Came from Afar Woman: A Viking Tale

By Susan Schaffner

Eventually, between the dreamer and the dreamed, reality fades, as Alison MacGiverson discovers on a field trip to Sonora, Mexico to study the Seri Indians. Attached to the Smithsonian Museum, Alison becomes immersed in the Seri myth, Came from Afar Man. Employing the mystical powers of a tribal elder, she travels back in time and embarks on a journey with Viking explorers in the uncharted lands of the Americas. Drawn to Viking, Eirik Sigmusson, Alisons dreams reveal glimpses of a former life, but her love for Eirik lures her toward a dangerous crossroads of life and death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496909060

Susan Schaffner

In a four-book series, Susan Schaffner merges the mythology and lore of Medieval Vikings and the tribal peoples of Sonora, Mexico, sweeping readers off on a journey through eight hundred years of adventure and romance. From the placid waters of the Sea of Cortez to the storm-ridden North Atlantic, the two cultures collide and intertwine to create a compelling saga.

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© 2014 Susan Schaffner. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/15/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0908-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0906-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908195

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

The Lost Ship

A tale is told from long ago

of a Norse ship lost in Mexico.

How they sailed so far from home

amongst speculations is still unknown.

Stranded hopeless on desert sand,

fear of death plagued every man.

But brave of heart and strong of arm

they fought their way through alarm

that never would they rove the seas,

lost to them a viking they would be …

Then one dark day the skies grew black

and rains flooded where water lacked.

The ship rocked its way from sandy shore

to find the open sea once more.

Yet never would the Norsemen forget

the days of strife on the Sonoran inlet.

And as mercy shined by the grace of Thor

They found their way home as before,

still, sagas of old forewarned their fate

that deserts lure, but death awaits …

Alison MacGiverson

Thief River Falls Elementary

CHARACTERS

Tiburon Island, Mexico - 1907

From the Smithsonian Museum:

Alison MacGiverson -Linguist, Ethnologist

Dr. Herman Krieder - Field Leader

Mark Linwood - Archeologist

Jeremy Atkins - Ethnologist

Helen Atkins - Jeremy’s wife and Photographer

Seri Indians - Esteban Ortiz, Clan shaman/singer

             Maria Ortiz - Turtle Clan Mother, wife to Esteban

             Carmella and Sophia - daughter and granddaughter

Icelanders - 1107

On Wind Serpent:

Eirik Sigmusson

Asta Haroldsdóttir - Eirik’s wife

Ragnar - Eirik’s Second in Command

Crewmen and Comrades: Geir, Ketill, Valdi, Leif

Toonak - Skraeling medicine man from the Americas

Kaarta - Toonak’s Granddaughter - (Sigmus’ concubine)

On Dragon Horse:

Sigmus ver Sigmusson - Eirik’s elder brother

Geisel - Sigmus’ wife

Iver - Sigmus’ Second in Command

Tor and Rufus - crewmen

Tiburon Island - 1107

Ktamyu - War Chief of the ancient Kunkaak (Seri)

Hita-môkne - Shaman healer of Kunkaak

Ekó me - Hita-môkne’s sister

CHAPTER ONE

Kino Bay, Sonora, Mexico - 1907

Life for the Seri is connected to the sea as irrevocably as a child to its mother … Alison MacGiverson put down her pen and looked up from her notebook. A flash caught her attention.

What in the blue blazes … is that? she stammered, pushing back her broad-brimmed hat.

A few yards down the beach, the tall figure of a man cut a swath across the sand. With shield in hand and sword dangling from his hip, his wavering image rolled over the dunes.

You there, she exclaimed, wait just a minute!

The phantom-warrior seemingly did not hear as he purposely scanned the beach, searching for something or someone. It must be an illusion, Alison mused, the sunlight reflecting off the water. Bewildered, she squinted to get a better look. The man paused, peered out to sea, then dissolved into the barren landscape beyond the shore. As if in a dream, he’d come and gone—vanished into nothing.

Eyes fixed on where the peculiar-looking man had disappeared, Alison pondered to herself, Now who could that have been? The solitary cry of a seagull, the gentle lapping waves, evoked a sad empty feeling. She heaved a sigh. Why did the sea always leave her yearning for something just beyond reach? Why did it have some mystical, frightening hold on her?

Gazing across the bay, a sense of foreboding swept over her—maybe the vision had been a premonition. The isle of Tiburon rose like a sentinel, beckoning her toward answers. Lord, she thought, she didn’t need to dwell on her errant emotions, nor ghostly manifestations. She was no school girl. She’d come to Mexico to study the Seri and those from the museum were depending on her. She neither needed, nor wanted distractions—the time had come for serious study.

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Serious study notwithstanding, Alison slowly walked from the beach, periodically glancing back to the dunes. Hard-pressed to dismiss the image of the phantom-warrior, she found shade under a sprawling palo verde, sat and tossed aside her straw hat. Removing her boots, she dug her swollen toes into the warm grains of sand and contemplated the apparition.

