Beyond time

I love old, well-used, well-loved books. You might say I’m obsessed with them. Each discovery gives my heart a jolt of anticipation; Is this the one? I look for little forgotten treasures, like a comment to a loved one, notes scribbled in margins. I have found forgotten, yellowed photos, handwritten letters, a recipe, or a dried flower stuck between pages. I keep looking as if there is something specific I need to find.

Yesterday, Mr. Margoli, the owner of a quasi-antiques store, left me a message. He has something I might like. This morning as soon as I walk in he shows me a box. In the box, tucked under some rolled-up maritime maps is a diary. It is bound in leather; the paper is thick, obviously of the finest quality. It has been handled with care, wrapped securely in old sailcloth. Mr. Margoli doesn’t know its provenance, and said it was left on his doorstep by closing time, yesterday.

I settle on the linoleum floor and leaf through the diary which is less than half filled. The first entry is on January 1^st, 1624, and the last one is dated April 20^th of the same year. The handwriting is difficult to decipher, but it is the front page that holds my attention. “Anika Kom. Tiden er na, April 19”, followed by a series of numbers and a name, “Pitr.”

I am more than intrigued. A voice echoes through my memory; the little book vibrates in my hands. I can’t catch my breath and wipe first one and then my other palm on my jeans, never letting go of the soft brown leather. After all, how often do you come across an eight-hundred-year-old book that has your name on the front page. I buy the box.

It takes me months to decipher the content. The author, a fisherman named Sean, wrote about his daily life on and around one of the many tiny islands off Orkney. His entries were full of self-mocking comments about his aspirations to become a storyteller. He started many a story, sometimes he continued on the next day, only to chide himself over his fanciful thoughts.

Then, after the April 17 entry, for several pages, the penmanship changes as does the language. Only to be followed by one more lengthy entry from Sean.

April 20, 1624

“As if conjured out of the mist, he stood in front of me. I’m not a small man, but he towered over me. Dressed in only a silver-grey pelt wrapped around his hips and secured with a leather belt. A broad leather sash across his massive chest was adorned with knives, flints, rope, and such. His long yellow hair was tied back with a leather thong. His sharp blue eyes bore into mine. He spoke but his language was unknown to me.

Rudely, he pushed me aside from the helm and steered my boat toward a rock. My protests were ignored. The rock which I had never seen before, and I have sailed these waters for more than forty years, held the ruins of a keep. We rounded the tip and entered a natural harbor. An old man awaited us at a rough-hewn stone pier within the small inlet and secured my boat.

The giant picked me up, as if I were a mere lad and put me ashore. He searched through my boat and found this (the diary?). They urged me to walk up a hill. To my surprise we passed a garden, tucked in a small valley. I only had a moment, but saw fruit trees, a goat, I think I heard chickens cluck, before they ushered me on.

On the highest point of the rock was a keep. From this angle, the short round building, maybe three stories tall was intact. The two oversized doors opened into a large room. Narrow slits in the thick walls allowed air and a minimum of daylight to enter.

The giant motioned me toward a large wooden high-back chair near the hearth. Then he and the old man sat at the large table in the middle of the room, talking, softly to each other. When I looked back, I saw the old man write in this ( his diary?).

After some time, the giant showed me the first page and sent me on my way. I admit I was unsettled when I sailed out of the little cove and set for home. Once I had cleared the point of the rock, I looked back to take another look, but it was gone.

Did I dream it all? No. For all I have to do is look at the first page here to know that I didn’t. Will I go back out and fish? I have no choice if I want to feed my family. But maybe a little less of the whisky.”



Something tells me that I must learn what is written in that strange language, so I contact the local university. Doctor Johanson, professor of linguistics feels that the passage might be written in an obscure old Norse dialect and sends a copy off to Oslo. But time is short. It’s already February.

By the end of March, even though there still is no word from Oslo, I set off for Scotland. After flying into Glasgow and taking the train as far as I can, I hop from island to island. Though I have the coordinates that are written on that first page, I do not know which of the hundreds of islands was Sean’s home. I ride buses, hitch rides on ox carts and motorcycles. I sleep in inns, gratefully accept the hospitality of locals and even sleep in a barn one night.

Everywhere I go, I show the diary and coordinates and ask questions about a possible legend. Often the answer is a shrug, a quick shake of the head, “Nothing out there, but ask further on.”

I’m running out of time, and I feel a desperate urgency when on April 18, I once again show the diary to an innkeeper. With a tilt of his chin, he points to one of the fishermen, “Liam, there. He’s yer man, then.”

When I approach the fisherman and show him the diary, he scratches the back of his head, replaces his cap, and stares off into the distance. “Aye,” he says slowly. “The tale has been handed down through the family. Long ago, Old Sean claimed to have been there.” He leans back in his chair, and finally turns to face me and nods. “Aye, I’ll take ye there.” He shrugs. “If it’s there, it’ll be haunted. Won’t set foot on it, I warn ye.”

I show him Sean’s diary and the coordinates. He nods. “Ay that’ll be old Sean.” When I offer Liam his ancestor’s book, he smiles. “Naye, ta. Old Sean told the story well enough.” He drains his pint. “Might be weather later in the day. Best we set off early.” He reluctantly promises to pick me up in a week, weather permitting.

