Undercurrent (2 page)

Her confidence withered under his glare, but she held up her chin and met his challenge. “Please, continue.”

He cleared his throat, and she thought for a second he might actually spit out what he’d dislodged. Where had Farne Isle Cruises gotten this relic? The two other times she’d brought a Language & Lit summer term class on this tour, the guide had seemed, well…like a tour guide. This man was a throwback from Moby Dick. She’d definitely have to rethink this excursion for next year, or maybe it was time to accept that full-time research position. Without Drew—no, she would not dwell on that now.

“
As I was sayin’”—the old sailor’s voice boomed as if he competed with a raging sea—“no doubt ye’ll be hearin’ about the bloody history of the pillaging Vikings and the damage what got done at Lindesfarne. Ye’ll get your fill o’ facts at the priory museum, so I’ll not be sayin’ more on the subject.”

What? That’s exactly what she’d paid for. Cassie shifted in her seat, fighting the urge to bolt up and lecture on the Vikings herself.

“
No, my tale goes back to days darker than that o’ the Vikings, where the roots of their gods and demons took seed. Rome wielded its iron hand in many lands, but not in the north. Never in the north. Druids, Celtic and Germanic, ruled their people not with violence, but with fear.”

He lifted his faded cap and scratched at a head bearing not much more covering than his stubbly chin. “The summer solstice, such as today, has long been a high holy day. It’s told that on a midsummer’s eve, the sacred oak groves emptied. Priests made their trek to Stonehenge while one priestess from each of the twelve Druid sects journeyed here to the Farne Islands, to an isle that only appears at the height of the midnight sun. On that isle, at that hour, a maiden must be sacrificed, her blood offered in a pact to number the days of Father Sun’s sojourn from Mother Earth.”

Cassie glanced over her shoulder to the back of the room, hoping to spy some tour personnel she could complain to. Instead, among the tourists, she saw her seven other students wide-eyed and quiet. Next to her, Tammy didn’t even snap or pop her perpetual wad of gum. Cassie sighed, resigning herself to hearing about Druids instead of raiding Norsemen. She returned her attention to Mr. Salt of the Sea, who hadn’t missed a beat.

“
Ye must understand that Druids were shape-shifters. Man or woman, they spent years mastering the darkest of magical arts. When the high priestess plunged her sacred knife into the young girl’s flesh, such a cry rang out as could be heard nigh on the mainland. But not the cry of the murdered lass. No. An unearthly screeching as the body of each priestess began to change, contorting and shrinking in unnatural ways. Where once the smooth skin of a woman, now black feathers popped out, one by one. The holy robes of each Druid lay ringed in a heap ’round the girl’s body, and twelve dark cormorants feasted on the lass. Beaks bloodied, the birds of prey flew off into the midnight sun. Sea swells rose and swallowed the isle. To this day, a sucking whirlpool marks the spot off Knifestone.”

Cassie’s stomach bubbled. In her classes she avoided the magical and mystical, and here Sea Dog arghhed like a pirate with gory occultic detail. Would her students think she advocated this garbage?

Tammy fumbled in her pocket, pulled out an inhaler, and wheezed in a breath.

Old Salty speared her with an evil eye. “You need a little air, miss?”

“
Oh, no.” Tammy tucked her inhaler back into her jeans, a formidable task considering how tight they were, then leaned forward in her seat. “I don’t want to miss a word.”

Oh, brother! With that kind of encouragement, the man’s yarn would turn into a full-fledged skein, and they’d miss out on seal sightings and puffin spotting along the way. She should’ve put an end to the old mariner’s ridiculous stories right away.

The sailor’s voice dropped to a near whisper as he moved his finger up and down, tracing the rows of his audience. “This tale passed among the fisherfolk as a warning to keep watch o’er their daughters on a midsummer’s eve. But as time went on and people grew wiser, or so they believed, the story took its place in local folklore, where it remained until just last year. A young lady, eager to prove she knew better than most…” He directed his bushy eyebrows toward Cassie.

