Something rose under the skin and moved about before disappearing.
“You carry the blood of Taranis within you, Soren. Worshipped long before the Norse gods arrived here. The god of winds and storm and lightning and thunder. You command it all to do your bidding,” his grandfather said, smiling and nodding. “The power is awakening now. The bloodlines are rising. The battle is coming. It is now your destiny. Do not fail in this as I have, Grandson, for the fate of all humanity is at stake.”
Soren took in a breath, preparing to argue but his grandfather collapsed against him then. When he could not rouse him, Soren shook the reins and urged the horse to move. By the time they arrived at his aunt’s cottage, the old man seemed even more fragile than before. Soren carried him inside and put him in his bed.
Even deeply asleep or unconscious, Einar mumbled those familiar words.
He sat with his grandfather, listening until no more sounds came. And all the time, Soren’s blood heated and raced and the skin on his arm stung. Questions filled his mind and the only person who could answer them lay asleep. Soren accepted a bowl of stew from his aunt and remained at Einar’s bedside through the night, waiting for him to awaken.
The next morning, the sun pierced through the small chamber and found Soren still there. He’d fallen asleep in a chair at some time during the dark of night. He rubbed his eyes, pushed his hair out of his face and peered at Einar. His grandfather had not moved since Soren placed him here, not even when Soren tried to speak to him.
“Grandfather,” he said softly, reaching out to touch his hand. “Are you well?”
His hand was icy and had lost any suppleness. Soren’s heart clutched as he leaned closer and listened for the sounds of breathing. Placing his hand gently on Einar’s chest, he felt no rise or fall. No movement at all.
His grandfather was dead.
Scuffling feet behind him grew closer now and Soren turned to face his aunt. The only other one of Einar’s kin alive, she’d seen to his care even after the death of his son, her husband.
“He is gone?” Ingeborg asked.
“Aye,” Soren said, standing and moving aside so she could sit by the man she treated as her own father. “I did not think he would go so quickly. He seemed . . .”
“Indestructible?”
“Immortal, truly.”
She leaned closer and touched Einar’s cheek, whispering something under her breath. Then she moved her thumb across his forehead and touched his closed eyes and mouth before bowing her head three times. The mumbled words were similar to what he’d heard from Einar and those he’d repeated. A child’s rhyme? Had Einar passed it down through his children?
“No man can live forever,” she said, as she faced him. Tears tracked down her cheeks and Soren drew her into his arms. After a few moments, she leaned back and wiped the tears away. “And he lived a good and faithful life, Soren.”
“He seemed stronger on the ride back here last night,” he said. “I found him at the broch, near the water, swaying and mumbling. But, he spoke clearly on our way here.”
Clearly, but certainly not sanely. Now, in the bright sun of morning, believing he could influence the winds seemed like a farce. Had he simply given in to soothe his grandfather’s agitation and mad claims? When Old Einar grew anxious and wandered, Soren would do or say whatever he must to ease the man home and back to calm. As had other kith and kin. When the man ranted and raved without making sense, but concerned over some matter or another, they tried to smooth his way through it.
“The dizzy spells and confusion lasted longer and longer these past few months,” Ingeborg answered. Patting him on his shoulder, she smiled. “You were a good grandson to help me see to him. You treated him with respect and kindness. Your father would’ve been proud.”
“And now?” Soren asked. “What will you do?”
“My sister’s kin said there is a place for me there, with one of her nieces. After we see to Einar’s burial, I will make preparations to go there.”
“Do you need help?”
“Nay. The women from the village will help me prepare him. He wished to be buried next to his wife, so that is where he will lie.”
“A Mass?” he asked, somehow knowing the answer would be no.
“I did not agree with his beliefs,” his aunt said quietly. “But I think there is no call to summon a priest.”
Those who lived closer to the main city on Orkney worshipped more often and lived and worked under the scrutiny of the Church. But those who lived on the edges of the isle or on the smaller ones did not suffer such a close watch unless attention was brought to their heretical beliefs. Soren shuddered then and turned back to his aunt.
“Call on me if you have need of anything. I will help with the burial,” Soren said. His aunt nodded.
He leaned over and took Einar’s hand, rubbing the weather- and age-roughened skin and trying to accept the man’s death. More father than grandfather to him, this was the man who’d taught him so much. How to run a farm. How to fish and sail. How to be loyal to kith and kin, though clearly Soren had not learned that lesson well enough.
His last link to his father now severed, Soren’s heart filled with grief as the reality struck him. No more stories. No more songs. No more tales of the history of the islands. And the worst was that Soren would never again hear his grandfather teach his lessons of life.
His death was not unexpected—Einar had lived many more years than most did. Soren should have been ready for this, but losing kin was never easy, no matter their age or infirmity.
