A Still and Silent Sea
A Still and Silent Sea
A.S.A. DURPHY
Sneaky Quiet Publishing
A Still and Silent Sea by A.S.A. Durphy. Published by Sneaky Quiet Publishing, 201 Spear Street, Suite 1100, San Francisco, CA 94105.
Copyright © 2017 A.S.A. Durphy
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at Attention: Permissions, Sneaky Quiet Publishing, 201 Spear Street, Suite 1100, San Francisco, CA 94105.
First edition.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Damonza Book Cover Design © 2017. Edited by Steve Mathisen of Odd Sock Proofreading & Copyediting.
Table of Contents
THE VIKING HOARD
ABERLOUR A'BUNADH
SANDHEAD
Chapter One
* * *
THE VIKING HOARD
Some kids spent their summers far away from their parents. That sounded nice. Twelve-year-old Gracie Stratis sat on a splintering wooden crate, in a Scottish pasture, watching men climb in and out of a muddy hole. She sighed and looked back down at her paperback copy of Turgenev’s First Love open in her lap. She flipped a page and hummed tunelessly to herself.
Tennis camp. Theater camp. Gracie had heard that Harper Jones had gone to stunt double camp. That sounded promising. But not Gracie. Her father, the much-ballyhooed archaeologist Roger Stratis, dragged her and her little brother with him every summer on another dig. This didn’t happen in the old days. When Mom was around.
As boring as the word dig sounds, one might expect these summer trips to be endlessly tedious and exhausting. Yep.
A pair of boots stepped through the long grass on the right and into Gracie’s peripheral vision.
“Bored?” Waylan Green’s long, thin legs stopped next to her.
Gracie nodded, eyes on her book.
Waylan’s feet shuffled a little. “The Vikings used to say that it was a still and silent sea that drowns men.”
“That’s dumb,” Gracie said. “Storms drown men.”
“Never mind.” He stood in silence for a moment. “They found something.” Waylan’s boots held tiny droplets of water on their leather surface. The grass hadn’t dried out from the morning rain. At least Scotland’s mercurial weather offered some interest. They’d had days in this pasture with all four seasons. For the moment, a cheery summer afternoon sun had decided to make an appearance.
Her own scuffed boots tapped in the mud. Bare white ankles glowed in the gap between the cuff of her green canvas pants and her old wool socks. No one paid much attention to her wardrobe. Certainly not her father, who ought to be the one to buy her something that fit.
“Did you hear me? They found something,” Waylan said.
“What did they find?” Gracie looked up and pushed her long brown hair out of her face.
Waylan watched her with his dark eyes, a broad smile spread across his square face. “They found it. The Viking artifacts.”
“Is my dad gonna let me see it?” Gracie said.
“Soon. I’m sure.” Waylan’s smile faded. “I haven’t been down in the hole myself, yet … today.”
Gracie stood and handed Waylan her First Love. “I’ll check it out.” She was tall for twelve-years-old, standing just over five feet, but Waylan had her by a foot. She craned her neck to look up at him. “I’m sure he’ll bring you in soon. I’ll let you know what I find.” She clapped him on the arm, gave him a warm lopsided smile, and turned toward the hole.
Hats bobbed up and down at ground level as men worked with deliberation to uncover whatever they’d found. A blue tarp stood over the site to keep out the intermittent rain. It billowed in the breeze, puffing itself up and pulling at the poles that held it in place. Gracie stepped closer. More of the hole came into view. Two men, one of them her father, crouched on hands and knees, using heavy brushes to unearth a large, cylindrical pot with the lid still in place. Several other archaeologists stood or crouched behind her father, talking in hushed tones. “It’s a Carolingian vessel,” one of them said. “See the pattern. And there’s still fabric on the outside.”
Hot damn. They had discovered a treasure chest. The pot was metal of some sort, heavily tarnished green with swirling patterns on the side. Gracie dropped to one knee on the edge of the hole. This was the first interesting thing that had happened in three summers of archaeology camp. She needed to see them open it.
“Gracie,” a squeaky voice piped from behind her. She turned to see her four-year-old brother Russel bounding through the grass toward her. Still on her knee, she opened her arms. He fell and skidded to a stop, then popped back up with a face full of mud. A tiny white smile and bright blue eyes shone up at her. His nanny, Coira chased him.
Gracie stepped over to Russel, picked him up, and held him tight. “Hello, Shorty.” Russel squirmed.
Coira caught up and held out her arms. “Give him back now,” she said. Her Scottish accent had a kaleidoscopic beauty. The barest hint of a frown pulled at the edges of her pretty face. Her broad chest heaved from the efforts of the chase.
“He’s fine here,” Gracie said and squeezed him closer. Russel’s wriggling intensified.
Waylan stepped up and put a hand on Coira’s shoulder. They exchanged a look. The blue in her eyes receded, and the black of her pupils grew. There are things grown-ups assume children miss. At least, where Gracie was concerned, they usually assumed wrong. That look was obvious. They were in love. Good for them. Whatever.
“Now give him back,” Waylan said.
