I spend the next couple of hours down at the shoreline, using the wind from my beloved sea to cool off my anger and blow away my worry as I reset some of my fishing lines. Hekla’s ongoing disrespect is difficult to swallow, but hers is just one voice in an entire clan of people terrified to lose the moonstone.

I used to think that all a person needed was power, and then everyone would respect and care for them and treat them as they deserved to be. But I have learned through watching Sýr that having power can turn you into a slave of sorts if that power serves the needs of many. Our clan is lucky that Sýr isn’t selfish, for she could use the moonstone to satisfy her own worldly desires. Instead she uses it to cure foot rot while her own feet go untended.

Despite my protests, we never require payments or trades to cast runes, as that is against the runecaster code. Instead we rely on our patrons to offer us things in exchange for our services. In older times, a caster would be a guest of honor and treated to fresh milk, organ meats, and a place at the head of the table. She would be bestowed with fine woven wool and gloves and hats. Those customs of the past are from a more prosperous time. Many of our clients are poor, though they are grateful for our services. They’ll bring us a heel of bread, dried fish, a pinch of herbs, a bit of wool, whatever they have.

We don’t often go hungry, for Sýr is talented at stretching what we have with her spells and the moonstone when needed, and I am decent at fishing and setting traps for small game. Our family is resourceful. Sýr eschews weapons in favor of her runes. I use my lines and traps. My amma uses her wits, and my father is fond of the axe.

No one I know uses a bow and arrow, as they are the domain of the wealthy and the elves, and my eye problems make it difficult to use the sling. My aim is terrible. Instead, like Amma, I use my smarts to trap things, setting deadfalls and snares for rabbits, creating basket traps for eel and crab, and pulling in nets of smallfish. So much of survival is preparation and patience.

I walk to the edge of the water and watch as it advances and then rolls away, over and over. Lately, I’ve been dreaming of deep water and of something circling me. Every time I have the dream it gets closer. I wonder how long I have left before it strikes.

There’s something else about the dream. I keep seeing a face in the water. A face much like my own except older and sadder. She appears for a moment and then disappears into the depths so fast I’m not sure what I saw. It’s as if my heart knows her. She isn’t me, not the me I used to be, but she’s someone important. My mother? I wish I had the courage to grab hold of her in the dream and follow her down into the cold, black water, but I’m afraid of what I’ll find. I’m afraid I’ll never wake.

My lungs fill with the salty air as a gust of wind blows over the bluff and hits me full force in the face. For a moment it feels as though I am deep underwater. I shake my head, willing the dreamy feeling away. I don’t want to have an episode of my sickness right now.

Images of Sýr flash in my mind, and I keep seeing her face as if it is underwater. I’m dizzy, and I feel a hard lump form in my throat.

“No,” I say aloud. “Don’t do this here. Not now.” I clench my hands until my fingernails dig into my palms. Sometimes the best way to stop the sickness is to hurt myself. I live inside the pain and focus on it until the sickness goes away.

When I feel calm again, I continue along the shoreline, passing by piles of broken clamshells and buzzing insects and stacks of kelp. A seabird circles overhead and cries out. I look into the reddening sky and squint at its brightness. The sky feels like a great, open mouth, widening to swallow us all.

“Hey!” a voice calls out.

The sudden noise shocks me enough that I can get out of my head for a second, and I look down the beach. Two girls are walking toward me. They are my age, and that’s where the similarities stop. They are both tall, with golden blond hair and bright eyes that do not wiggle around in their heads like mine. They’re smiling and waving at me, and for a second I wonder if there’s someone standing behind me. I look over my shoulder, but there’s no one there. I raise my hand, but I don’t wave. They walk toward me, chattering to each other. Their apparent happiness makes me suspicious.

“Hallo,” they both chirp in unison. They look at me as if expecting something. From afar they look like twins, but up close they have different features. One has a sharp nose and brown eyes. The other has an upturned nose and green eyes. Haraldr the Elder’s daughters, Gerd and Siv. Haraldr is one of our clan’s oldest people, and he fathered his children late in life. Some say that is why his daughters have an odd countenance.

“Um, hi,” I say. In my drab clothing, I feel like a dark cloud that has invaded their sunshine.

Their eyes dart up and down my frame, taking in my garments, my hair, my eyes.

“You’re Runa,” says Gerd, in her absent way.

“Yes,” I say. I don’t remind her that we’ve spoken several times in the village. She would not remember, as it seems her thoughts fly away as soon as she has them. Amma would describe a person like this as having the spirit of a bird. I think that might not be so bad.

“We’ve heard your sister will travel to moonwater tonight,” says Siv. “It’s so exciting. Don’t you wish you could go?”

“Tonight?” I say, as much to myself as to them.

“Yes,” says Gerd. “The Jötnar have visited our father this day. Look, they are here in the village now.”

I follow her gaze up the shore to see two large men, both of them with the square faces and immense stature of their legendary ancestors, standing guard outside a dwelling. Moments later a young man emerges. He is much taller and slighter than the guards, and he carries himself with an uneasy energy, as if he’s expecting something to jump out at him. I wonder why he seems so nervous.