Reared in the northern region of Minnesota, Alison speculated that the man’s striking figure was reminiscent of her Nordic heritage, but the image surfacing in the remote desert of Sonora, Mexico made no sense. Perhaps tales of medieval explorers, wildly hacking through forests to settle the shores of Lake Superior, were true. But in Mexico? Though the strange mating of time and place seemed highly incongruous, she felt a resonance that was hard to deny.

Named after her father’s Norwegian grandmother, Alison Lynne, her parents were proud of their Nordic lineage. A doctor and nurse, they dedicated themselves to medicine, ministering to the needs of the people in the state’s far north country, which in its harshness mirrored that of their native homeland far across the sea.

Always a precocious child, she quickly grasped her studies at school and was consistently at the head of her class. With her abilities evident, Dr. MacGiverson arranged tutored holidays that offered her a wider scope of learning and experience. By the end of her high school years at Thief River Falls and graduating valedictorian, her application to Vassar was accepted.

As exciting as the prospect of college was, she hated leaving home. After her mother died when she was twelve, she and her father developed a deep bond. His love and influence guided her life. Though of modest means, he provided loving support, pushing and encouraging her to see beyond her world of Minnesota to the broader avenues of higher education and the sciences in which she excelled.

Once at college, she pursued her major of anthropology and ethnology with enthusiasm. Soon her facility for languages surfaced. After breezing through the school’s linguistic courses, her professors arranged an advanced study program for her in Washington, D.C. At the Smithsonian Museum she absorbed, with sponge-like zeal, the nuances of a wide range of languages. By the time of her graduation from Vassar, she was awarded a position at the museum with tenure and chance to put into the field all that she’d learned.

It had been a great honor for Alison and she’d made her father proud. Yet leaving his thriving medical practice in Minnesota and sharing her accomplishments, had been rare. Over the years away at school, their separation created a gulf of loneliness for her. Through letters they kept their devotion to the other, until one day she received the most crushing news of her life: Her father, Karl MacGiverson, had wed another woman.

She’d learned of the marriage after the fact, and became distraught he’d remarried without her knowledge. But honoring his request, she dutifully traveled home to meet her stepmother. Ingrid was cordial and treated her with affection, but she hated the circumstances and cut short the visit. Returning to her academic pursuits, she shut out her feelings and dealt with her father’s new life through strained correspondence. When a year had passed and emotions still clung closely to that of betrayal, she learned Ingrid had given her father what he’d desired most, a son. She had a little brother, and at twenty-three was faced with an acute bout of sibling rivalry.

More than ever, she felt estranged from her father and former life. How could he do it? She’d asked herself, recalling all the times they’d spent together, fishing, walking, exchanging ideas as equals. It took her months to write a letter that wasn’t filled with undertones of disappointment and anger.

In December, at her father’s insistence, she returned home to Thief River Falls. Dreading the holiday trip that held memories not easily erased, she struggled with her feelings of loss. To her surprise, though, the visit turned out to be congenial and satisfying. Finally a sense of resolution pervaded the MacGiverson home.

Once she’d returned to Washington, however, she realized her feelings weren’t entirely from her father’s defection into another life and family. Analyzing her emotions with the trained eye of a scientist, she became frustrated that no answers came and a malaise settled over her days. Then salvation through work. Dr. Herman Krieder requested her to join him on an upcoming field trip to Mexico. Eagerly she jumped at the opportunity.

Dr. Krieder’s party, including her and three others, left Washington in April just as the cherry blossoms burst into full bloom. The train ride to Yuma, Arizona was uneventful, if not long and tedious, but it afforded the time to study documents from the Dewey-Narragansett expedition of 1873 and WJ McGee’s chronicles recorded in 1894—two studies other than those of the Catholic Fathers to reveal the Seri Indian culture on Tiburon Island. Or as the natives proudly called their island, Tahjöck, meaning shark in the Seri language.

She craved the travel and exploration. While no novice to the hardships of field work, she was grateful to be gone from Washington, from the routine of the museum, and from Ingrid and her father’s frequent letters. She carried their pictures with her—enough of a reminder—though she had them packed in the deepest recesses of her trunks.

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I can’t believe you’ve spent all your time this week studying the ocean!

Alison jumped, startled to find Mark Linwood hovering over her. She laughed lightly, then pulled on her boots and stood. Glancing nervously over her shoulder, she looked to see if the phantom-warrior had reappeared. She breathed easier. He had not.

While all of you are intent on assaulting these poor Indians, I’m merely taking time to learn of their desert environment. Then I’ll give thought to our business at hand. We’ve only been here a week, Mark. You have the entire summer and fall at your disposal, plenty of time to excavate. Much is learned by observation.

Yes, but without some corroboration of McGee’s limited vocabulary, how can we begin?

It was always the same, Alison sighed. No patience nor appreciation for the land where their subjects resided. When would archeologists learn that communing was the first integral step to exploration? She liked Mark, admired his work and energy, but he had no inkling—for all his higher education—that facts were only facts. To really know, one had to stop and listen to the land, feel its ebb and flow. Then one could embark on a journey of discovery, and whatever the results, satisfaction would come from even the most minimal of findings. To her mind, academic research was built on those small but significant discoveries. That had been her experience, and she’d learned it at the hand of her father.

Give me time. Do you expect me to increase the breadth of their language in seven days?

