A Viking Moon: The Adventures of Sarah Tremayne, #1

By T M Rowe

What happens when a crazy old lady in a multi-coloured crochet hat gives you an amulet? An amulet which not only belonged to her mother who was a part of secret sisterhood called the "Mhyres an Loor" or "Daughters of the Moon" but also has the ability to transport you back in time. What happens if you don't know any of this when you accept the amulet as a belated thirteenth birthday present and then find yourself face to face with real Vikings?
In this, the first of many adventures Sarah Tremayne finds herself in the Viking world, not knowing how or why she is there. Or even if she'll ever see her beloved Cornish cliffs again. All she knows is that to leave she must save the future of the steading. Can she do it? Will she ever see her Nan and Dad again? And who was that crazy lady in the multi-coloured hat?

• Language: English
• Publisher: T M Rowe
• Release date: Mar 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310666872

T M Rowe

Not a fan or writing bios or profiles, here I find myself thinking how best to tell you who I am, how do I define who I am when I am so many things and when it really does depend on my mood and who I am talking to! Occasionally I'm an archaeologist (usually once a week give or take), author/writer when the mood takes me, creator of art which I sell at markets. Woven throughout all of which are my roles as wife and mum. Add to this my love of my dog, beachcombing, reading (fantasy, historical fiction and copious amounts of non-fiction usually archaeological in nature), drinking coffee and irritating my husband...I'd better stop there, but you get the drift...

Book preview

For Michael and Hannah

Always have a go – never be afraid.

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The Journey

IN THE BEGINNING

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MY NAME IS SARAH TREMAYNE and I am of the Myrhes an Loor which is Cornish (the ancient language of Cornwall) for the Daughters of the Moon.   Why Cornish and Cornwall?  This is where we began, the ‘we’ being the Daughters of the Moon, actually to be more precise, this is where those with my gifts began.  Our true beginnings were much further away and belong to another story.  The ancient sites which you see around the county have a secret history, our history, a history that would probably blow the minds of many academics, my father included. 

I was born in Cornwall; my family on my father’s side has a long, long association with the county.  Funnily enough he, my father, is an archaeologist and I often have to stop myself from arguing with him as he lectures me on the archaeology of particular places.  It is of course possible that the Daughters were born in many different places around the world, after all lots of cultures have been known to worship the moon in the past. 

Unfortunately events in our past, events over which even we have no control, caused many of us to go ‘underground’, to hide and to a certain extent deny our very selves.  Fear can be a great motivator.  We are divided and the elders who watch over those of us who choose to exercise our gifts insist that our safety is best served by being divided – I do not agree.  Anyway, I am going off track as all of this will eventually become clear and this is neither the time nor the place for that particular discussion. 

This is the story of my beginning. 

I have been allowed to write this first chapter because as I pointed out there needed to be some background to my story and as I was not a Daughter in the beginning it needed to be written by someone who knew my story well and it wasn’t exactly rocket science as to who that was.  Seamus said that I had caused a bit of a stir insisting on this and the fact that I wanted to have absolute final say of whatever else was written.  However, given that they owe me big time what else could they do but agree? 

Anyway I am probably getting ahead of myself.  Firstly, I’d like to introduce Seamus who is my chronicler and it is he who will be the story teller of my life to date.  There are only a few true chroniclers left in the world today where once there had been many but the Brotherhood put paid to that and those that remain do so under our protection.  A true chronicler can, through various means each unique to them, view the past.  They are trained to be observant, impartial and objective.  Because of this they were hunted by the Brotherhood and exterminated, after all, the really bad guys will always seek to justify and demonstrate that what they are doing is in fact for your own good.  My father once said that history is only ever written by the victors; the Chroniclers were there as means of balancing out this bias...not so much now though.

I mentioned the Brotherhood, well, you will find out more about them later but for now I will give a brief introduction.  To put it simply they are agents of The Dark and yes capitals are necessary.  I don’t really know what exactly The Dark is, in fact I’m not sure that even the elders know, but it is enough to say that the purpose of The Dark is to cause discord, chaos and general craziness through the world.  The more insane the world gets the stronger The Dark becomes, it thrives on the madness of men (and women).  The Brotherhood is the human face of The Dark.  They do its’ work and we, the Daughters of the Moon try to undo that work and in some cases prevent it.  Sometimes we are successful and in others, well, the less said the better.  Once upon a time, the Brotherhood and the Daughters of the Moon were in perfect harmony.  There was a balance; after all you need to have the bad times to appreciate the good times.  Good and evil should co-exist in balance.  That changed though when one of the Brothers killed my mother. 

My mother was also a Daughter of the Moon.  The powers granted to the Daughters are hereditary, passed from mother to daughter over many generations (the name is apt in so many ways).  Usually when a daughter turns thirteen her mother will hand her a moon disc and with it the mantel of being a Daughter of the Moon.  There follows a period of training and mentoring where they discover their ability to move between times (yes, yes it is time travel but that sounds so sciency and this is more of a mystical thing).  They learn to view the world through other eyes, literally, and they learn about the past and different cultures and most importantly they learn how to defend themselves.  By their eighteenth birthday they are allowed to go it alone and their very grateful mothers retire to become advisors/teachers.  Like I said this is what happens normally but for me it was anything but normal.