“He’s fine.” Gracie turned and walked Russel over to the edge of the hole. She leaned her head close to Russel’s. “You see the treasure down there.” She pointed to where her father worked around the dirty green pot.
“No.” Russel shook his head.
“Well, it’s a treasure box. Maybe Dad will open it up and show us the treasure inside,” Gracie said.
“He will not,” Roger Stratis said without looking up. He had his head very close to the ground, working to unearth the last of the vessel. “This is no place for children.”
Gracie’s face fell. “Then why did you bring us?”
“So, you could see the world. Explore a little. Put down your book and have a look around.”
Gracie set Russel down next to her and folded her arms. “You want me to look at cows?”
Her father turned his head toward her. A deep crease etched its way down the center of his forehead. “Those cattle are Belted Galloway. Did you notice the vertical banding around the abdomen? The long-haired coat? It’s an old breed. They’re friendly enough. Go investigate.” He pushed his grimy Stetson back on his head and wiped his brow. His cheeks were red, puffy, and covered with graying stubble. His blue eyes pierced through her.
Gracie turned her head to look at the dumb cows beyond the fence in the next pasture over. Coira took two steps over and scooped up Russel. Gracie didn’t stop her.
“What’s in the box, Dad?” Gracie said.
“Go find something interesting. By the time you get back, we might have an answer.” He crouched low again and turned his focus to his work. “Now let us work.”
Gracie turned and held out her hand to Waylan. He put the paperback in her hand.
Gracie’s shoulders hunched up. She handed the book back to Waylan. He took it with the solemnity of a man taking an oath.
Her father didn’t look up from his treasure. Gracie balled her hands into fists and stalked off to find a quiet place to contemplate the vast mundane reaches of rural Scotland. She had no interest in exploring cows. What was in that box?
Ѯ Ѯ Ѯ
The summer evening extended on and on. It was after eight, but the sun stubbornly held itself up over green rolling hills. Roars of laughter and the persistent buzz of too many competing conversations carried out from the dining tent at the center of their little tent village. When you find the Viking hoard of the decade, you party. That wasn’t surprising.
Gracie walked down the muddy track in between tents. She hadn’t yet seen what they’d pulled out of that medieval vessel. Maybe Russel would like to come along and see some treasure. She stopped in front of the small brown tent that was Russel’s summertime room. Coira’s blond head poked out, and she put a finger to her lips. “Shh,” she said. “I just got him to sleep.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Gracie folded her arms in front of her chest. The sleeves of her brown corduroy jacket didn’t quite reach her wrists. All her clothes were getting smaller. “Were you just waiting there for me?”
“Shh,” Coira said.
“Fine.” Gracie turned and walked back down the aisle, her feet squelching in the mud. A large blue tent loomed in front of her. She quietly moved up to it, raised the flap, and stepped in.
The tent was spacious inside. The ceiling raised well over her head. Someone had left several lamps burning, and the table at the center of the space was well lit. Her father and his men had laid his artifacts carefully along the table. Little labels noted each find. Some of the relics shone with gold or silver. But mostly they were a muted, greenish mess.
She stepped closer. They had completely unpacked their treasure. The empty vessel stood on the left end of the table. Intricate scrollwork covered its sides and the lid. Its contents, now on display, included a silver cross carved with snaking dragons and runes, dozens of coins, a bronze bracelet with Celtic dogs carved on the ends, and a gold pendant carved with Christian icons.
“This is a good book,” a deep voice said from behind her. “But I don’t get why he jumps off the wall just because she asks him to.” Waylan had propped himself on a folding chair to the right of the tent’s entrance. She’d missed him on the way in. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said. “Guard duty.”
“He’s in love. He has no control,” Gracie said. “I’d like my book back.”
“And I’d like to be at the party.” Waylan frowned at her. Next to his right boot rested a full bottle of Aberlour A'bunadh scotch. He followed her eyes down to the bottle. “A present from your father,” he said. “Everyone gets one.” He looked back up at Gracie. “Well, almost everyone. It’s one-hundred-thirty proof. I guess Doctor Stratis wants us all drunk.”
“He wants himself drunk,” Gracie said. She turned back to the artifacts. This would make her dad’s career. She closed her eyes and imagined these things cleaned and gleaming behind glass in the Smithsonian. Next to each piece, the museum would note the accomplishments of the astounding Roger Stratis. He’d like that.
“This the first time you’re seeing them?” Waylan said.
“Yes.” Gracie opened her eyes and stepped a little closer to the table.
“Well, take it in. It’s worth a fortune.”
“What does that matter. My dad’s sending it all to a museum,” Gracie looked back at Waylan over her shoulder.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter.” Waylan closed Gracie’s First Love and stuffed it into his outside jacket pocket. “Except, no one digs without hoping to find better things.” He stood and strolled over next to Gracie, looking down at the table. “Maybe not a fortune in cash, but a king’s ransom in notoriety. Prestige.”
“Whatever.” Gracie looked back at the silver cross. The runes had been wrought with care. Some medieval monk had etched the writhing dragons with detail enough to include scales and teeth. It was the most beautiful piece in the trove.