“Who is that?” I ask.

“That is Einar Ymirsson. He is the son of Ymir, the chief of the Jötnar,” says Siv.

“Why is he here?” I ask, hoping these girls have paid close enough attention within their own dwelling to have useful knowledge beyond commonplace gossip.

“I don’t know,” says Gerd. “But I hope it’s a marriage proposition.” They both giggle.

I can’t bring myself to join in their enthusiasm. I never want to be married.

I cast a glance to Frigg’s stand but don’t see my sister or Frigg. Where did they go? I hope Frigg stole Sýr away for a break.

Siv continues to admire Einar from afar. “He is gorgeous, isn’t he?” she asks.

“Oh yes,” says Gerd. “But can he be trusted?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” I ask, confused. “Because he’s Jötnar?”

“No,” Gerd replies. “Because he’s half elf.”

I shrug. “Everyone has a little bit of elf blood in them. I do. I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

They laugh. “No, not everyone has elf blood, Runa,” says Siv.

“And certainly not half,” her sister adds.

“Well,” I say, “I have never met an elf, so I wouldn’t know.”

Done with me, the girls both smile and then turn to scamper back up the beach, giggling the whole way. I know these are nice girls, but they are different from me, and a dark part of my mind suspects they are plotting to humiliate me. I try to push these thoughts away, but they are second nature. I’ve never understood how to make friends.

I feel the dreamy darkness start to take hold of my mind again. I walk to the water’s edge and again watch the waves break and pull back, over and over.

An image flashes in my mind. Sýr. Her face underwater again. I feel as though I am somewhere deep within the ocean. The water is cold and dark, and the current swirls, tossing my body like a limp strand of sea kelp. Then I feel the water shift around me, like something large is circling. Terror floods through me, because I know this thing is death, and it’s toying with me, waiting to strike. I close my eyes and wait for it, but it never comes.

I open my eyes, waking from my dark dream, and find I am up to my waist in the water. I step back and stumble on some rocks, falling into the lapping waves. Shocked by the cold, I run from the water and up the beach, soaked through. I rip off my icy cloak and am wringing out the front of my dress when my amma appears, holding a blanket.

“My girl,” calls Amma, hurrying to take my arm. “Have you gone into a dream again?”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Hush. Come on,” she says, handing me the blanket. “You should be more careful at high tide. The undertow is strong here.”

I nod. “I know, Amma.”

“Besides,” she continues, “you never know what might be out in that water.”

I look at her and see a knowing expression on her face. It is kind but has a glint of amusement to it.

“Like what?” I ask, testing her.

“Oh,” she says, “all manner of creatures, and not just green sharks. Strange things. Dark water spirits.”

“Spirits?” I ask, thinking of the face I saw in the water.

“Yes,” she says. “Did you see something? During your sickness?”

Amma is looking at me so intently, it feels as if she’s staring into my soul. I want to give her an answer that will make sense, but I can’t find the words.

“I…” I pause. “I don’t know. My mind doesn’t work the right way, I guess.”

Amma nods. “I know, child,” she says. “I know.”

She reaches out her hand, and I take it. She turns and leads me back up the path.

“Come then, my ocean girl,” she says, pulling me toward her dwelling.

I smile and follow her through the village. My amma has a way of making me feel like I belong to someone, and she never makes me feel bad about having my sickness. Amma thinks it is a gift that has yet to reveal itself. She always tries to see the good in everything. I can’t bear to tell her that I don’t think there’s anything special about me. The truth is, I was born into a body that doesn’t work the way it should, and wishing it was different or pretending I’m special doesn’t help me. I have to learn to live with what I have.

We step inside Amma’s hut, and I breathe easier. Her house always feels like home to me. Perhaps it’s the scent of all her special herbs lined in neat rows. Or maybe it’s the translucent stones she strings from strips of leather and dangles from the roofbeams. They clink together in a gentle music that calms me. As my father’s mother, she benefits the most from the spoils of his adventures, collecting trinkets from faraway lands.

Amma’s most treasured possessions are her scrolls. She has many of them, all written by people who lived long ago and in languages none of us can decipher. Sometimes she lets me touch the pages and feel how soft and thin their papers have become. I love the idea that these scrolls, with the ancient spells and potions contained within, are both strong with wisdom and physically vulnerable. My favorite ones are maps of strange lands and drawings of the sea and its currents. Our people come to Amma when they seek answers to questions about the world and about the vast realms most of us never get to see. A large scroll that seems to contain a map of all the waters of the world sits in a special place on Amma’s hearth. One day I will ask to borrow that scroll and use it to sail the sea. As I daydream, I can almost feel the salt spray and wind on my face.

“You have such a sweet, brave hugr,” says Amma, “the soul of a traveler.” She loves to speak about these things, and can spend hours doing so.

She has arranged herself on a pile of furs, her short legs curled under her so that she becomes one with the soft folds around her. Amma always seems so in control, so calm, so unlike me, and I wonder what I inherited from her side of the family. These days I have begun defining others by how they are different from me. It seems the ways are limitless.

