My Dear Fiona

Chapter 4 - Old Dragons

I ended up back at Saint Magnus' Cathedral, with my nose buried in the old records, strangely comforted by the smell of old ink. It is amazing, really, the church's archives go back centuries! After a few hours of being fully immersed in the lives and the trades of the people of old, you forget what century you're in; you lose track of time altogether.

Marriages, home deeds, conflict resolutions, old public announcements, the births of children.

This is what time really looks like, reading the birth announcements of people who passed out of existence centuries before you were born.

Seeing their aspirations, hopes and heartbreaks, the bitter and the sweet displayed together like in a painting, equalizes their significance and turns them all into the same substance when watched from a distance.

I feel like I know them, somehow, your maybe descendants.

Lady Ingibiorg Finnsdottir, the Earls' Mother, an Earl's daughter herself, what a strange life they must have had, Fiona, those blue bloods of yours whose roots run so deep you'd have to go to the beginning of time to find a simple man.

She married twice and had three sons, some say four; she lived and died and now her entire life sits before me in one piece, stripped of all her choices, heartaches, crossroads, joys and triumphs, of all the feelings we take for granted.

Just the facts, Ma'am. Just the facts.

Hope and heartbreak are silly games for the living.

Anyway, that's the eleventh century, and that's as deep as the church records will take me.

I suppose I have to go to the heritage society to dig deeper into the bloodlines of her parents.

I don't even know how you're related to the lady, Fiona, on her mother's or her father's side.

The custodian gave me permission to photograph the records, and I went to the seawall to study them, though the wind made it tough by making hair blow in my face.

Her two sons, Paul and Erlend, the stories say, took after her, tall, strong and kind, and they ruled together in peace for thirty years. Were you tall, Fiona? I suppose it makes sense. It's just I never pictured you like that.

It seems Erlend was Magnus' father. Yes, the saint and martyr the church was named after.

At least I got an answer for one simple question: you're a member of the Fairhair dynasty. That should explain the flaxen tresses, although I may be wrong about that.

King Harald Fairhair asked the beautiful Gyda Eiriksdottir of Hordaland to marry him, but she refused until he ruled all of Norway.

He took a vow not to comb or cut his hair until he accomplished that goal, which took him ten years, and after that, he held her to her promise. He also combed and trimmed his hair, which changed his nickname to the opposite of "tangle hair".

I still believe he was a blond, though.

How little human nature changes, if at all? This story could have happened today, although I think someone would seriously frown upon the breach of health and hygiene standards.

It appears this old love story is an allegory for the reunification of Norway. I told you I'll find love and magic somewhere. Maybe I should skip the research and just write a novel.

What was Harald to you, Fiona? Father? Brother? Cousin? Grandfather? Great-grandson?

I had a dream about you in Birsay; you were on that ship again, braving the mists in the middle of winter, and next to you was a woman whom you called skaldmaer, which means poet-maiden, I understand.

She raised you, didn't she? After your mother died. Is that how you learned to read and write, Fiona? Did you write poetry as well?

I know she loved you like a mother, and protected you with her life. If only that were enough. Nobody can protect us from our fates. But no shadow of the future darkened your eyes in that dream; you looked happy and never noticed the deep furrow on her brow and her steely gaze. The eyes of someone who's bracing for war.

She was much taller than you, which means you weren't very tall, at least by Viking standards. Or maybe you were still a child, dressed up like a woman, so she'd grow up faster.

The longship on which you sailed must have been brand new, the scent of fresh timber was unmistakable, even mixed with the smell of the sea, and the hull retained its bright yellow hue, before the salt and wind would darken it to a dull gray.

Your protector hardened her demeanor and pointed to the mist in a commanding gesture, and the mist revealed the contours of an island not too far away.

She must have done this many times before, because you didn't look afraid at all, you giggled, excited, and clapped your hands at the surprise, and then your eyes lowered their gaze, to the ring you wore around your neck on a silver thread, the symbol of your status and the proof you are who you say, and got clouded with sadness.

I somehow know that sadness in your eyes was for what you left behind, Fiona, and not for what awaited you, because, unlike your older mentor, you seemed keen to begin the adventure for which that new boat brought you here. Your eyes gleamed at the sight of the green island emerging from the mist, whose rocky shores covered in thin ice sparkled in the dull light of winter. The magical land about which you heard so many stories really lived up to its promise.

The ring hanging from the thread around your neck was made of gold, a man's ring, obviously too big for your fingers.

It had a black stone imbedded in a crest whose composition I could see clearly, the outline of a dragon on top of a two color inlay background, parted per fess, and etched with the image of the sun on the lighter half.

Well, dreams may not be a valid research tool, but I'll use whatever comes to me. After all, how else am I going to find details about the life of a tenth century Viking princess?

Maybe there is something to the story of the woman bard and the ring with the family crest, after all.

I got so lost in thought looking at the pictures, trying to put together a family history that had already outlived its usefulness, because the mother and her earl sons lived long after your time, Fiona, and the trials and tribulations of their lives don't inform yours at all, that I didn't even notice it got dark until the lanterns turned on along the seawall, reminding me it is time to go home.

I suppose tomorrow I'll have to dig through heraldic catalogs to figure out whose crest you wore. Oh, people at the institute would laugh me out of town if they knew my sources, but what's it going to hurt?

I rented the room I live in by the month. I had no expectations of how long it would take me to stitch your story together, although the grant was for an entire year, and maybe I should keep that in mind as a guideline. My room is in an old stone building downtown, on Victoria Street, a short ten-minute walk from here.

It gets chilly in the evening, despite the thick and warm wool sweaters my mother made me swear I'll wear. No pressure needed. I think I'll wear two tomorrow. The temptation of a delicious coffee with rich milk foam entices from a distance. I can already see the coffee shop at the end of the street, which reminded me I forgot about dinner.

Every other thought abandoned me, leaving ample room for the mouth watering image of a hot bowl of soup, right next to a spiced chai latte, both steaming hot.

I can barely feel my feet. Why didn't I think to bring boots? Those furs of yours look pretty good to me right about now, Fiona. Ah, the indignities of living!

My achy feet and back relaxed, after I got cozy indoors, and I shifted into a dreamlike state as I watched the scenery with streetlights and nightlife through the fogged windows, wondering what could possibly have been like to be a woman poet in Viking times.

The warmth of the coffee shop and the hot soup melted my last ounce of determination and drive into a puddle of pudgy comfort.

There's definitely nothing left on tonight's agenda other than sleep.

On an unrelated note, driving on the left side of the street still confuses me to no end.