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At least for now.

We have been living on this farm outside Ribe for three years now, and I've never seen a sky like this. Clouds billow in from the west in quick profusion. More and more of them. It makes my skin prickle. Eire had wild storms. My Eire land. But nothing like that happens here.

I run my hand down my throat and swallow. It's not just the clouds; there's something strange about the air itself.

“Come, Búri. We have to hurry to gather the last of the cabbages and get inside.”

The boy's a good help. I cut the leafy clusters off the stems with the big knife, and he hugs them to his chest and carries them to the wide swath of cloth I spread out at the end of the row. I cut fast, and he trots back and forth on legs that have just lately grown lean and long. He's proud to help me, just like I was always proud to help Mel. My heart beats a double drum of loss and gain.

These are good people, but they're not mine. Time passes far too slowly. I need to grow up and leave; I need to find Mel.

I look at the sky again. It changes even faster than we work. It suddenly goes dark. It's November, so the sky darkens fast anyway, but this is the middle of the day. And it's different from a night sky: The bottoms of the clouds are black.

I stab the knife into the dirt up to the handle for safekeeping—because I don't want it swinging around loose, not with how fast we'll have to move. I tie up the ends of the cloth and throw the sack of cabbages over a shoulder, then grab Búri by the hand and we run. He laughs—Búri is a great laugher—but when I don't join in, he hushes and runs harder.

We just make it into the house when the first drops fall. Our house has three rooms: a big central room, where we sleep and eat, with a smaller one to each side. All three rooms have doors to the outside. We enter through the door into the central room, and no one's there. The hearth fire in the middle of the room licks at the dark air and makes everything eerie. Evil spirits seem to rise from our sleeping berths along the walls and creep up to the oak rafters. I quick dump the cabbages in the room that we use for preparing food, then I check the other room—the one where we keep the animals at night in winter. It's empty.

Búri stands at the open central door. The rain has turned hard already; it thuds on the thatched roof. The
wind howls. “Where's Mother?” Búri pulls on his fingers and turns in a circle on the packed dirt floor. Each stamp makes a small cloud of ash rise around him, for we scatter hearth ash on the floor to help keep it dry. He's over three and a half now—old enough to worry. I notice that he doesn't ask where Alof, his little sister, is. I'd smile at the sweetness of jealousy, except I'm as worried as Búri is.

But, thank everything good, I don't have to answer, for the animal room door bangs open and noise enlivens our entire home. Búri laughs and races into that room. Horses and cows, pigs and goats, sheep—and best of all, Ástríd with Alof in a sling at her chest, shooing the animals inside with nervous words of comfort. I'm the one who knows how to bring the animals in right. It's just accident that our roles were reversed today, and I wound up bringing in Búri while Ástríd wound up fetching the animals. But I shouldn't criticize her in my thoughts; she got them in, after all, even the ornery pigs. She did well.

Búri runs to Ástríd and throws his arms around her legs. I move from animal to animal, a scratch behind the ear, a pat on the rump, a rub between the eyes, until they're all quiet. They huddle close, as though they, too, realize this is not a normal rainfall. By the time I return to the hearth, Ástríd's got stew going in the iron cauldron over the fire. She and Búri sing loud, and little Alof crows
along. It's as good a response to fear as any, for I know that Ástríd's mind is where mine is: Beorn went out on the boat this morning.

Beorn has turned out to be a rather poor farmer. Try as he does, he can't quite deal with farm rhythms—the way one season is all planting and the next is all tending and the next is all harvesting and the next is all preserving. It bores him. He likes variety in his day—that's what he had when he was a wandering
skald
. So now he leaves the farming to Ástríd and me, and he spends his day in a boat. He fishes some. And he trades along the west coast of Jutland, going by boat because it's faster. He sings and tells stories everywhere he goes. Lucky for him, small farmsteads keep popping up; it's easy to find people who want a
skald
's services. And he always comes home with something useful or beautiful.

Today he went fishing.

I try not to picture him in his boat. I still hate boats. No Irish girl should hate boats. No Norse girl should hate boats. But I loathe them. They make me think of Mel, lost somewhere across some sea, in who knows what country. I feel stricken.

But Beorn is not lost. He's just fishing. Close by.

We smell the ocean from our farm, but we can't see it. The town is a good ways up the river from the sea. I'm sure the sea is wild, though. It has to be with a wind like this.

The house shudders. Now I can see why the farm up north had a pit house; they're sturdy. The homes down here are aboveground. But the roof is held up by posts, not just walls. So it shouldn't come apart. And Beorn is a good builder. We're safe.

Where is he?
Please, whatever god or gods there may be, please, don't let Beorn be lost at sea
.
We need him. We love him
.

Muffled crashes puncture the air. I imagine flying debris. Uprooted trees.

We sit with the firelight flickering on our faces, and I hug myself tight. Ástríd speaks very softly, so we have to strain to hear. I recognize the trick—that's how Beorn gets everyone to listen close. She tells the story of when the god Thor visited the giant Hymir and ate so much the giant got mad at him. So when they went fishing and Thor asked for bait, the giant told him to take care of himself. Furious, Thor ripped off the head of one of Hymir's oxen. So Hymir got scared and they rowed fast, but they were rowing so hard, Hymir feared they'd disturb the horrible serpent that lived there. And they did! That was Thor's plan—to make the serpent take the bait so he could smash his skull. But when the giant saw the serpent floundering there, he quick cut the line. The monster serpent sank back to the murky depths, defiant as ever.

Ástríd
gives a triumphant laugh, and I know she's trying to soothe us. I know she's telling stories because if Beorn were here, that's what he'd be doing. But I don't see the comfort in this story.

