my mom,and my daughters
Sarah, Johanna and Stephanie
Acknowledgements
I would first like to thank Amanda, my wife, for her continued support during the many hours in which I'm huddled in my basement burrow, spilling my imagination onto the laptop computer. I would also like to thank my family, friends, colleagues and students who, with their enthusiasm for Broken Circle, encouraged me to continue my writing. I can't put into words how much I appreciate the kind thoughts. Special mention also goes to my Grade Five student, Anna, who thought up the title, Stolen Away. I would also like to thank Newmarket Public Library for their wonderful collection of reference materials as well as their enthusiastic support for each one of my books. The New Brunswick Museum and the Newfoundland Museum were very helpful in answering the many questions I had regarding the history of the Vikings in North America. I thank those institutions for their time and patience.
This novel is based on ancient Irish legends, Norse sagas and what little we know of the Beothuck people. The storyline itself is straight from my own imagination, therefore the plot and characters (except for Thorfinn Karlseffni, the Viking leader) should not be taken for historical fact.
Enjoy the adventure!
- Christopher Dinsdale
ONE
Kiera ran her calloused fingers over the ancient grooves of the Stone. Cool and rough to the touch, its comforting texture reached into her soul and caressed her hidden anguish. She did not feel the tear that trickled down her cold cheek. Perched upright in the soft meadow earth, the table-sized rock was decorated with intricate patterns of ancient symbols and geometric crosses. The beautiful detail whispered words of comfort, whispers in a language that had not graced her ears since she had been kidnapped a lifetime ago. The Stone never failed to bring her a sense of fleeting tranquillity, even when she was in the gloomiest of moods.
Smiling through the tears, she glanced down at the intricately-carved pendant she was wearing around her neck. Shaped in the traditional Celtic cross, Kiera's only piece of jewellery and her single reminder of her past life, had an uncanny resemblance to the Stone itself, both in style and workmanship. The woven geometric markings of her pendant triggered memories of ghostly images. Warm embraces. Soft music. Laughter. Love. They were so long ago, the memories of her early childhood, that they simply fluttered in and out of her thoughts. She tried to grab hold of them and live within them, if for only a moment, but like the butterflies that zigzagged past her in the breeze, they vanished far too quickly. Sadly, she realized that her memories were becoming as worn as the weathered grooves within the Stone itself.
She shook her head and focused again upon the markings of the Stone. It had been set here, in this meadow, for a reason, placed so its engravings pointed east towards the thundering ocean and the rising face of the sun. Why was it placed here? Could the Stone be some sort of marker? How was it possible that her ancestors had carved this beautiful design in a location that was a world away from her homeland?
As she so often did, she closed her eyes and imagined the small Celtic craft and the brave Irish mariners appearing on the eastern ocean horizon. Using the power of their small single sail, they would ply the waters to return to this windswept meadow and their ancient marker. Coming ashore, the mariners would see her waiting by the Stone, their faces lighting up in recognition of their similar descent. She would run into their arms and they would embrace her, the warmth of their common blood penetrating her cold, oceanblown skin. Then, their mission complete, they would lead her to their boat, and together they would make the long eastward journey home.
Home.
Her dreamy thoughts were shattered by a low animal-like moan from a Viking horn, echoing through the afternoon breeze. Jumping to her feet, she glanced at the angle of the sun and realized that she was in trouble. Thorfinn, the village leader, was beckoning everyone to return to the village. She glanced down at the basket by her feet. There were barely enough blueberries to cover the weaved bottom, and it was supposed to be full by now.
Crouching and crawling, Kiera quickly worked her way through grass and wind-bent bushes of the meadow, grabbing any low-lying blueberries within reach as she went. As she made her way awkwardly over the bush-covered rise, the Viking settlement came into view. Nestled in a gentle valley, the low, rectangular mud and thatch buildings, stables and pasture embraced the gentle curve of a meandering river.
Kiera quickly realized why Thorfinn had blown the alert. The river was teeming with splashing people. Every man, woman and child from the settlement was thrashing and stumbling in what looked like a maddened frenzy, lowering baskets and large pieces of cloth into the glistening water and hauling out magnificent fish moments later. As they threw the fish up onto the muddy embankment, several of the men scurried and slipped between the growing number of prized catches. With one swing of an iron rod, they clubbed the life out of their catch, then threw the flaccid bodies onto a growing pile at the edge of the meadow grass. It was the moment the settlers had been waiting for all summer. The salmon run had begun!
Kiera burst into a stumbling sprint. Thankfully, she would not have to worry about her lack of berries today. No one would notice that she had shirked her duties, since the excitement of the returning salmon would consume the thoughts of every villager. Kiera joined in with her own whoops and cheers as she launched herself, boots and all, into the creek. The water was frothing with life as thousands of fish tried to push their way upriver towards their ancestral spawning grounds. She laughed as a larger fish boldly tried to sprint between her leather boots. Pinning the creature with her ankles, she bent down and grabbed the fish through the gills. With one smooth motion, she flung the fish into the air and towards the waiting men on the shore.
“It's about time you showed up.”
A strong hand grabbed her shoulder. Kiera spun around and looked into the squinting, seacragged eyes of her master, Bjorn. His huge body and etched face were fierce, but behind the menacing stare lay a sparkle of kindness in the knowing, blue eyes.
“I was out picking blueberries as Dagmar had asked,” she said, defensively.
“Aye, and I saw your basket on the grass. Spent maybe twenty minutes of your two hours picking, I reckon. Daydreaming at the Stone again?”
Kiera didn't answer. She didn't have to. Her blushing cheeks gave her away once again. They were the bane of her existence.
His stare narrowed. “Well, since you've already had your break, you're not leaving this creek until you've hauled out more salmon than any other man, woman or child of the village. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, meekly.
As her master ordered, Kiera hauled out fish after fish without a break. The enthusiasm of the moment quickly waned. Even at dusk, when most of the villagers had returned to their homes to prepare for dinner, she stubbornly stayed in the creek until it was dark. She could no longer see the fish, but her other heightened senses could hear the approaching splashing and the movement of water against her legs. More often than not, her fingers would somehow find the slippery scales, then the gills of a salmon.
The sound of joyous feasting began to mingle with the splashing of the fish. The delectable aroma of grilled salmon drifted across the water. Her grumbling stomach urged her to follow the aromatic trail to its source. Kiera, however, willed herself to go on, knowing that she had not been given the permission to quit. Bjorn was not a cruel man, but it
