Bolda and the Sea of Stars

Bolda the Bright, a young Viking girl with fiery red braids, a fur-lined green tunic, and worn leather boots, sits on a mossy stone wall with her back turned toward the loch, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. In the background, a misty Scottish highland loch stretches beneath jagged cliffs, with moss-covered stone cottages nestled between mountains and the water's edge.

Bolda the Bright had always loved mornings on the loch. She used to wake before dawn, pull on her boots, and race down to the shore where her grandmother's weathered Viking longboat waited, its carved dragon prow pointed toward the misty water like a loyal hound eager to run. Her grandmother — the greatest explorer the village had ever known — would already be there, adjusting the sail and humming an old Norse song, her silver braids swinging in the highland wind. "The sea doesn't wait for sleepy Vikings, little spark," she'd say with a wink. Together, they had charted every inlet, mapped every cliff face, and named every bird that nested along the jagged rocks above the deep, dark loch. But that was before. Now, three weeks after her grandmother's funeral, Bolda couldn't even look at the water.

A thick wool blanket in deep blue and gray plaid, draped over a wooden chair beside a cold stone hearth, with a faint curl of old smoke rising from the ashes. In the background, a dim cottage interior with closed wooden shutters and a rough-hewn table holding an untouched loaf of bread.

Bolda stayed in her cottage, curled beneath a wool blanket that still smelled faintly of pine smoke and sea salt — her grandmother's smell. She didn't eat much. She didn't talk much. When villagers knocked on her door with warm bread and kind words, she only shook her head and whispered, "I'm fine," even though she wasn't fine at all. Her chest felt hollow, as if the wind off the loch had scooped out everything inside her and left only a cold, echoing emptiness. She kept the shutters closed because every glimpse of the water reminded her of their adventures, and every adventure reminded her that there would never be another one. Grief, she was learning, wasn't just sadness. It was a heavy fog that made everything — even breathing — feel harder than it should.

Nessie Sparkles, a shimmering Loch Ness Monster with iridescent emerald and violet scales and enormous golden eyes, presses her glistening snout gently against a cottage window, water droplets sliding down the stone wall. In the background, the misty loch stretches out behind Nessie, with fog drifting low over the dark water.

On the fourth week, something tapped against her window. Not a knock — more like a wet, rhythmic thud. Bolda ignored it. The thudding continued, patient and persistent, until curiosity — that old, familiar itch she hadn't felt in weeks — finally dragged her to the shutters. She cracked them open and gasped. A massive, glistening head hovered just outside, its iridescent scales shimmering in shades of emerald and violet like sunlight filtering through deep water. Two enormous golden eyes blinked at her with unmistakable concern. "Nessie Sparkles," Bolda breathed. The loch creature let out a low, musical hum — part greeting, part question — and nudged the windowsill gently with her snout. Bolda and Nessie had been secret friends for two years, ever since Bolda's grandmother had first introduced them during a midnight sail. "Not today, Nessie," Bolda murmured, and closed the shutters again.

A small, flat gray stone with a carved symbol of a lantern flame, resting on a pebbly beach, still wet from the loch water. In the background, gentle waves lap at a misty shoreline with jagged cliffs rising beyond.

But Nessie Sparkles was not the kind of creature who gave up easily. She came back every morning, tapping on the window with her long, graceful neck, humming her strange loch-song until Bolda finally — on the fifth day — opened the door and stepped outside. The highland air hit her face like a splash of cold water, sharp and bracing and unexpectedly good. Nessie cooed and splashed her tail, sending a spray of mist across the shore. "You're ridiculous," Bolda muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched — the closest thing to a smile she'd managed in a month. Nessie nudged something toward her across the pebbly beach: a small, flat stone with a symbol carved into it. Bolda's breath caught. She recognized the carving immediately. It was the mark of the Ancestor's Lantern — the ancient stone memorial on the fog-covered island at the center of the loch. Her grandmother had always promised they would sail there together someday.

Nessie Sparkles, the shimmering Loch Ness Monster with iridescent emerald and violet scales, lowers her great head close to the ground, one glistening tear visible on her cheek, her enormous golden eyes filled with sorrow. In the background, the pebbly loch shore meets still, dark water under a pale gray sky.

