“You are a good boy, Soren,” Einar said, turning to face him. “You have listened to my words and never mocked me.” His grandfather’s voice was sure and clear and his gaze now focused on him, something it had not done in years. “It is time. It is coming.”
“Aye, Grandfather, the night is coming and ’tis time to get you home,” Soren replied. “I brought the cart. It is just over the hill,” he said, nodding in the direction of the dirt path.
“Some say that the Old Ones left our lands eons ago but they are never forgotten. I have remained faithful, but, I am the last of my line and too old to fight as I should.”
“Nay, Grandfather, we have no battles to fight. The earl’s claim to Orkney is clear and he is high in the king’s esteem.”
He’d seen the man get overwrought before, but this felt and sounded different from those times. His grandfather was coherent and clear-eyed. Soren continued to urge him away from the water.
“Do not ignore my words, Soren. You have the blood of the gods in your veins. You have a place destined in the coming war,” his grandfather whispered. “There is so much you need to know. We must speak on these matters.”
“And we will speak,” Soren agreed. “But we can do it before the fire in the comforts of your daughter’s cottage. Come, Grandfather.”
The man’s mouth opened and then he shook his head as the strength leeched from his body. Soren caught him up, wrapping his arm around the frail figure and helping him along the sand to the path and the waiting cart. The sun descended in the west and the winds began to whip around them in the growing cold as they traveled along the road.
Blood of the gods? Soren chuckled at that. Which gods would that be? Many had been worshipped here in Orkney, from the Picts to the Norse, and now the One True God of the Christians held sway. Not a particularly religious man, Soren had done whatever duties were expected but never truly thought on matters of faith.
His family was of Norse descent as were most who claimed lands on Orkney. Though the Christian god had supplanted the old Norse gods centuries ago, there were many signs and places all over this and the other islands marked with the Norse symbols and runes for them. Even his father had borne the name of one of the most known—Thor, Odin’s son, the god of thunder who bore the mighty battle hammerMjölnir. A god who was linked to both farmers and sailors—the two main ways men made a living here in Orkney.
Soren had no time to contemplate those spiritual matters for his concerns were more about the timing of preparing the land for planting. And about when the soil would thaw and warm. And whether there would be enough sun to cultivate their fields before the winter’s winds and cold blew once more across the islands. His grandfather now huddled on the bench next to him, shivering as the coming night’s chill grew. Soren glanced west to gauge if they would get to Ingeborg’s and its promised warmth before darkness fell. He’d not brought a blanket with him, so he tugged the old man closer to share his body’s heat for the rest of the journey.
If only he could control the winds or the weather!
His grandfather’s mumbling began anew—he was whispering those words again. The ones he’d sung at the water’s edge. Soren could not help himself, he fell into the pattern of sounds and cadence and sang the words under his breath.
If he could do that, he would turn the winds warm, like midsummer’s winds that blew across his fields and helped his crops. If he could, Soren would make them gentle and soothing rather than bitter and stinging.
If only . . .
Old Einar lifted his head and smiled. “Blessed by the gods, Grandson. I told you.”
Soren was about to argue when he noticed that the icy, strong winds had ceased. Glancing about, he thought they might have passed into the protection of a thick copse of trees or some other shelter that blocked the winds, but they had not. They rode along the open path, away from the sea. Then the winds turned warm, warm as he’d wished them to be, and his grandfather laughed. “Make them cease, Soren,” he urged. It was daft to think he could make a difference. Mad even. Old Einar nudged him, pushing against his arm. “You made them warm, now stop them.”
As much as Soren wanted to laugh off his grandfather’s words, something deep inside of him loosened and a desire to attempt it urged him on to . . . try it. Even knowing he did not, indeed could not, control something as powerful and uncontrollable as the winds, he pulled the reins and brought the horse and cart to a stop.
“Grandfather,” he began. “You must know . . .”
“I know more than you imagine,” Einar whispered. Then he nodded and began the chanting again, low and even.
Now Soren’s blood stirred, in a way he’d never felt before. Some force raced through him and, for a moment, he believed he could stop the winds. And, for another scant moment, they did. Soren lifted his face and felt nothing. He tilted his head in a different direction . . . still nothing.
“Summon them now, Soren. Bring them forth,” the old man said. His voice, more forceful and steady than Soren ever remembered, echoed around them. Soren thought he heard another speaking, too, but only his grandfather was there.
Foolishly, he began to follow his grandfather’s order and imagined the winds rising and encircling them. He closed his eyes and asked them to warm again.
And they did.
The winds swirled around them in a cocoon of warmth, gently at first and then faster when he but thought the command.
Wider, he thought.
The winds loosened their hold on him and his grandfather and swirled in a larger circle, enclosing the cart and the horse. The animal tugged against the bit, whinnying its dismay and fear.
Away, Soren said.
Within seconds, the winds blew wider and wider, softer and softer, until they were gone and only silence filled the area. Shocked, Soren turned slowly and found his grandfather’s knowing gaze on him.
“How?” he asked him. “How is such a thing done?” Before his grandfather could say a word, Soren’s arm stung. Ignoring a possible injury in the face of understanding this weird and strange occurrence, he waited on the old man’s words. A wave of fire shot through his forearm then, forcing Soren to gasp. Pulling the edge of his tunic’s sleeve up, he saw a strange mark on his arm.
