Northwind

    NORTHWIND                                                                                      

Dolores A McCabe

Arise, north wind?  Come, south wind!  blow upon my garden that its perfume may be spread abroad.

                        -Song of Songs

                PREFACE

    "Hush, Mother,"  the youth chided gently.  "I'm here."

    "And Gyle?  And Halvdan?"

    "They are here, too,"  he soothed.  "Please rest.."

    Hot, fevered hands tightened fiercely, possessively over his.  He looked toward the shadows, where his older brothers waited.

    "I will speak,"  their mother said.  "I will speak at last."

    "Speak then,"  Halvdan said harshly.  "We have no choice but to listen."

    "Peace, Halvdan,"  Gyle rebuked.  "Can't you pity her, not even now?"

    A woman's soft voice rippled over the harsh ground between the two men.  "Perhaps the time of pity is past, Gyle, and the time of hurt and anger also, Halvdan.  Let our mother speak.  Hold her tightly, Harald.  Don't let her slip away until she has said everything within her heart."

    A smile touched Moira's wasted face as she peered into a dancing memory.  "Ceara,"  she murmured.  "My Ceara of the coppery curls..."

    They drew closer together against the storm that would break at last, three middle-aged adults and one lone youth of unspeakable beauty.  Outside, the wind howled its pain-filled summons.  Harald listened to its tale of desolation, his blue eyes soft with understanding.  He knelt beside his mother and pressed his lips to her hand.

    "To be so alone..."  he whispered.

    "Alone,"  Moira echoed.  "You can hear the Northwind's voice."

    "Yes, as you did, Mother."

    Halvdan stirred restlessly.

    "It wouldn't do to begin with the end,"  Moira said at last.  "No, I must begin at the very beginning..."

                    CHAPTER ONE   

    "Moira, you've burnt the porridge again!"

    "Well then, you cook it!  I can't keep up with everything, Rea!"

    "Is that it, now?  And how rich do you think we are?  Are you thinking we can afford two days' supply of grain each day so that you can burn the first portion and I can cook the second?"

    "Leave off, Rea!  I didn't mean to burn it!"

    "Sixteen years upon God's earth, and you still can't so much as cook a pot of porridge!  I'll not be taking you with me when I get married!"

    "I'll stay with Da!"

    "And are you thinking he'll live forever?  He's an old man!"

    Moira scrunched her face.  She set her hands upon her hips, knowing that the two provocations together would be more than her sister could stomach.  "And you can't be thinking you're young?"  she taunted.

    "Now you stop that, Moira!"  Rea warned.

    "Old Maid!  Holding out, were you?  Ha!  I know better!  What were you and Colin McClonard up to that day in the woods?"

    Rea blanched.  "Moira--!"

    "The two of you holding hands, cozy as you please!  You had bits of leaves in your hair, Rea!"

    Tears brimmed in her sister's eyes.  "May the Gaill carry you off and cut you into tiny bits if you don't stop tormenting me, Moira!"

    Moira danced out of her reach.  "And you being so kind as to wash out our clothes that night, even though it was my turn!"  she continued pitilessly.  "I'm wise to you, Rea!  I'm telling Da everything!"

    "Moira, I'll kill you, see if I don't!"

    "Ha! Ha!"

    "I'll bind you hand and foot and leave you for the Gaill to find.  Short work they'll make of you with their axes!"

    "Your ancient hide would blunt them!"

    Rea shrieked and swung mightily with the broom.  Moira darted out of the way, colliding with their father.

    "Girls!  Stop it, I say!"

    Moira was instantly subdued.  Rea hid the broom behind her back.  She hung her head.  Their father regarded them in silence, then shook his head sadly.

    "Come inside.  It's time we talked about your futures."

    They obediently followed Donough into the house.  Overhead, the clouds threatened another brief shower.  Rea hastily slid a pot under the leaky place in the roof.

    "I smell something burning,"  Donough said.

    "It's only the porridge, Da.  Moira let it scorch."

    Donough shrugged.  "We'll do without it, then.  Sit.  I have things to tell you..."

            ************************************************************

    The North Wind kept its own secrets.  Bad-tempered and tempestuous, it harassed lawful traffickers and aided aggressors.  Its foaming waves surged forward wildly, until a disciplining band of islands barred its progress.  It spent its fury upon them, and finally, weary and chastened, the water passed by those beaten rocks and flowed peacefully into smaller, polite inlets.  Ireland extended a graceful hand to the gentle water that kissed her emerald coast and offered her its gifts.

    Trade enriched her inhabitants.