No, but I expect you to try. Dr. Krieder does too. He’s impatient, Alison. I’m telling you this for your own good. Stop your fanciful daydreaming and get to work.

Slowly she unknotted her bun. Like gilded threads from a Chinese tapestry, her blonde hair cascaded down her back in a fall of exotic silk. Mark’s reaction was typical. Most watched her hair drop loose around her shoulders with awe. And those responses always made her chuckle and momentarily feel close to being beautiful, though she knew she was plain of face and form.

What you call daydreaming, I call study. Don’t you see that man is the reflection of the land in which he lives? One cannot separate the human from the earth—they abide together. When the secret of the land’s revealed, the secrets of the people follow. Can’t you see that one leads naturally to the other, especially with a people who exploit the land and sea for their survival?

"If I didn’t know you better, Alison MacGiverson, I’d say you’d gone native. He raised an eyebrow in mock observation. It happens, you know. Most young scientists feel the temptation—the lure of the primitive."

Mark, you are cynical, but I like you. She took him by the arm. Perhaps I’m just tired from our long journey. Tell Dr. Krieder I’ll begin looking for an informant tomorrow. Mark smiled and propelled her down the beach. Don’t think that I’m so easily manipulated. But I suppose a week’s respite is enough. I believe the Seri have secrets to share with us, and despite the probing of McGee, much he hypothesized was inaccurate.

I concede that his information is spotty. He spent merely a week at an encampment outside Hermosilla in ninety-four and only another the next year on the island.

Time’s irrelevant. Some can spend a lifetime and still not know their fellowman.

"One would think your field was in philosophy, not ethnology and linguistics."

Alison snorted at the remark and kicked the sand at her feet. She had a peaceful feeling with Mark, despite of his proclivity to tease her. But she didn’t want her, nor his feelings to develop further—a romance she did not need, not on her first field trip in two years.

Taunt me all you want with your erroneous observations. However, when I discover the Seri variance of their Yuman language and earn their trust, you’ll hum a different tune.

That’s the Alison I’ve been waiting for. Ever since we left, you’ve been preoccupied in some brown study or another. I thought you were enthusiastic about this venture of ours?

She paused and glanced out to sea. The sun had moved westward and the heat of the afternoon had marginally waned. Still tense since seeing the apparition on the dunes, she took her kerchief and dabbed her brow. Ever the inquisitor, Mark stood, waiting her answer. But she was reluctant to voice her trepidations. He might poke fun at her, which was his nature.

I said … I thought you were enthusiastic about our venture when we left Washington?

I am. If I seem distracted, it must be the heat and strangeness of the land.

Now there’s a feeble excuse. I know for a fact you were in peril on Baffin Island, and recall talk around the museum of your mettle gathering data in the Peruvian Andes. So what has you mired in your own thoughts? I’ve a broad shoulder and a willing ear to listen.

Thanks, but it’s hard to express … especially to an acquaintance …

Acquaintance? By autumn, I hope that we’ll be good friends.

I hope that too, Mark. I need a friend, but a friend’s all I need. Do you understand? I want that clear, as we’ll be working together closely in the months ahead.

Mark’s shoulders sank only imperceptibly. He chuckled, then tersely replied.

I’ve little time or inclination, my dear, for entanglements of the heart! My offer to listen was purely professional—as one whose livelihood depends on the success of our field work.

Sorry, she said, embarrassed to her toes. To explain what’s been troubling me is difficult. Hesitating, not wanting to delve into more personal matters, she grudgingly continued. Lately I’ve felt … restless … unsure where I’m headed. For a woman, scientific pursuits leave one lonely. However, this trip is just the stimulation I need. If I’ve seemed withdrawn, I apologize.

Apologize? No need. Only last year I felt restless, so I quit work, bought a ranch in Colorado to live off the land. An honorable notion, but raising horses through mountain winters was more than I’d anticipated. After a few months, I changed my mind. Everyone has lapses of good sense or dreams that superficially seem enticing. Reality, though, can be very different.

Alison nodded. I sound quite foolish. Actually, I’ve no deep-seated dreams.

Nah! Foolish is having a going-away party at the institute only to return months later, sadder and wiser. At least I didn’t invest all my money in the prospect.

I don’t think it foolish, but brave. It takes courage to leave all that’s familiar and strike out on your own. She brushed the hair from her eye and smiled. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. As trite as it may be, the cliché is true.

Mark shrugged and glanced at his watch. We have a group meeting at five o’clock. So, I’ll leave you to your pondering, fair lady linguist. Don’t be late. Dr. Krieder has instructions for our island trip. We’ll be departing Punta Miguel and spending our summer over there. He pointed to the blue haze of mountain land just across the bay. Alison shivered.

I don’t see why … we have to sail over …

Because, if you had been listening last night, Krieder discovered the band’s migrating back. Of the hundreds of islands about, Tiburon is the most sacred to them. It’s their tradition to hunt and forage there this time of the year, and they’re ready to return. Why the nerves? Could it be the shark infested waters of the El Infiernillo, frighten you?

