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These people aren’t people, they are gods, she decided. They had no need for moon or stars to navigate the nocturnal seas in the way that her people did. They had strange tools instead. Talismans perhaps. She tucked her chin deeper into her grizzled wolf pelt, breathing air into it so that it may warm her briefly instead of being swallowed immediately by the ungrateful sky. From beneath lowered lashes she observed them; faces sporadically lit by several flickering torches. Their countenances were ruddy and largely covered by beards that were more often braided than not. All had a sword strapped to their back and wore either axes or fearsome knives at their waist.
Yes, these were dangerous gods.
On the third day at sea a storm appeared on the horizon. This prompted urgent discussion amongst them. They set about steering mightily against the increasingly agitated sea, attempting to take the boat around the storm. The tempest proved to be mightier. It darkened the sky and hurled stinging pebbles of ice at everything in its path. She pulled her clothing up about her head in defense but the gods did the opposite and yelled angrily into the churning black heavens.
Beneath her wolf pelt, she sought out her necklace with her one warm hand and with the other she gripped her clothing tighter to her body lest the wind tear it away. At that moment the boat plummeted into a mighty trough. She felt stinging bile rise in her throat prompting her to grip her wolf pelt and necklace ever tighter. Through these two things she gained a grain of comfort. Her mind turned its back on the storm, to memories of the village from where she had been forcibly taken.
She could almost see her father slaying the huge alpha male wolf that had been attacking their village. Through his cunning he had ensnared it and now it was with his strength that he ended its life with a spear plunged straight through its heart and a dagger drawn lightning fast across its neck. Her father had indeed been a fearsome man.
Normally, it would be a woman’s work to cure and fashion skins into clothing. But Arngier’s mother was no ordinary woman, so the task fell to him. She was intimidatingly huge. Close to seven feet tall with the build of a warrior. Secondly, she bore such profound knowledge and skills in metal work, that people came from far and wide to avail of her craft, keeping her extremely busy and the family wealthy. It was she who had made Arngier’s beautiful gold necklace in honour of her namesake – an eagle, wing’s outstretched, carrying in its talons a spear. For the name Arngeir is High Norse for eagle spear.
She had given it eyes of vivid blue with tiny gems carefully chipped from a larger one she had found on the shores of Svitintarn lake. These, she said, were the colour of her daughter Arngier’s eyes and would help her see danger and know whether to confront or avoid it.
Angier closed her eyes tight as she thought of how she had tried to avoid danger when these evil gods had stormed her village, felling people left right and centre. Her long legs had propelled her into the woods, leaving her parents alone to fight. And fight they had. To the death. In doing so, they decimated more than half of the raiding party leaving only three boatfulls left. She had found them cleaved and mutilated, side by side, when she finally returned from the forest. Overcome with grief and shame, she did not hear the ugly warrior god approach from behind and was captured along with six others. All of them girls.
Lightning forked across the sky, ripping her abruptly from her reverie. This seemed to delight the gods, for they yelled ‘Thor’ into the sky over and over. These gods were indeed hard to understand, she thought. Some of them were as weak as humans and could obviously be killed. They were unwise enough to have killed all the useful people in her village and had only taken a few measly teenage girls. And they seemed to harbour a reckless delight in danger. But she was only human, she supposed. What did she know of the gods’ ways?
The waves grew monstrous and began to pile into the boat. The raiders battled in vain to stave off the onslaught. The swirling water at their feet now rose to knee level. Another bolt of lightning lit up the sea and sky and finally she saw fear etched on their faces. In that moment she knew they were not gods afterall. They were but men masquerading as such.
This increased her terror many fold. She gripped the sides of the boat tightly as a huge white tipped wave crested before them. The blow from its impact stunned her momentarily as it crashed down and the next thing she knew they were all in the water and the boat was gone. It appeared that the men, although adept at sailing, knew nothing of how to stay alive without a boat. Very soon their cries and coughs faded leaving thirteen year old Arngeir alone in the roiling sea.
There is no running away from this, she thought. All I can do is confront it.
So she warred against the sea with steely determination. She warred against it with wisdom. Knowing that she could not swim forever and that the storm would soon drain her, she concluded it was best to focus on staying afloat and keeping water out of her lungs. If she could wear down her assailant through sheer resilience, then maybe, just maybe she had a chance.