    But the North Sea did not lightly forgive its tamer.  It spent long generations in marshalling an avenging force of its own.  It rushed the longboats on, growling in concert with their men's chants, gleefully anticipating their arrival upon Lady Erin's shores.  She defied her impassioned suitor and made him dance to her tune;  the Sea fashioned this vengeful tool and sent it on its way.

    As the sun caressed Ireland's pearly mists that day, and an aging man sat down with his two daughters to decide their fates, twenty longboats pulled into shore and discharged their cargo of death and destruction.

                **********************************************************

    The girls sat opposite their father.  He fidgeted with his beard;  he took a cracked cup into his smooth scholar's hands and turned it over and over.

    "I know my time here on earth will soon be finished.  Your futures concern me greatly.  Rea has taken her own interests in hand, as I always knew she would.  But you, Moira, my baby, my own...the forces ruling this world have no love for you.  You were deprived of your mother at birth, raised by your sisters, ignored by everyone else.  It was my fault."

    "No!"  Rea cried.  "Don't say such things, Da!"

    Donough waved her into silence.  "Rea will be marrying Colin quietly this afternoon.  His father called him to account, and he admitted being the father of the babe you're carrying.  You've disappointed me, Rea."

    Rea looked away.

    "You're a bit older than Colin.  It won't be an easy task, keeping him bound to yourself.  But I understand, Rea.  And I won't condemn you.  Now make yourself ready."

    "I'm sorry, Da."

    "It's I who should be saying that, Rea.  Hurry now.  As for you, Moira, it's my wish that you enter the convent of Bridget.  Clonard and I made arrangements awhile back.  You can't go with Rea.  She has too many problems of her own, without adding you to them."

    "I want to stay with you, Da!  I won't go!  I won't!"

    Donough pulled himself to his feet. "Come outside with me, Moira.  We'll talk it over."

    Rea dabbed her eyes.  Assured of her future at last, they took on a sparkle which Moira noticed with envy.  Rea looked as if she wanted to say something.  Moira turned rudely away and trudged behind their father.  She handed him his walking-stick.  They turned toward the hills.  The beaten path forked.  A left turn would eventually lead to Colin's village - and Rea's new home - Lairge. They turned to the right.

    Tiny gray birds hopped out of their way.  The clouds loosed their brief spate of rain and swept on to another place.  The stiff breeze billowed Moira's mantle and tugged her well-groomed hair.

    "We'll stop here,"  Donough decided.  Settling wearily upon a boulder, he gazed over his beloved Ireland.

    "I don't want to enter a convent, Da,"  Moira pleaded.

    Donough's gaze sharpened upon her.  "And are you thinking you'll be keeping some man dutiful company, Girl?"  he asked with a bite of irony.  "It's a shrew you are, Moira.  I cannot see you taking commands from a man, no more than I can imagine the sun and moon exchanging places in the sky.  You're not biddable as your sisters were.  Ever since your birth you've been one to take your own way and keep to it.  You don't need a man as Rea does.  You don't need anything at all, Girl, but your own will."

    Moira's gaze remained steady beneath her father's criticism.  Tears gathered, her cheeks flamed, but she held her ground.

    Donough smiled, pleased despite his harsh words.  "It's the quality to be used in God's service,"  he amended kindly.  "Why wear your soul down to so much shifting sand in making unending warfare with a man you'll be tied to for the rest of your days?  Remain free, as the Good Lord intended.  Devote yourself to tasks of His choosing.  It's the better path for you to be taking, Girl."

    Moira's mouth dipped downwards.  Her green eyes flashed rebellious fire.  "Please give me but a bit more time--"

    "After I set Rea in her own home, I'll be taking you to yours.  I'm sorry for it, but I've had warnings my end is near.  The house and land will go to Colin and Rea."

    Moira's anger waxed hotter.  She turned her back upon her father and drew her shawl over her head.  "It's my duty and my right to stay within your home and tend to your needs until you die."  She whirled toward him.  "Have I been an undutiful daughter?  Arrogant?  Rude?  Disobedient?  Do you hate me so much that you cannot wait to see the last of me?"

    He stilled her rising voice with a wave of his hand.  "It's not that way at all, Child.  If you had but one prospect, one suitor, I would keep the house and you.  But how in the Holy Name of God can I risk leaving you to the caprices of an unsheltered life?"

    "Do as you wish,"  she said bitterly.

    "Moira, sit."

    She obeyed.