Not only had this lecture lost any of its historical content, now he had the nerve to insinuate she was arrogant? “Look, Mister, uh…” She squinted to read Sea Dog’s name badge, but the type looked like little more than a bar code from her angle. “I’m sure your story is wonderful, really, but my students are here to learn the history of the Viking era, not what happened in the news last summer.”

Silence. Complete silence except for his cracking knee joints as he walked over and stood in front of her. Under his unrelenting gaze, her stomach sank like a lowly student in a boarding school with the headmaster about to whip out a rod.

“
Truth is bigger than time, miss, and the words I speak are true, be it a thousand years ago, the summer past…or today.”

Cassie blinked to keep her eyes from rolling.

“
Y’see”—he looked beyond her then, reconnecting with his willing audience—“this young lady was a journalist set on makin’ a name for herself. She frequented the pubs hereabouts, asking more questions than any could answer. Wanted to know all the seafarer tales. She took up with a dark-skinned man that in earlier days the locals would’ve called a gypsy. Long about midsummer’s eve, the two of ’em rented a skiff and loaded it up with all her fancy cameras and such. She bragged on being the first to document the notorious isle of the Druids. Night and day passed, but the boat never returned.”

“
I know.” He pulled out a stained white handkerchief and cleared his throat. Cassie bit her lip against what kind of disgusting noise might follow, but he only ran the fabric across his forehead and behind his neck before returning it to his pocket. “I know, y’see, because the skiff was mine. A search party went from island to island. They found nothing until rounding the breakers off Big Scarcar. An empty skiff washed up on shore, twelve cormorants perched on the bow. The bodies were never found. Some blamed the gypsy, and well it could be said. For a shape shifter, beast or man matters not at all.”

Tammy whisked her inhaler out at record speed and sucked in deeply. Cassie feared she might choke down the whole device. How could a twenty-first century, twenty-something girl get so spooked by a silly ghost story? Definitely time to take that research position. She’d fill out the appropriate forms when she got back, patch things up with Drew, and leave her undergrad teaching days in the annals of history.

“
C’mon, Tammy.” Cassie tugged the girl to her feet. “Let’s step outside and look for seals.”

Salty Dog’s words followed them all the way to the door. “Aye, the Farnes are a fine place to visit, but beware on a midsummer’s eve—especially if ye be a young lady.”

TWO

“
The monks were hacked to pieces or dragged into the sea to drown out their last breath.” Cassie’s words echoed off the museum walls. She glanced up from her lecture outline, realizing she sounded as sensational as the horrible wannabe tour guide back on the ferry. Most students engrossed themselves in writing notes, so with any luck, they’d missed her last gory statement. All except for Tammy, who gawked with eyebrows raised above her plastic-framed lenses.

Cassie directed a smile at her to avoid a repeat of the girl’s anxiety attack. “What the Vikings did or didn’t do to church officials isn’t really important to this discussion. What I’d like to point out is why they came. Gold crucifixes, silver plates and goblets, ivory chests, and an elaborately gilded manuscript bound by a cover encrusted with jewels—The Lindesfarne Gospels—this is why the northern raiders came. England was an untapped source of wealth.”

She swept her hand toward the enlarged page replicas on the Visitor Centre’s wall. “This book of the writings of Saints Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John is the first translation from Latin to English. Penned sometime between 687 and 721, it’s the oldest surviving version of the gospels in any form of English. Though written right here on the island, the book is currently housed in the British Library of London.”

Tammy let out an enormous yawn, starting a chain reaction. Cassie paused. Probably not a good time to go into depth on the intricate Celtic knot-work of the piece. “I’ll wrap up this portion of our visit to Holy Island by asking you to keep one thing in mind as you wander the priory ruins. Anglo-Saxon chroniclers gave Vikings the bad press we still believe about them today. One thing the chroniclers left out, however, is that they themselves invaded Britain two-and-a-half centuries earlier in much the same way. In reality, the barbarian baton was simply handed from one invading people group to another.”

Cassie scooped up her notes. “Now, enjoy your free time. We’ll meet at the landing jetty in an hour. Don’t be late. Tides won’t wait for stragglers.”

