Fitting Enough for the Thunder God

A Short Story

Hey, folks,

So, this is something doubly new for me.

Leanne Shawler

sent out a story prompt (which you can find here; I do recommend reading it before diving into my story) and tagged me. I’ve never done one of those, so I figured it might be fun. The story is also outside my norm in that it takes the form of two letters and several journal entries from 1820 to 1922.

Without further ado, I present you with Fitting Enough for the Thunder God.

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Photo by Gavin Allanwood on Unsplash

From: Esmerelda Lockhart, 12 Boynton St., London

To: Archibald Lockhart, 135 Amersfort Point, Brooklyn, NY

22 September, 1922

Dearest Archie,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know I wrote to you only a fortnight ago, but, well, when you read my news, you will understand why I had to write again so soon.

Within the package that contained this letter, you will have found a very old and battered journal. It belonged to one Lucian P. Chesterfield, a rather little-known explorer from the last century. Most of the journal is illegible, sadly, but several entries remain.

You can imagine my excitement when I realized that it detailed Mr. Chesterfield’s disastrous visit to the Shetland Islands, specifically, Unst and the village of Sterah, in June 1820. Over one hundred years ago, can you imagine!

I took the liberty of consulting a map, and no such village exists on Unst or anywhere within the rest of the Islands. However, Mr. Chesterfield documents his time there with great detail, such that I can only believe that what he reports is genuine. What’s more, he seems to have unique details concerning the area’s inhabitants in dim antiquity.

Knowing your passion for all things barbarian and pagan, I could do naught but send the journal to you. I hope that you find its contents illuminating.

Sincerely,

Esme

P.S. Uncle Reginald thinks I’m mad for sending what must obviously be either a madman’s ravings or a flight of fancy penned down for amusement. Please read it, write back, and put Uncle in his place for me!

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Journal Entry, 6 June, 1820

My apologies for the lack of recent entries. After setting sail from Aberdeen, we made fair progress north-northwest.

The Captain, one Georg Ensle, promises a routine voyage, but the sea has heaved like a thing possessed the entirety of the time. The crew seems in good spirits despite this, or perhaps the vicious nature of the waves is only my perception as a landlubber and infrequent sailor.

Our initial destination is the port at Thurso, where we will reprovision and (I would imagine) lade on more cargo, before departing for our true destination: the Shetland Islands, far north, even beyond Orkney.

Captain Ensle promises swift passage, declaring that we should be in the Shetlands in a fortnight or less. I can only hope the man is as skilled at sailing as he imagines himself to be.

Journal Entry, 10 June, 1820

We made port in Thurso yestereve. Captain Ensle was as good as his word. I pray to God that the rest of the voyage is as expedient. I have spent the majority of my time aboard ship in my cabin due to sea sickness. The ship’s doctor prescribed brandy to treat it. The man may know his physics, but …

[The rest of this entry is illegible.]

Journal Entry, 16 June, 1820

The Shetland Islands are in sight. I remain ill. The doctor’s recommendations are useless. I shall remain in my cabin until we reach port.

Journal Entry, 18 June, 1820

I bear terrible tidings. Last night, the ship foundered off the coast of Unst in a storm that seemed to come from nowhere. I swear I saw the devil himself lashing the skies into a frenzy, driving the ship onto the rocks.

I am the only survivor, it seems. At least, no others have washed up on the shore of this island, and my benefactor claims none will do so.

It is to my benefactor that I owe my continued existence, although I am loath to share the manner in which he saved me. Perhaps by writing it down, I will be able to sort fact from fancy at a later date. At the very least, it will help prevent the memory from fading, although how one might forget such a horrifying turn of events escapes me.

The storm ravaged our ship. Captain Ensle shouted like a madman, running to and fro across the deck, fighting not to be blown overboard by the wind or swept away by a wave. I had grabbed my sole bag in case evacuation proved necessary.

Lightning lit the night, or I would have seen none of this. Ensle was haranguing the first mate about something, both looking panicked, when the ship shuddered. If some giant of myth had grabbed her and shaken her as hard as he could, it would not have been dissimilar. There came a horrendous ripping sound, and the ship began listing hard to starboard. Even a lubber like myself knew that meant we were taking on water and would all soon share a watery grave.

There came a titanic crash of lightning, and in my next moment of clarity, I found myself in the icy water. All around me, debris from the ship surged in the froth. My limbs were succumbing to the cold, and I knew that my remaining time was measured in heartbeats.

Then I saw him. He strode across the water like some Celtic Christ, long hair streaming out behind him. Lightning crashed around him, but did not harm him. Even the wind seemed more of a help than a hindrance. He reached my side and pulled me from the hungry maw of the sea. I will admit that my consciousness came and went, slippery like an eel.

