Historical Setting: 793 C.E. Skåne
We are sitting in the open space where a door would be in a house, looking out at the rocks on the sea channel. The wind comes stiff and steady but it brings no ships.
“When I was a baby, it was Auld Bjorn who kept me as his own infant, then as a child I was his thrall at his hearth until I was fully a seiðr. And now he has little Marian there as his thrall.”
“I wouldn’t think he even takes notice of her except when someone at the feast wants to take her away from him. Was he also that distant to you when he was your father?”
“Father? He is nothing like a father. He never touches a woman, much less does he set his seed.”
“I was thinking ‘father’ more in the sense of family.”
“There you go Christian again, where all the monks say they are brothers together and pray to ‘Father.’”
I change the subject. “Are we waiting here for the wind to change so a ship will come and row us back, again?”
“No. We are just here.”
“Is there something more you want to see here?”
“You asked about our way of writing, so I still have to show you bind runes.”
“So we will be going on to see more of the rune stones?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only heard they have runes stones here.”
“If we are going to be here a while, maybe I should prepare to keep a fire.”
“No. We shouldn’t even have made any fire here. It has to stay just as always.”
“While the tide is out, I’ll go down and look for shellfish in the crevasses of the shore rocks, then we can make a cooking fire and have a fine meal.”
“I just told you, you can’t make any more fire here! It will make this place appear as a house for the living, and then no mothers will set their infants out here.”
Now I understand. Sjókona came here to rescue an abandoned infant. But that could happen any time or never. I’m hungry and losing patience with doing nothing. So, I go down to the sea to look for shell fish and crabs, and she follows me.
When I kneel by the water to snatch a lobster, she stands behind me, caressing my shoulders with the familiar touch of a woman’s hands, and I can only think of Ana. It is a sour grief.
(Continues Tuesday, April 1)
Lazarus Ink 