"No," Bolda said firmly, stepping back. "We were supposed to go together. Grandmother and me. That was our voyage, Nessie. I can't — I can't do it without her." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she pressed her fist against her chest where the hollow ache lived. Nessie Sparkles lowered her great shimmering head until her golden eyes were level with Bolda's. The creature let out a sound Bolda had never heard before — soft and mournful, like a lullaby sung underwater. It dawned on Bolda, slowly, that Nessie was grieving too. Her grandmother had been Nessie's friend long before Bolda was even born. They had explored the loch together for decades. "You miss her," Bolda whispered. Nessie blinked, and a single, glistening tear rolled down her iridescent scales. In that moment, something shifted inside Bolda — not the grief lifting, exactly, but the loneliness loosening its grip, just a little, because someone else understood.

Bolda the Bright, a young Viking girl with fiery red braids, a fur-lined green tunic, and worn leather boots, grips the wooden tiller of a weathered Viking longboat with a carved dragon prow, pushing off from a pebbly shore. In the background, the misty Scottish highland loch opens wide, with jagged cliffs flanking either side and the fog-covered island barely visible in the distance.

The next morning, for the first time in weeks, Bolda pulled on her fur-lined green tunic, laced her worn leather boots, and walked down to the shore where her grandmother's weathered Viking longboat sat beached on the pebbles. Its carved dragon prow was streaked with salt and age, but the hull was still strong — her grandmother had built things to last. Bolda ran her hand along the rail and felt a lump rise in her throat. "One voyage," she told Nessie Sparkles, who was already bobbing in the shallows, her iridescent scales catching the pale morning light. "We go to the Ancestor's Lantern, and then we come home. That's it." Nessie hummed in agreement and dove beneath the surface, reappearing a moment later with the longboat's anchor rope gently clamped in her jaws, ready to guide them through the deep water. Bolda gripped the tiller, took a shaky breath, and pushed off from shore.

Bolda the Bright, a young Viking girl with fiery red braids and a fur-lined green tunic, stands at the tiller of the weathered Viking longboat with a carved dragon prow, scanning the darkening sky with a determined but uneasy expression. In the background, ancient Viking ruins sit half-buried in emerald-green hillsides, and dark storm clouds gather above jagged cliffs.

For the first hour, the loch was calm — almost too calm, as if it were holding its breath. Bolda steered the longboat past the ancient Viking ruins that sat half-buried in the emerald-green hillsides, their crumbling stone walls covered in moss and wildflowers. Her grandmother had told her stories about those ruins — how their ancestors had sailed all the way from Norway, braving storms and sea monsters, to build a new home in these Scottish highlands. "They carried their courage with them," her grandmother always said. "And so can you." Bolda repeated the words under her breath as the fog thickened around her. Nessie Sparkles swam alongside the boat, her long neck cutting through the water like a periscope, occasionally surfacing to chirp reassuringly. But as they neared the center of the loch, the wind changed direction. Dark clouds gathered above the jagged cliffs like a bruise spreading across the sky. Bolda tightened her grip on the tiller. Something was coming.

The weathered Viking longboat with a carved dragon prow crashes through an enormous dark wave, rain lashing the deck, its sail straining against a howling wind. In the background, the loch is a chaos of storm-dark water and driving rain beneath nearly black clouds.

The storm hit like a fist. Rain hammered the deck, and waves surged over the sides of the longboat, drenching Bolda in seconds. The wind howled through the loch valley, spinning the boat sideways and snapping the sail taut with a crack like thunder. Bolda's hands slipped on the tiller, and for one terrible moment, she felt the longboat tip dangerously to starboard. "Nessie!" she screamed, but the loch monster had already dove deep to avoid being battered by the waves. Bolda was alone — alone on a raging loch in her dead grandmother's boat, and every instinct screamed at her to turn back. But then, through the roar of wind and water, she heard her grandmother's voice in her memory, steady as stone: "When the storm tries to steer you, plant your feet and steer yourself." Bolda gritted her teeth, shifted her weight to port, and hauled the tiller hard. The longboat groaned but obeyed, cutting through the next wave instead of being swallowed by it.

Nessie Sparkles, the shimmering Loch Ness Monster with iridescent emerald and violet scales and enormous golden eyes, bursts joyfully from the loch surface beside the weathered Viking longboat with a carved dragon prow. In the background, the fog-covered island emerges through thinning mist, its dark silhouette crowned with the shape of a crumbling stone structure.