My rescuer brought me to shore, gave me succor, and made me as comfortable as he could, given that he seems to live in a cave. He promised me that tomorrow we shall venture out and he will show me the island, once the storm abates.

He calls himself Taranis. I thought it a jest when first he told me, thinking he referenced the old Celtic god of thunder. He fully believes it, however. There is no humour in his claim.

My scientific mind obviously disbelieves. However, I have an irksome bit of doubt. Without divine intervention, how did he come to my rescue?

Journal Entry, 19 June, 1820

Today, Taranis showed me the island. I am upon the isle of Unst, the farthest north of all the Shetland Islands. How we arrived in these waters, I do not know. Perhaps the storm’s winds were simply that powerful.

Unst is uninhabited but for Taranis and myself. However, it was not always so. We climbed the steep hill from the cave, and he showed me the ruins of an ancient village. Sterah, he dubbed it.

When I pressed him about what had happened to its inhabitants, he said little, his eyes downcast. Storms, he claimed. Many seem to have died trying to sail the waters. Norsemen also played a role, although Taranis was unclear as to the extent of their influence. They were the ones who tore down the walls and wrecked it all in their search for plunder.

The village was impressive. Rarely have I seen such well-preserved foundations. I will recommend someone from the University come here and make a record of it all. Taranis, I also find fascinating. He is aged, with grey hair and lines upon his face. Yet, his body remains hale, far more youthful in its musculature and abilities than it should.

When I asked about his remarkable preservation for a man well advanced in his years, he laughed fit to burst. ‘Boy, what would you imagine the last years of a god would be like?’ he asked me. I could make no sensible reply.

We finished the tour, and something high above caught my eye. Another dwelling stood there, stone walls topped with a turf roof, this one not ruined, but whole. When I asked after it, Taranis turned cagey. I pressed the matter and he said that he might bring me there tomorrow or perhaps the day after. It would depend on ‘how receptive I was,’ he said.

We returned to his cave, and Taranis seemed more reserved than he had been since I had met him. We sat in the cave mouth, and he cooked mackerel for our supper. The small fire was very comfortable, but the unending daylight was bewildering. The simmer dim, he called it, with a smile. ‘Summer’s my time, lad,’ he said to me. ‘When the great thunderstorms build and build, like mountains in the sky and lightning cracks fit to pierce the earth.’

Fitting enough for the thunder god, I feel.

Journal Entry, 20 June, 1820

Today, I asked again about the people of Sterah. Something tickled the back of my mind, some little thing he had left unsaid.

‘It was not always thus,’ he said. ‘Once, a Star kept vigil in the house you saw atop the cliffs. She would shine out to guide the village boats back home when tempests threatened.’

A star? How could a star do any such thing? They are merely enormous balls of gas burning far out in the blackness.

He laughed when I said that. ‘The villagers and I had a compact. One woman from each generation would serve as Star and be wed to me. It was a fine arrangement and lasted for a very long time.’

What changed the situation, I prompted. Taranis grew quiet, sad. ‘There was one Star who captured my imagination like no other, but she vanished. I found her years later beneath the waves, with the sea dragon folk. I brought her home and used my powers to make her forget her time away, but it was not enough.’

He looked out to sea for a long time. I thought perhaps he would not continue, but he did. ‘Her love came for her from beneath the sea, and no matter how fiercely I loved her, there was naught I could do. She demanded that I free her. What choice did I have?’

Taranis was thoughtful for a moment. ‘She was right to leave. I did not love her, only thought I did. I was enamoured of her and caught up in my own hubris. What right did I have to force the memories of her love from her mind so she would be content with me?’

He stood and walked around the cave opening restlessly. ‘But love came to me after. Mari was her name. She was the next Star, and she captured my heart, not just my lust. I gave up my immortality to be with her.’

I asked where Mari was. I had seen no sign of any other living person in the days I had sheltered there with Taranis.

‘Long dead,’ came his response.

I demanded how this could come to be. ‘Even without our immortality, gods live for a very long time. I stayed with my Mari through her allotted span, which was longer than most mortals will know. Eventually, it was her time, and I had to say farewell, at least for the moment.’

For the moment?

He regarded me with a keen glint in his grey eyes. ‘Oh, aye. My end fast approaches. I perhaps hastened it with your rescue, using the last of my long-harbored power. Tomorrow, I will join Mari.’

Tomorrow? I was distraught. What did this mean? I must also admit that I was perhaps more worried for my own fate than for the end of his life. You see, I still did not believe he was Taranis the Thunderer, not in truth. But I would come to.

