The morning at Silver Wave Fjord smelled of smoke from the hearths and a salty breeze. Seagulls circled above the pier and the Viking village bustled with activity. Shields were drying on the fence, oars glistened from fresh tar, and the boat with the dragon's prow rocked quietly, as if snoozing. Inga, petite as a twig and swift as the wind, was tying a cool shawl under her chin. Next to her stood Erik, her older brother by a year, with his hair put up like a hedgehog, as even the wind had trouble with him. - 'Today is First Cruise Day,' whispered Inga, standing on tiptoe to see the fjord better. - 'Dad said the sea has a voice then. - 'If it has a voice, I'll hear it,' replied Erik and tapped his oar lightly against the pier. - And sure enough, he said: "Hello, Erik!" Bjorn, their dad, was greasing the staves of the boat and their mum, Astrid, was handing him packets: rusks with honey, dried berries, a bundle of warm cake. Old Sven, who already remembered many winters, sat on a stool and planed a thin twig into the shape of a fish. - 'Remember,' he muttered, without raising his eyes, 'the sea likes to listen. He who listens to the sea knows when to row and when to wait. Inga nodded her head as seriously as she could. Suddenly the wind fell silent. As if someone had put it in his pocket. A cloud of mist, soft as wool, began to creep up from the bay. At first there was little of it, then more and more, until the mountains on the other side disappeared as if covered in snow. - 'Strange,' Astrid said quietly, glancing up at the sky. - Fog at this time of day.... No wind... The village had become sleepy. The seagulls had quietened down. Even the pegs in the pier stopped creaking. It was then that Inga heard it. A soft sound, like the tapping of a spoon against the edge of a wooden bowl. Once. Second. Third. - Do you hear that? - asked Erica, lowering her voice. Erik squinted his eyes. - Dink... dink... Where did that come from? Old Sven stopped plodding. - From the water - he muttered. - But not from our boat. The sound was repeated, and then joined by a light splash. Something was approaching through the mist, the step of the water even and silent. Inga squeezed the hem of her scarf, and Erik slipped his hands into his pockets, as if to find courage there. The first through the veil was the dragon's prow - but not the boat that Bjorn had greased. It was a different one, a stranger and yet somehow familiar: the dragon's eyes were painted with gold paint, and a wooden bell with a string hung between them. It was he who buzzed so softly. - A boat without sailors,' whispered Astrid. - Look at the rope. Indeed, the rope dangled loosely, like a flag on a windless day. No one was holding the rudder. Yet the boat sailed straight towards their pier, steady, calm. Bjorn poured tar on his hands, as if he wanted them as heavy as an anchor. - 'Stay behind me,' he said firmly, but without shouting. - 'Don't touch until we've checked that everything is safe. The boat touched the pier so softly that Inga thought of a feather. The bell chimed once more, and then silence fell again. Close to the dragon's beak hung a small tablet of birch bark, attached with a thong. Someone had scrawled a mark on the bark: three waves and a small moon. - The sign of the Waves and the Night,' muttered Old Sven and grunted. - I haven't seen it for a long time. Inga felt a shudder, but it was a nice shudder, like when you open a box of new, as yet unknown things. - Does this mean that the sea has spoken to us? - she asked. - Maybe it wants someone to listen,' Bjorn replied. - Stay close. The platform creaked slightly as Bjorn set foot on the deck of the alien boat. Behind him Erik jumped, with his hands ready to hold the rope. Inga tightened her fingers on the edge of the plank and stepped onto the deck too. The wood was cool but clean. No holes. No traces of mud. Just a few dots of tar and.... that sound again. Very quiet. As if someone was holding back a sneeze. - Do you hear that? - hissed Erik. - There, by the barrels. In the middle of the boat stood two barrels and a crate tied with rope. The rope was new, the crate old. One of the barrels had its lid open a finger's breadth. Inga reached out her hand, but withdrew it immediately because something inside moved, like a cat's back under a blanket. - 'Maybe it's a fish? - whispered Erik, but he sounded like someone who didn't believe it himself. Old Sven leaned against the side and squinted. - 'Fish don't sneeze,' he said slowly. As if on cue, a quiet sound came from the barrel: - A-psik! Inga and Erik looked at each other with their mouths open. Bjorn raised his hand, signalling them to keep quiet. In the village, on the shore, no one moved. The seagulls squatted again, curious as children. The bell on the dragon's beak stirred from a tiny gust, making a sound as soft as a breath. And the barrel ... The barrel began to tremble harder and harder. - What's in there? - whispered Inga and leaned over so that her hair touched the edge. - Hey, don't be afraid. We are here. Someone - or something - moved the lid, as if it wanted to lift it from the inside. The rope on the crate squeaked, as if it too wanted to untie itself. The deck became so quiet that one's own heart could be heard. The barrel lid vibrated once more, this time more clearly. The light from the mist fell inwards like a narrow stream. Inga reached out her hand to nudge the edge lightly.... And then a new sound sounded from the depths of the barrel, unlike a sneeze or a splash. Short, shiny and... quite bold.