Megan dropped the carving knife and stared at the tiny kitchen window. The storm had arrived with all its fury, but that wasn’t why she was trembling, it was the icy fingers touching her spine. She’d felt this overwhelming dread before and knew what it meant. Her father and brother were in trouble.
The wind tore at her as she ran out of the gate and towards the clifftop. They had taken the boat to the base of the cliffs where the white water brought the sea bass to feed. They’d known the storm was coming, but fishermen can’t choose to work only in fine weather, so they work every day. Even today, Christmas Day. Fifteen agonising minutes later she knelt on the clifftop to the east of Paviland Cave, with her clothes clinging to her and icy rain running down her body.
Terrified and shaking uncontrollably, she crawled to the cliff edge and looked down at the crashing sea but could see nothing. Then a wave lifted the blue hull of their fishing boat. In a moment of desperate insanity she pushed herself out over the edge and saw them.
Her father was a bundle of dark oilskins on a wide ledge, but Huw was on his feet and looking up. She raised her hand and called, and almost pitched over the edge. He saw her and waved at her with both hands, telling her to get help. She stood and looked around as if seeing this place for the first time. Where? Overton village was less than two miles away. The Port Eynon lifeboat would save them.
As she ran along the cliff edge, the wind lifted from the roaring sea and moaned through the rocks like a creature calling for its lost mate, and the rain rode on the wind, harsh and cold, blinding her and chilling her to the bone. The narrow cliff path was a river and every step a chance for hidden rocks to take her.
Suddenly she was on her knees, and when she wiped the rain from her face, there was blood on her hands, crimson in the pounding rain. Her long brown hair lashed her face like nine-tails and her blood blinded her. She ran on, slipping and sliding on the narrow path, crying, but her sobs lost to the wind. When the blood washed from her eyes for a moment, she saw the cliff edge at her feet. And the wind took her.
Huw prayed to see figures silhouetted against the sky, but the clifftop was an unbroken dark line against the grey racing clouds. He sat on the wide ledge and cradled his father’s head on his lap. He could try to climb out, he’d done it be.fore. The old man stirred in his sleep, and Huw gently wiped the water from his face. He wouldn’t go, not to save himself.
There was a light out to sea. The lifeboat. He stood. Not the lifeboat, a single light. And a single fisherman. Hope flooded into him but was lost when he saw what the brave soul was trying to do.
The fisherman threw a grappling hook onto the splinters of rock that reached up out of the boiling surf like razor teeth. What he was planning was suicidal, but Huw prayed that he wouldn’t give up or be swallowed by the angry sea. The fisherman stood, braced his legs between the side of the dory and the wooden seat, and timed the waves that crashed over the boat. He staggered again and again but looped the grappling rope around his left arm and threw a second hook to Huw. The sea took the boat and dragged Huw across limpets glued to the ledge. The sailor released some slack, and Huw rammed the hook into a fissure and the rope snapped taut.
The fisherman looped the second rope around his right arm, braced himself and fought the retreating wave. No man should have been able to stand the power of that wave, but somehow he stayed on his feet and held the dory away from the rocks. His father was a dead weight in saturated clothes, but Huw knew they would be dead within minutes should he fail.
The fisherman released the cliff rope and gripped the other with both hands. The incoming wave lifted the dory and swept it towards the cliff, and he played out the rope, dug in and leaned against it with every ounce of strength. A second, perhaps two, that was all he would have. Huw called out to God and threw his father off the ledge. And jumped.
Megan opened her eyes and raised her head to see she was in a narrow bed in a small room with candles and a log fire. Two chairs were in front of the fire, with a broom across them and her clothes hanging there to dry. She lifted the blankets and looked down. She was naked. She jumped out of bed and padded across the thin carpet to the fire. “I’ve made soup,” a man’s voice said, and she turned quickly. “I’m not a good cook, I’m afraid.”
The man was over six feet tall with a wide, muscular frame used to hard work, and wearing a loose grey smock and canvas trousers. Perhaps in his thirties but worn and beaten by the elements. His deep sky-blue eyes that watched her from beneath long almost white hair had a hint of sadness. “You should wear something. It is cold.” She looked down, gasped and snatched the towel from the rail in front of the fire. He chuckled and ducked his head to get through the door. She followed him into the tiny sitting room. “My father and brother, do you know what happened to them?” He looked up from stirring a saucepan on the small cooker. “Do not worry, they were rescued.” “The lifeboat?” He shrugged. “There was a boat. They are safe.”
“I fell off the cliff.” He shook his head. “I caught you.” She stepped closer, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. She had never kissed a man before, except her brother on his birthday, and that didn’t count. “Thank you,” he said, and put a bowl of soup on the table.
She felt her face flush. “What’s your name?” “Christen Andersen. And you?” “Megan. Megan Rees.” He half bowed. “I am pleased to meet you, Megan Megan Rees.” She shook her head. “I’m just Megan.” He chuckled again, light and infectious. “I think you are far from just Megan.” He pulled out a chair from the table. “You were on the cliff, then your home is nearby?” She sat. “Ty Clogwyn. It’s a house, well, a cottage. It means cliff house, and that’s where it is, where nobody bothers us.” “And you like that, not being bothered?”
