Sins Against the Sea (22 page)

Halo!

The mermaid turned with a start, clearly having heard him. He hung back, afraid of scaring her off. He wanted to talk to her and learn what she knew about Hether Blether and the Finfolk.

My name is Cuan. I am a warrior of Clan MacMuir. A Finman abducted my girlfriend, a half-blood Finmaid, and I have come to take her back.

My name is Aerwyna. I, too, am a Finmaid.

I need your help, Aerwyna.

Come closer, Cuan, and let me have a look at you.

Cuan climbed down from the bluff and walked to where she sat. The wind, though cold, had helped to dry his clothes and hair, but the jeans were still damp against his legs.

The Finmaid, who resembled Cordelia to an alarming degree, took a moment to look him up and down. “She must be something special to capture the heart of one such as yourself.”

“She is.”

“She is half Finmaid, you say?”

“Aye. I believe so.”

“I have no love for your kind,” she said, “but dislike Finmen even more. For they, too, treat those of my sex with no respect. But at least Glauckodais do not abduct and enslave their breeding partners—or turn them into hideous hags no other creature could desire.”

“I love her,” he said simply, “and would never treat her badly.”

Cuan was growing impatient. While he would gladly sing Cordelia’s praises all day long, he needed to save her from the Finman before he took her into Finfolkaheem, where he could not follow.

“What is your friend’s name?”

“Cordelia.”

“I have a daughter called Cordelia.” Her expression turned sad.

“Given the resemblance, she might well be your Cordelia.”

She looked up at him with liquid eyes. “My Cordelia lives in California.”

“So does mine,” he said, eager to be away from her. Finmaids were irresistible seductresses whose charms were not lost on Glauckodais—even the ones who preferred their own sex. “She came to Scotland to help with an oil spill off the coast of Ronay. She works for Conch Oil.”

“So did her father.”

“Then, she must be your daughter.”

“Yes, it does sound as if she is.”

“Then, please,” he said, growing desperate. “Help me get her back.”

“But how? What can I do?”

“Tell me what you know about the Finfolk. What are their weaknesses? How can I overcome their vanishing magic?”

“I can only tell you the stories I know.”

“Then, do—in as few words as possible, please. For I must get her back before she is lost to me forever.”

“Then I will tell you the tale of the farmer who drove the Finfolk away from Eynhallow, and you can take from it whatever you will.”

He sat in the sand and she began her story.

“The Goodman of Thorodale was a widower with three sons before he married the bonniest lass in Evie, whom he loved with all his heart. One day, while down on the ebb with his wife, Thorodale stopped to tie his shoestring. As he bent to the task, his wife, who was nearer the sea, let out a piercing scream. He turned just in time to see a tall, dark man dragging his wife toward a boat. Thorodale rushed down to the water’s edge and waded after them, but the dark man had already rowed out to sea.

“By the time the farmer reached his own wee boat, the Finman was nowhere to be seen, having used his sorcery to hide himself from human sight. Thorodale, both enraged and aggrieved, fell to his knees in the surf then and there and swore he’d have vengeance upon the Finfolk.

“For many a long night and day thereafter, Thorodale thought upon how to get his revenge, but could conceive no method. Then, while out fishing one day in the sound between Rousay and Evie, he heard his wife singing out of the mist:

“Goodman, grieve no more for me,

For me again you’ll never see;

If you would have of vengeance joy

Go ask the wise spae-wife of Hoy.

“Returning to shore, Thorodale grabbed his staff and his silver and set off for the island of Hoy. In exchange for the silver, the wise woman told him how to see through the mists of invisibility the Finfolk conjured. Behind them was a small island called Eynhallow—the Holy Island in the language of the Norsemen. “This island is their home in the world above the waves,” she continued, “and nothing would punish them more than to take the island from them.”

Anxious for answers, Cuan interrupted her story. “But—I must know what the wise woman told him. How did he see through the mists?”