She knew very well the dynamics of the Seri and why they migrated to Tiburon, but she let Mark pompously expound. She’d definitely not reveal her childhood phobia of open water, nor the odd emotional draw of the desert island. Let him think that she’d been daydreaming during the meeting.

That makes sense … I hadn’t realized that all the band was venturing back.

They are, and we must follow and insinuate ourselves into their lives. How else can we learn anything? How else can I earn credits toward the institute’s advanced study program!? he asked, throwing his hands in the air.

Mark was obsessed with his work. Defining their working relationship, had been unnecessary on her part. Fortunately, the man had only one thing on his mind. Promotion.

Go on ahead. Tell them I’ll be in camp for the meeting. Alison checked her watch-pin. I have time to walk the beach and go over my notes.

Mark grinned. Don’t get washed out to sea, or kidnaped by a pirate!

She waved as he tromped off, his boots sinking in the sand. Relieved to be alone, she tilted her face toward the sun. Taking a breath, she took solace from the lively sounds on the beach. Though usually uneasy around the sea, this afternoon she felt closer to unraveling the mystery behind her troubled heart. Maybe the spectre of the warrior had opened some part of her soul, maybe answers would be found on the desert isle and with the primitive Seri. Maybe. In spite of personal concerns, work took precedent.

Only last night, she’d come upon a Seri elder, chanting to the sea. Although she’d interrupted his song, he appeared unperturbed by her intrusion, bowed and bid her good night. Later in camp, she learned his name and position as singer-healer within the band. Gaining his acceptance, would expedite her research. And it was her obligation to Dr. Krieder to proceed posthaste. Confident with her choice, Esteban Ortiz would be her first informant.

CHAPTER TWO

Donde esta la muchacha? Alison asked Maria Ortiz. She’d been visiting the older woman’s lodging throughout the afternoon, tarrying in hopes of meeting her husband, Esteban. Lamely she inquired the whereabouts of the couples’ granddaughter, knowing that the little girl was never far from her papágrande.

When Maria nervously avoided replying, Alison rose from the mesquite-thatched hut and went to fetch some water from a nearby olla. Even to a discerning eye accustomed to primitive artistry, the workmanship of the thinware pottery was unique and excellently crafted. She made a mental note to ask Maria about firing techniques. Hopefully Maria would answer. After a gulp of water, she splashed her face. She’d had a headache throughout the day, but had patiently waited for Don Esteban’s return. To her disappointment, he’d never arrived.

Unexpectedly Maria rose and started toward the beach. Alison quickly followed. Seri nature was to remain reserved at first meeting. McGee had noted that in his brief monograph. Yet once friendship developed, the people were easy with laughter and social. She knew the procedure—at first most natives were skeptical of intruders, but then happy to share their culture after trust had been established and payment offered.

Through the underbrush, across the soft sand of the desert floor, she trod a short distance behind Maria. She kept a keen eye on the older woman’s rigid back, hoping to interpret by her posture and carriage some hint of what she was thinking and where they were going.

With no warning, Maria suddenly halted at the dunes and turned, causing Alison to look up and wonder at her abrupt stop. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she followed the direction of Maria’s dark eyes. Across the lonely stretch of shore, sunshine glistened off the wet sand, and the glare backlit the shadowed figures of a man and child below.

Esteban works for our supper, Maria commented. She pointed ahead where her husband sat shelling oysters. Alison nodded and proceeded eagerly down the bank, but Maria scurried behind and snagged the sleeve of her blouse. Usted esta aqui para ayudarnos?

The question was asked with an expectation that Alison did not understand.

Come to help? she replied, speculating if they expected her to help with the shelling.

The legend of the giants. You will help find a way, Señorita? The Indian woman covered her mouth, clearly abashed to have spoken, then ran back toward the village.

She was unfamiliar with the legend Maria alluded to, but having been educated in ethnology comprehended that most primitive cultures had a plethora of mythological tales to explain their tribe’s creation, existence and history. Her strategy was to persuade Esteban to reveal just such information, which would naturally lead to learning the Seri language and then, as Mark hoped, some clues to the Indians’ first contact with the Spanish explorers. Artifacts and discoveries of European contact were just two of the crucial purposes of their expedition. Dr. Krieder was determined to document the Seri with such depth that other ethnologist’s research would stand pale and insignificant in the community. The jealous competition between institutions on both coasts had been evident from the beginning of her tenure. She thought it petty, yet had seen the heated rivalry before at college. Dr. Krieder’s obsession to exceed the work of A.L. Kroeber and his California associates who studied the indigenous peoples of the Southwest, was paramount to the success of their trip.

Approaching the shore, however, she dismissed the quest of one man’s ego over another and walked up to Esteban and his granddaughter with feelings of another time. A time when she’d sat with her father, cleaning fish and enjoying the companionship of a simple day and activity. She paused, then took a deep breath. Her meeting must go well to establish first contact.

Esteban turned as her footsteps faltered and gestured for her to join them. She nodded, then sat with the baby, Sofia, on a faded serape that reeked of salt and dead fish.

Qué bonito! Me gusta su país, she commented mostly to herself, charmed with the beauty of Tiburon and the moment. Esteban looked up and a broad smile spread across his face.

Bueno, he responded simply and went on cleaning the shellfish.