For what felt like hours — though it was probably only minutes — Bolda fought the storm using every technique her grandmother had ever taught her. She read the waves the way her grandmother had shown her, anticipating which ones would crest and which would roll, adjusting the sail with quick, practiced hands. She remembered to keep the prow pointed into the wind, not away from it, because running from a storm only let it catch you from behind. And when a massive wave threatened to capsize her completely, she threw out the sea anchor — a trick her grandmother had called "giving the loch a handshake" — to slow the boat and keep it steady. Slowly, impossibly, the storm began to ease. The clouds thinned. The rain softened to a drizzle. And there, emerging from the mist like a dream, was the fog-covered island. Nessie Sparkles burst from the water beside her, chittering with relief, her iridescent emerald and violet scales glistening in the sudden, pale light.

Bolda the Bright, a young Viking girl with fiery red braids and a fur-lined green tunic, kneels before a crumbling stone memorial shaped like an old Viking lighthouse, placing a small, dented oil lantern into its open central chamber, golden light beginning to glow. In the background, the fog-covered island's mossy slopes stretch toward the misty loch, with Nessie Sparkles' long neck visible just offshore.

Bolda beached the longboat on the island's rocky shore and climbed the mossy path toward the Ancestor's Lantern. It was smaller than she had imagined — a crumbling stone memorial about the height of a grown man, shaped like an old Viking lighthouse with an open chamber at its center where a lantern could be placed. The stones were carved with hundreds of names and messages, layered over centuries, each one left by someone who had made the voyage to honor a person they had lost. Bolda's fingers trembled as she pulled out the small oil lantern she had packed — her grandmother's lantern, dented and well-used. She placed it inside the chamber, struck her flint, and watched the flame catch and grow. The warm, golden light filled the stone chamber and spilled outward, pushing back the fog like a gentle hand. And then Bolda noticed something carved into the inner wall, in handwriting she would recognize anywhere — her grandmother's sharp, slanting runes.

Sharp, slanting runic letters carved into weathered stone that read 'Carry the light forward,' illuminated by the warm golden glow of a small, dented oil lantern flame nearby. In the background, the interior of the crumbling stone memorial chamber is visible, its walls covered with hundreds of carved names and messages layered over centuries.

"Carry the light forward." Bolda read the words aloud, and her voice broke. Her grandmother had been here before — perhaps years ago, perhaps to honor someone she herself had lost — and she had left this message carved into the ancient stone, waiting for the day Bolda would find it. Tears streamed down Bolda's face, but for the first time in weeks, they didn't feel like drowning. They felt like rain after a long drought — necessary and cleansing. She pressed her palm flat against her grandmother's carved words and closed her eyes. She thought about what she'd learned on the voyage: that grief doesn't come with a map, and there's no single right way to navigate it. Sometimes you need to let yourself feel the storm instead of pretending it isn't there. Sometimes you need a friend — even a shimmering, scaly one — to sit with you in the sadness and remind you that you don't have to carry it alone. And sometimes, moving forward doesn't mean leaving someone behind. It means taking everything they gave you and letting it light your way.

Bolda the Bright, a young Viking girl with fiery red braids and a fur-lined green tunic, stands at the prow of the weathered Viking longboat with a carved dragon prow, her face lifted toward golden sunlight breaking through clouds, a quiet, determined expression on her face. In the background, the Scottish highland loch glows in shades of amber and rose, with Nessie Sparkles leaping in a glittering arc in the distance.

Bolda sailed home as the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in days, painting the highland loch in shades of amber and rose. Nessie Sparkles swam beside the longboat, occasionally leaping from the water in great, glittering arcs that sent rainbows scattering across the waves. The hollow ache in Bolda's chest was still there — she suspected it might always be there, in some form — but it had changed. It wasn't empty anymore. It was filled with her grandmother's voice, her stories, her lessons, her laughter. It was filled with the carved words on the ancient stone: Carry the light forward. As the longboat's carved dragon prow scraped against the familiar pebbles of home, Bolda stepped ashore and looked out at the loch — really looked, for the first time in weeks. Tomorrow, she decided, she would chart the eastern coves her grandmother had always wanted to map. Not because the grief was gone, but because the love that caused it was worth carrying forward, one voyage at a time.

Bolda and the Sea of Stars

Browse More Stories

from the Fable Public Library