Bracelet of Bones by Kevin Crossley-Holland

to know her.”
    And with that, the three of them marched side by side from bows to stern again while Solveig counted out loud.
    “Fourteen,” said Solveig. “Four from side to side.”
    Red Ottar grunted and then nodded, and Torsten slipped Solveig a wink. “Still growing, is she, skipper?” he asked.
    “A ship for the gods,” said Red Ottar. “Wasted on you lot.”
    “You can never be sure,” Torsten replied. “Some boats do better to sit on the beach than swim in the water.”
    “The sail’s twenty feet high, twenty wide,” Red Ottar told her. “Look at that pennant . . . look at these seal-hide ropes . . .”
    He’s so rough, Solveig thought, and yet he sounds as eager as a child.
    “Right!” Red Ottar told Solveig. “We sail when we can and row when we can’t. Here are the oarsmen’s benches. I row opposite Vigot and . . .”
    “You row?” exclaimed Solveig.
    “Of course,” the skipper replied. “Do you think I sit on my hands? Torsten’s our helmsman, and I row opposite Vigot, Bruni rows opposite Slothi. And then you women, the four of you, will each row a half shift and do some bailing with the children.”
    “Who will I row with?”
    The skipper pursed his lips. “We’ll see about that,” he said.
    Solveig pointed to the open hold around the mast. “What’s your cargo?” she asked.
    “The usual mix,” said Red Ottar. He stamped on the deck. “Stowed under here as well.”
    “Skins and furs?”
    “Hundreds of them,” Red Ottar said. “I will say this: old Baldy and his brother—what’s his name? Orm?—they bring us better furs than anyone else.”
    “Turpin, you mean?”
    “Baldy, yes.”
    “Why do you call him that?”
    “Because he’s so hairy! Mind you, they stink the place out. This time we’re carrying wax as well—I’ve never seen so much. Enough to brighten every building in Ladoga . . . and Kiev.”
    “Furs and wax,” said Solveig.
    “And weapons,” said Red Ottar, “some with decorated blades and pommels and sheaths. The Icelander, Bruni, he made them this last winter.”
    Torsten interrupted Red Ottar by spitting on the deck, then spreading the saliva under the sole of his left foot.
    “What’s wrong with you, Torsten?” barked Red Ottar.
    But Torsten didn’t reply. He just growled.
    “Can I see them?” asked Solveig. “The weapons.”
    “You’ll have to wait. They’re all wrapped in oilcloth and stowed away under here.” Red Ottar stamped the deck again and he laughed. “Look at you. Bright eyes!”
    “It’s all so new,” Solveig said.
    “And then,” said Red Ottar, “we’re carrying honey, barrels of honey. And board games. And, er . . .” he lowered his voice, “precious metals.”
    “Gold, you mean?”
    Dawn.
    Gulls mewed. Terns trilled. But as Torsten untied the boat and she began to glide, then gently to rock, all the companions were silent, caught between earth and water—and between what they were leaving and what lay ahead.
    It took them all morning and early afternoon to sail from the harbor on the lake of Malar through the waterway to the open sea, and only then did the west wind really pick up.
    The waves clapped their hands, and Red Ottar’s boat skipped and whistled.
    Solveig sat in the stern, aft of the huge square sail. This is just as fresh as when I was swept past Trondheim, she thought.
    “Swinging around,” Torsten called out to her.
    Solveig squinted up at him.
    “The wind!” he bellowed.
    “My father,” began Solveig, “did he . . . ?”
    Torsten motioned her to come closer. “Can’t hear you,” he said. “Not with all this wind slap.”
    “My father . . .” Solveig began again.
    The helmsman clamped his jaw and nodded firmly. “Good man,” he said. “Man of words. Man of stories.”
    “You talked to him?” Solveig asked.
    “We were pinned down in Ladoga for two days,” Torsten told her. “North wind. Yes, he told me about Harald Sigurdsson and sailing to join