She gathered her thoughts, timing the moment. A period of polite waiting and etiquette was required. It was only right—they were the intruders. The Seri gained nothing from the visit, but being bugs under their microscope. Only patience and respect separated one pursuer of science from another, and she had to agree with Dr. Krieder that McGee’s work showed a prejudiced perspective and a tendency toward hasty conclusions with little substantial evidence.

Feeling a tug on her braid, she removed her hat and chuckled as Sofia fingered her hair. The little girl was Esteban’s only grandchild and his daughter, Carmella, his only remaining child from a family of five. His four sons had been killed by the Mexican Federales, yet she saw no bitterness in his eyes when yesterday the local Mexican jefe came into the village to check the bands’ supplies for contraband.

Casually looking up from her play with Sofia, she saw Esteban scrutinizing her. She smiled. So did he. Then when Sofia let out a yelp, she scooped the child into her arms. Giggling with joy, she gave the baby’s grubby cheek a soft kiss, then leaned back on the serape.

Esto es para Ud, Esteban said, handing her a bag of the oysters. Juice and water ran from the burlap, but she ignored the sloppy mess on her skirts and graciously took the bag. With a nod, he suddenly rose. Me tengo que ir ahora.

The meeting had been too brief. Nothing had been established. She had to quickly think.

Cuándo puedo volver a verle? she asked, hoping to arrange another rendezvous.

Esta noche, Esteban replied, suggesting that she could meet him up the beach, toward the main village that evening. Then unexpectedly he added that she and her colleagues were invited to the Fish Dance—a ceremony where he’d sing songs, appealing to the sea bass to jump on Seri spears. Delighted, she responded in formal Spanish how much they appreciated his hospitality.

Esteban smiled, took Sofia in his arms and slung the oyster bag over his shoulder.

As her line of vision drifted past his shoulder, she gasped. The phantom-warrior had suddenly reappeared and marched up the beach in their direction. He took long strides, gliding over the beach in effortless fluidity. In one hand he carried a shield, in the other a stringer of fish. Frantic to find an explanation, she thought that perhaps the man was real and just some strange character who lived with the Indians. She turned to ask Esteban; he stared blankly back.

Who is that man? Quien hombre? she asked, her voice higher than normal. I’ve seen him before, roaming this beach. Do you … do you know him? she stuttered, nervously groping for some legitimate answer.

Esteban glanced down the beach and thoughtfully inclined his head.

I see no one, Señorita, he responded mildly, but his voice had an irrefutable eagerness to it.

Qué … pasa? she asked. The man walked closer, yet Esteban looked across the sand as if no one approached. Me sienta mal, she whispered, grabbing his arm. The hallucination in full battle dress, stalked toward them, and her head spun. Esteban braced her weight, then helped her sit on the sand.

Lord, I feel faint. Must be the heat … and I’ve not eaten all day.

Esteban nodded, then taking out a dirty rag from his pocket, wiped her brow. Though she felt feverish, Esteban’s ministrations were soothing, and after a few minutes she cooled down. Still, she could not force herself to look up. It was better if the apparition went about his business and left her to hers. Yet there had to be some rational explanation.

Todo está bien? he inquired softly and with concern, drawing her attention to him.

Sí, gracias. She stood, grasping the older man’s hand. His calloused fingers curled around hers and squeezed gently, surprising and pleasing her in the same breath. Perhaps she’d made a friend, she thought.

Esteban released her hand. Esta noche? She shook her head as he turned and left with little Sofia, waving gaily in retreat. Though buoyed by their first meeting, she reeled from seeing the phantom-warrior. What in heaven’s name had just happened?

Picking up her bag of oysters, she checked her watch-pin and saw it was past five o’clock. Dr. Krieder would be annoyed she was late, but the invitation to the Fish Dance might just defuse his irritation. She hurried up the path, not daring to look back at the beach.

The vision had reappeared—she was sure. Yet strangely, despite his denial, she sensed that Esteban had seen it too—his eyes and behavior revealing more than words. Ah, well, she mused, since he’s reportedly the bands’ singer-shaman, acting mysterious with a white woman would be natural for him—part of the game played between scientist and informant. There was always a price to pay for information, yet she wondered what Don Esteban would want in return for his cooperation.

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Well, Miss MacGiverson, so nice of you to join us! Dr. Krieder scowled at Alison’s belated arrival, giving her his most intimidating glare.

I know I’m late, but I have exciting news.

"And what would that be?" Herman Krieder bit, his patience nearly frazzled.

Taking a chair, she sat by Mark and Jeremy Atkins. Jeremy was Dr. Krieder’s assistant and a respected ethnologist in his own right. She liked him, but he’d brought his wife on the trip, and Helen Atkins was anything but amiable—though her skill with a camera was praiseworthy. The only other woman in the group, Helen made every effort to avoid her, only taking notice when forced by situation or her husband.

"We’ve been invited to a ceremony tonight, she remarked casually, brushing the sand from her skirt. As you know, I’ve learned Esteban Ortiz is the band’s spiritual healer and shaman. He seems willing and I am hopeful that he’ll be my informant. Already I have verified several words of Seri from his wife, Maria—the Turtle Clan mother. She handed Mark a sheet of paper from her notebook. Written were the words, Kunkaak—the people, and, ahn-kwee’ p-ay—it is good. Mark took the paper, scanned it, then gave Alison a broad grin and wink.

