At dawn, the fjord sparkles like the blade of a freshly polished sword. A cold wind carries the smell of tar, fish and smoke from the long hall, where someone is just adding fresh logs to the fire. Rippling clouds cling to the peaks and break, revealing a strip of brightening sky. On tiptoe I creep down the wet track, just in time to avoid waking Grandpa Halvard. Not because I'm afraid of him. Rather because he would be proud - and I don't want him to see that. Not today, when my hands are still in veins of tar and my pocket is spilling chips. I like the feeling: as if from each chip a new part of the story is born. My grandfather always used to say that a tree remembers the waves, even though it has never touched them; we only extract from the trunk the shape that was waiting inside. - Eira! - a whisper sounds, snarling like the cawing of crows. - Come! You will see for yourself. It's Rurik. A year older, always half a step ahead of me. He stands on the edge of a rock and waves to me vigorously. Next to him, a black plume dances in the skittish wind - a raven that has become accustomed to our settlement and to the remains of dried salmon. We call him Dark. Perhaps he once belonged to someone familiar with the signs of the gods; now he belongs to the shore, where boats snarl in tethered ropes. - What's that? - I ask, already sensing that Rurik would not have dragged me here for no reason. - Look towards the bay. Where the black stone makes a shadow. My gaze adjusts to the salty glow. The water ripples more calmly than usual; the sea grass, heavy with dew, hangs like an old hag's hair. And then I see it: at the edge of the bay something emerges from the mists. A low silhouette. A single sail curled into a tight bundle. A sharp beak with the gouged scales of a dragon. Drakkar. - Are they coming back? - I whisper, as it suddenly gets warm under my skin. - After all, Jarl Sten left three days ago. All too soon. - No one is coming back. - Rurik squints his eyes. - Look more carefully. I am looking. The boat is sailing, though no one is at the helm. The oars are stuck in the quills, but they move slightly, as if something is touching them from underneath. As the sun moves higher, I notice something white shimmering on the planks. I think: salt. Then: seagull feathers. Only after a while do I understand what it is. Frost. - In the middle of summer," I say. Too quietly for anyone but me to hear. Rurik is already running down the path, quiet as a fox. Me - behind him. The stones are cold with dew, my hands smell of pine. When we run out onto the sandy headland, the drakkar is already so close that we can hear the light clatter of wood against the wooden gums of the breakwater. No one is waving a flag, no one is shouting, laughing or asking for a rope toss. Grandfather Halvard appears like a ghost from the mist, all in his grey woollen coat, still sleepy, but his eyes are bright and hard as rudder pins. - The rope! - ' he growls, and we both grab the coiled orb. - Take it easy, kids. There's nothing here but wood and water. Unless there is,' he adds after a moment, quieter. The boat settles by the shore. The rope creaks. The oar clatters against the side. It's the first time I've come this close and I sigh, because the wood is beautiful: dark with tar, with a light stripe on the sides where someone has incised patterns. Runes. Shallow, but secure. I recognise some of them - my grandfather used to tell me that every child must know how to ask for the favour of the gods, even if he can't yet hold a chisel well. Either someone was laughing or warning. For the signs are arranged in short words, jagged, as if cut with a knife in a hurry. F, r, an oaken cross like a knot. - 'Don't touch,' mutters Halvard, when I've already extended my finger to run over them. - Not yet. Rurik climbs the side and hovers over it like a cat. Darkness lands on the bow and tilts his head, looking at us with one eye. His claws tap against the wood with a short, nervous rhythm. - 'Someone must have nailed it,' Rurik repeats. - This is not a ghost boat. - Every one is a dash,' mutters Grandpa, but that's just his saying. He doesn't believe in things that leave no trace. There are quite a few traces here. A drunken rope dance with salt spikes, reflections echoing on the paddle. And then there's something else: a small wet streak leading from the centre of the deck to the wheelhouse. As if someone had dragged a bag up there. As if something had leaked. - 'It's water,' I say, although my heart tells me otherwise. - 'So we'll pour it out,' Halvard announces. - And we'll see what's stuck. He jumps on board, I follow him, Rurik is already there. The planks creak under his boots. It's cooler here, in the depths of the boat. The air reminds me of winter: pungent, smelling of heather and metal. Under my toes I can feel the breath of fibers and knots, the old wisdom of a pine tree that someone once listened to more patiently than I do now. - Look - Rurik