“Be patient, Blue Man.” Aerwyna fixed him with a reproachful glare. “Listen and learn.”

After scolding him, she went on with the tale. “Thorodale sailed home from Hoy and did as the wise woman instructed. When next the moon was full, he went to Stenness and, upon the stroke of midnight, walked around the Odin Stone while asking the god for the power to see Eynhallow. After doing this for nine months, he bought a large quantity of salt and three large baskets.

“Then, one summer morning, just after sunrise, Thorodale looked out across the sound and saw Eynhallow for the first time in his life. Without taking his eyes from the island, he took his steel dagger in hand and called out to his three sons, ‘Fill the baskets with salt and wait for the boat.’

“Down they came with the baskets of salt, which they set in the boat before jumping in. Pulling together, the four of them rowed into the roost. The sons were perplexed by their father’s orders, for they could not see the island. Soon, the boat was surrounded by whales. The three sons, fearing the whales, argued for turning back. ‘Pull for your lives,’ he cried, ignoring their protests.

“Then, a great whale opened its mouth right in the boat’s path. Again, his sons pleaded to turn back and again, Thorodale stood firm. Standing on the bow, facing down those terrible jaws, the farmer threw a double handful of salt into the whale’s mouth, after which the creature vanished. The whale had been no more than an apparition, you see—a trick of the Finmen’s sorcery—and the salt, being a purifying substance, destroyed their evil magic.

“The boat was now fast nearing Eynhallow. Two ugly Finwives stood waist-deep at the shore. So hideous were they to behold, his sons left off rowing. Never taking his gaze from the magical island, the father kicked the lads out of their stupor. When they resumed rowing, he cried to the Finwives, while throwing crosses at them, ‘Be gone, you unholy heathens!’

“The Finwives plunged beneath the waves with pitiful shrieks just as the boat’s bow touched the enchanted shore. But the Finmen had not yet exhausted their tricks. On the beach, awaiting the boat was a huge and horrible monster with tusks as long as a man’s arms, feet as broad as quern stones, blazing yellow eyes, and breath of fire. Undaunted, Thorodale leaped out of the boat and threw a handful of salt in the creature’s face. With a terrible growl, the monster vanished. In its place, stood the same dark
creature who’d stolen the farmer’s wife. He wore a scowl and held a sword, ready to fight.

“‘Go back,’ the Finman roared. ‘You that came to rob our land be gone! Or I’ll wash the beaches of Eynhallow with your blood.’

“When the three sons heard the threat, they begged their father to return to the boat, but Thorodale held his ground. The Finman lunged, thrusting his sword at the farmer’s chest. Stepping aside, Thorodale flung a cross made of sticky grass at the dark creature. One of the crosses stuck to his face. The Finman, roaring in pain and fury, turned and fled.

“Returning to his cowering sons, Thorodale instructed them to bring the salt ashore. Though afraid, they did as their father bade. He then told them to walk abreast around the island, scattering salt as they went. As they did this, the Finfolk came out of the houses and byres, screaming and running like a flock of sheep with snapping dogs at their heels. One and all ran down to the beach, jumped into their boats, and rowed away.

“Satisfied, Thorodale cut nine crosses on the turf of the island while his three sons went three times around, scattering nine rings of salt in all. From that day to this, no Finman has again set foot on this island.”

“While it’s a lovely story,” Cuan said, dissatisfied, “you left out the most important part.”

She blinked her long lashes at him. “What part would that be?”

“The part where he got his wife back.”

“He did not get her back,” said Aerwyna. “For no wife taken by a Finman has ever been returned to her husband.”

This, Cuan could not accept. He had lost Meredith and would not lose Cordelia, too. He just needed to figure out, using the elements of the story, how to get her back from Hether Blether before she was lost to him forever.

“Where can I find the Odin Stone mentioned in the story?”

“The stone is no longer,” Aerwyna told him. “For the man who bought the property upon which it stood broke it apart and used the pieces to build a byre.”