My mother died when I was eight and as there was no one to initiate me into my powers the elders decided to leave me to my own devices for reasons I kind of understand now though didn’t at the time.  I had what turned out to be a sink or swim type of training.  The following chapters are all about that time and as I don’t want to spoil Seamus’ story I will say no more.

When my mother died my father turned to his work and seemed to forget that he had a daughter.  I am older now and can forgive him (sort of) but at the time it was like losing both parents and it hurt....  a lot.  My saving grace was my Nan.  For a while I lived with her in her little cottage in the far west of Cornwall where the sea, the moors and the big sky helped to heal some of the hurt.  Nan has always been a reassuring presence in my life and even when dad decided to pack me off to a nasty boarding school, all the school holidays were spent at Nans and not at my Dad’s London house.  The less said about boarding school the better as wherever girls band together they are the meanest, nastiest things in the entire world.  It is no wonder that the Brotherhood want us divided. 

Anyway, boarding school was nothing like the stories I had read where crazy escapades, kindly matrons and midnight feasts were the rule.  The only good thing about school had been meeting Rosie, my BFF She and I had clicked on the first day, becoming inseparable fairly quickly.  You see, at school it is really important to have someone who will watch your back, a proper friend. 

Things went pear shaped at school when Rosie left, her father had been made redundant from his fancy pants London Company and had decided to go back to his roots in Scotland.  Needless to say, boarding school was no longer affordable and Rosie went with her parents to Scotland.  Thanks to a generous phone allowance from Dad and the internet we were able to keep in touch and still do.  But it did mean that I was without the one person I could rely on and no one was watching my back.  Anyway after an unpleasant run in with the school bully (whose father was a generous benefactor to the school) followed by an unladylike scrap in the dorm I ran away from school (needless to say I was also expelled).  It was to Nan’s cottage I ran and I have never been so happy to see the twinkling lights of St Michael’s Mount as the train rounded that last bend before heading into Penzance.

Funnily enough this had all happened on the eve of my thirteenth birthday; strange coincidence you might say.  I didn’t think much of it at the time but now I am very suspicious of coincidences.  The next day at Nans I went for a walk up the hill onto the moorland and that is when I had a very odd encounter with a crazy lady wearing a mad hat.  She probably wouldn’t thank me for calling her crazy, no actually, she would find it very funny and probably agree, then fix me with that penetrating stare of hers whereupon I would stammer out an apology and she would laugh all over again.  She can be very unnerving.  Apparently, it’s what happens when you don’t have a daughter to pass the gift to.  I ask the goddess not to let that happen to me.

At the time though, I knew nothing of this.  I was, in my mind, just an ordinary girl with a dead mother and father who couldn’t care less.  It was my thirteenth birthday and I was feeling very sorry for myself sitting there on a hard granite seat under the big blue sky of West Cornwall. 

Then it happened.

That was a big sigh for one so young said a voice.

I almost flew off the rock into orbit, heart beating, eyes wide as saucers.  I looked around and there, perched on a rock just above me like some naughty piskie, was an old lady.  From her clothes she looked like any other rambler, complete with stick, out walking.  However, it was that mad hat that drew my attention.  It was a big, floppy, crocheted number and looked as though someone had used up all their odd bits in its production; it was a hat of many colours. 

Jiggers! You scared the bejesus out of me

The old lady laughed raucously Ha, I know, you should have seen the way you moved; gave me a right giggle.

I had never met an insane person before and was trying to figure out if there was some way I could leave without getting into a pickle.

No, Sarah Tremayne, I am not insane but we do need to chat she said in a tone of voice of which my old matrons would have been proud.

Huh, how do you know my name and what I was thinking; sorry I’m sure you’re not insane; chat about what? The questions tumbled out of my mouth before I had a chance to put them into order.

Smiling, the old lady in the big floppy hat of many colours patted the spot next to her.  Strangely, I sat.  Turning, I looked into her eyes.  They were kind eyes but I also had the feeling that they were eyes that had seen a lot and not all of it was good.

Well, firstly I can see your mother in you, secondly your face is like a book – you’ll have to learn a poker face, otherwise there will be trouble – thirdly, don’t worry about it, sometimes I too think I’m insane.

Of all things she had said the only one that registered was that she had known my mother.  You knew my mother?

Yes, you look just like her, in another lifetime before the goddess called her

The goddess? I was getting more and more confused as time went on.

All that aside, we are not here to talk about your mother – that is for another time and besides you are not ready for ‘that’ chat said the old lady brushing imaginary crumbs from her lap. 

You have wasted enough time already.  I have been calling to you since dawn and it’s now past midday.  I had hoped to have more time to explain things but I guess you will have to learn as you go – after all I did and it did me no harm, sort of...The old lady trailed off, her thoughts going inwards.  Patience is not one of my strengths and at this point I kind of lost it.

What are you rambling on about? I virtually shouted.

Startled out of her thoughts the old lady replied, Sorry my bird, it’s my age you see she chuckled to herself.   

Anyway back to the business at hand.  I have come here today to give you this.  Keep it safe and carry it with you at all times and it will keep you safe – you are of the Myrhes an Loor.

The old lady reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet drawstring bag.  Her eyes narrowed as she held it out towards me as.  The wind had died down and in the distance a rumble of thunder could be heard.  The world seemed to take a breath, everything contracting, focussing on this moment.  My hand automatically reached out for the bag but stopped short of taking it from the old lady and as I had an odd moment of déjà vu a shiver ran up my spine.  The hairs on my neck stood to attention and as I took