On the Far Shore

Sorcha

Broddr’s head lay in Sorcha’s lap, sweat dampening her wedding dress and apron. She wiped his forehead with a damp cloth. The wound that he had received saving her had festered and now he was battling with a different foe. Sorcha leaned her head back against the mast and closed her eyes. She could feel a heaviness envelope her–a heaviness like a dark, foreboding blanket, covering them from the sunlight, taking away all hope. Broddr mumbled in his delirium and thrashed his head back and forth.

“Shhhh, my love. You will be fine. As soon as we get to the Faroe Islands we’ll get you to a proper healer,” Sorcha whispered, but in her heart she despaired. When would they get to the Faroe Islands? The wind had not picked up from dying after the first day on the northern seas. Þrándr had promised that if the wind held, they would be at the Faroe Islands in only three days. The wind had not held and now every time she looked down on Broddr’s feverish brow she had a gnawing angry feeling in her gut. She wasn’t sure he would make it.

“How is he?” It was Tove. Sorcha was so exhausted she hadn’t heard Tove come up from behind.

“I don’t know. Bad, I think. The wound has gone bad. He needs a healer to cauterize it, but if we don’t make land soon…” Sorcha left the sentence hanging, unable to finish the thought. Tove sat down next to her and took the rag from her hand.

“You sleep,” she said. “Just close your eyes and I will keep wiping his face. I’ll watch him.”

Sorcha nodded. “Thank you, Tove. You really have become a good friend.”

Tove snorted dismissively, but beneath that there was the hint of a smile. “Just sleep.”

Sorcha closed her eyes. The exhaustion of the past week on the open sea and caring for Broddr in his fevered delirium for most of it rolled over her and in only moments she was asleep.

Sorcha opened her eyes and found herself in a grassy field. She climbed to her feet and looked around. There was a long path through the field and at the end, before it bent and disappeared over a grassy knoll, stood an ancient hag. She beckoned at Sorcha. Sorcha began to walk in the direction of the hag, yet she had not made any decision to do so. Her legs seemed to have developed their own minds and she continued to move forward.

As she made her way along the path, she found herself compelled by the ancient figure still beckoning. She had looked like and tiny bent-over crone from the distance but as she drew nearer, her size grew disproportionally and by the time she was a little more than halfway to the hag, the ancient one was already towering over her.

Finally, she stood before the hag. The old woman was a giant–Sorcha barely reached her waist. “Who are you?” Sorcha asked. For whatever reason, Sorcha didn’t know but she had no fear standing before this monstrous figure.

“I am creator and destroyer. I am gentle and fierce. I am mother, nurturer. I am harbinger of death. I am the one who is there when women give birth. I am the one who decides whether the child lives or dies. I move mountains and make lochs. I bring the snow in winter and the floods in spring. Some call me Beira.”

“You’re the Cailleach,” Sorcha said in awe.

“I am and I am not.”

“What do you mean?” Sorcha said.

The Cailleach said nothing but turned and walked down the path. Sorcha followed. They rounded the grassy knoll until Sorcha could see their destination. It could be nothing else. It was a mound, a place to go and meet with the gods.

“Is that…” Sorcha was almost afraid to ask.

“Yes, that is the mound of Stromness. The mound on your father’s land.”

Sorcha’s stomach flipflopped in anticipation and excitement. “Am I entering the mound?” She asked.

“Yes, you must enter.”

Sorcha had never been allowed into the mound before. Only the Druids and the elders of her community had ever been allowed to enter. It was a magical place, that much she knew. That much and that without the proper protections it could be a very dangerous place.

“Who will protect me?”

The Cailleach placed her giant hand on Sorcha’s head. “I have always protected you and I will protect you here as well.”

Sorcha looked to the lintel over the entrance. It had been carved with important symbols generations ago–symbols that Sorcha knew like the triskele, and other that she did not. She did not recognize them, but she knew that they were protective.

Sorcha looked to the lintel over the entrance. It had been carved with important symbols generations ago–symbols that Sorcha knew like the triskele, and other that she did not. She did not recognize them, but she knew that they were protective.

Sorcha looked back at the Cailleach. The ancient one nodded to her. Sorcha took a deep breath and stepped under the lintel. She was inside the Mound. Just inside. She took a few steps and she found herself plunged into absolute darkness. The path into the Mound led down. It circled and went deeper into the ground. She followed it around until she saw a red glow up ahead. Along with the glow, the silence was broken by the sound of something hitting metal. It was a rhythmic clang that continued over and over. Sorcha slowed as she walked. The path was narrowing. She turned a corner and there before her was large room, much larger than seemed possible, even for the enormous mound. In the centre was a fire, burning red hot and lighting the room. Next to the fire, Sorcha saw what had been making the banging sound. It was a beautiful young woman. She had long golden hair pulled back in a plait, but this was no ordinary woman. Her arms and shoulders were muscled and strong. She held a hammer and was working a knife from molten metal. Sorcha stood and watched her bring down the hammer over and over. The young woman was graceful in her work. In spite of the heat and the exertion, she was still lovely. Should I approach her? Sorcha wondered, but before she could form a reply in her mind, the woman turned and for the first time Sorcha saw her face. Sorcha recognized the face immediately. It was not someone from her life or her family, yet Sorcha knew her from the tales and the pictures that some of her people had drawn on wall and stones.

“You are Brigid.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I am.”

“I have heard all of your tales. We honour you in our home on the Orkney Islands.”

“Yet you do not honour me now as you used to. When did you last offer to me?”

Sorcha hung her head. After being kidnapped she had let her faithful practice slide. “Forgive me. Please Brigid.”