After hours of retching and fighting she noticed the swell of the ocean growing calmer. A streak of pink appeared on the horizon through a split in the still fearsome glaring cloud. Dawn approached timidly. The worst was over.
Strangely though, this seemed to bring no relief to her body. Her teeth chattered and her limbs felt like a bear had been trying to tear them off. For a little while, she floated on her back and gazed at the sky in search of stars. And then she heard it.
The change.
It was as if the sea and her had been having a conversation all night consisting of waves and near drowning. Suddenly the language of that conversation had changed and Arngier was left puzzled and trying to understand it. A faint roaring sound fell upon her ears followed by what could only be described as intermittent booms. Her body was also being pulled strongly in a new direction which gave a little relief to her exhausted limbs. She surrendered to it gladly; until the sky opened up illuminating her surroundings briefly and then all became horribly clear.
Not a great distance away, a cliff face higher than any she had ever seen loomed one thousand four hundred feet high. At its base were colossal rocks upon which the sea seemed intent upon driving her. There would be no surviving that.
It is time to fight again, she thought.
Mother help me. Father help me. Eagle help me. Gods help me. If you will it, please let me live!
She struck out hard against the sea ignoring the unspoken whimpers of her weary muscles. She clenched her teeth to stop them chattering. Her progress was slow. But it was there. The hole in the sky had closed up once again, so she navigated by sound. The terrifying noise of the sea pounding the monstrous cliffs was receding and instead in its place she heard a different sound. This one she recognised. It was the sound of the surf dragging and scratching pebbles along a shore.
Could she actually have found safety?
Light was still absent once again and her body was at its absolute limit. Taking courage by the reins once more, she directed her efforts towards the sound. It got louder and louder until finally, she felt the stony beach beneath her. She scrambled on all fours up the beach, stones shredding her water sodden skin. In the darkness, she collided with a boulder, face first and knocked herself out soundly.
The serene morning that greeted her seemed strangely at odds with her broken and torn body. Her split lips were a deathly blue and her skin was as wrinkled as an old crones’. Lying there any longer would mean certain death. She needed warmth and food if she could find it – the raiders had given her none. Only water and precious little of it.
Cautiously she staggered away from the beach, to a small copse of stunted fir trees. Beneath them were an accumulation of branches, twigs and other undergrowth. There were also tufts of heather growing nearby. She tore up handfuls, ripping her poor hands and made a hasty sort of nest beneath the trees, using this and the branches and twigs. Her waterlogged wolf skin was discarded out of necessity and once complete, she crawled inside her inadequate shelter where she proceeded to sleep for nearly two days.
At first she just lay dazed when she awoke. Then her body began to send confused messages. It wanted food, proper shelter and water but it also wanted to stay safe and warm in the nest. She crawled out eventually and found to her surprise that the pelt she had placed atop the twigs was almost dry. The wind had acted in her favour for once. She put it on and set about exploring her surroundings.
It appeared to be a very small island, with very little on it except for a vast multitude of sea birds, a good few rabbits and some sheep. There was virtually nothing that might serve as shelter, except for the copse where she had spent the last thirty six hours. She did find fresh water in the form of a small spring though, from which she drank greedily. How could an island have so little on it? She wondered. And were there any people? She saw no sign of any.
Invigorated a little by the water, she hatched a plan to take one or two of the sea birds and make them her dinner. She employed several small rocks for this purpose and since the innocent creatures had no fear of humans having probably never seen any before, this was a simple enough task.
She had no fire and severe hunger was driving her, so she literally just ripped off their feathers and gnawed at their still warm dead bodies. Their white feathers floated away on the breeze, some covered in blood. It occurred to her that she should have saved them, as they might have been useful for some purpose. But it was too late now.
She wiped the blood from her face and gathered more heather to line her ‘nest.’ Over the next few days, she did very little other than sleep or think. A night of heavy rain prompted a flash of inspiration.
After breakfasting on two baby chicks and three eggs stolen from a nest, she set about gathering up rocks. It was hard work, but she was a big girl for her age on account of her lineage. For an entire day she did this until the pile she had gathered sat six feet high and more importantly, was within close proximity of the freshwater spring.
The next day, after breakfasting once again, she began to set the stones in a rough circle she had carved in the ground. Little by little, she built it up, laying them one on top of the other, using their natural shape to ensure as few gaps as possible.
