‘Hurry!’ Dúngal urged. ‘It’s late. Grimmr will wake and see I’m gone. Uch!’ He stumbled over a tree root and the curach slipped from his grasp. He clutched his tunic in exasperation, then bent to lift the boat again. ‘Wait. Turn it over. Lift it over your head.’
‘How’m I supposed to see where I’m going?’ Oddo’s voice echoed inside the hollow body of the boat.
‘Look down.’
Dúngal watched his feet flash over the ground. In a moment, he glimpsed the water.
‘Stop, we’re there.’
As he lowered the boat, he heard shouts and running footsteps. Before he could dive for cover, two figures came crashing through the trees. They were boys, long and lanky like Oddo. The taller one raced in front, holding something above his head, while the younger tried to reach it, calling angrily. The sounds faded as they sped into the wood.
Dúngal sprang into action, flipping the curach the right way up.
‘Oddo, do you think they saw you?’ he hissed.
‘Me?’ Oddo looked bewildered.
‘They were your brothers, weren’t they?’
‘No. They were Thora’s brothers.’
‘Oh. They looked like you.’
‘Stop babbling,’ said Thora. ‘Who cares what they look like? Let’s get this boat in the water and get out of here.’ She turned and reached into the bush. ‘Here’s the sail,’ she called, her voice muffled. ‘Now, where’s the mast?’
She crawled backwards, dragging the heap of cloth. Oddo was still on one knee, staring into the wood. Dúngal found the end of the mast.
‘Oddo, aren’t you going to help?’ he snapped. He laid the mast along the bank, and bound the yard to the top of it. ‘Here, hold this up.’ Oddo staggered to his feet, the long ends of the yard sticking out either side of him.
‘I’ll tie on the sail,’ said Thora.
In a few minutes, they were ready to raise the mast. Thora knelt in the curach to guide the foot into position. Dúngal gripped the forestay and began to haul. His mouth was dry. If the mast didn’t fit in the wooden step . . .
‘It’s in!’ yelled Thora as it thudded into place. Dúngal gulped with relief.
But when the long pole was raised, the curach wobbled alarmingly. Oddo grabbed the side to stop it toppling over.
‘I told you this was hopeless,’ he yelled.
‘Just get it in the water!’ said Dúngal crossly.
But as he pushed it down the bank, he felt the sour taste of bile in his throat. Maybe Oddo was right. Maybe it wouldn’t float.
The curach slid into the river and Dúngal threw himself aboard. The tall mast tilted, the boat heeled, and water slopped over the side.
‘It’s going to sink!’
Frantically he rolled himself the other way, and as his weight shifted, the boat steadied. He lay on his back, the boat bobbing under him, and stared at the mast, quivering but vertical above his head. He could feel the slap of waves against the leather. Slowly, cautiously, he sat up.
Thora was leaping and cheering on the bank.
‘You did it! You’re floating!’ she squealed.
Grinning, Dúngal picked up an oar. He lowered it over the side of the boat and began to paddle in a circle.
‘A óen,’ he counted.
He paddled round again.
‘A dó.’
‘What are you doing?’ called Thora. ‘I thought you were in a hurry!’
‘Bringing the blessing of the sun,’ said Dúngal. ‘Three circles for luck. This is the last one . . . A trí!’ He completed the turn, and headed for the bank. ‘Watch where you step. Don’t tip it again.’
‘Careful, Hairydog,’ warned Oddo, pulling the eager dog back.
As they clambered in, the curach rocked violently. Oddo’s face paled and he sat down abruptly, clutching the sides.
When the cauldron, fur blankets and pots of food were stowed around their feet, Dúngal proudly unfurled the sail. It hung limp, and the boat bobbed in the current.
‘Okay, Oddo.’ Thora pointed downriver. ‘Make the wind blow!’
They all peered up anxiously; even Hairydog raised her muzzle and squinted at the sail. Dúngal felt a breeze ripple through his hair. The woollen cloth of the sail shivered, flapped once, then bellied outwards. The curach bucked and shot away.
‘Move to the other side!’ shouted Dúngal, grabbing the steering oar.
‘We’re sailing!’ yelled Thora, but Oddo held up a drenched sleeve.
‘We’re leaking!’ he bellowed. He jabbed with his finger. Water was trickling through the holes where the leather was stitched to the frame. ‘I said this would happen.’
Thora snatched up the wooden dipper and prepared to bail.
‘Don’t worry!’ said Dúngal. ‘When the leather gets wet, the holes’ll close up.’ But as they neared the river mouth and the open sea, he saw the high, thrashing surf. His hand clenched on the steering oar. Would his little boat stand up against those angry waves? As the first breaker pounded towards them, he seized Thora’s arm. ‘Hold tight!’
The mountain of water reared over their heads, white foam dripping from its crest. But the curach rose too, dancing and bobbing on the swell. The wave slid beneath her hull, then faded away, just a harmless ripple. The curach floated like a gull, rising and plunging with the sea.
Dúngal felt as if his whole body was melting with relief, and there were tears running down his cheeks.
