Oddo’s benchmate, a young man named Völund, had muscly arms tanned to the colour of acorns, and blond hair bleached almost white. His eyes, crinkled at the edges from squinting out to sea, were alert and watchful. Several times after Oddo had whispered to the wind, he found those eyes gazing at him quizzically.
All that day and night, Oddo drove Striker to the east. The next morning, there were heavy, grey clouds pressing down from a gloomy sky. The water was dark and choppy, and the wind biting. Oddo was glad of his heavy leather jerkin and the iron helmet, but soon his hands were numb with cold. He glanced sideways and saw Völund watching him intently, an amused expression on his face. Oddo hunched his shoulders and huffed on his fingers.
The waves rose higher and the longship heaved and fell in sickening lurches. There was a flash of lightning and a grumble of thunder.
‘Storm coming,’ warned the Captain. ‘Shorten sail!’
As everyone scrambled to their feet, Oddo snatched the opportunity to glance up, and whisper to the clouds. A moment later, the sky was clear, the wind eased, and the sun streamed down. The Captain stared about him, with a bewildered expression on his face. Oddo caught Thora’s eye and saw her clap a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles.
That evening, Völund nudged Oddo and pointed to a spot on the horizon. Oddo could see strange columns of cloud stretching from sea to sky.
‘That’ll be the Isles of Faer,’ said Völund. ‘You watch.’
Sure enough, in the morning Oddo was woken by the screeches of thousands of seabirds, and behind the mist of cloud he could make out the black, craggy cliffs of the Isles. He shivered, remembering his last visit here, trapped in a bird shape.
‘Land ahoy!’ squealed the lookout.
Heads bobbed up between the benches as the men wriggled out of their fur sleeping bags. The carved eagle on the prow seemed to swoop towards the rocks.
‘All right, wind, ease off,’ hissed Oddo.
Sailors tumbled onto rowing benches, oars in hand, and strove to bring the longship safe to shore.
Oddo glowered at the high, pounding surf. ‘Wish I could tell you to go away.’
To his astonishment, a huge roller stopped in midair, and slid backwards. Striker’s hectic reeling changed into a gentle glide. Oddo stared, and everyone on board fell into a stunned silence. The only sound was the splish splash of oars, and then the keel grated against the beach. Nobody moved. They sat, gawping at a sea that lay around them as still and unrippling as a puddle.
‘What happened?’ whispered the Captain.
Beside Oddo, Völund stirred and cleared his throat.
‘This boy,’ he said, and Oddo felt his belly twist and tighten like a knotted rope, ‘he talks to the wind . . . and the waves.’
Everyone on board turned to stare.
‘Is this true?’ demanded Snari.
Oddo’s eyes swept down the long rows of benches and found Thora. She shrugged. He lifted his gaze to the bewildered Captain.
‘I . . . Yes . . . I have magic powers,’ he croaked.
‘He conjured up the wind that brought us here!’ called Thora.
‘Well!’ The word was a gush of air, like the blowing of a whale. ‘Seems we’ve got ourselves a perfect crew!’
On shore, everyone set to work filling water kegs and lighting a fire. But when they gathered to watch the huge cauldron bubbling over the flames, Oddo found himself peppered with questions.
‘What other magic can you do?’ one sailor demanded.
‘Can you tell my fortune?’
‘Can you carve my shield with runes that bring long life?’
‘I always thought you looked a bit peculiar’, commented a loud voice.
‘Me?!’ Oddo glanced at Thora with her jagged haircut, Father Connlae with his fake beard, and Dúngal with his red hair and freckles. ‘If you only knew!’ he thought.
Then the food was ready, and everyone turned their attention to the steaming bowls of oatmeal.
Oddo and his companions slipped away to a grassy slope out of sight of the crowd. They were relieved to escape for a short time from the worry of pretence. Oddo lay back, luxuriating in the feel of warm sun on aching muscles. He brushed the hair from his eyes.
‘That’s what Arni does,’ said Thora.
‘What?’
‘Pushes his hair up like that.’
‘Well, he’s always got a long fringe.’
‘Yes, but . . . you look so much like him.’
‘Well, I thought you looked like my mother the other day.’
‘You did?’ Thora sat up. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, you’ve both got round faces or something.’
‘Isn’t it strange,’ said Thora,‘all my family are long and thin like you, and I’ve got chubby cheeks like Sigrid.’
‘It’s as if you’re in the wrong families,’ chuckled Dúngal.
Oddo and Thora didn’t laugh. They stared at each other.
‘We were born on the same night,’ said Thora in a small voice.
‘You don’t think . . . Gyda the Midwife mixed us up?’
‘It would explain why you can do magic and I can’t!’
‘It couldn’t happen . . . Two babies in different houses . . .’
‘I know, but . . . I’m going to ask Gyda when we see her!’
It seemed to Oddo as if his life and Thora’s had smashed together, and shattered like two clay pots. And now the fragments were whirling around in his head. He kept seeing his own face, and Thora’s. He heard his mother’s words, ‘Just like a daughter,’ and his father, in a temper, ‘I can’t believe I fathered such a weakling.’ And from the dazed look in Thora’s eyes, he could see that she felt the same.
When it was time to board again, the men were buzzing with excitement. Their voices had a lighthearted ring and they all clapped him on the back as they passed. Even Captain Snari was chortling and rubbing his hands.
‘We’ll row clear of the islands,’ he said, ‘then, Oddo, you can conjure the wind up for us, and we’ll hoist sail.’ Oddo snapped back to the present. He glanced up at the sails. ‘We want to go south now, don’t we?’ he asked. He frowned at the sky. The midday sun gave him little clue which direction was which. He bent towards Hairydog, whose nose was poking out beneath the rowing bench. ‘Hey,’ he whispered, ‘come out and have a scratch.’
The dog wriggled out and began to scratch vigorously with her hind leg. Oddo squatted next to her and peered at the tiny fleas that dropped from her back and hopped around the deck. From the corner of his eye, he saw Völund watching in bewilderment.
Oddo took his seat again.
‘What were you doing?’ asked Völund.
Oddo grinned. ‘Just looking which way to go.’ He pointed south, and called the wind.
‘But . . .? How?’ Völund stared at the deck, then up to the sky.
‘Raise oars!’ bellowed the Captain.
As the oars clattered around them, Oddo relented. ‘It’s the fleas,’ he explained. ‘They show me where to go. They always hop north!’
The wind picked up, and they headed for Ireland. But as they sailed on their way, Oddo was still wondering about the night he was born.
