Page 2 of The Source of Storms

The familiar double creak of the front door opening and closing sounded, and we heard my father’s heavy footsteps in the entryway. My mother swept the sealskin bundle off the table. I asked no more questions.

That night, I lay wide awake under heavy blankets, listening to the wind of the autumn storm. The house shifted and creaked with its force. I felt more than heard the deep, resonant grinding of massive boulders being moved against the cliffs by the sea swells, their occasional booming cracks sounding through the dark. So powerful were the storms that they could rearrange the entire coastline overnight, flinging boulders onto cliff tops and erasing beaches. The wind howled and the house shuddered. I burrowed deeper into the blankets.

I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother and her sealskin cloak. I had never seen her look that way before, had never heard that tone in her voice. And the energy, that radiating, palpable energy that had filled the kitchen... What was that? It had come from her, no doubt, but I had felt it in myself too, hanging between us like a delicate spiderweb glittering with dew droplets. And I’d felt it leave, felt it wash away like water flowing from us when it went. I could not shake the eerie sense of power in it. How enticingly familiar it had felt.

∞∞∞

Father and a few neighbors took the surplus harvest and the many skeins of yarn we had spun into the village to sell. My mother grew calmer, more settled the moment he had disappeared down the road with our horses and cart. I heard her singing around the steading sometimes while she worked.

In the evenings, I played games with my younger sister, Noirin, while our mother knit. Rather than reminding us of our own work, she watched us with reserved amusement. Noirin’s triumphant laughter rang through the house when she won. She had my father’s dark brown hair and his brown eyes, but my mother’s beauty. I always thought she had gotten the best of both their features.

The air felt lighter, the house warmer without the usual shadow hanging over us. I walked more easily, less conscious of my actions. A freedom I didn’t often feel.

One morning, we walked to my mother’s friend Mureal’s steading with three large jugs of mead, dried cloves and spices, two loaves of crusty sourdough, and a heavy package of smoked salmon. We brought our aprons, prepared to spend the day helping cut and preserve meat and vegetables. Mureal’s husband and her son, Sigurd, were away at the market with our father, so it would be just the women and the young children. Our spirits were high as we walked the dirt road to their steading through the morning fog.

“This is a lot of mead,” Noirin giggled as she swung a jug in her fingers.

“We can’t show up empty-handed,” Mother said. “Besides, we’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?” Noirin asked.

“Mabon, of course!” Mother answered. “Or at least the coming of it, and another successful harvest.”

“But I saw how disappointed Halja looked when you said Sigurd wouldn’t be there,” Noirin chirped.

I felt my face flush hot. “I did not!”

“You did! I saw!” Noirin said.

“No! I don’t even care! Doesn’t matter to me if he’s there or not.” I shoved Noirin’s shoulder, and she laughed.

“Easy, Halja,” Mother chuckled. “It’s alright. Sigurd is growing up to be a handsome young man. And love is to be celebrated. Amongst the darkness of this world, it is one of the only bright lights worth celebrating.” I looked at her, shocked to hear her say such sentimental things, but she was looking down, a flicker of sadness––or perhaps nostalgia––in her eyes. It was gone a moment later when she looked up and smiled at me. “Besides, we can all see how he feels about you.”

“Mother! Stop!” But I was smiling at the ground, trying desperately to hide the joy that radiated through me.

∞∞∞

We spent the day at Mureal’s steading, helping in their winter preparations. On several occasions, I passed the kitchen to hear Mureal and my mother laughing –– a rare thing for my mother it seemed. I glanced in to see Mureal’s mother, Móraí, stirring the contents of a large cauldron over the fire and chuckling at the conversation of the women working in the kitchen. I was drawn to the room, wishing to be one of those women who got the jokes, who laughed easily and worked skillfully.

Yet there was work to be done outdoors, so Noirin and I headed outside. Winter would be here soon, and the chicken coop needed more insulation in the walls. Irial, one of Mureal’s younger children, brought us scrap wool, the dirty, rough ends that tear out of locks when the wool is picked in preparation to be spun. These bits were always saved for other uses; nothing went to waste. Noirin and I made quick work of the chicken coop repairs, packing wool in between the double-layered walls and replacing any of the structure’s loose or broken poles with small lengths of wood.

Smaller log sizes for constructing homes and barns were common in Seonaid. Saplings and young trees were more flexible than large logs or split boards, and maintained this flexibility when joined properly with small wooden pins. This helped structures withstand the extreme winds from the coastal storms, as smaller logs could flex both along their lengths and between each pole, rather than breaking apart under the gusts.

By the time we packed away the tools, the light was fading and our stomachs were rumbling.

∞∞∞

“Móraí, tell us a story?” little Irial asked.

Darkness had fallen and we had all found places around the hearth. The fire glowed and popped. Empty bowls of stew were scattered about the room with the last crumbs of sourdough, the only remnants of a comforting, warm meal. We were slower to clean up without the men around. No need to rush the last of the chores.

Móraí continued her knitting. She did not look up or speak, but my mother leaned back into her cushioned chair and drew her feet up, looking expectantly at the older woman.

“Aye, a story then,” said Móraí. “But then off to bed! It’s late and I am old.”

The littlest children giggled. Mureal came in from the kitchen and quietly placed a mug of warm spiced mead in my hands with a wink, then settled into her seat. My mother glanced over at me but made no indication that she cared. It wasn’t my first mead––far from it––but it felt strange to drink in front of my mother after she and my father had so heavily discouraged it in my younger years.

I sipped from the mug, delighted to enjoy the same treat as the adult women. I supposed I was an adult now. Warmth spread from my center and radiated through me as I drank. I wiggled my toes near the fire.

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