What kind of a ceremony? Dr. Krieder asked, curiosity piqued, but notably miffed that a minor colleague made progress with the Indians where he had not.

Near enough as I can ascertain, the Fish Dance—as it is called—will be a homage to the fish of the sea. In other words, Esteban Ortiz will sing his songs and entreat the fish to surrender to the Seri harpoons.

Surely this acquits Miss MacGiverson’s ill manners, Jeremy said in jest, quickly copying the notes she’d shared.

Clearing his throat, Dr. Krieder then proceeded with rapid-fire questions.

What time and place are we to meet with the band? Will Helen be able to photograph? How long is the ceremony?

She really knew nothing specific, yet wouldn’t cower to Herman Krieder’s Teutonic authority. Instead, she responded succinctly and in good scientific fashion. We will meet the band at the shore by the village. The time will be at nightfall. The ceremony will last a good part of the night. And, as for photographs, not this first time.

Her audience had varied degrees of enthusiasm to the plan: Mark and Jeremy were enthused, Dr. Krieder slightly peeved, Helen contemptuous—that was typical—and their Mexican guides, Thomás and Miguel, slept in a shady spot under a palo verde tree, completely uninterested.

Helen Atkins immediately objected, jumping up and appealing to Dr. Krieder.

Dr. Krieder, I beseech your better understanding of this expedition! You must allow me the freedom, within the boundaries of good sense, to participate with the documentation. McGee’s photographs were crude and did not present a full study and record.

Damn Shrew! Leave it to Helen to use McGee’s work against Dr. Krieder. Underhanded tactics were not below Helen Atkins when she wanted to impress a superior.

I support Alison’s conclusion, Mark interrupted. I think photographic paraphernalia would be a real intrusion and a possible catastrophe. The situation is fragile—photographing at this time is premature. I think we should all concede that Alison understands the circumstances better than anyone, having established our first contact. It would be a shame if we acted zealously only to find ourselves in jeopardy of losing these peoples’ trust.

I agree, Herman, Jeremy promptly added, giving his wife a glare that brooked no more interference. In a huff, Helen dropped to her seat. Dr. Krieder took a moment to consider, then remarked.

All right. It seems to be the consensus that we forgo photo documentation. Helen, do not feel neglected. We will use your skills at another, more advantageous time. Dr. Krieder then left the subject and began assigning special tasks for the next few days.

Listening to the banter was impossible. Distracted, her thoughts caromed away from work and back to her afternoon with the Ortiz family—especially the brief time with Esteban and Sofia on the beach. She glanced down at the smelly bag of shelled oysters and stifled a laugh. She would have to cook them soon—she would not waste a gift given in friendship, but prayed that the rank smelling shellfish wouldn’t poison her.

Yet wandering speculations were her way to evade the real dilemma—the second sighting of the phantom and Esteban’s reaction. A tremor went up her spine as she recalled the image of the man, thundering up the beach, as if he were pursuing her. She also remembered the stringer of fish in his hand. Most likely, he sought some minion to clean the damn things! The scenario made her laugh out loud, and Mark surreptitiously pressed his foot to hers under the cover of her long, split skirt.

Quickly ducking over her notebook, she pretended to scribble some notes. Momentarily her attention returned to Dr. Krieder and his instructions. Then hearing her name, she became alert to the meeting and focused back on her duties and obligations. No more conjectures. With time, the vision would reveal itself. And if it did not, it would be one of those peculiar phenomenons one encounters in a foreign land. She knew enough about life to know, not everything had a credible explanation.

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"Ahn-kee’ p-ay—it is good," Esteban Ortiz said in greeting. Alison and the others arrived at the beach encampment, and young chief, Juan Encinas, showed them where to sit. In the setting sun, the gulf’s placid waters had turned a striking vermillion. And by the frantic scavenging of the pelican and gulls, it appeared as if the waters were bountiful with tunas, shellfish and turtle—more than enough to keep the entire populace well fed throughout the summer. Yet that hadn’t been the case. Since the band returned to the island, the fish had schooled farther south.

With fishing minimal, the band was subsisting on little more than oysters. Old Santo Diaz had managed to capture a sea turtle, but that had occurred by a fluke of fate. He had found the turtle trapped along the island’s rocky far shore, had rescued the creature, then boasted of his prowess as a fisherman. It was his son, Eduardo, who’d confessed the real story.

From the start, the ceremonial atmosphere was evident. The women, dressed for the occasion in their finery, wore long skirts of bright cotton that they’d bartered from the Mexicans. On their cheeks they’d painted lines in dumortierite blue, which started horizontally across the bridge of the nose and continued with intricate designs of powdered gypsum and splashes of ocher red, symbolizing the Seri way of life. The men sported traditional pelican loincloths with short-tail shirts, patched in a montage of color. And each had a bright bandanna around his neck, and hair dressed in a long braid.