As though she reads my face, Ástríd goes quiet. She nurses Alof while I measure out stew for Búri and me. The handle of the ladle is a carved bird head—Egill, a boy in town, made it for me. We eat greedily. Ástríd sings with her bird lilt. Finally Búri plants a kiss on his mother's cheek, on my cheek, and, honorable boy, on his sleeping sister's cheek. He curls up in his berth. I recognize the method: Sleep is a good escape.

The noise outside feels far away, because Beorn packed the spaces between the wall timbers so tightly. But we know the storm is right there, right outside. It screams.

I bring Ástríd a bowl of stew. She shakes her head. “You're nursing,” I say. Her lip quivers. I work to keep mine steady. “Don't think the worst. It'll only wear you out.”

Ástríd takes the bowl and eats. “Thank you, Alfhild.”

“You made the stew. Don't thank me.”

“I mean thank you for all of it. Thank you for saving Búri at his birth. Thank you for not telling Beorn what I did. Thank you for living with us and helping us.”

“What else could I do?”

“Any number of things. Don't think I don't know that.
You're the most unusual child I've ever known. I'm glad you chose to stay with us. You filled a hole.” She drops her head. Her braids flop on her chest. “The sea has stolen so much from me. I had a sister once.”

I didn't know that. When she says no more, I move closer so that our sides touch. “So did I.” I pray the sea steals nothing more from either of us.

I undo her braids and comb her hair. Then she combs mine. And we rest once more side to side. We fall asleep that way.

Then the door crashes open and the hearth fire is blown out, and Beorn stumbles in and drops Vigi on the floor. His wet clothes slap around him. He fights the wind to shut the door. He and Ástríd hug while I get the fire going again and Vigi whimper-barks.

Beorn tells how he was fishing when he saw the clouds and knew it would get bad. He rowed toward shore, but the pitch of the ocean was too strong, and the boat flipped. The sea was totally crazy. It took all his strength to swim to the beach. He wanted to rest there, but it was clear the sea was rising, so he dragged himself to the closest home. By then the rain came down in torrents, and the man of the house begged for help getting his animals to safety. Beorn thought about us, but he knew we would have already done it—he knew we were strong. So he helped
that family, and when he saw other families struggling, his energy came back and he helped another, with the winds furiously ripping at him. And all at once he panicked at the thought of us alone. He practically crawled his way home against the buffets, clutching Vigi in his arms so the wind wouldn't steal the hound away.

I give Vigi a bowl of stew. The dog eats it in three gulps. Beorn is almost as fast. He finishes the stew and drinks beer from his big wood cup and burps loudly. The room sighs with the smell of bog myrtle—the spice Ástríd adds with hops into the barley beer.

“I'm glad the boat is gone,” says Ástríd. “Do you want my advice?”

Beorn smiles. “Even the god Óðinn asks Frigg's advice.”

“Yes,” I say, boldly interrupting, “but he doesn't listen to her.”

Beorn hesitates briefly, then laughs. We all do.

We are together, safe. That's all any of us needs now. Tonight I am glad not to be sleeping in my hermit's hut. Tonight I am very glad to have this family. I make a final prayer, the one I make every night—that my Irish family, far and scattered, should be well and safe—and I fall deep asleep.

*  *  *

In the morning the beach is a mess of broken branches and seaweed. Most of the townsfolk are back in Ribe, cleaning up
there. The only ones out here on the shore besides Beorn and Vigi and me are the scavengers. We walk slowly, even Vigi, for the dog has aged quickly. He moves like an old man now, his legs stiff.

Fortunately, the scavengers have discovered the remains of an old ship washed up on the rocks at the far south end, so they've converged there in hopes of finding treasures in the wreckage. They're stupid, it seems to me, since if the hapless sailors who sank with that boat had their wealth and jewels with them—an admitted likelihood—those coins and precious metals and stones would have been in their personal wooden chests. The chests would have sunk straight down; the ship, most likely, as well. Over time the ship was buffeted by the currents and busted apart—as the wreckage proves—but the chests simply sank deeper, as heavy things will. If there are treasures to find, it will take deep diving to do it, and I doubt anyone could dive that deep. Besides, who would know where to dive?

I look at Beorn, and he looks back with eyes that tell me he also finds the scavengers foolish, but he enjoys that about them. I like living with Beorn. I like the way he uses his eyes. I like that he's not as critical as I am. And I'm grateful that he is not lamenting the loss of his fishing boat. He's lucky to be alive; that fact stays his tongue.

The sea is still high, with perfect waves that crest, linger
an instant, then crash silver white. I love the sound, even though I know what destruction they brought. But there's a quiet sound now too. A little pop.
Pop, pop, pop
. I look at Beorn quizzically.

He's already smiling and kneeling. With both hands he digs through the sand. I help. And we're scooping up scallops by the tens. They've been washed out of their grassy beds somewhere in the shallows north of here. I set one on the surface of the wet sand, and it opens and shuts its shell in a quick flap, making a soft
pop
as it disappears under sand.

Beorn works at filling our bucket.

But I'm walking past sponges and shells and seaweed to a large, golden hunk, about the size of Alof's head. I hold it up to the sun. It glows, almost translucent. I know amber. Everyone here prizes it for making beads, amulets, and delicate carvings of animals. It's soft, easily scratched. And sometimes it has parts of creatures inside—a bee wing, a spider leg—which makes it more valuable.

Inside this piece are three ants, whole and perfect. I turn it over. Not a scratch.

I am the daughter of a king. I knew gold, silver, all precious stones, when I was still small enough to sit on people's laps. And Ribe is a trading town. So I've seen the finely worked jewelry that traders bring. This is by far the most precious object I've ever seen.