The horse whinnied softly, and Dúngal opened one eye. Over the low barn door he could see the first hint of dawn. He lay another minute, snuggled in the straw. Then he groaned, and clambered to his feet.
Outside, the cold air stung his eyes, and his numb feet stumbled on the freezing cobbles of the yard. He pushed aside the door hangings and slipped into the house. As usual, Grimmr lay on his back, snoring. Dúngal remembered the first time he’d seen this fat pig. Grimmr had been glaring round the slave market with his bulging eyes, searching for the smallest and cheapest thrall. Dúngal lifted his hand and rubbed under his chin. He would never free himself of the memory of the iron fetter round his neck, the way it had jerked up and hit him on the chin whenever the taller slaves beside him had moved.
The warmth of the room was making his nose run. He sniffed as he crouched by the firepit in the middle of the room and blew on the embers. He picked up more kindling to feed the fire, and cursed as a thorn stabbed his finger. He broke off the spike, then a slow smile stole over his face. Creeping across the room, he dropped the thorn into Grimmr’s shoe. Just at that moment, the man snorted and stretched. Dúngal scuttled back to the hearth.
‘Wood nearly gone. Cut more?’ Dúngal nodded at the woodpile and waited tensely for Grimmr’s answer. Fetching firewood would give him an excuse to go to the woods with the axe. He could cut the branches he needed for his boat.
‘Why are we always running out of wood?’ Grimmr grumbled. ‘You must be wasting it, you lazy slug.’ Dúngal held his breath. ‘But, yes, go and cut some more – after you’ve made my breakfast.’
He swung his legs out of bed and Dúngal watched eagerly as he pulled on his shoes and stood up.
‘Auuggh!’
Hopping wildly, Grimmr kicked off the offending shoe and hobbled to the table.
Dúngal struggled to keep a solemn face as he served his master steaming porridge. But his glee vanished the moment he tasted his own breakfast. The lump of stale bread was made from spiky husks of barley, and it was so dry it stuck in his throat. As he leaned over the fire to cook fresh cakes for Grimmr, the delicious smell of frying butter made his belly snarl with longing. He slammed the hot griddle on the table, and turned for the door. The water bucket stood in front of him. Furtively, he gave it a shove, sending it toppling towards the fire. Water spilt over the flames, and smoke poured upwards.
‘You clumsy fool!’ Grimmr stumbled away from the table, coughing and flapping his arms.
Grinning, Dúngal tugged the axe from its hook.
‘I fetch more wood,’ he said.
Grimmr’s shoe was lying on the floor where he’d kicked it. Hidden by the cloud of smoke, Dúngal thrust it out of sight behind a wooden chest.
‘Try to find that, you big bully,’ he muttered. Then he scurried out of the room.
For the next few months, whenever he could, Dúngal found an excuse to go to the wood. He hunted, or picked wild berries, or chopped wood, then slipped into his secret place to work on his boat.
Sometimes the girl Thora would visit him while he worked. He would hear a scuffling in the tunnel, and look up, his hand reaching for the axe. Then her smiling face would pop up from the hole, rosy cheeks grimy with soil, her hair tousled.
She brought him strange food to eat: tiny birds’ eggs boiled in their shells, leaves she picked in the wood, even smelly seaweed.
‘At home, that’s what I spread on the fields, for fertiliser,’ he thought, but he managed to swallow it.
Thora cut the rawhide strips that would hold his curach together, while he whittled and shaped ash branches for the frame. At last it was time to fit the first small hoop into place. Thora handed him a rawhide strip and he bound it tight. He grinned proudly and picked up the next hoop, but when he tried to tie it down, it sprang out of his hands. Again and again he grabbed it, but it wriggled as if it was live. Tears of frustration pricked his eyes. He was about to give up and hurl the piece of wood across the clearing when he saw Thora’s eyes, bright with anticipation. Cursing, he wrestled it into place, and wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve. Then he picked up the next hoop.
