Page 1 of The Source of Storms

CHAPTER ONE

The sea danced under the wild forces of an ocean-brewed storm. Waves churned and frothed, white tongues of water licking up columns of black rock in violent, brilliant displays of power.

A storm petrel skimmed across the ocean, sleek and dark, racing through the troughs of the waves. It flew with a seemingly uncontrollable speed, effortlessly navigating the swells. The white band of its tail flashed in the leaden light filtering through heavy clouds, a bright contrast to the gray of the sea.

A pang of longing tugged sharply in my chest as I watched it soar. To be so steady, so unhindered by the maelstrom around it, so confident in the face of chaos. The petrel was small, seemingly fragile, but it held constant in the storm, moving with grace and ease.

The storm petrel was said to be the harbinger of storms and sea witches, who bring death and chaos where tempests fall. But I was no longer a child and wasn’t scared by such things. There had not been a witch known on this coast for many years, long before I was born.

I pulled my attention back to my foraging. Freezing rain spattered my face, but I stayed dry beneath my wool sweater and lanolin-oiled cloak. It was cold and uncomfortable, but I had chosen to be out here over being at home with my father. His mood was foul as the weather, and he’d thrown a shadow overthe steading this morning. I couldn’t stand the way he prowled about, stress leaking from his skin like sweat.

He’d snapped at me after he had spilled a bag of oats, claiming I hadn’t tied the bag closed. He’d called me stupid, told me I’d starve to death if I didn’t have somebody around to show me how to eat. When tears had stung my eyes, he’d thrown his hands up in frustration, shaking his head in disgust.

“You’re so emotional,” he had barked. “I can’t even have a conversation with you.”

I kicked a rock and watched it clatter down the stone blocks of the shore. It collided with a rocky shelf and split into two, sharp edges lining a flat plane where two had been one.

So I’d chosen to weather the actual storm, rather than his. At least this one wasn’t personal, just natural. I had always found solace in the indifference of nature.

I pried mussels off the rocks with my small knife, taking only a few and leaving most behind. Filling my basket wasn’t really my goal. I was just happy to be alone.

I neared a promontory where the shoreline grew steeper, rising high above into sea cliffs slick with rain. The wind whipped down the coast and I nearly turned back, but then I spotted a sheltered cove in the rock wall, tucked away on the leeward side of the wind. I hurried to it, eager for a respite from the weather, and ducked inside. It was deeper than I’d thought, and surprisingly dry. Relatively, at least –– nothing in Seonaid was ever really dry. I wrung out my tangled silvery-blond hair and pulled off my cloak, shaking it out and draping it over a dark stone plinth.

The shoreline here was formed by large hexagonal columns. Their edges fit together in neat rows, and they rose from the sea like dark building blocks of the ancient gods. It made for an oddly uniform and organized structure in some places and a chaotic jumble in others, where they flowed sideways and hadbeen broken and weathered. This particular broken segment made for a tidy place to hang my cloak.

Drawn by the dark extent of the cave, I wandered further. My mind filled with stories of lost treasures and shipwrecks –– maybe the silver and gold of ill-fated seafaring raiders of northern shores, washed up in a storm long ago.

But it did not take long to reach the cave’s end, and all I had found were twisted pieces of driftwood, bleached light and worn soft by tide and salt. I picked up one that resembled a mage’s staff, with a gnarled end, and was thinking of tales of sea witches and magic when something caught my eye.

Under a few scattered pieces of driftwood, a tightly rolled bundle was tucked behind a stone column. I pulled it from under the wood and brushed off the fine dust of dried old algae. It had the light, dappled silver spots and short, bristled feel of seal fur, rolled and bound tightly with a leather cord. I picked at the cord, stiff and crusty with age, until it came loose. The fur rolled out reluctantly, clearly tied tightly for a long time. I shook it out: A fine, simple sealskin cloak.

I wrapped it over my shoulders and pulled the pin from my own cloak. I hesitated to put it on the sealskin, realizing I would have to punch a hole in it. The edges showed no sign of being pinned in any way in the past; they must have been clasped or tied. I didn’t want to damage it, and it smelled musty besides, so I rolled the cloak back up and tucked it under my arm before donning my own cloak and making for home.

I scanned the steading for my father as I approached up the sea path. I proceeded into the house quickly, keeping my hood up and my head down –– a force of habit. I had learned it was best if I didn’t draw his attention. I hung my cloak by the door and threw my damp sweater over the rack suspended from the ceiling near the fireplace, then padded to the kitchen in my thick socks.

My mother looked up from her work as I entered and set my basket on the table. Her black eyes fell instantly on the sealskin bundle under my arm. I froze at the intensity of her stare.

A moment of tense silence as I felt a shiver build in my muscles, rippling up my spine in a wave.

“Where did you get that, Halja?” Her voice was steady, her words measured. I felt something rising in the air around us, an inaudible hum of energy, more palpable than auditory.

“By the sea to the west, in a cave.” I stumbled over the words.

There was a shift in her face, but I could not identify exactly what changed. She looked animalistic, almost predatory, her black eyes lupine.

“Mother?”

The single word seemed to break the spell that bound us there, snapping her from her reverie. She blinked and stood up straight. I hadn’t realized she had leaned forward, as if preparing to pounce.

“Show me.” Her words were casual but did little to mask the tension behind them. It was more of a demand than a request.

I set the sealskin on the table and she reached out to touch it tentatively, as if afraid it wouldn’t actually be there.

“It was in a little cave, past the beach. Hidden away in the back. Have you seen it before?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice still low, almost a whisper now. “It’s mine.”

I watched her run her fingers over the spotted silver fur, like she was touching some sacred relic. A sudden and inexplicable swell of emotion rose in my chest, and my own eyes––large and black, just like hers––flooded with tears. She looked up, her gaze meeting mine, and the energy suspended between us dropped, vanishing through the floorboards. I could feel it go, almost see it dissipating into the earth beneath the house, draining away.

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