waves. “And Sea carried the Shield to safety!”
Freya passed to the last candle. “This evening I bring you the final tale of the Bird. You will remember the glorious Eagle has been stalking the Boar and the Wolf as the evildoers wreak havoc on the MacKinnon clan. Can anyone guess what will happen?”
Hands shot up, and she pointed to the child nearest her. The lass peered up, brows knitting. “What happened to your cheek, Storyteller? You have a terrible bruise.”
At once the room shifted. Expectancy drained, every gaze fixed on the tender mark upon Freya’s face. A few parents exchanged disapproving shakes of the head, and Fraser began to rise. “Odin’s nightgown! Is that why you’ve kept your hood up?”
Quickly, Freya snuffed the final flame, plunging the room into darkness but for the central fire. “I walked into a branch on my way here. Swung back and clipped my cheek. Think nothing of it…”
She skipped lightly between the children, twirling her cloak, weaving motion into her words as if nothing had happened. “For now the tale is on its way—the conclusion, the final battle…” Rocking on her feet, she dipped left and right, coaxing the story into being.
Squeals rang out and little feet stomped the floor. Freya snapped her fingers. “Ah, but I’ve forgo’. I havenae received payment.”
Hands shot up, wobbling in the air. A boy she recognized as Douglas MacLean’s son—one of Tyr’s most resistant clansmen—bounced up and down. Freya twirled, stopping before him with a flourish. “You there. What payment have you brought me?”
The boy stood tall. “I helped Gavina beat out the skins from her floors.”
Freya’s cloak swirled as she turned toward the door where Gavina sat. “Gavina MacSorley…is this tale of service true?”
“Aye,” Gavina said, smiling. “Leif has helped me.”
Freya clapped once. “The Storyteller accepts your payment.”
Eager hands flew back into the air.
“Oooo! Please, pick me! Pick meee!” Arne nearly toppled from his bench in excitement.
Spinning on her toes, Freya bowed before him, hand across her breast in a Viking salute. “What payment have you brought me?”
Arne cupped his dirt-stained hands around his mouth and shouted, “I helped Ivar MacLean weed his vegetable beds!”
Freya drifted down the longhouse, cloak sweeping side to side, until she reached stoic Ivar, whittling by the fire.
Ivar lifted his eyes and nodded. “Aye, Storyteller. Arne helped me.”
Freya clapped twice. “The Storyteller accepts your payment.”
Once more she spun, hand raised above her head, glancing over her shoulder. “Only one more payment is needed.”
Children bounced up and down in their seats, hands stretched high, but Freya searched for the quiet one, as she always did for the final payment. At the edge of the gathering, a red-haired lass sat alone, her hand raised no higher than her shoulder.
Remembering what it felt like to be that child, Freya crouched beside her and extended a graceful hand.
“You there. What payment have you brought me?”
The girl licked her lips. “I helped Liv MacSorley dust her shelving and wash her pottery.”
Freya winked, and the girl’s smile blossomed. Rising, Freya crossed the room to Liv. “Liv, is this tale of service true?”
Liv nodded. “Aye, Storyteller. Cora MacLean has helped me.”
Freya clapped three times, and the room erupted with stomps and cheers.
Stifling her laughter, she schooled her face into solemn dignity.
She danced a silent reel around the fire, then slipped a hand into her pouch, drawing out a palmful of sawdust. Lifting her hands overhead as though plucking the story from the air, she whispered, “I bring you the Tale of the Boar’s Destruction. ”
She clapped her palms together and blew the dust into the fire as though breathing it to life. Sparks leapt skyward, white smoke curling into the rafters. Silence fell. Apprehension gleamed in every eye.
Freya drew a breath. And began her story.