‘Tomorrow, we will ascend to the Star’s house. I will lie upon the bed with my beloved and we will be together once more.’ He looked at me keenly. ‘I ask that you be there to act as witness, in payment for your life spared.’

There it was, his naked request. For saving my life, he expected me to watch him end his.

Journal Entry, 21 June, 1820

I did not realise today was the Summer Solstice. Between the voyage, the sea sickness, and the wreck, I had lost track of the days. Midsummer’s Day. A day of great power. It was no wonder that Taranis chose it for his last.

We started our journey early in the day. Taranis wanted to be there before midday, by which I took him to mean that he intended to end his life at midday on Midsummer’s Day.

I argued with him, tried to dissuade him, but he would not be swayed. He was like a boulder in the stream that I could not budge. What choice did I have but to accompany him? I owed him that much for my life, surely.

We reached the Star’s House high atop the island about half an hour before midday. I followed Taranis, ducking through the low doorway.

Inside, it was a simple affair. A few bits of furniture and dust-covered creature comforts, the remains of a loom in one corner, and the scorched stones of the central fire ring. However, what drew my eye immediately upon entering that house was the bed. It was an ancient thing made from rough-hewn logs and branches. The mattress was stuffed with heather. Upon the bed lay Mari.

I do not mean that she was a corpse or a desiccated skeleton. No, this was a flesh-and-blood woman. Her skin held a cold pallor, and her lips were perhaps not as red as in life, but she looked for all the world as though she were asleep and only waiting to be woken. Taranis stepped to the bedside and stroked Mari’s cheek with one hand.

I looked to Taranis. How long had he kept her here like this? How had he staved off the corruption of the grave?

He shrugged and held out one hand, palm up. Golden light danced above it for a moment, and I heard the sound of bells and thunder somewhere in the distance.

‘I have only enough left now to make an end of this.’ He looked at me, a fey light in his eyes. ‘I ask again that you bear witness, that you stay until the end so that, at least while you live, someone will remember Taranis the Thunderer and his beloved Star, Mari.’

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Something hard lodged itself in my throat, and tears welled in my eyes.

And then it was midday. I glanced out the window and saw no shadows. I felt the course of power through my bones, although I’ve never once claimed any occult abilities. It was that place, that time, and that company only that allowed it.

Taranis lay down on the bed beside Mari, one arm under his beloved, curling her toward him. ‘Farewell,’ Taranis said to me. ‘And thank you.’

With that, golden light suffused the pair, emanating from Taranis, but also from Mari. It grew brighter and brighter until I could not look directly at it. Somewhere, I heard those bells and thunder again, but now there was laughter and, very faintly, the skirl of pipes. That light blazed so bright it spilled out the windows and the doorway, pouring down the hillsides and into the sea.

Then it was done. The golden light faded to nothing, and I beheld Taranis and Mari. They lay together, entwined in a final embrace, nothing more than bones now.

With tears in my eyes, but fey music in my heart, I departed that place and made my way back to Taranis’ cave.

Journal Entry, 22 June, 1820

I write now from the deck of the HMS Fomor, a brig-sloop in the Royal Navy. I was able to signal them with a bonfire lit in the mouth of the cave. Even now, Unst shrinks astern as we sail south, back to civilisation. However, I think some part of me will remain on that island, in that small house, with the entwined bones of ancient lovers.

[The rest of the entry is illegible.]

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From: Archibald Lockhart, 135 Amersfort Point, Brooklyn, NY

To: Esmerelda Lockhart, 12 Boynton St., London

8 October, 1922

Darling Esme,

Thank you so much for the journal. This is such a treasure! I mean, I’m certain that old Lucian was more than a little cracked, but this is so exciting!

I must find out more about Unst and the village of Sterah. I’ve enquired with a friend of mine who has some knowledge of the islands, and he has never heard of the village, and like yours, my search for it on a map was fruitless.

Still, there is much here that piques my curiosity. Perhaps I’ll find the funds for an expedition! If I do, will you come? I’d love to catch up in person, and it would be grand to explore Unst together, would it not?

Please write and say that you will come.

Love,

Archie

P.S. Tell Uncle I said he’s a wet blanket and he is not invited on our expedition.

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Thanks for reading! I’m grateful that you’re here.

Now that you’re done, why not explore something else?

• Check out Leanne’s work here. The prompt came from her serial The Môrdreigiau Chronicles, but she has a lot of other amazing work on offer, too.

• Check out some of my historical fiction. The Hungry Gods tells the story of Danu and her coming of age in the late Bronze Age. At the Edge of the World is set during Caesar’s first invasion of Britain in 55 BCE.

• Catch up on A Dread Tide Rising, or dig deeper into the world of Thalrassa and learn more about the folks who make up the Talon.

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