Page 59 of The Speed of Lightning
The children squealed, bouncing in delight. Arne leapt up. “Can we hear the next story about the Shield? I’ve been dyin’!”
Her stomach dropped. Chuckling, she drifted around Fraser’s crowded longhouse, buying herself time. Another tale of Calum? She dared not. Perhaps it was wise to end the stories altogether. But when she saw the eager faces turned up to her, she knew she couldn’t give them up. “I’ll save that story for another day.”
Groans erupted—from children and a few adults. Arne plopped down, arms crossed, scowling. Freya twirled slowly, desperate for inspiration. Her mind was blank.
“What’s the story?” Arne huffed, his freckled face dark with impatience.
Freya prayed silently for rescue.
Tell them about Me.
The words struck her, and with them came memories—creation, the Three-in-One God, the story Calum had whispered to her on their wedding night.
Her voice deepened, rich with the cadence of legend. “Today I tell you about the most valiant of men. His battles extraordinary, His feats greater than legend, His words…” she wove through the children, brushing her cloak against them, lowering her tone to a hush. “…inscribed upon the hearts of His people.”
Arne squinted. “Was he a king?”
Freya smiled, miming a crown upon her head. “The King of kings. But His kingdom is not of this world.”
A little girl’s hand shot up. “Does the King know the Shield?”
A chorus of small voices chimed agreement, clamoring for their favorite heroes. Freya grimaced inwardly, then nodded. “Of course the King knows the Shield. The Shield knows how to protect—because the King Himself trained them.”
Arne frowned, puzzled. “I thought the Beithir trained them.”
Giggles rippled through the room, and for a moment she paused, searching for an explanation that they would understand. “Even the Beithir was trained by someone. All things begin somewhere, don’t they? All things trace their existence to one being. The King.”
Archie’s eyes lit. “Like magic?”
She tapped her chin. “No—no magic. More like authority. Power. He is the master over the world, over nature, over sickness, over affliction—even over death.”
Taking a candle from Gavina’s table, she left it burning and blew out the others until only the hearth and the taper shone. Silence fell.
“Because of the King, the blind received sight. The lame walked. And those burdened with shame, those of the lowest of rank, those the world overlooked…” she circled lonely Cora,seated apart from the rest of the children, “…were lifted to places of high honor.”
She gestured right. “Can you make ripples of water?” Little hands fluttered, creating moving waves. She turned left. “Can you make thunder?” Feet pounded the floor. “Aye, I hear the thunder.”
Raising her hands, she stilled them. “This King is no ordinary king. He brings light into darkness. Who will hold a candle?”
She gathered tapers from around the room and placed them in eager little hands. “But dinnae light them—wait for my word.”
Excitement shimmered. Freya drew her hood and began circling lightly on her toes, floating.
“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. Darkness stretched without end, and the Spirit of God hovered above the waters, above the formless deep.”
She lowered her voice, imagining the weight of the Almighty. “Then God spoke into the void.” She touched her taper to the first child’s, then the flame passed hand to hand until light blossomed round the circle. “Let there be light.”
A soft ooooh swept through the longhouse. Freya smiled, watching the trail of fire spread.
“God saw the light was good. Warm and brilliant, it pushed back the dark. He called the brilliance day, and the cool, steady dark He called night. And so there was evening, and morning—the first day.”
In the glow of twenty flames, the children gazed at their candles, faces alight with wonder. Freya’s heart swelled. This was the kind of tale she longed to tell—not of war or violence, but of beauty and beginnings.
Outside the longhouse,Freya huddled in her cloak beside Fraser and Gavina as children and parents drifted home through the dark.
Fraser rubbed his beard. “A bit awkward to ask you this, but does Tànaiste MacLean still no’ ken that you’re the Storyteller?”
Freya grimaced. “He nearly guessed this evening. There is much that hangs by a single strand.”