points to the oars. - See? I've seen frost before, but now up close it's like a feather of glass. It settles on the edges of the oar feathers, as if someone has blown it out of their lungs. I touch it with my thumb. It crunches and immediately melts. It leaves a coldness up to my ankles. - 'Someone must have kept ice here,' I say stupidly, and Rurik snorts. - Ice doesn't go out for a walk on the paddle. Grandpa leans over the tank. Where the net should usually lie, covered with canvas, we see a heavy box. The iron fittings covered with a tarnish, as if someone had poured milk over them and left them overnight. A padlock. Oh, this one I know: it was made by Torbjörn the blacksmith, because it has that crooked scar on the iron line that I would recognise anywhere. - 'Don't open it,' says Halvard, though he can see me waiting for his permission. - 'We'll check the boat for holes first. But the boat has no holes. It only has half a bucket of water, which we quickly pour outside. At the bottom something crunches, like fine gravel. I raise my eyebrows, seizing it with my hand: it's not pebbles. They are tiny, round pieces of bone, smooth as beads. Something silver flashes between them. - It's not ours - Rurik wrinkles his nose. - No one takes cinders from the cemetery into the boat. I don't answer. Because I already know that what flashed is a runic token. Tiny, with a thumb indentation, as if someone had turned it often in their hand. The engraved sign is simple: two vertical dashes that come together like a dog's fangs. I had not seen it before in our talismans. - What did Jarl Sten leave here? - I ask, although in my heart I don't want anyone to answer at all. Grandfather Halvard straightens up and spits over his shoulder, as if that would ward off an evil charm. I don't like it when he does this. But that reflex tells me more than a hundred words. - I don't know,' he says. - And I don't like not knowing. We'll call on the gods before we look under that canvas. The gloom cracks in a draughty manner, and the wind carries this crackling across the water like a thin string. Before Grandpa has time to tie the beads on the string, something hits the side from the outside, hard as stone. Instinctively, I jump away and my hand hits the rough edge of the deck. In the waves, next to the boat, swings something that looks like the detached feather of a large bird. It is not a feather. It's a narrow piece of board covered in engravings as thin as hair. I pick it up before anyone can stop me. The lines on the wood form a map. Our bay is marked with a dot, and a thin line rises into the fjord, ending in a cursive symbol that resembles none of the runes I know. Right next to it someone has drawn an eye. A large, open, eyelidless one. - Watch out! - hisses Rurik, noticing what I did: a fresh scratch on the ferrule of the chest, as if someone had tried to tear it off with a knife. - Someone has been rummaging around. - I wouldn't be myself if I didn't ask who. - Grandfather wrinkles his eyebrows. - Eira, put down the wood. Rurik, stand on my left. If something pops up, don't touch it. First we look, then we push. I laugh briefly, though the laughter simmers in my throat. - After all, you always say, 'Touch first so you know where to look'. - Today I'm making an exception," he replies, too quickly. I approach the chest. My fingers find the cold on the iron padlock by themselves. As I remove a layer of frost from it, the air around us grows heavier, as if someone has unzipped an invisible bag of fog. Rurik bites his lip but doesn't look away. Darkness jumps on the shrouds and turns his back to us, as if he prefers not to see. - 'We won't break the padlock,' says Halvard. - We will bless. We will ask for light. He speaks the old words. Not the ones you hear at feasts, but the quiet ones our grandparents used to put their sails to sleep with. In response, nothing happens. The fire in the iron bowl on the pier crackles as usual, the seagulls squawk, the water hits the side in its rhythm. I tilt back the canvas lying on the crate to at least peek over the side. Beneath it, the air smells of metal and moss. At the very corner I notice something that makes my blood run faster through my veins: a scrap of leather. Not human - leather, fastened with a thong. On it, right at the fold, a broken spiral mark. - Eira... - warns my grandfather. - I'll just have a look - I promise, although the promise tastes like salt. Then we feel it all at once: a very gentle trembling of the planks underfoot. As if the boat is sighing. A wheezing, barely audible tone spreads through the drakkar's ribs, and the padlock on the crate makes a sound so quiet it could be mistaken for breathing. - Did you hear that? - Rurik looks at me with big eyes. Before I can answer, something from inside the crate strikes once, briefly, decisively. The iron of the padlock jumps, and the air around us becomes so cold for a moment that white smoke rises from our mouths.