‘Can’t you light a new fire?’ Dúngal propped up the cauldron and looked at it hopefully.
Thora stared at him, then threw herself at the sodden mess in the pit of the boat.
‘Help me find the fire-lighting tools.’ But there was no sign of them. She sank back, sagging in despair.
‘Uch, they must have gone overboard,’ said Dúngal in a small voice.
‘In this tarn of a boat, there’s nothing to use for tinder anyway.’ Thora slapped a dripping fur blanket, then spluttered in disgust as water sprayed in her face. ‘Everything’s drenched.’
‘I think the dippers have gone too,’ said Dúngal glumly. ‘But don’t worry. I can bail with my hands. I have big hands.’
He began to scoop, but most of the water trickled from his fingers before he could pour it over the side of the boat. Resignedly, Thora began to help. By the end of the day, both of them had strips of skin peeling off white, swollen palms, but the motion of the boat was a bit less sluggish.
‘See?’ said Dúngal. ‘We’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’ll look after you. You want . . . uisce? Water?’
He picked up the goatskin bag and held it out. Thora took a sip.
‘Yuck! Seawater’s got in here too.’ Suddenly, her tongue felt as dry as a salt herring. ‘How are we going to manage without water? It might be days before we land anywhere and get more.’
She looked at Dúngal. He was hunched and crestfallen.
‘It’s my fault, isn’t it?’ he said.
Thora let out a sigh and rested her head against his shoulder. They were both silent, staring at the endless waves. Thora longed for nightfall. Longed for the excuse to lie down, close her eyes and forget. But in this strange, lost world the sun sank so slowly in the sky, it seemed that night would never come.
When Thora woke, Dúngal was poking at the mess in the bottom of the boat.
‘Uch, there’s nothing to eat,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t be silly, there must be!’
But Dúngal was right. The dried meat, carrots and cheese had been washed overboard, and all that was left of the bread was a few soggy crumbs tangled in the fur of the blankets.
‘I’m starving!’ moaned Thora.
At that moment, there was a whistling, flapping noise over her head. She looked up, startled, and just had time to duck out of the way before a fish hurtled out of the sky and landed splat in the curach.
‘Oddo!’ whispered Thora.
Dúngal looked at the fat mackerel, its blue-green scales glistening in the sunlight as it flopped around the boat.
‘I thought you said he changed into a bird.’
‘No, no! I mean Oddo caught that fish for us. Oddo’s a bird. And he’s brought us some food. He must be flying near us, listening and watching. And . . .’ She gulped, and gazed upwards. ‘He’s . . . looking after us. Oh Oddo, I’m sorry about your fire.’
‘Hey, thank you for the fish,’ called Dúngal. ‘I’ll cut it up, so we can eat it.’
He reached towards Oddo’s limp body, still sitting by the mast, and eased the dagger from his belt. Thora laid a portion of fish on the palm of her hand, held it in the air, and concentrated fiercely. ‘Oddo, you share it with us!’
A shiver of wind brushed her cheek, and the fish was gone. Thora looked at her empty palm. ‘Oh Oddo, I wish I could see you!’
She turned round and stared miserably at the empty shell of a boy who used to be Oddo. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered again.
He didn’t move or blink.
A gust of wind whipped up the waves and the boat lurched uncomfortably. Thora ducked as a spray of salty water blew in her face.
‘Get the sail up!’ cried Dúngal, leaping to his feet. ‘We’re going to find land.’
‘But . . . where?’ yelled Thora, tugging at the tangle of lines and cloth. ‘We don’t know which way to go.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Anywhere! Where the wind takes us! I’m going to find water. And food.’
The sodden, heavy sail flapped in their faces, and the ropes bit into their hands. But at last the sail rose and the little boat took off across the water.
‘Bet I’m the first to spot land,’ shouted Dúngal.
Thora tucked her painful, frozen fingers under her armpits and turned her gaze towards the sea. On and on they sailed, both of them scouring the grey ripples for any sign of land.
‘Ced sin?’ yelled Dúngal. ‘What is that?’ But it was only the hump of a whale.
Thora slumped back, and closed her eyes. All she could think about was her parched throat. Her lips were swollen and cracked. When she tried to lick them, there was no moisture on her tongue.
She lost track of time. Sometimes when she opened her eyes the world was dark, and sometimes it was bright with sunshine. Dúngal had stopped chattering and fidgeting, and the only sounds were the creaking of the boat, the thump of waves, and the moaning of the wind.
‘Thora, look!’
Thora’s eyes sprang open. The sky was the livid purple of a bruise. Clouds thick and grey as dirty fleece were streaming across it. And stacked along the rim of the sea were misty shapes that looked like mountains.
‘Is that land?’
Thora staggered to her feet, grasping the mast to steady herself. As she strained her eyes to see, the wind broke into a strange, high-pitched whine. The waves began to rush helter-skelter, piling on top of each other. The whine changed to a howling gale, and the waves reared higher and higher. Thora caught a glimpse of water rippling like an avalanche towards them. She felt the mast bending and straining, dragged by the force of a heavy, wet sail.
‘Dúngal! Help me get the sail down. The mast’s going to break!’
One of the ropes snapped and Thora gave a cry as it whipped across her face. Nursing her cheek, eyes smarting with tears, she watched Dúngal hack at the other lines holding the sail.
The purple cloak of the sky was ripped by a flash of lightning. A second later, thunder crashed around them. Thora could hardly think, hardly breathe. The wind battered against her, burning her face with cold. Crawling and sobbing, she gathered ropes in her hands.
‘Tie . . . to the mast,’ she gasped.
She began to wind a rope round Oddo’s limp body, and the shivering bundle that was Hairydog. Icy water poured over her head, and she felt Dúngal grab the other rope, drag her close, and bind them both to the mast.
The boat hurtled on. Through raw, throbbing eyes Thora saw a cliff loom in front of them. The next instant they were sucked into a turmoil of thundering surf, and the curach crashed and juddered against the black, gleaming rocks. The mast tore from its footing. The bindings ripped, and Thora, clutching Oddo, was flung into the air.
She had a glimpse of purple sky, of leaping green surf, then she was plunged into icy, churning water. She flailed her legs, trying to push upwards, but Oddo’s helpless body was dragging her down. The sea poured into her nose and throat, choking her, drowning her. Then, for an instant, her load seemed to lighten. She felt herself rising. There was a moment of relief, one gulp of air, and then a breaker, surging up, hurled her towards the black, jagged cliffs.