I am at the dock before daybreak. Impatiently I watch the sky lighten from indigo to pink into a translucent blue. Liam mutters under his breath and shakes his head the whole ride out. Whether he curses my folly or calls on all the saints for his protection, I don’t know. I don’t ask.

I can feel my body vibrate both with the thrum of the engine and the excitement of anticipation. If I stop to think about it, I might question my own sanity. But all I feel is eagerness.

Liam shouts over the wind and points. There! A black spot that slowly grows bigger. He slows his boat, navigating around eddies he says are unusual currents. On the highest point of the tiny rocky island are the ruins of an old, forbidden-looking round keep. Narrow slits at regular intervals could have been the windows Sean mentioned in his diary. When Liam’s boat rounds the island and enters a small inlet, the wind dies, allowing for a gentle approach to the stone quay, hewn from the very rock like Sean had described.

Liam throws my backpack on the pier, waves, and leaves as soon as I jump ashore. I can only hope that he will, in time, remember to come back. Hoisting my backpack, I walk off the quay and climb the crude, worn steps. At the top, I gawk.

Nestled in an apparent natural bowl, is a small oasis. I drop my bag and awestruck wander around the small Eden. I hear songbirds, the buzzing of bees and clucking of chickens. I see fruit and nut trees in full bloom, berry bushes, a small, but well-tended vegetable garden, and a friendly goat, who seems to like my sweater. “Hey, Terro.” I whisper and wonder why I say that.

Eventually I walk back to the top of the steps to retrieve my pack and to take another look around. There, on the highest point of the rock is a well-preserved medieval keep. A shudder runs through me. My legs feel heavy. My vision shimmers. I hesitate briefly against a pull, a need to rush on. To go home.

Two oversized solid wood doors open into a large round room. As Sean had described in his diary, on the far end of the room is a generous hearth, a pot hangs from a hook, tempting smells make my stomach growl. Four tall, wooden wingback chairs flank the fireplace. A table with a bench along each side fills the center of the room. Furs and rugs cover the stone walls and floors.

A small woman, her silver hair braided and wound around her smiling face turns from the hearth and walks toward me, holding out her hands in greeting. She talks rapidly in a language I don’t understand. Her smile and gestures let me know that she invites me to come sit by the fire. She dishes up the wonderful smelling stew in rough-hewn wooden bowls and fills smaller bowls with a home brew. She sits next to me and happily shares her meal. It is as if she picks up the thread of a previous conversation we had. I stare at her in astonishment when I understand a word here and there.

How can that be? Have I fallen down a rabbit hole?

I understand that, yes Terro is the goat that enjoyed my sweater and Gerdie is his mate. The old woman’s name is Helga and her husband’s name is Harlan. She tells me that the men, who are out fishing, will be happy I have come home.

Whether it’s the home brew, the delicious stew, the boat ride out, the three weeks of travel, but I start to nod off. Helga nudges my arm and points toward the stairs, inviting me to go up.

At the top of the stairs is a bed chamber, dominated by a large, wooden bed. A small fire is burning in the fireplace. Another chair like the ones near the hearth below. On a small table is a pitcher and a bowl. Helga lights a candle and urges me to shed my jeans and sweater in favor of a long velvet gown. When I climb on the bed I’m already half asleep.

My dream is a familiar one, though more vivid than ever. A long hall with cooking pits at regular intervals. The air is smoky. People stand on either side, clapping and chanting. I walk slowly past the fires toward a tall blond man. I know him, I am eager to join him. Though his expression is unreadable, as I come closer I can see the fierceness in his eyes. With each step I take, my heart fills and his face seems to relax. When I stand before him, I hold my hands out to him. I feel at peace when he wraps his much larger ones around mine. An old, wizened woman ties a narrow leather strip around our hands, binding them together. Grinning he pulls me to a corner of the longhouse.

My heart is pounding when I wake. Wiping sleep from my eyes I sit up in the massive bed and then I see him. Though he sits in the chair, he is larger than in my dreams, more muscled, rougher, but I see the same intensity in his blue eyes.

“Pitr?” I reach for him then rub my eyes, again. Am I still dreaming? “Pitr.” I sigh and shake my head, blinking away a tear. It can't be.

Then he’s in front of me, hauling up from the bed, crushing me against him. His voice is rough with emotion as he whispers. “You know me Anika. You have known me across time. You have seen me from the corner of your eye. You have heard my voice in your dreams. You know us.”

I nod as I wordlessly cling to him, my husband. How? When? The one I’ve been searching. “Come. We go home.” He leads me up to the roof of the keep and shouts commands. An old man hoists sails. I feel the rock sway then it floats away and picks up speed.

Pitr drapes a fur cloak around both of us, shielding us from the wind he stands behind me, holding me close, while setting the course.

Snatches of memories and dreams are drifting up from the smokey forgotten corners of my mind. A curse from a witch. A jealous rival. Being torn apart, banished into time. I turn to look up at him.

“I found the diary, but didn’t know the language. Not until I arrived. But I needed to be here, needed to come. I followed the coordinates, the date.”

“You remember when you were stolen from me, when we were lost in time?” I nod, it’s coming back. “I found a sage who taught me where, when you were. How to come here in this now.” He sighs. “You found me. Now is our time again, Anika.”

I glance briefly toward the west. Should Liam come back next week, he won’t find the rock. I snuggle closer into Pitr’s embrace and let the wind clear my recent memories to make room for my ancient life. Our time had run out once. We will rewind and savor every minute of our new life.