Page 7 of The Speed of Lightning
Freya kissed Gavina’s petal-soft cheek, letting the touch chase away the night’s chill. “Only trouble rousing my bones. I was so snug in bed it was hard to face the walk.”
“Aye, hard to fathom harvest is here already. Willnae be long until the long nights of hiems.”?3 Gavina smiled and nudged her toward the center of the longhouse as the villagers filled the benches along the walls. There were so many now that little room remained around the fire for recital.
Freya took a long drink of the wine, swishing it over her tongue to wake it from slumber, then passed the cup back into Gavina’s hands. Clearing her throat, she circled the fire at the center of the longhouse as the children scurried forward, scrambling for the best seats.
The longhouse grew quiet as Freya drew her cloak closed, the North Star stitched at its center wrapping her in its sparkling secrets. Little voices rippled with giggles and anticipation. They knew the Storyteller would not come to life unless they hushed, yet excitement kept them from perfect stillness.
When the moment reached its pitch, she closed her eyes, hood drawn, and let the bard’s voice roll forth.
“Good evening, kind children.”
At once their feet began to stomp in greeting.
Smiling, she swept her cloak back and forth, first to one side of the longhouse, then the other. “That’s right, you must stomp. Our feet chase away the darkness, like stars appearing in the night.”
She strode along the benches, drinking in their eager faces and delighted giggles, the rhythm of small feet echoing like drums. “Are you weary, being up so late? Perhaps I should leave and return another night, when you’re rested.”
The giggles turned into squeals as little feet hammered faster, harder. The sound swelled like driving rain circling the longhouse. Freya cupped a hand to her ear. “Ahh… yes. I hear the darkness retreating… it’s almost?—”
The oldest lads leaned back on their arms and stomped with all the might they could muster.
“Aye, it’s gone.”
Fervent squeals replaced the stomping, and Freya smiled at the joy on each child’s face as they waited for their story. “What a wonderful year it has been for those of us who love the light and hate the darkness of evil. Who will remind me why we have done so well?”
Hands shot up around the room. Freya pointed to a small blond boy with a freckled nose. “The Shield!”
Cheers erupted, parents joining in with claps and hoots.
Freya nodded, circling the fire on her toes in a victory dance. “Aye, the Shield. Who can name its members?”
Hands waved frantically.
Freya extended her arm, opening into an elegant point. “You there. Name the first and best member.”
A little girl with blond braids sprang to her feet, bouncing. “That’s easy! Beithir!”
A tall boy in Lochbuie plaid groaned. “Och! I wanted to say him. He’s my favorite.”
Freya chuckled. “That’s all right—there are many. Share with us your second favorite.”
The boy rolled his eyes. “I should think it obvious—Lightning. He’s the chieftain’s son, a son of Jura, and the fastest of them all.”
Every boy, MacLean and MacSorley alike, roared their agreement, fists drumming on their knees in support. Freya’s heart warmed. Years of stories had done their work. Calum was near the top of their memory.
“Aye, Lightning,” she echoed, then paused. “Who is his best mate?”
“THUNDER!” shouted a boy with a painted-on mustache near Gavina. The parents burst into laughter as he fumbled out a bow made of sticks. “He shoots the Wolf’s slimy forces dead!”
Freya laughed. “Aye. Name another.”
Hands shot up around the room, children propping up aching arms with their free hands and oooh-ing in desperation to be chosen. Freya pointed to a dark-haired MacSorley lass.
The girl flexed her arm. “Rock.”
Freya nodded and rolled her Highland brogue thick. “Rrrock! Tha’s right—the fearsome Highland munro who can bendae a bar of iron and wrestle a man with one hand tied behind his back!”
Two boys instantly leapt onto each other in a show of strength, rolling in the dust with wild laddish whoops. Cringing, Freya hurried over and pried them apart. “Now, now. We must behave if we want the story…”