Esteban moved through the people, his eyes fixed on the sea and beyond. Hauled to the center of the central bonfire, was an overturned turtle shell to be used as a drum. The shell-drum would be the only musical accompaniment and would be played by Juan Encinas, brother-in-law to one of Esteban’s deceased sons.

After a short period of silence, Esteban began the first song. With rattles in hand, he chanted a litany of unintelligible words to the creatures of the ocean—Seri words meant to placate any sins inadvertently wronged against the sea animals. The tunes were varied and haunting. And as the men fed the bonfires, the beach turned golden and glowed with light not only reflected off the sand, but with a luminescence of its own.

Alison, Mark and Jeremy sat still, a rapt audience, hoping to blend in and not be an intrusion. Dr. Krieder and Helen Atkins spoke in hushed tones, an irritation tolerated, but not appreciated by any of the assembled.

Later in the evening, the young unmarried women of the band formed a circle and began a round dance. To the chanting of the girlish voices, Esteban sang a reply in his rich baritone. The dancing and singing went on throughout the night, and as the hours passed, only the most hardy remained for the last songs, braving the unseasonable ocean chill.

Alison and Mark were with the small group that lingered, their interest encouraging Esteban to endure the length of the ceremony. The next day, he’d work at the seashore, shelling oysters, then return the following night to repeat the Fish Dance. The four-night ritual would test his skill as a singer. Alison and Mark, though weary, kept their vigil, then at dawn were rewarded with a glorious sunrise of crimson and gold. Maria served hot fish broth to those who’d stayed.

Beckoning the sun with raised hands, Esteban finally ceased singing when the sky turned from vivid reds and oranges to a soft powder blue. As the colors changed, the sights and smells of the island came alive and the new day began. The old singer then sat by Alison and Mark. He said not a word, but rocked his body on the sand, more than content to sip the hot fish broth and enjoy the company of his yori guests.

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Who do you think she is, Esteban? Maria asked, patting the pad of blankets, enjoining him to sleep for a few hours. Her question, though, was far from settling. They’d watched the blonde woman throughout the night and by dawn were nearly convinced that she was the one whom the grandfathers said would return—she was part of the Came from Afar Men.

I touched her in the light of day, watched her all night … still, she is a mystery.

"Could she be Mahm-m?"

"His wife? No, but I was thinking she might be Ahnt Kaí. After all, she did call for the Fish Dance and stayed with us till dawn."

I suppose it does not matter who she is as long as she has come to change the myth. How will you ask her, Esteban? We must know soon.

I will not have to ask, but offer this as a gift. Esteban took from his medicine pouch a wide silver bracelet. Maria gasped. It was the armband of, Came from Afar Woman, the most sacred relic from the past. Today on the beach she saw a man. There was no one I could see. She said she’d seen him before. It can only mean one thing—she is having visions. This will help her to see more clearly.

Is it safe? I have an affection for the one they call Alison. She is kind to Sofia. I would not have her befall any ill from this venture of ours. The bracelet is strong medicine. Anything could happen if we are not careful.

"I know of the bracelet’s magic. If she touches the silver and sees the past, then we will know. I trust the gods. They have given her to us. She can lead us back to the old ways, to the power of our lost chiefs who met their ill fate with the white giants. It is a sign. Does the legend not say she came with pale skin and hair, eyes bluer than the sky, and a heart to heal injustice?"

Sí, that is what our fathers sang, but can she change the legend?

This woman is the one, Maria. I know. Proof lays with the bracelet. With the bracelet all things are possible, even eternal life.

Maria closed her eyes. They’d been waiting all of their lives for the return of the woman, for the restoration of the band’s glory. Perhaps, Señorita Alison could aid them. She said a prayer. "Oh, Mahm-m let it be her, let it be so. Please, let it be finally done."

CHAPTER THREE

The Atlantic Ocean of North America - 1107

Eirik studied the sky’s greenish cast and swelling seas, then shook his head.

Well, what kind of storm brews? Ragnar asked, as waves pounded the deck. Can Thor be so angry with Sigmus that he takes it out on all of us poor fools?

Ragnar, you speak in riddles. ‘Tis nay Sigmus who causes the ill weather and stormy seas.

That, my friend, be a matter of opinion. Your brother be ever the nemesis.

I grant you that if not for his goading, we would be sailing for home, but the blame be hardly his alone. The sea can be a hazard … all sailing men realize the risk.

There would be no unnecessary risk, if Sigmus were nay so greedy for power and wealth. And you speak of hazard, then why bring Geisel and Asta? Wives were meant to stay at home, nay sail the oceans with their men.

Sigmus could not leave Geisel, not after Britna’s ultimatum.

I remember. And a perfect pair she and Sigmus be—masters at trouble. The ship pitched violently and both men held onto the mast. Ragnar dropped the subject of Geisel, Sigmus’ wife, and cast an eye toward Asta who was strapped to the ship’s aft post. And your bride, were it necessary to bring her too?

I told her to dismiss Geisel’s baiting, but she could not. She has her pride. Thanks to Geisel, my past has been a thorny subject. Asta will survive—if we all do.

Eirik glanced over his shoulder at his wife. Asta was as fair of face and hair as she was of heart. He could never imagine why he’d found a hard woman like Geisel to his liking. Fortunately, it had been a short-lived affair, and the gods in their wisdom guided him down another path.