Thora laughed in delight. ‘Oddo, didn’t I tell you Dúngal could build a real boat?’
With spray in their eyes, and salt on their lips, Thora and Dúngal hooted at the waves. Hairydog, teetering on her hind legs, barked at the seabirds wheeling overhead and the long-necked gannets, diving for fish. Graceful little terns jinked and squawked between the wave crests, chased by a greedy skua trying to snatch the catch from their bright red beaks.
On the yardarm, a tie worked free and whipped loudly in the wind.
‘I’d better fix it,’ said Dúngal.
‘Shall I lower the yard?’
‘No! Don’t slow the boat. I can reach.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Oddo. ‘You’re not tall enough. I’ll do it.’
‘I can fix it,’ said Dúngal. ‘You wouldn’t know what to do.’
He stacked the fur blankets, then rested the big iron cauldron upside-down on top of them for a step. When he climbed up, it wobbled. He had to grab the mast to steady himself before he could lift his arms to tighten the strap.
‘Careful!’ warned Thora.
He grinned and looked down.
‘Déccaid! Watch!’ Choosing the right moment, he leaned away from the mast, and balanced. ‘How’s that?’ he cried, stretching out his arms and rocking.
The sail slackened and gave a noisy flap. Dúngal glanced round in surprise.
‘Where’s the wind?’ he demanded.
‘You didn’t tell me which way to go,’ said Oddo. ‘I can’t read your mind.’
Dúngal glared at him.
‘First, to the Isles of Faer,’ he said.
‘West, then,’ said Thora.
There was a whoosh and the boat heeled over. Caught unawares, Dúngal swayed over the waves, his arms whirling. He heard Thora’s yelp of alarm, then he toppled backwards into the pit of the curach. As he fell, he saw the grin on Oddo’s face.
‘I told you to let me do it.’
Dúngal sat up, scowling, and rubbed his elbow. Now the curach was flying over the waves. He leaned against the side and squinted through the spray.
‘Where to after the Isles?’ said Thora.
‘South. I think.’
‘You think!’ Oddo’s squawk was like an angry seabird. ‘What do you mean you think?! You’ve got us hurtling around in this eggshell in the middle of the sea, and you don’t even know where we’re going?!’
‘You didn’t have to come. I could have found it by myself.’
At that moment, water sloshed over the side of the boat. Oddo seized the dipper and began to bail furiously.
‘I said you were a lemming. Only a lemming would be stupid enough to drop into the sea and drown itself on purpose.’
‘Upp! Stupid yourself,’ Dúngal retorted. ‘What about your spells? If you’re so clever, why don’t you use your magic to find the way?’
Dúngal thought Oddo was going to hurl the dipperful of water in his face.
‘Dúngal, don’t be silly,’ said Thora.
‘Me silly?’
‘Magic can’t do everything. Oddo can’t . . .’
‘Oh, can’t I?’ demanded Oddo. ‘I can do a better job than that fluffhead.’ He flung the dipper into the bottom of the boat. ‘I’ll do a shape-change and go look for his stupid Ériu.’
‘But . . .’ Thora was looking flustered. ‘Did you bring a wand? What about the magic circle?’
‘I can manage without one.’
‘But Oddo, it won’t be safe . . .’
‘Pig’s poop. You fuss too much. I did it once before and it was fine.’ He ripped open his pouch and pulled out the fire-lighting tools. ‘I can do it with a real fire . . . I just need something to burn.’ He pounced on a length of nettle rope and began to saw it with his dagger. ‘This’ll do.’
‘That’s our spare rope,’ protested Dúngal. ‘What if the other ones break?’ He eyed the lines flexing and twanging with the billowing sail.
‘They won’t break.’ Oddo was gritting his teeth as he hacked at the rope. ‘Thora made them. They’re tough.’ He grabbed the cauldron. ‘I’ll light the fire in here.’
‘No!’ Thora took hold of the other side and tugged.
‘What’s happening?’ demanded Dúngal. ‘What’s a . . . shape-change?’
‘Oddo rides in an animal shape while his real body stays behind. But . . . he’s supposed to be protected by a magic circle. I wish you hadn’t called him stupid. Oddo, you mustn’t!’
She tried to drag the cauldron away, but Oddo hung over its edge, striking the steel against the flint. Yellow sparks flew through the air, and a tiny flame flickered among the dry strands of rope. Oddo dropped his fire tools, snatched the cauldron back, and blew on the fire.
‘Now, make sure you keep this going,’ he puffed, ‘or I won’t be able to get back from my shape-change!’
‘But . . .’
‘The wind’ll keep west for a couple of days. Just head for the Isles of Faer. I’ll meet you there.’
‘But . . .’ Thora was getting more and more agitated.
‘Sshh!’ He hunched into a ball, hugging his knees. ‘I’m going to ride as a seabird,’ he whispered. ‘One of those red-beaked terns.’
‘But . . .’
Dúngal watched with interest as a glazed look came into Oddo’s eyes.