Amma notes my expression and my downcast eyes and makes a familiar clicking sound of disappointment at the back of her throat.

“My girl, I won’t allow any self-pity in my home,” she says, shaking her long silver hair. “Come,” she says and extends a tattooed arm toward me.

As usual, I am hypnotized by the mysteries of Amma’s skin and by the ink adorning it. Images of vines and roots and thorns and leaves curve and curl around her fingers, her wrists, her forearms and underneath her flowing robes. Her neck bears many fine thin lines, etched into it like the circles of a tree. She claims she has not had these lines applied but that they have appeared over time as she has aged.

I sit next to Amma on the hides and breathe in her earthy smell. I meet her eyes and feel like she is staring into my soul.

“My girl, you have questions,” says Amma.

I nod. “I have these dreams. During my sickness. Of my mother, I think. They seem more confusing than before.”

Amma purses her lips. “Of course,” she says. “So much is changing now. You remind me of your mother.” She speaks softly, as she always does when discussing this subject. “Your mother was also brave and sweet, and she was the most talented runecaster I’ve ever seen. I always wished for a power like that, but I am me, and my part in the great story of life is to be keeper of the dreams.” She holds up a small scroll. “So many wonders within.”

Amma leans forward and takes my hands. “Soon your sister will be leaving to find moonwater. But you needn’t be afraid. You are special, and you will find your own way.”

I sigh. As much as I would like to believe what Amma says, I cannot.

“You don’t believe me,” says Amma. “Well, that makes it hard to harness your own power, now doesn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“You mustn’t be sorry. You decide your fate,” she says. “And maybe a little gift will help.”

Amma turns around and then produces a small bundle. She hands it to me, and I don’t know what to say.

“Open it,” she says.

I unfold the soft fabric, and inside is a golden cloak clasp in the shape of the vegvisir, the magical rune compass our people use whenever we embark on a sea voyage. It helps you find your way.

“Oh, Amma,” I say. “It’s beautiful. But why? I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why not?” she says with a smile. “Maybe you can use it to find your way out on the sea.” She winks at me.

Amma is the only one I can confess my desires to. She knows I dream of sailing on the open ocean.

“Seafaring is on my side of the bloodline,” Amma says, the pride evident in her voice. “You get that from me.”

I smile back, happy to share this with her.

“You are more than just one thing, Runa,” she says. “More than a runecaster. More than your hair and your eyes. You are my granddaughter. Perhaps you will discover the next great land. And then take me with you!”

I laugh. She always knows just what to say. I suspect she has learned a lot from her many scrolls.

“Get rid of that old ugly pin and wear this new one,” Amma says. “Don’t save it for a special day. Perhaps today is the special day, já?”

“I will,” I say. “Thank you, Amma.”

“Now go change clothes before you freeze,” she says.

I stand and walk to the door.

“Runa,” says Amma. “Walk through the village with your head high. Show those other girls what they don’t have.” She smiles her wicked smile and waves me on.

Stepping out into the cold air, my wet clothing sticks to my body, and I feel eyes on me. I feel the wind in my hair, and then a sudden grip on my arm.

I spin around. It’s Sýr. “There you are,” I start, but she shushes me.

“I’m sorry, Runa. There’s no time,” she says. “I need you to go home as fast as possible and go into my cabinet and look for a blue pot with Bjarkan, the rune for secret etched on it.”

“Why?” I ask. “Can I change first? I’m freezing.”

“Why are you wet?” she asks, casting a furtive glance around her.

“What’s wrong, Sýr?” Her manner is making me uneasy. Something isn’t right.

“Nothing,” she says. “I need that jar. Please go now.”

“Okay, fine,” I say. “I’ll go.” I shake her hand off, annoyed to be an errand girl.

I make my way back up the path to our clifftop home, my leather sack of wooden runes jangling. I imagine the carved pieces tumbling over one another, speaking to each other and casting the spell that would grant me the gift of freedom. The power to go anywhere. Yes, that would be something.

Sýr gave me these practice runes. A long time ago, when she was younger than I am now, she cut them from the bark of a birch tree and carved them in moonlight. At night I put them to bed under my pillow, and each morning I wake them. When I become a runecaster—if I ever do—I will need to make my own runes.

This is in the tradition of the first rune mother, the goddess Iduna, who in her wisdom carved the first runes on the tongue of a young god who visited her magical apple garden.

Many mornings and many nights I’ve sat atop our cliff, looking over the coastline and imagining setting sail in my own longboat. I see myself standing on new ground, places where the mud is not a dark purple and steam does not rise from the earth. Places where I can hear the strange sounds of a new language. Places where I can be someone else.

When I reach our hut, I go to my room and find my other dress. This one is thinner and even uglier than my wet one, but at least it’s dry. I throw it on and then grab one of my father’s old, heavy cloaks out of a trunk.

Núna’s cry comes from outside the window, and I open it to greet her, but she isn’t there.

I search the sky and spot my raven circling overhead, calling out in shrill alarm. From the village a thick plume of black smoke billows, and when the wind changes direction it carries with it the scent of burning flesh and the screams of my people.