The sea turns mean, Eirik. Best I see to the men. Ragnar let go of the mast, but kept his tether tightly knotted.

Have them check the cargo … and give Asta a bucket to bale water. It will take her mind off the worst if it happens.

Ragnar nodded, wiping the ocean spray from his eyes, then skidded off across the deck to attend his duties. Eirik turned his focus back on the sea and gazed expectantly, looking for his brother’s ship. Over the last hours, since the storm worsened, he’d seen the red and white sail only a few times. He speculated what their father would do if they perished in unknown waters—the elder Sigmus never knowing what had become of his sons and heir.

Ragnar was right, damn the circumstances! His brother took supreme pleasure in prodding him into arguments and spurring their rivalry at every opportunity. Yet ultimately it was his fault and failure to his crew that put them in harm’s way. And Asta, his dearest love, he’d failed her too. All she wanted was the manor and land that his mother had bequeathed to him in Sudrland. A new life away from Iceland and all the petty bickering with his family.

I swear by Odin and God almighty, he said, paying reverence to both pagan and Christian deities, if I see land again, I will honor my pledge to Asta. We will return and settle in the lands of my mother. Let it be sworn here and now—that we will do!

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The ships pitched and yawed in the turbulent waters for what seemed like weeks not days. Blind tacking, maintaining any course, kept Eirik and Sigmus’ sailing skills honed as they battled stormy seas and malcontent crews. Through sheets of pelting rain, anger ran rampant when the storm’s ferocity worsened and forced them to eject the precious timber harvested in Vinland, but after the loss of Sigmus’ favorite stallion, spirits onboard the ships grew ominous.

The waters far south of Leif and Thorvald Eirikson’s settlement had never been sailed, and as the storm raged, they weren’t even sure of their direction. On the seventh day—as near as Eirik could tell, for time had lost tracking—the sun shone briefly and the crushing waves abated. The respite was short-lived, however. The storm turned and two more days, winds raged with gale force. Finally, on the dawning of the tenth day, the sea gradually went from foaming white to lapping waves, gentle and caressing like a woman’s touch on an exhausted man’s brow.

I have spit more water than swamps the deck. Ragnar shook his fist at the sky and sat next to Eirik and Asta. Dare we say, by Odin we made it?

It would seem Asta’s prayers to her Christian god have been answered. Eirik pinched her cheek and gave her a solid kiss on the mouth. She laughed and glanced shyly toward Ragnar.

My husband gives credit to divine intervention. I believe his skill at the rudder had something to do with it.

Spoken like a loyal wife, Eirik said. Ragnar laughed. And she be comely, too, he added, forcing her to kiss him again in a crushing hold. Asta squirmed, batting her arms, then pushed against his chest. Ragnar laughed loudly as did other men looking on.

Beast! Have you no sense, Eirik? Pulling her hair into place, she felt bits of dried seaweed prick her fingers. I am sure I am a feast for the eyes, covered in salt spray, clothes soaked and vegetation encrusted in my hair.

You be alive, my lady. Be thankful to Odin, your God, or Eirik. I nay care who to give credit, but since my friend be within arm’s length, I shall give him his due. To Eirik!

Ragnar toasted and passed a horn of ale to the crew. Cheers resounded, the men shouting their appreciation. Then unexpectedly the ship lurched sideways and Sigmus ver Sigmusson docked his longship with Eirik’s knörr. Laughter promptly subsided as Sigmus, Geisel, and their crew members boarded.

Brother! Sigmus hailed, walking casually over to where Eirik and Asta sat. Eirik did not rise, but sat with his arm draped around Asta. All be well here? You celebrate?

We know not where we are, but the sea be calm and Ragnar found a cask of ale unbroken. Care to join us in some spirits—those of men and drink?

Would not be amiss. Come, Geisel. Eirik has invited us to stay. Sigmus extended his hand to the fire-haired woman behind him. She sneered, whipped her cape over her shoulders, then stalked off toward the plank that connected the ships. Women! Especially that one! Loki take her! Sigmus cursed. Pay her no heed, aye, Asta? Sigmus grabbed the horn from Eirik and drank deeply, the frothy ale running down the corners of his mouth.

Asta glanced at Eirik. He stared at his brother, and she wondered what he was thinking? In her mind, Sigmus had nearly gotten them all killed in the maelstrom, but he acted as merry as if they approached the friendly fjords of home. She could only pray that soon they’d find land, fresh water, and some direction to plot their courses back to Iceland. Once home, Eirik had promised they’d sail for his mother’s estate and begin their life together in a new place of opportunity. She meant to see that he kept his promise.

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It took three more days for the Icelanders to find land. As they approached the broad beaches of the unknown shore, relief was evident on each man’s face, especially Eirik’s. Slapping Ragnar on the back, he took Asta’s hand in his.

Fresh water, my lady, he exclaimed with a quick kiss, and all the boiled fish you can eat!

Asta laughed. She could almost taste the cool clean water and the succulent fish boil. Most likely, she’d be in charge of the task as Geisel never lifted a hand to help in any