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I look back at Beorn, piling scallops up past the bucket brim. I open my cloak and ease my treasure into the pouch that hangs from my shoulder strap, attached by a brooch.

Then I gather the smaller pieces of amber scattered across the sand. There are many. A forest of submerged pine trees must have been washed loose by the violence of that storm. Some pieces are dark reddish brown, some straw yellow. Resin is a marvel that way. I set aside the darkest one for Alof, the lightest one for Búri. I'll let Ástríd choose the pieces she wants. The rest are for Beorn. For I know he'll build himself another boat. He has to travel, he has to tell stories. He can trade these amber pieces away.

All but one.

When Mother put Mel and me on the horse's back and told us to ride away from Downpatrick and not come back till after the Vikings had been killed, she gave Mel a pouch. Inside it was Mel's gold teething ring from when she was a baby. Mother said anyone would recognize it was worth lots of money, so anyone would know we were the children of royalty, and they'd take us in. Mel never showed it to anyone, though. Or not while I was still with her. She was saving it.

It's good to have something valuable. You never know when you'll need it.

I pat my pouch.

“What will you do with a boat that size?” Ástríd's voice is an accusation.

Beorn ushers her off to the side where Knud, the boat's owner, can't overhear them. “The same thing I did with my smaller boat.”

“You can't manage that big boat alone. It could hold six people!”

“Not six. It's built to be managed by three.”

“You're but one.”

“I'll hire help.”

“And pay them with what?”

“I won't need more than one. I'm not crossing the ocean. I'll simply skim along the coast. With one strong boy—who will be grateful for the opportunity to travel and learn a skill and earn his keep on the boat as we trade. I even have a boy in mind.”

Ástríd walks in a tight, angry circle with Alof on her hip. “Maybe this boy, whoever he is, would be willing to work in exchange for experience on a trading trip—but
never for just daily fishing off the coast right here in Ribe. And we can't afford to share your meager fishing catch with anyone. So tell me, are you going to give up fishing altogether? Will you make your living entirely by trading? Will you leave me for weeks on end while you go on those infernal trading trips?” Her voice gets higher pitched with every question.

“Of course not! I'll fish. Even more than I did before, because now I'll be able to go after bigger fish. I'll sell to everyone in town, not just our neighbors.” He looks around in desperation and his eyes light on me and Búri, who are watching tensely. “And I don't need to hire a boy for daily fishing, because I have Alfhild.”

I flinch.

“Alfhild?” Ástríd looks at me, her eyes wounded. “Did you agree to this?”

I shake my head. “It's the first I've heard of it.”

“But you'll do it, won't you, Alfhild?” Beorn's voice is raspy. “I'll teach you.”

I look at the boat. It's far smaller than the slave ship that stole me and Mel from Eire, but it's still big—bigger than the little boat Thornkild had. How on earth could two people control such a boat? Beorn has a lot of experience . . . but so do I, more than I wish, and my experience with boats makes my stomach churn.

“Farming is a good life,” says Ástríd, more softly now.

“I know,” says Beorn. “But it's not for me.” He touches my shoulder. “Alfhild?”

I turn to him. Beorn's face is rigid with need. He can't possibly stay on the farm all the time—he wouldn't survive. Where would I be without this man? I swallow down the sick that has risen in my throat. “All right.”

Ástríd turns her back on me, while Beorn barters with Knud. From now on, one third of his catch will be Knud's for as long as the man or his wife shall live. It's not a bad arrangement, since the couple is old and not long for this life anyway. But I know that Ástríd is holding in a little scream of worry. I can hear it in the pulse in her neck. And it's nothing compared to the wail I'm holding in. But she doesn't know that.

The very next day Beorn takes me out to the river. There's hardly any farmwork this time of year, after all, and I've never shown aptitude for weaving or other home skills. So why delay? Nothing Ástríd says can dissuade him. I don't even try.