“Of course, you are forgiven. You are young. You make mistakes, as I did in my youth,” the goddess answered.

“Why am I here?” Sorcha asked.

“Look around you,” the goddess answered cryptically.

Sorcha realized that she was surrounded by other people, ghostly people. She could not see their faces, even if they looked towards her.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“They are the Ancestors of this land. They are your Ancestors of Blood, of Kin, of Place. They are the Ancient Wise and the Restless Dead. They are the ones that hold you to this land. You must return.”

“But Brigid, I want to, but I’m not sure I can. I was taken by Vikings. One has promised to bring me back, but I don’t know when or even if he will.”

“Trust him. He will do as he promised, but it will be a difficult road to get there.” Brigid put her hammer down and took Sorcha’s hands. As the goddess touched her, Sorcha felt a warmth fill her from head to toe.

“Do you feel that?” Brigid asked. “That is the Earth Mother, Danu. She is filling you with her strength and energy.

Sorcha did feel different. “I feel like I could do anything.”

“And so you can. You will return here but it will be a difficult road. Believe in this man who has made you his promise. Do not be distracted by pretenders. You will know that he is truth; he is honour, and you will do well by him. Trust. It is hard to earn, hard to give, but when you have it, never let it go.”

Sorcha nodded, not quite sure that she really understood but not wanting to disappoint the goddess with her ignorance. As she did this, she felt the Ancestors in the Mound moving towards her. They circled and surrounded her. She felt their hands stretch out and touch her head, her shoulders, her arms, her hands. And with each one, their collective wisdom, gathered over years, decades, and generations, flowed through Sorcha, leaving little pieces of wisdom behind. From behind Sorcha could hear Brigid whispering, “Carry this wisdom with you. When you need it, listen to your heart for that is where your wisdom resides. Listennnnn.”

Sorcha listened. The whispering of the Ancestors melded into one sound, like that of the wind, blowing her ever onward.

“Land!!!”

Sorcha jumped and Broddr moaned in her lap. She looked about, confused.

“Good sleep?” It was Tove. “They’ve spotted land. The wind picked up while you were sleeping.”

Sorcha rubbed her eyes. “I was asleep?”

“Of course. The last thing I said to you was to go to sleep,” Tove answered.

Before Sorcha could say anything more, the activity on the ship increased. After days on the sea, everyone was anxious to reach land. After shouting instructions, Þrándr sat down next to Sorcha.

“As soon as we reach land, we’ll get Broddr to Hróði.”

“Who is Hróði?” Sorcha asked.

“Hróði is Broddr’s brother,” Tove replied. “He’s a healer.”

“He’s a good healer,” Þrándr interrupted. “It’s just there is no love lost between the two.” Þrándr looked down at Broddr. “I’d say he is just lucky that it’s Hróði and that beggars can’t be choosers.”

“What caused the rift between them?” Sorcha asked.

Tove and Þrándr looked uncomfortably at each other, then Tove glanced over her shoulder at Njal.

“It has to do with Sassa, Broddr’s first wife. They were at a summer feast in Norway. Hróði was there, too. There was a great deal of ale and everyone had been drinking all day. Broddr, Sassa, and Hróði were all out of their heads with drink. Sassa left the great hall to relieve herself. Hróði followed her out. Broddr was passed out on a table. When he reached Sassa, Hróði raped her. He claimed he was so drunk, he didn’t know that she was refusing.” Tove spoke in a low voice.

“Yes,” Þrándr continued. “Broddr had the right to fight his brother to the death, but instead he asked the king to banish him.”

“If he has such a terrible relationship with his brother, why would he come to where his brother is living?” Sorcha asked.

“He doesn’t know,” Þrándr answered. “Broddr thought…thinks that Hróði is in Iceland. He was, but last year Hróði sailed to the Faroe Islands.”

“That’s not all of it, though,” Tove said. “When you see Hróði, you’ll see what I mean. Just don’t say anything to Njal.”

“Of course not,” Sorcha replied. “I would never.”

The wind had picked up enough that they sped over the waves and reached the bay around which the settlement had been built. Unlike the fjords and coastlines of Denmark and Norway, There were no trees to be seen anywhere on the rocky island. Close to the shore was a long stone building that Sorcha assumed was the great hall. Around it were clusters of smaller stone buildings, a smith’s shed and structures for drying the fish that they caught every day.

Njal and Olaf lifted Broddr, who moaned and weakly tried to struggle. They carried him from the ship and up the beach to the great hall. Sorcha and Tove followed closely behind. As they came to the entrance, a tall man stepped out of the darkness. Sorcha almost audibly gasped but Tove grabbed her arm and stopped her.

“He has a wound that is festering.” Þrándr came up behind Sorcha and she jumped. “Where would you like us to take him.”

The tall man gestured inside. Njal and Olaf carried Broddr inside and the tall mand and Þrándr followed behind.

It was Sorcha’s turn to grab Tove’s arm, stopping her before they went inside.

“Was that Hróði?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“But he looks exactly like Njal,” Sorcha added.

“Yes.”

“Tove, are you saying that Hróði is Njal’s father?”

Tove said nothing; she just lifted one eyebrow and continued to look at Sorcha.

“No wonder there is no love lost between them. Did you know he was here when you suggested this plan to Broddr?” Sorcha asked.

“No, it wasn’t until we were already on the ship that Þrándr told me that Hróði was here,” Tove answered. “Come. We should go inside before they become suspicious and wonder what we are talking about out here.”

Just then, there was a mighty scream of pain from the great hall, and Sorcha turned, fear etched suddenly on her face, and ran to Broddr inside.