    "I have one more thing to say to you.  I am going to give you the truth.  I've never given that to anyone in this whole wide world.  Keep the truth and guard it.  Offer your life in atonement for my sins.  For I have sinned grievously, Moira."

    Moira stared at him, alarm dawning.  The wind suddenly pulled at her hair, tugged at her gown, urged her up and away.

    ...Run, Moira...now, quickly...run away...

    Donough was one with the rock.  The wind swept around him, ignoring him.  He likewise ignored it.  His expression peaceful, his gnarled hands curled around his walking-stick, his bent frame solid against the playful breeze, he contemplated the uncertain future looming before him.

    "I was thirty years old when I came here.  But my life didn't begin at that time.  I took on the burdens of a serf, though I was fit once for inheriting a tribe.  I did it in atonement for abandoning my sacred trust."

    Moira was frightened.  "What do you mean, Da?"

    "I was once an anointed man of God, Child."

    The wind puffed mightily, pulling her away.  Moira dug her fingers into the soft earth, rooting herself in it.  "A monk, Da?"

    "Worse than that, far worse.  I was once an anointed priest."

    The thin strains of his voice ground hollowly against the tightly strung strings of Moira's soul. "No..."

    "I, the most promising son of Tadg MacCloise, abandoned my father and my duties for higher work:  God's duties.  And after seven years, I abandoned God's duties for service to an even higher god:  Myself.  I spent a year on the sea.  I spent several years in France.  And then I came back to Ireland to spend my life as one of her humblest sons.  I came to this village without a name.  I made one up.  I wanted only to work the land and keep to myself, but then I became aware of your mother.  To me, she was spiritual perfection.  She lacked the despair to remember yesterday, and the presumption to worry about tomorrow.  She had no past and no future.  Her soul was kin to mine.  I married her, she who was called the Village Idiot."

    Moira hugged her knees to her chest.  She hid her tears in her apron.

    "I, your father, am humbly asking you to offer your life in atonement for mine.  You've been chosen for the task, Moira.  Your mother labored for days to bring you forth.  You were our twelfth child, and never a problem before you.  But the midwife told me things had gone wrong with your mother over the years.  You couldn't be born.  Neither you nor your mother would live through the night.  She went away to make funeral preparations.  I sat beside your poor mother.  I fell asleep.

    "Suddenly, a man was beside me.  I was building a stone wall.  'What are you doing, Fen?'  he asked me.  'How would you be knowing my name?'  I shouted.  'I come from One who knew your name before you were formed in your mother's womb, Fen,'  he said, looking at me in a superior sort of way. 'Say what you're wanting to say, then, and be on your way,'  I snapped.  Well, Moira, he smiled right at me.  'It's a fine wall you're building here, Fen.  A fine prison for yourself.'

    "I was filled with terror at that.  I can still feel it in my gut, the knotting pain of knowing I was bound for hell.  I wanted to awaken, but couldn't.  'I want to be saved!'  I cried out.  'Then tear the wall down, Fen,'  the stranger said.  I started ripping at it, hurling stones to the ground.  But the wall kept growing back!  Each stone I threw off left two in its place!  'Almighty God, if you still love me, then tell me what to do!'  I wailed."

    He was silent a moment.  Moira wept.  The breeze mourned with her.

    "And then I heard the cry of a newborn.  With God's loving help, you entered the world.  Your mother smiled at me.  She said, 'God be with you, Fen.'  And she left me behind."

    Moira uttered a shriek of anguish.  She scrambled up and darted away.  She pulled her shawl over her head and ran faster and faster, leaving her father to make his own way home.  Donough and Rea waited in vain for her.  Finally, they were forced to depart for Lairge.

    Moira wandered recklessly among the hills, brooding.

    ...Come with me, Moira, begged the wind...leave all this....fly with me far away...

    "I hate you!"  she railed at the sky.  "Go away!"  she ranted at the wind.

    The heavens seemed to draw back.  The wind lulled itself to sullen quiescence. 

    ...I told you to run away, Moira...but I will take you in spite of all Ireland can do to hold you...

    Moira noticed a small bird.  It poked at the ground.  It hopped toward her.  When it saw her, it tipped its head back and forth, as if trying to decide what to think about her presence in its small world.

    "I'm not your dinner!  Run along now."

    It peeped in alarm and fluttered away.  Moira laughed, her good humor restored.  Her gaze sharpened upon the horizon and found a column of smoke twisting heavenward.  Lairge lay in that direction.  The town was afire!  She paused only long enough to strap her sandals. Her hair came loose and streamed behind her as she ran with the wind down the slopes to Lairge.