Slowly, the skeleton of the boat began to take shape.
Thora chatted while they worked, only stopping when there were footsteps or voices beyond the brambles. Then they would both freeze, waiting till the sounds faded. Once they heard a girl with a strident voice telling someone else what to do.
‘That’s Astrid,’ whispered Thora. ‘My bossy older sister.’
‘Have you got sisters?’ she asked later.
‘Dias . . . two. Little ones,’ mumbled Dúngal.
He was embarrassed to speak, fumbling to find the right words in this strange tongue. But Thora kept asking him questions.
‘Tell me about your family,’ she said.
Gradually, as the weeks passed, Dúngal found the Viking words flowing more easily to his lips.
‘What do your sisters wear?’ asked Thora. ‘Do they weave their own clothes, like this?’
‘Weave, yes, but not like this.’ He pinched the rough woollen cloth. ‘Not from wool. They use leaves – special, long leaves.’
‘I can make rope out of leaves,’ said Thora. ‘Nettle leaves! Hey, will you need ropes for your boat? Are you going to have a sail? I could make them for you.’
One day, Dúngal picked up three rawhide strips, plaited flowers into them and wound them round Thora’s long, honey-coloured hair.
‘Pretty,’ he said. ‘Like my . . . sethir. My sisters. Also, they wear . . .’ He pointed to the brooches on her apron dress. ‘Like this, in their ears.’
‘Pins? In their ears?!’ squealed Thora.
‘Not pins, gold.’
‘My brooches aren’t gold,’ said Thora. ‘I think they’re bronze. Do your sisters wear brooches? And necklaces, and bangles?’
‘Yes. Much gold in Ériu.’
‘What are your sisters’ names?’
‘Aífe and Eithne.’
Dúngal picked up a stick and scraped their names in the damp earth near the pit.
When he looked up again, Thora was gaping at him.
‘You can do runes,’ she breathed. ‘You’re magic!’
‘Magic?’ He looked down at the writing. ‘No. These are just words, my sisters’ names.’
‘You can . . . draw . . . people’s names?’
‘Of course. Can’t you?’
Thora shook her head. ‘Does everyone in Ireland draw names? Where do you learn?’
‘From the priests. They are very clever. They can draw many, many words, not just names. I go to the priest. Other boys go. And we learn to draw words.’
‘Can you do my name?’
Dúngal thought for a moment, then scraped her name into the soil.
‘And that says Thora?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you don’t have magic in Ériu?’
‘Of course we do. We have the Sídaigi . . . magic people. They are tiny, but very . . . powerful. On the nights of the big fires, when the farmers plant or harvest – that is when we see them. We must give them food and drink to make them happy. If not, they do bad things.’
‘Just like here!’ said Thora.
‘You have Sídaigi too?’
‘We call them Little Folk. And when it’s a festival, we give them presents to make them happy, like you do. Tell more about Ériu. What’s your house like?’
So Dúngal described the ringfort where his family and all his kinsfolk lived, and the big, open-air cooking fire where they gathered in the evenings to eat, and tell stories, and listen to Grandfather sing.
‘When I go back and sit at the fire again, Grandfather will make a song about my adventures.’
He told about the summer meadows outside the walls, where bees droned and sheep stood knee-deep in buttercups. He described the brook where the mustard-flavoured watercress grew. And, best of all, he described the round house with its high, pointy roof, so different from the squat, turf-covered houses of Norway. As he spoke, he pictured his father stooping to come through the low door, laughing at Aífe and Eithne romping round the floor with a litter of kittens. He could see his mother lighting the beeswax candles, filling the room with their sweet scent.
‘Máthair,’ he whispered.
And then he thought of the smelly, smoky oil lamps in Grimmr’s house, his lonely nights sleeping in the barn with the animals . . .
He jumped as Thora’s voice broke in and she thrust the axe into his hand. ‘Don’t mope. You’re making this fine curach. You’ll get back to your family. I know you will.’