Outrage flared in Cuan’s chest. “Why would he desecrate an object of such sacred importance? Are there not rocks enough to be harvested from the fields of these islands?”

“He did not do it for the rocks,” she said. “He did it to keep his neighbors from crossing his land to visit the stone.”

Such selfishness fisted Cuan’s hands and brought is blood to a boil. Did humans not understand that nature’s abundance belonged at once to all and none? Clearly, they saw her bounty only as something to be bought and sold.

“Why did the farmer take his dagger in hand on his ride over to Eynhallow? Was the weapon purely for protection?—or did it serve some magical purpose?”

“Tradition held that any who saw Eynhallow on its brief appearance should hold something steel while rowing toward the island, never once taking his eyes off its shores. If he managed to place a foot on the shore, the enchantment that hid it from mortal eyes would be broken.”

“What is the significance of the number nine?”

“Nine is a hallowed number.”

“I gathered as much,” Cuan said impatiently, “but I should like to know the reason.”

“Because of the nine worlds through which the sacred tree of life extends.”

Even though he did not understand, he had no time to probe her further. “Will you help me rescue Cordelia? She is the fruit of your womb, after all.”

Aerwyna, wearing a dreamy expression, shifted her gaze to sea. “What would you have me do, Blue Man? For, much as I love and miss my daughter, I have no magical allure where my own people are concerned. I would, however, very much like to see my dear daughter again, should the opportunity present itself.”

Cuan did not ask her why she’d left Cordelia in the first place. For it was the way of things where mermaids were concerned. Getting to his feet, he dusted the sand off his palms. If she could not help him, he would save Cordelia on his own. He just wished he had his trident with him…or his harp, whose golden strings might mesmerize the Finman long enough for him to steal her back. But, alas, the only weapon at his disposal was his voice, and he knew not what affect his singing might have upon a Fin.

“Can you at least tell me in which direction Hether Blether lies—and where I might get my hands on some crosses and salt?”

“Hether Blether lies over there,” she said, pointing northeast, “and you will find on Eynhallow the ruins of an old Christian kirk. There isn’t much left apart from crumbling walls, but the humans who come over from the mainland have been known to leave offerings inside.”

Leaving her on the beach, Cuan circled back the way he’d come. Without shoes, he would tear up his feet on the jagged rocks of the cliff face leading to the bluff. The island was so small, the ruin could not be hard to find or take him long to reach, whichever way he went.

The ruin came into view as soon as his eyes peeked over the low ridge. At first glance, it resembled little more than a roost built of neatly stacked field stone. The same grass covering the majority of the island had begun to take it over. So had the island’s seabird population. Fulmars, Gannets, and Great Skuas perched on every available ledge. The ruin’s roof and window panes—had there been any to begin with—had been removed, leaving it vulnerable to the elements.

Cuan’s hopes withered as he approached the structure. The prospect of finding any useful offerings within undamaged by droppings or weather did not seem promising.

As he drew nearer, the birds took flight in a great flurry of warning screeches and flapping wings. As much as he wanted to assure them he meant no harm, he could not communicate with birds or fishes. Only other marine mammals.

He thought about the whale in the story. Had he been in the farmer’s shoes, he would have known the creature was not real. For whales were gentle creatures, after all, not man-eating beasts. The fire-breathing ketos, on the other hand, would have been harder to dismiss as a mere figment of Finfolk sorcery.

Entering the ruin through a narrow doorway, Cuan stepped into a rectangular nave flanked on either end by ornate stone arches. The eastern arch opened into what must have housed the altar. Through the other was the base of what he guessed had once been a tower.

He walked west, toward the chancel. There, true to Aerwyna’s prediction, was a collection of crosses. Most were crudely made of driftwood and woven seagrass. A larger crucifix with the figure of a dead man attached stood out among them. The cross, fashioned of ebony inlaid with steel, leaned against the stacked-rock wall.