    ...Run with me, Moira...run to me...

    The column of smoke grew thicker and split into many lesser pillars as Moira approached the stricken town.  Women's screams rang eerily;  terrified livestock had trampled the fields and vanished into the forest.  Moira flew over the crushed stalks of grain.  The hazy air stung her eyes.  She burst into the town and stopped in blank terror.  Bodies lay where they had fallen.  Blood ran in swollen streams.  Children were crying.  Women screeched hysterically.  What had sounded like raucous seagull cries became men's voices.  The clash of weapons emerged from the uproar.

    "Gaill!"  Moira whispered.

    A bloodthirsty roar thundered from men's throats.  Moira edged away.

    "Rea?  Da?  Where are you?"

    The cindered huts had collapsed long ago.  Soot drifted along the striated wind currents.  A shout rang out.

    "Moira!  Watch out!  Run to the hills, Girl!"

    Moira whirled.  "Conn?"

    Her neighbor swung at an invader.  The Viking danced aside, and Conn's sword cleft empty air.  Moira's eyes followed the axe upwards.  The weapon hung in space and suddenly descended.  Conn's skull split neatly.  Brains oozed, blood spouted.  His body slowly folded into a limp mass of flesh.

    A small sound escaped her.  The Viking noticed her.  Frenzied blue eyes raked across horrified green ones.  He shouted and broke the spell.

    "Oh my God, save me!"  Moira screamed.  Then, in sheer madness, she grabbed Conn's sword from his limp hand and swung with all her might.

    The stranger laughed heartily.  He dropped his axe and threw his arms wide.  "Come get me!"

    She crashed into a moving body and cried out in fright.  It was another Viking.  Wild blue eyes burned into her awareness.  A glint of steel reached for her.

    "Jarl, don't!"

    His arm froze in mid-air.  Moira dropped the weapon and ran in mindless panic.

    "Da!  Rea!"  she sobbed.  "Help me!  Somebody help me!"

    A woman's voice cut through her dulled senses.  "Moira!  Here!"

    "Rea!"

    Her sister's hands reached for her, pulled her into the church.  Rea slammed the door and bolted it.

    "Da!"  Moira screamed.  "Where is he?"

    "He was with Conn.  They were arming themselves against the strangers.  They came from nowhere, without warning!"

    "Conn is dead!"  Moira moaned.

    "Oh God help us, the Gaill surrounded us!  We let the fighting men out the back door while Da and Father Benedict tried to talk to them.  When our men arrived, fully armed, the Gaill killed...killed..."

    A deafening crash thundered.  Both sisters turned toward the door.  As if in a trance, they saw the dull gleam of an axe-blade.  It bit into the wood and disappeared amidst the crunch of splintering pine.  The bolt sagged, useless.  The door burst open.

                    ********************************************

    The youth paused upon the threshold.  He looked about wildly until his burning eyes met Moira's.  He dropped his axe and seized her.

    "Don't!"  she whimpered, then found her voice.  "Rea!"  she screamed with all her might.  "Don't let him take me!"

    A shadow darkened the doorway.  "Ho!  Eirik!  What do you have there?"

    "A Valkyrie, Jarl!"

    "What do you want with her?  Let her go!  Remember what you have waiting for you at home!"

    Eirik's expression darkened.  "I chased her.  I caught her.  She's mine."

    The rugged Viking raised his brows.  He was tall and tanned, perhaps thirty-five, and his hair was darker than his younger companion's, although they bore a startling resemblance to each other.  "Are you crazy, Little Brother?"

    "I am not,"  Eirik said coldly.

    "This is not right, Eirik."

    "Right?"  he growled.  "Do you tell me what is and is not right, Jarl?"  His tone turned nasty.   "You, who are full brother to Harald?"

    Jarl backed away.  "No one has shared with Harald as you did, Eirik.  Who is the truer brother to Harald:  Me?  Or you?"

    Eirik flushed, not in shame but in rage.  Moira could sense the fury rising within him and whimpered, struggling to get away.  "This one goes with me.  This is all the share of the wealth I lay claim to on this voyage."

    "Do as you please,"  Jarl shrugged.  "But you must purchase her place aboard my ship.  I'll take labor, rather than money, as her price.  Help me put up my ships when we return home."

    "Done!"  Eirik agreed without hesitation.

                    ********************************************

    They stopped briefly on the Isle of Man.  Eirik bought her a little goat.  He handed the tether to Moira and strode away.  She tried to follow, but the goat pulled and pulled.

    “Give me the tether,”  he commanded.

