Lucius knew he was heading north because it was still Eqvos, the Horse Month, and the prevailing winds were from the south and southwest. After the storm, the fish rose near the surface and birds reappeared, scooping up meals that glinted silver in the sunlight. A flock of gulls followed the tiny craft.

A dead fish floated by, and he grabbed it. Tearing enough cloth from the hem of his shirt to make a rope, he trailed the fish behind the boat. When a bird went for the fish, he hit it over the head with an oar, fished the dead bird out of the waves, twisted off the head, tore out the feathers, and split the bird’s breast with his fingers, removing the entrails. He ate the flesh raw after rinsing it in seawater for the salt flavor.

He noticed that there were puffins. In summer, puffins do not stray far out to sea, keeping close to their nests. He reasoned that he must be near shore and kept his eye on the flocks overhead to determine the direction of land, somewhere to the east.

Suddenly, he was surrounded by thousands of birds; guillemots, razorbills, fulmars, gannets, puffins, and terns circled and screamed overhead. He was near some island or cliff, a nesting site. Strengthened by the flesh he had eaten, he paddled eastward with confidence, arrowing towards an unseen shore.

I feel I am on a mystical voyage to some island in the Otherworld, he thought. He had no idea where he was, but he knew that wherever he landed, he would be a stranger, a person without status, forced to use his wits to survive.

“Ah, well, ‘Every smith is entitled to coal, and every cauldron deserves a bone,’ as the old saying goes. Every skilled person deserves a fee for his work. I can read and write, and now I even have a little skill at ship building. I will find a way …”

He said these things out loud to reassure himself that they were true.

Then out of the sea mists a cliff appeared, looming over the waves. As if in answer to his small prayer, he saw people below the cliff. They were building a boat.