‘Oddo, the milk’s going everywhere!’
Oddo started guiltily. Milk was foaming over the edges of the vat onto the earth floor of the dairy.
‘What on earth were you thinking?’ said his mother.
Oddo didn’t answer. When he’d tilted the bucket, it hadn’t been milk he saw pouring downwards, but the sea swamping a little boat. These days, everything he saw and heard reminded him of waves and storms and flapping sails. He was haunted by visions of a tiny curach tossing in a stormy sea, and an image of Thora clinging to its side and wailing to him, ‘Oddo, stop the storm!’
When he left the dairy, he saw the real Thora hurrying across the paddock.
‘Hey,’ he called, ‘I’m over here.’
To his annoyance, she didn’t stop.
‘Can’t talk now,’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘Taking this to Dúngal.’ She waggled a strand of fresh green nettle rope.
The boy on the other side of the fence straightened from his hoeing and waved. Oddo watched, fuming, as Thora joined him.
‘You’ve always got time to talk to Dúngal,’ he muttered.
He turned his back and stomped towards the river, but as he dipped his bucket in the water, he saw the little boat again. This time it was filling slowly with seawater and Thora, instead of wailing for him, was clinging to Dúngal. Angrily, he thrust the bucket deep. He let go and watched it sink down, the ripples closing over it. Then he grabbed the handle and hauled it out. He slammed it so hard on the bank, water sloshed all over his breeches.
‘Barley’s come up beautifully again,’ said Bolverk at supper. ‘You’re turning into a real farmer.’
Oddo knew those words should make him glow with pride, but he just stared down at his plate, prodding the crumbs with his finger.
‘Could the crop manage without rain for a couple of days?’ he asked. ‘If I . . . go away for a bit?’
‘Away? Where?’
‘I . . .’ Oddo frowned. He’d worked so hard to earn his father’s trust and respect. What would happen if he found out Oddo was planning to help a slave escape, and sail to Ireland in a boat made of twigs and bits of animal skin?
‘Thora asked me to go with her to Gyda’s,’ he mumbled. ‘Down the river.’
‘I haven’t seen Thora for weeks,’ said Sigrid. ‘She must be very busy.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Oddo.
‘Such a sweet girl. Remember that summer you were sick, Husband, and she helped me? Just like a daughter.’
‘Well,’ Bolverk brushed the crumbs from his beard, ‘you’d have to walk there. I need The Cormorant for fishing.’
‘But . . . would the seedlings be all right?’
‘Of course, of course. Just give them a good soaking before you leave.’
‘It’s a long way to Gyda’s,’ said Sigrid anxiously.
Bolverk slapped the table.
‘Have you forgotten, woman, that your son walked all the way home from the Gula Thing? He can manage an easy stroll to Gyda’s and back.’
Oddo gulped.
‘I wish it was just that,’ he thought.
The next day, he waylaid Thora as she struggled through the wood with a heavy bundle.
‘What’s that?’ He pointed at the heap of woollen cloth.
‘Nothing to interest you. It’s the sail for the curach.’ Thora stuck out her chin. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow.’
There was a silence. Oddo took a deep breath. ‘Well, what do you want me to bring?’
Thora stared. Then she dropped the bundle and flung her arms around him. Oddo felt as if a weight that had been pressing on him for days was suddenly lifted. He hugged her back, and breathed the smell of her sun-warmed hair against his cheek.
That night, Oddo was too excited to swallow his supper.
‘Remember to wake me before it’s light,’ he told his mother. ‘We want to start really early.’
‘Off to bed now, then,’ said Sigrid.
But when Oddo lay on the sleeping bench, he felt as if someone had poked a stick in his belly and was churning it round and round. In the glow of the dying fire, he gazed around the room; at the twig broom leaning in a corner, the pots neatly stacked on the shelves, the wisps of smoke curling from the snuffed oil lamps, the tall shape of his mother’s loom and the clay weights on the threads clinking softly.
‘If that boat sinks, I’ll never see these again,’ he thought.
When Sigrid shook his shoulder, it seemed as if he hadn’t slept at all. He watched her ladling out his porridge and tried to fix the picture in his mind: Bolverk, a dark, sleeping shape in the background, his snores reverberating through the room, and Sigrid, her round pink cheeks glowing in the firelight.
He sat at the table to eat, but he couldn’t stop shivering, and he had to force the porridge down his throat. When Sigrid pinned the cloak around his shoulders, he reached out to give her a clumsy hug. As he passed the bed, he touched his father’s hair gently with the tips of his fingers.
Outside, Hairydog bounded ahead, yapping with excitement. It was barely light when Oddo wriggled through the tunnel, but Dúngal and Thora were there already. As soon as he appeared, they leapt to their feet. Thora grabbed the oars.
‘Right, let’s go. Hurry!’
Oddo and Dúngal picked up the boat, and as Oddo felt the lightness of it in his hand, his heart plummeted. They could never cross an ocean in this.
They turned towards the tunnel.
‘Uh, how are we going to get it out?’ asked Oddo.
They all stared at the opening, too narrow even for this tiny boat to fit through. Oddo felt a wave of relief. ‘We won’t be able to go!’ he thought. But then he saw the disappointment on the others’ faces.
‘Make the hole bigger!’ cried Dúngal. He dropped his end of the boat and began tearing at the thorny brambles with his bare hands. ‘Help me!’
‘Wait, I’ll get an axe!’ said Oddo resignedly. ‘Hairydog, you dig the ground.’
Hairydog’s paws churned up the soil as Oddo raced for home.
Back again, the axe in his hand, he yelled at the others to stand back. He slashed at the dense, spiky wall of trees and bushes. Thorny twigs and leaves flew around him, scratching his face and catching in his hair.
‘Try now,’ he gasped.
He doubled over, trying to catch his breath, as the little curach slid through the gap. He saw Thora glance at the axe in his hand, then into his face. Why was she looking so worried? And then it hit him. Like a punch in the belly. Thora had warned him how to chop a tree. She’d told him to ask the tree’s forgiveness first, because of his magic powers. If he didn’t . . . Something awful would happen to him. He dropped the axe to the ground, and wiped his hands nervously on his tunic. But it was too late now.
With a feeling of doom, he hoisted up his end of the boat and followed Dúngal down to the river.
