“What?” gasped Jesse.
Jason smiled. “Hey, even women warriors need their guardian spirits.”
“You mean…”
“Growwwl,” purred Jason.
“It was you who saved their lives at the creek!”
Jason put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, that was just the beginning. Wait until you hear about the adventures she and her people had in the land of the Algonkian. You'll never believe it!”
Acknowledgements
I would first and foremost like to thank my wife, Amanda, whose endless patience and understanding allowed me the time to complete Broken Circle. Also, I would like to thank the staff at Ste. Marie among the Hurons, and especially Bev Rashleigh, for their assistance in helping me with the many historical questions I had regarding the Wendat nation as well as the French mission of Ste. Marie.
Ste. Marie among the Hurons
Ste. Marie among the Hurons was Ontario's first European settlement. The Jesuits arrived in the prosperous land of the Wendat and, with lay workers, began construction of the pallisaded community in 1639. The community included a church, barracks, workshops, residences and a sheltered longhouse for native visitors. Ste. Marie was home to 66 Frenchmen, representing one-fifth of the entire population of New France. The presence of the Jesuits in Huronia split the Wendat nation into traditionalists and Christians. The Wendat nation was also severely weakened by European disease which enabled the Iroquois to launch a full-scale war against their rivals to the north. In 1649, with the Iroquois controlling most of Huronia, Ste. Marie was burned to the ground by the French community so that it could never be used by the Iroquois. The Jesuits then retreated back to the safety of Quebec. Beaten and abandoned, the remaining Wendat people either migrated south to Kentucky or east to Quebec.
After extensive research, a team from The University of Western Ontario recreated Ste. Marie on the original site in Midland, Ontario. Ste. Marie can now be experienced by touring the historical site and interacting with staff dressed in period costumes, both native Wendat and French.
STOLEN AWAY
Christopher Dinsdale
For the wonderful women
in my life:
my wife, Amanda,
my mom,
and my daughters
Sarah, Johanna and Stephanie
Acknowledgements
I would first like to thank Amanda, my wife, for her continued support during the many hours in which I'm huddled in my basement burrow, spilling my imagination onto the laptop computer. I would also like to thank my family, friends, colleagues and students who, with their enthusiasm for Broken Circle, encouraged me to continue my writing. I can't put into words how much I appreciate the kind thoughts. Special mention also goes to my Grade Five student, Anna, who thought up the title, Stolen Away. I would also like to thank Newmarket Public Library for their wonderful collection of reference materials as well as their enthusiastic support for each one of my books. The New Brunswick Museum and the Newfoundland Museum were very helpful in answering the many questions I had regarding the history of the Vikings in North America. I thank those institutions for their time and patience.
This novel is based on ancient Irish legends, Norse sagas and what little we know of the Beothuck people. The storyline itself is straight from my own imagination, therefore the plot and characters (except for Thorfinn Karlseffni, the Viking leader) should not be taken for historical fact.
Enjoy the adventure!
- Christopher Dinsdale
ONE
Kiera ran her calloused fingers over the ancient grooves of the Stone. Cool and rough to the touch, its comforting texture reached into her soul and caressed her hidden anguish. She did not feel the tear that trickled down her cold cheek. Perched upright in the soft meadow earth, the table-sized rock was decorated with intricate patterns of ancient symbols and geometric crosses. The beautiful detail whispered words of comfort, whispers in a language that had not graced her ears since she had been kidnapped a lifetime ago. The Stone never failed to bring her a sense of fleeting tranquillity, even when she was in the gloomiest of moods.
Smiling through the tears, she glanced down at the intricately-carved pendant she was wearing around her neck. Shaped in the traditional Celtic cross, Kiera's only piece of jewellery and her single reminder of her past life, had an uncanny resemblance to the Stone itself, both in style and workmanship. The woven geometric markings of her pendant triggered memories of ghostly images. Warm embraces. Soft music. Laughter. Love. They were so long ago, the memories of her early childhood, that they simply fluttered in and out of her thoughts. She tried to grab hold of them and live within them, if for only a moment, but like the butterflies that zigzagged past her in the breeze, they vanished far too quickly. Sadly, she realized that her memories were becoming as worn as the weathered grooves within the Stone itself.
She shook her head and focused again upon the markings of the Stone. It had been set here, in this meadow, for a reason, placed so its engravings pointed east towards the thundering ocean and the rising face of the sun. Why was it placed here? Could the Stone be some sort of marker? How was it possible that her ancestors had carved this beautiful design in a location that was a world away from her homeland?
As she so often did, she closed her eyes and imagined the small Celtic craft and the brave Irish mariners appearing on the eastern ocean horizon. Using the power of their small single sail, they would ply the waters to return to this windswept meadow and their ancient marker. Coming ashore, the mariners would see her waiting by the Stone, their faces lighting up in recognition of their similar descent. She would run into their arms and they would embrace her, the warmth of their common blood penetrating her cold, oceanblown skin. Then, their mission complete, they would lead her to their boat, and together they would make the long eastward journey home.
Home.
Her dreamy thoughts were shattered by a low animal-like moan from a Viking horn, echoing through the afternoon breeze. Jumping to her feet, she glanced at the angle of the sun and realized that she was in trouble. Thorfinn, the village leader, was beckoning everyone to return to the village. She glanced down at the basket by her feet. There were barely enough blueberries to cover the weaved bottom, and it was supposed to be full by now.
Crouching and crawling, Kiera quickly worked her way through grass and wind-bent bushes of the meadow, grabbing any low-lying blueberries within reach as she went. As she made her way awkwardly over the bush-covered rise, the Viking settlement came into view. Nestled in a gentle valley, the low, rectangular mud and thatch buildings, stables and pasture embraced the gentle curve of a meandering river.
Kiera quickly realized why Thorfinn had blown the alert. The river was teeming with splashing people. Every man, woman and child from the settlement was thrashing and stumbling in what looked like a maddened frenzy, lowering baskets and large pieces of cloth into the glistening water and hauling out magnificent fish moments later. As they threw the fish up onto the muddy embankment, several of the men scurried and slipped between the growing number of prized catches. With one swing of an iron rod, they clubbed the life out of their catch, then threw the flaccid bodies