Historical Setting: 793 C.E. Skåne
The stiff West wind would bring the fragrances of spring thaw to my lost homeland in Gaul, but here it only ushers in more winter days as it fills the sails and scurries our ship across the sea. Sun is low behind us over the waters; and ahead of us, foreboding rocks and cliffs are washed by the sea. But the ship makes its way into an inlet, into a tranquil bay laid among rocky islands and across a sea. Frosty rocks and winter weeds of seashore surround an outcropping of land. Far ahead of us is a bay where other ships are moored. The oarsmen are rowing this part. The dinghy, or a “fearing,” takes us two passengers onto the empty part of the shore stretched out ahead of the harbor.
The seiðr is silent, studying the shoreline ever more intensely, with her eyes glinting with the steel-color of the eastern sky and her teeth clenched sculpting a jawline of stone. I understand this place where she‘s brought me is her own homeland. But there seems to be no homecoming here — no joyful reunion.
She finds us a night shelter not far back from the shore. It is a ruin of a cottage, white washed walls of mudbrick, standing naked in a thorny thicket. The thatch of roof, and shutters are long-gone. There is nothing here that is really a house but the four corners and the crumbling walls. She considers a gapping open space on the sea side to be a door, though there is no sign of anything that could ever be hinged for closure – no wood – no sill – to bar – no knocker – yet she says we must leave our shoes outside the “door.” So, we do. If the cottage had a roof we would see the blackened smoke hole center at the peak, because there is a hearthstone here, and it is indeed blackened from once having a fire.
Maybe it is good we took off our shoes. Clearly this is a home.
Her jaw is quivering now and she turns to hide her human tears. I offer to gather some kindling and some wood and make us a fire.
In the bleakness of the winter rocks, I find an abundance of kindling and wood, as though the earth had been preparing for life to return, waiting centuries, maybe, for me to come, gathering up the dry tender again.
(Continues Tuesday, March 11)
Lazarus Ink 