Long ago, years before she died, Gracie’s mother loved to sing her a song about a dragon. A lullaby of sorts. This cross called out to Gracie in her mother’s voice.
The thing stood up on its hill by the sea. It took a deep breath and decided to flee. I remember, it said, in a sinister voice. When people would sing, I still had a choice. Where should I go, whom should I eat? Should I sleep in a cave, or maybe a street? Now the fire is gone, I will move faraway. Nobody sings about dragons today.
This dragon that wound its way over shining and corroded silver seemed to be her mother’s dragon. Or, at least, it was a pleasant thought.
“You’ll understand when you’re older.” Waylan nodded to himself. “You like the cross?”
“It’s the most beautiful piece on the table,” Gracie said.
“Maybe, but not particularly valuable.” He pointed to the gold pendant. “That piece was for storing religious relics. You could buy tenure at a major university with that. If that’s what you’re into. Or, it’d fetch a pretty penny at auction.”
“So?”
“Well, for starters it means a long time ago some Scottish monastery had a very bad day. Can you imagine the feeling some poor watchman had looking on as a small fleet of Viking longships followed in the high tide?”
Gracie shook her head. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Their loss is our gain.” Waylan pointed to where her father’s men had spread the coins across the table. “See that one, it’s an Anglo-Saxon coin marking King Aethelstan’s victory over the Vikings in 927.”
“I’m not impressed.” Gracie hunched her shoulders and took a step to her right, away from Waylan. “All that matters is that it’ll make my dad famous.”
Waylan shrugged. “Who does that matter to?”
“To him.” Gracie turned to go.
Waylan caught her elbow with his left hand. “Doctor Stratis can sometimes miss the big picture.”
Gracie twisted her arm away. She stepped into him and gave him a shove with her right hand. Waylan took a step back.
“No offense.” He held up his hands. “We’re friends.”
Gracie scowled at him. “Go be friendly with Coira.” She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and stalked off. As she stepped out of the tent, she thumbed the pages of her paperback with her left hand. She’d learned that trick dealing with her father. When you pushed with one hand, no one noticed you picking their pocket with the other.
Ѯ Ѯ Ѯ
Gracie wandered toward Russel’s tent. Coira would try to shoo her away, but that didn’t matter. She stepped past the flap and into the tent. Gracie was going to say goodnight to Russel. She hunched her shoulders and gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom inside the tent. Outside, afternoon light lingered on. A patch of pale daylight followed her in where she hadn’t closed the flap all the way. The thick canvas kept the rest of the daylight out.
“Coira?” she said. “Russel? Want a bedtime story? I’ve got one about a boy and some wild things.” The tent was quiet. “They want to eat him up.” Gracie stepped over to Russel’s cot. It was empty.
She spun on the matted floor, eyes working to take in every detail. Coira’s cot was empty too. Gracie was the only one in the tent.
A few quick steps and Gracie found herself back outside. This hadn’t happened before, but Gracie was no dummy. Coira had taken Russel with her to visit her boyfriend. Grown-ups did stupid things. Her boots sped up. It was up to Gracie to fix the messes they left behind.
She lifted the flap to the treasure tent. “If you guys want to make out or whatever, just let Russel stay with me. He doesn’t need to be grossed out.” Gracie stepped inside. The lamps were still burning, but it was empty. No Waylan. No Coira. No Russel. She focused her eyes on t
he table in the center of the room.
No Viking artifacts.
Gracie’s eyes widened. She took a few steps closer to the table. It was all gone.
In a rush she ran back outside, racing down the muddy aisle. Colorful tents flew by on either side. She made a beeline for the dining tent. Sounds of a dozen conversations and raucous songs grew with each step. That’s where she’d find her father. Celebrating. A shiver ran down Gracie’s spine as she ran.
Ѯ Ѯ Ѯ
Gracie entered the brightly lit tent. The ceiling was high, and the space relatively large. She put her hands over her ears and surveyed the room. Some forty people drinking and laughing crammed into and around several tables.
Her eyes scanned until she found her father sitting by himself at the end of one of the tables. He had a bottle of scotch in front of him, no glassware. Gracie wended her way past the dig crew. Most of them men. And as men do, they invaded and conquered the empty spaces around them, forcing Gracie to find the seams. She hunched her shoulders in and squeezed and shimmied through the room.
Roger Stratis sat with his back to the door reading the label on the bottle. Aberlour A'bunadh. If Waylan was right about that stuff, he was already drunk. Gracie crept up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.
Her father looked back at her, pushed his Stetson farther back on his head, and smiled. “Come to celebrate?” he said.
“You’re drinking?” Gracie crossed her arms.
Her father’s eyes looked through her. “Mostly life is a series of small victories punctuated by catastrophic defeats.” He raised his voice but, in the loud room, she had to strain to hear him. He held up the bottle of scotch. “Today we had a win, so I get to enjoy this small defeat.” He shook the bottle, and the amber liquid sloshed back and forth.