A toothy grin from Tammy ended with a snap of her gum. If Cassie hurried, she could avoid another forced conversation with the girl. Before Tammy could pack up her notebook, Cassie shouldered her tote bag and darted down the arched corridor leading to the exit.

She slowed as she neared the door. No good. Nowhere to hide in the open ruins. At best, she’d find a mossy bit of crumbling rock wall to slip behind or an untended hedgerow that hadn’t been manicured into oblivion. Tammy would find her and attach herself like a giant barnacle. The acid reflux Cassie had been battling since Salty’s stories would churn into heartburn of volcanic proportion if she had to pacify Tammy for the rest of the afternoon.

Think. Think.

To the right, a sign with a cue-ball-headed woman in a triangle dress snagged her attention. Why not? The restroom would make a great hideout.

She ducked into the yellow tiled room and fought the urge to sneeze. The place was a life-size Petri dish of mold spores. Pink soap oozed from the lone wall dispenser, forming a crusted mound on the floor. Rust stains in varying shades striped the ancient sink below each faucet handle. Worn linoleum, curled up in one corner, looked as if it dated back to, well, when exactly had linoleum first come on the market? Black fuzz grew on the windowsill, the overflowing wastebasket spawned crumpled hand towels at its base, and—

Flippity flop. Flippity flop.

Cassie lunged toward one of the two narrow stalls and balanced herself a la tote bag up on the stool, leaving the metal door cracked open so it would look as if it remained unoccupied.

“
Dr. L?” Flip flops slapped into the restroom. “You in here?”

Cassie held her breath. If that door opened, how would she explain why she perched like a fat hen atop a porcelain egg? Her eyes watered and her sinuses begged to be cleared, but she couldn’t afford to sneeze now. She bit her lip hard, hoping the pain would override the tickling sensation at the back of her throat.

Tammy’s heavy breathing echoed off the grimy tiles. Flip. Flop. “Doctor?”

Didn’t this girl ever give up? No wonder her parents sent her cross-country to live in a dorm. For a fleeting moment, Cassie entertained the thought of bursting out the door and scaring Tammy to death. She ought to for the indignity of her current position.

A perturbed “humpf,” a few more footsteps, and the complaint of the wooden restroom door signaled Tammy’s departure. Relief eased the tension in Cassie’s shoulders, and she stood but continued clutching the hem of her skirt until she exited the stall. She looked bedraggled enough without dousing the fabric with eau d’ toilet.

But a splash of water on her hot cheeks and forehead would feel great. She snatched one of the remaining paper towels and used it as a germ barrier to turn on the faucet. Cupping her hands together, she bent and patted the water against her cheeks and forehead. The shock of cold droplets against her skin tingled from her head down her spine.

She grabbed the last of the paper towels and dabbed away the excess. The face staring back at her from the cracked mirror looked somewhat refreshed, presentable even, but Cassie suspected that would change in a minute if she gave in to thinking about Drew.

The whole career thing must’ve been a front. After five years of serious dating, he should’ve realized how much her profession meant to her. Had he found someone better looking? Younger? Thinner? What?

A few fine wrinkles, what she liked to call reading squints, fanned out at the corners of her hazel eyes. Her auburn hair fell to her shoulders, but she prided herself that none were gray—not yet anyway. Full lips that could use a fresh swipe of color, a face with a healthy tanned glow, she looked pretty good for her thirty years. She smiled, pleased at her quick once-over, until her gaze strayed lower.

Oh, fabulous. Her blouse still gaped open from the lost button. And she’d lectured like this? No wonder her male students paid particular attention. Heat burned her cheeks. Tammy or not, she headed out the bathroom door.

Her steps sounded hollow in the deserted lobby. The Visitor Centre information desk sat empty. She slipped behind it and pulled open the top drawer. Paper clips, tape, stapler. Stapler? Maybe if she—

“
I beg your pardon! May I help you?”

Her heart jumped. She turned to a scowling receptionist who might’ve been Mother Superior in a former life. Easing the drawer shut behind her, she tried to appease the woman with a smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snoop. I was wondering if, perhaps, you have a safety pin I could purchase?”