    "I'll manage on my own, if you don't mind!"  she cried in exasperation.

    "Unruly goat, unruly woman,"  he observed dryly.  "Come.  This way."

    "It's my goat and I'll choose my own way!"  she ranted, stamping her foot.

    He seized the tether.  "You'd do well to follow me.  I am making off with your goat."

    Jarl chuckled and ducked his head.  Moira sputtered in anger and hastened after him.  He took the path winding into the hills.  The ground was stony.  She was soon limping.

    "Can we stop now?  My feet hurt!"

    He loosed the goat.  She unlaced her sandals and soothed her aching feet in the cool grass.  She looked up suddenly to find him gazing at her.

    "Why are you staring at me?  It's rude!"

    "I could stare at the sky but I am not an idiot.  I could stare at the goat, but you would accuse me of plotting thievery.  What else is there to look at?

    "How is it that you can speak my language?"

    "Maegrith taught me."

    "Well?  Who is Maegrith?"

    "Jarl's mother."

    She awaited further illumination.  It was not forthcoming.  He continued to look at her.  It made her uncomfortable.  There was a dangerous quality to his gaze, and though he made no motion toward her, she nevertheless felt hunted, pushed toward a waiting trap.

    "Is there anything else on this island but the grass, the goat, you and me?"  she challenged, nervousness making her tone aggressive.

    "Yes.  There is also the shore and the cliffs."

    "This is a boring place!"

    He raised his shoulders and maintained his stolid, maddening silence.

    "Don't you have anything more to say?"  she asked sharply.

    "I have much to say to you.  Come, walk with me."

    She lowered her eyes, suddenly uneasy.  "I think I'll stay here."

    "Then stay!"  he snapped.  "Talk to the goat, the sky and the grass!"

    He left her in open-mouthed astonishment.  "Wait a minute!"  she cried.  "I can't remember the way home!  You can't leave me here all alone!  You still have to bring me back to Ireland before the sun sets!  Gaill-Eirik, wait!"

    She raised her skirts and raced after him.  The goat looked up in mild alarm as she flew past, then moved a few steps and continued grazing.  Eirik stopped at last.  Moira gasped in delight.  Far below, the sea prowled hungrily.  Gulls wheeled over the waves.  Further along, their ships rocked in sheltered coves.

    He pointed.  "Over there is your Ireland.  We are not so far that you cannot find your way back home.  I myself will take you there, if that is your wish."

    She gazed lovingly at her misty isle.  "I was only frightened,"  she confided.  "But we aren't that far!  How silly I am!"!

    His smile touched his eyes.  "Yes."

    She was suddenly more frightened than she had ever been before, yet she could not say why.  "The wind is my friend,"  she said breathlessly.

    "The wind,"  he repeated.  "That is nice."

    "If I play with it, it will do whatever I say.  It will even bring me back home!"

    "You play with the wind?"  he asked as if she were mad.

    She giggled.  She pulled her shawl tight about her head and raised her face to the stiff breeze.  "Take me home!"  she called, raising her shawl like a banner.

    "You idiot!  You'll fall!"

    His hand closed around her thick hair, pulling her back from the edge.  His arms locked around her waist.  Green eyes laughed into his.  Closing them, she tipped her head back and invited him to do what he willed.  His mouth descended upon hers.  Deep within, an answering breeze stirred.  It was so exciting!  She wanted it to continue.  She pulled him closer.  Whipped into hungry violence, Eirik crushed her against himself.  His heart pounded its song of longing.  Its music was hers, his will was hers.  The storm raced feverishly to its completion.  It ended abruptly for her in a cry of pain.  He paused.  They stared at each other until he winced and pushed deeper.  She turned her face aside.  Tears trickled into the ground.  He sighed raggedly and withdrew.  Moira sat up quickly and smoothed her gown over her shaking limbs.  She turned away from him in self-loathing.

    "Don't cry.  You will go with me, yes?  I want you to go with me."

    She bent forward.  Her dark red hair tumbled loose from the shawl's confines and hid her face from him.

    "I will take care of you.  All that I own I will give you.  Be my wife, Moira."

    She raised her shoulders.  She nodded.

    He kissed her cheek.  He brushed her tears away.  Then he held her beside him and spun legends around the fleecy clouds overhead. 

    The goat bleated as Jarl approached some time later.  He waved and led the goat down the hillside.

    "It's time to go,"  Eirik told her.

    They descended the hill to the village, where Eirik traded the goat for a small silver band, intricately tooled with Celtic artwork, which he set upon her finger.

                ***************************************