I follow his broad back, praying that cold weather will come early this year.
Let it come now, in fact. Today. Allow me the winter to get used to this idea, please. Oh, please. I can face it in spring, not now. Let a storm come again. Please, something, anything.

But the water stays calm, the skies stay clear, the wind is what Beorn calls auspicious. And so we sail, down the river, out to the sea. There are oars for use in dead air, of course, and chests to sit on if we need to row. But this boat was built for sailing.

We start with lessons about wind. Wind can come from ahead, the side, behind—well, of course I knew that. So you have to wait for wind to come from the right direction in order to sail where you want to go. Either that, or use oars. Or, in a small boat, if you are strong and swift, you can learn tricks with moving the sail, but that risks capsizing the boat. All this means it is important to stay within sight of land, because wind can quickly change direction and confuse you. If the land gets suddenly cold, as when night approaches, wind will blow from the land. But when the land warms up, it draws the air to it, making a sea breeze. And if you didn't notice the shift, you're lost. It's all very tricky.

We have a sunboard, which measures the sun's height and lets us know whether we're going south or north—but that's only to use if we lose sight of land and, naturally, it can't help in fog. We have a sunstone, too. It's transparent and sparkles in the sun, and on foggy or cloudy days it shows the sun's direction, but only if there's at least a sliver of blue sky. It's best not to count on the sunboard or the sunstone. Sailors know safety nets shred.

So, basically, we are never to lose sight of land. That's the first rule. Once on the open sea, it's easy to get lost and not have any sense of where the closest land is. If all else fails, follow the birds. At this time of year, especially the pink-footed geese. Or seals. They have to rest on dry banks. But really, never let that happen. Never lose sight of land.

This rule is fine with me. I'd rather be on land anyway.

It isn't just seeing the land that matters, though—because if you lose track and don't notice for a while, when you look back at the land, you might be looking at something that isn't the land you set out from. It can happen, even to seasoned sailors. You can think because the land is to your right, you're heading north, when really, it's land across the sea, and you're turned around heading south. If the sun is out, that helps, but the sun is often hidden by clouds. So we have to memorize the landmarks. Islets. Little peninsulas. It's important to distinguish between small inlets and bigger bays and which have undersea reefs; between soft ochre beaches and white silky beaches, and know which one is south of the other even though there are tens of them. It's important to recognize the shape of hills, even low ones, and to know the areas where the red deer are most populous. At certain times of the day you can count on seeing them, and that can send you in the right
direction—or not. Sand dunes characterize one stretch, gravel beaches characterize another. And if we see tall cliffs, white with black stripes, we know we've gone too far, all the way back to the Limfjord. This, too, must be memorized, although if we stick to plans, I'll never see it—so my mind's eye has to paint it clearly enough to stand firm as reality. All of it—fact and mystery—must be committed to memory. Beorn is adamant that I do this.

I have a good memory. And my arms and legs are strong from farming. Between memory and strength, I take to boating as though born to it, which in a sense I suppose any child of Eire is, since it's easier to get from one town to another by water than by land. This country is the same. All the settlements of any size are on the coasts, and even isolated farms are always near rivers, so boats can arrive much faster than walking or going by horseback.

Reciting the rules in my head helps me to quell the initial abhorrence. And gaining skills with the sails actually makes me feel proud of myself. Who knows, maybe being able to handle a boat will help me rescue Mel. Now that I think of it that way, I can look forward to each thing I learn.

Soon I enjoy looking around as we glide through the water. We're just moving into winter, though the air is yet mild, and sunrise and sunset are filled with clutters
of skylarks, their forked tails well defined against the red to yellow to white backdrop of sun glow. I laugh. In just a couple of weeks, I've come to savor the spray of salt water on my cheeks. Something about this is so very right. I'm coming, Mel. I'm coming to get you as soon as I can.