By day three, the roof of her home was finished. Yet there was still work to be done. She gathered up moss and heather to seal up any gaps. She devised a bed of the same materials and also fashioned a door from branches lashed together with seaweed retrieved from the shoreline. The work kept her warm. But as soon as she stopped she developed a chill. Her new home at least afforded her a sick bed. Through fevers and aches, she sobbed with frustration that she may have come this far, only to pass into the next world from an ill vapour…
But that was not to be.
2000 years later in the year 1873, on the same island – Hirta of the St.Kilda archipelago, some 64 miles from mainland Scotland…
‘Where have you been, Eilidh? Your father has been out looking for you. He is not in good order since he couldn’t find you.’
Thirteen year old Eilidh set herself down on a small wooden stool beside her grandmother, placing a head upon her knee. The old lady patted her head with arthritic hands.
‘Well, are you going to tell me? Or must I see out the rest of my days in suspense?’
Eilidh sighed.
‘Yes, but you cannot tell him.’
‘Come on girl. What have you done?’
Eilidh held out her hand to show her Grandmother the eagle necklace she had found.
‘Wisht! Where on earth did you find that?’
She turned it over, admiring its uncommon finery.
‘In the Amazon House Granny – Tigh na Banaghaisgich.’
The old woman frowned.
‘You know you’re not supposed to go there. It isn’t safe.’
‘But I like it. I keep on wondering who lived in it.’
Her Grandmother held the necklace up to the light and the blue gemstone eyes of it glinted.
‘If I tell you, will you promise not to go there again?’
The girl sucked in a deep breath. ‘I promise,’ she said.
‘Alright then…now listen closely. For I’m tired and don’t want to have to repeat myself.’
Eilidh nodded.
‘Legend has it that many many hundreds of years ago, a young girl of a similar age to yourself was taken away from her home in a far away land. The men that took her were savage brutes and murdered almost her entire village. They took her by boat, along with several others and as they went along their perilous journey a terrible fierce storm blew in.
The girl survived while those wicked beings were all swallowed by the deep and she alone was washed up here on the shore of Hirta. Being of strong spirit and possessed of a formidable constitution, the girl, still nought much more than a child, built herself the Amazon House with not much more than her bare hands and a pile of rocks.
No doubt that young lass suffered terribly and struggled through things that even we can’t imagine, what with being so very alone. But she survived. And what a woman she reputedly was.
Because it is so very long ago little else is known of her aside from that and a few other things I shall tell you.
It is said that she was of great stature for a woman; taller than most men of her era and locality. For a very long time she lived a solitary life, until one day the sea withdrew enough to reveal a bridge of fresh land between it and the Isle of Harris. After those days, she ventured boldly and always carried a sword and wore a helmet for protection which she forged herself with masterful skill. Much addicted to hunting, she acquired a leash of greyhounds, which she used to drive the deer towards her killing knives. As if this woman’s accomplishments were not enough, she was a mighty warrior, hence her name and although much desired by others, she never took a mate. She called Hirta her home until the day of her death and according to folklore the mighty Amazon Queen never set foot in her homeland again.’
Eilidh stared at the necklace.
‘I think this must have been very important to her,’ she said solemnly.
‘No doubt it was from back home,’ her Grandmother said, throwing a lump of turf on the fire.
‘I think maybe I shouldn’t have taken it,’ declared Eilidh, looking stricken. ‘Her spirit will be bound to be missing it.’
She started to cry.
‘What have I done!’
‘There there, child. I’m sure it can be put back. I will speak to your father about it on the morrow. But for now, haste ye back home and say your sorrys to your father for leading him a dance. And tonight keep the Amazon’s necklace under your pillow, for I feel there must be a wealth of good luck in it.’
Eilidh did as her Grandmother bade her and that night she dreamt of the Amazon warrioress, stalking the wild lands of olden times, hunting, and fighting and breaking the hearts of lovestruck men near and far.
In the morning she woke and found the necklace mysteriously placed around her neck.
And there it stayed until her father returned it to the Amazon’s House after breakfast.
https://www.nts.org.uk/visit/places/st-kilda
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Kilda,_Scotland
https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/387/
http://wikimapia.org/18137094/Amazon-s-House-or-Beehive-House
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