He moved the spoon closer to her hand. “Eat your soup. It will give you strength.” She sipped the soup, probably potato, and pulled a face. He chuckled. “As I said, I am not a cook.” She smiled. “Yes, I like not seeing people.” She saw his expression. “It makes me feel safe.”
“There is a church near my home, a very old church,” Christen said. “And where is that, your home?” “Here now, but my real home is near Frederikshavn.” “That sounds foreign. Is it up north?” He laughed. “Yes, it is up north. A long way up north. In Denmark.” “And the church?” “In the old church lived a mouse. She never went out because of the danger. Outside there were all kinds of creatures. In the church she was safe.” She glanced at the soup. “A very sensible mouse.” “Yes, but when she was old, she saw she had lived a very long time but had never seen life, never felt excitement, or known love. And now it was too late.” “Was there really a mouse?” “Of course.” “Why did you save me?” He watched her for a long moment. “Would you rather I’d let you fall?” She stood and kissed him again. She hadn’t intended to, but she was alive thanks to this…Viking, who smiled but seemed so sad.
This time he kissed her back softly and tenderly as if he might break her. His hands moved gently over her, and her heart pounded in her ears. There was movement all around her, the small room beginning to spin until she was in the eye of a whirling cyclone. The spiralling funnel was a point at her feet, swirling and rising to engulf the whole world. She felt her bare feet leave the thin rug, and the air around her came alive as if a thunderstorm were building. The tingling electric charge moved slowly up from her toes, and vibrant colours crackled and raced across the cyclone, crimsons and reds flowing into each other and vivid blues flashing around her. The crackling charge moved up around her hips and into the pit of her stomach, pulsing like a living thing, stopping her breath and arching her back. It ran up through her spine to the nape of her neck and snapped her head back to send her hair flying in a dark halo.
The spiral spun faster, a blur of colour with blue lightning jumping and arcing in growing intensity, lifting her higher and caressing her with agonizing ecstasy. She put her hands to her mouth but couldn’t stifle the scream that burst from her lips. The vortex lifted her soaring and spinning, and far below she saw the cottage. Then sud.denly it was gone, and she plummeted with a shock almost more than she could bear. She clung on to Christen until the roaring abated around her, buried her head on his chest and listened to his pounding heart then let the warm darkness take her.
When she awoke, she was in the small bed lying next to him. Happy beyond words, warm and safe in his arms. She licked her dry lips but stayed still in that wonderful place. “What happened?” He didn’t answer. “Did we just…” He came up on one elbow. “You set me free.” She was too exhausted to form the question. “I shall stay here.” She closed her eyes again. “And be safe,” he whispered. “Yes, safe.” “Like a church mouse.” Her eyes snapped open.
They rode along the path above the cliffs, she in the saddle and Christen behind her, his arms once more around her. In silence. She slid down in front of her little cottage, and Huw burst from the house and ran down the path, calling to his father. He grabbed her and hugged her so hard she couldn’t breathe. “Where have you been?” he said, releasing her a little. She turned, but Christen was gone. From there she could see a mile in all directions. The path was deserted. “What are you looking for?” Huw said, stepping onto the path. “Didn’t you see him? He was right there.” “See who?” Her father came to the gate, touched her face, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “We thought you were lost.” She took his hand. “Silly thing, it’s only been a day.” Her father and Huw exchanged a long look. “What?” she said, a little afraid. Her father held her hands. “Megan, it’s been a year. A year to the day. Christmas Day.” She couldn’t speak and shook her head slowly.
“Where have you been?” her father said. She looked along the path. “A Viking saved me.” Her father led her through the gate. “A Viking saved us too.” She stopped and stared at him. “He lives in the cottage above Longhole Cave.” Her father stopped. “There isn’t a cottage above Longhole Cave.” “Of course there is. I just came from there.” “Have you ever seen the cottage before?” She shrugged. He looked away. “What is it?” “There was a cottage there,” he said. “Told you,” she said, relieved. “It’s a legend. A story.” She was confused.
“The legend says many years ago a fisherman, afraid for his wife’s safety when he was away, told her never to leave the house.” He sighed. “There was a fire. She stayed in the house. And he was cursed to roam the coast until he could save someone in peril. Then he would be free.” “He saved you.” “Yes, but the curse would only be broken if he saved a woman. Put back a life.” “He saved me,” she said. “Twice.” “Twice?” Huw said, following her gaze. “Once on the cliff,” she said, and found her smile. “And then from myself.” “How’s that?” Huw said. “We will have Christmas,” she said, striding to.wards the cottage door, her step light now. “And tomorrow I’m going out into the world, where it isn’t safe.” “Where will you go?” her father said, following. “To pay my respects to a church mouse.”
Author: Leigh Barker Illustrations: Pam Parry