I am sitting now in the calm of a bay created by a barrier island just a little out from a curved rocky shore thick with oak and beech. We were on our way home when we stopped here. A large beaver came out of the forest and swam across the salty water right in our path and disappeared on this island—which means there's a dam in there. Armed with his ax, Beorn went over the side of the boat in pursuit of what he claims is the darkest, moistest, tenderest meat on earth. So I am entirely alone—a rare experience.

I scan the bay simply out of habit, when I see the ship. It enters the bay on the north side of this island. And it has two sails. Norse ships have only one. The slave ship that stole Mel and me had two. It's going slowly, as though trawling.

Sweat beads across my brow and stings my eyes. Maybe they haven't seen me. Our sail is down, of course. I pull up the anchor. I can't paddle the boat around the south point of the island to the far side before they see me. So I hoist the sail. What else can I do?

They have seen me now, definitely. No one could fail to see a boat with its sail up at this distance. I gasp for breath; I feel smothered. I go south. But they are coming south. So I head out, away, into the sea. The wind is at my back. The boat flies over the waves, faster and faster as though it will take flight. The world blurs and I'm shaking, but it doesn't matter because nothing about me can affect the motion of this ship; it moves on its own now, as though at one with the changing shape of the water. We go, go, go, the ship and me.

When I finally dare to look behind, there is nothing but sea. Blue-green everywhere.

I loosen the sail so it luffs, then lower it. Within just a moment, the ship bobs on the sea like a dead body. My hands are numb. I look at them, at the indentation from the rope I held on to so tightly, but I can't feel them in the least. I sit in the middle of the bottom of the boat and hold my face in my hands.

But what am I doing? I jump to my feet. I've lost sight of land! There are no markers in the sea, nothing to give me a sense of direction. I no longer know which way the boat faces, which way is home.

The sun blazes distantly. And it's setting! It's like the single eye of Óðinn. The god traded his other eye for a drink from the well of wisdom. He knows almost everything, and
he's counseling me now. I hoist the sail, but the wind is small. So I reef it, folding up the bottom part and lashing it to make the right size for this weak wind. I turn so the sun is to my back, and I sail due east. It takes a long time to see land—or maybe it only seems so long because it's getting dark fast and I'm squinting. The wind blows against me now, at first just a little, but it's gaining strength. I turn south, even though I don't yet know which direction the island is, because I have to turn one way or the other.

There's a beach I recognize because the strand is so deep—even in high tide, the sand goes back enormously far before grasses start—so now I know the beaver island is to the north. I spin the boat and head north. It isn't far. Beorn stands at the island's tip and waves, the fool—as though I'm not heading straight for him. I stop and anchor while he swims out and tosses into the boat first three dead beavers, then his ax.

He climbs in, hand over hand on the rope, and wraps himself in a blanket. He swam to that island in the first place, so he's been wet all afternoon—and the temperature has dropped precipitously. He shivers. His teeth chatter. He doesn't speak a word.

I spin the boat again and sail us home. All these weeks my mind has been filled with the challenge of learning to sail. And, yes, the joy of being in control, and the hope
that this will help me find Mel. I hardly thought of anything else. It was as though I was someone much stronger, someone who could do anything, right now, today. Someone who didn't have a past that taught her better.

But that ship reminded me.

I could have been snatched. Again.

And Mel is still somewhere else. Maybe somewhere awful.

It's my job to find her. I must!

I'm yet only twelve; I can't do it now. But I will. I will find Mel. She is my sister, and I love her. I will bring us back to Eire. Once I'm older, stronger, able. Once the sight of a ship with two sails doesn't turn me into a quivering mass. I must find a way to prepare myself properly, so that I can succeed in rescuing her.

As we finally turn up the Ribe River, Beorn moves close and says, “Don't tell Ástríd.”

Does that mean he saw the boat? Does he guess why I fled? It's too dark to see the message in his eyes, if there is one there. “I won't.”

“You scared me, Alfhild.” He rests his hand heavy on my shoulder. “You were out of sight—so I know you couldn't see the land. You broke the rules.”

I turn my head away. I had no choice. If he saw the boat, he knows that. What's the point of an argument?