Chapter 3
Sleep was elusive that night, for what remained of it. I caught small, dozing snatches through dawn and into the grey morning, the wind that whistled outside the earthen-and-wood walls of my family home acting as both a lullaby and a hindrance. Sometimes it was soft, gentle, easing my restless mind. And sometimes it was shrill, harsh, like someone screaming just outside our door. My broken dreams were dark, full of bones and skin and a blood red sky that retained its colour even in the daytime. When I awoke to a snapping fire and low voices, my eyes were blurred, my neck stiff.
“Snow’s coming,” my father said, his scratchy voice muted with my head pressed into the blankets. A lifetime of fishing on the harsh Grey Sea, where winds were high and raised voices were the only way to communicate, had left his voice gravelly. But it was still somehow comforting to hear him speak. One too many times we’d thought he’d been lost, consumed by a squalling storm that blew in with little or no notice. Each time he came home was a gift, Anneka said.
“We’ll watch the sheep,” my sister answered. Anneka was always up before me, before anyone. Something in her blood made her rise before the sun. “Ósa’s good about bringing them in on time.” Then, under her breath, “And little else.” I could tell by the way her voice changed that she’d turned her head to say it in my direction, in hopes that I’d hear her.
If I were to let the sheep die, the lack of wool would drive her mad. Knitting was her one pastime, the one thing she did from sunrise to sunset. And as tempting as it was to drive her mad, sheep were essential, here in Skane. Sheep meant wool, and wool meant warmth. Warmth meant the difference between life and death in the winter.
“You won’t go out today, will you?” Anneka asked. When there was a pause, she added, “After the red lós, I thought maybe—”
“Life goes on after the damned red lights, Anneka,” Father snapped. “We still require food.”
A long pause. Anneka stayed silent.
“We’re short one man on the boat,” my father said, changing the subject. I could hear him shuffling around, preparing to leave. “Klas’s baby came last night.”
“Bless that little babe. And what a night to be born.” The way she again fell silent told me that Father had sent her a look warning her not to mention the red lights. “You can’t be out long, anyway,” Anneka said brazenly. Few people were brave enough to speak to my father in such a way, but she got away with more things than most. “Not if a storm’s coming,” she added, softer.
“I’m a fisherman, Anneka.” His voice carried the edge of a freshly-sharpened blade. “And you are not.” He stood and grabbed a fur cloak from a peg on the wall by the door, but paused before leaving.
“Ósa.”
I blinked at my name from my place in the corner. “Father?”
“You come.”
“But, Father—” Anneka rushed to say. He stopped her.
“She’s been on the boat before. She has her sea legs and she can fill in for Klas. It’ll give us a better chance of a good catch. We’ll come back when the waters start swelling.”
Seventeen years as my father’s daughter had taught me not to question his authority. And, contrary to what we wanted to think, his authority hadn’t yet led us astray.
I emerged from the warmth of my furs, the relative cold beyond my cocoon biting my skin. Soon, I’d be out in the wind and snow, fighting the sea with my father, and Anneka would be here, warm and knitting by the fire. So it went.
I took the chunk of bread Anneka was holding out to me. It was stale from drying near the fire. I knew there was some fresh bread she’d made yesterday, but I didn’t bother asking her for it. She’d tell me I should get up earlier or make it myself.
“Don’t turn your nose up at it like that,” she spat. “Digestion’ll keep you warm.” Every bit of her tone screamed that I wasn’t worth the time it took her to speak. It had always been this way, ever since my arrival in this wretched world had taken away her mother. Our mother. It was like she’d forgotten that it was my mother who’d died too. As if, because I’d never truly known her, I had no right to mourn her loss. As if I didn’t already feel guilty every day that I lived and breathed and my mother didn’t.
I could fight back when she treated me poorly. Sometimes I did, but mostly I didn’t. There was always a tiny voice in the back of my mind, a distant whisper that she was right to be angry with me.
I bit my lip, my mind still thick with a lack of sleep, and donned my boots and cloak. Father waited by the door. As I tried to cover my curls with a warm hat, I said to Anneka, “Ivar may come for me. Tell him—”
“Tell him she can play after our work,” my father finished, and my sister smirked.
Better his word be the final one. We said nothing more as I finished wrapping up and we left the house.
The wind was sharp. It cut my face and eyes, and the clouds were so low I was certain I could reach up and touch them, if I hadn’t been clutching my wraps so tightly. When we were younger, Ivar said he’d heard that the soft appearance of clouds was deceiving, and that they were made of tiny shards of ice, so we’d slice our fingers open if we tried to grasp them. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t. He liked to spread fairy tales, back then. But given how biting the cold wind and snow were, I was inclined to believe it.
By this time tomorrow, our little earthen village would be buried beneath metres of snow, appearing as no more than white mounds in the land. We’d all be inside, warm under piles of furs and knits and taking turns to tell stories until we fell asleep, lulled by the whistling wind just beyond the walls. It would be the kind of storm the sky would have warned us about, if it hadn’t been bleeding red.
I blinked my eyes against the wind, knowing full well it would be far worse at sea. We were fools to go out now, yet I’d rather be a brave fool than a cowardly one. Rather show my father I had more of a place in Skane than staring up at the stars and traipsing to caves with Ivar. Show my sister that I was earning just as much of a right to exist in this world as she was.
This wouldn’t be the first time my father had seen fit to embark on the boat during the onset of a storm and thus far he’d always come back. Try as I might, though, I could find no comfort in that.
“Remember,” my father said as we neared the docks, “follow my orders. My word is law on my boat. We don’t come back until I say we come back.”
“But your promise to—”
He silenced me with a look that could freeze the sea. I said nothing more.
The clouds were so oppressive I couldn’t see the docks until we were upon them. The waves crashed beneath us, so hard that spray hit my boots and froze there. I stomped frequently to break it up, or else the cold from the building ice would seep through my boots and I’d lose feeling in my feet. That would be one dangerous step towards losing them completely. I’d seen that before. Seen the blunt stumps of arms or legs where hands and feet had once been. Cold was an unforgiving intruder. One either respected it or succumbed to it.
“Albrekt.”
I looked up to the man my father addressed. He stood on the boat, bobbing around on the waves while securing crates that would, with any luck, soon be filled with fish. His legs remained steady despite the movement, a gift earned over a lifetime at sea.
“Eldór. Heard about Klas?” Albrekt returned to his work with barely a glance in our direction. His hands moved quickly despite the cold, though whether he was always so deft or if it was due to the impending storm, I couldn’t tell.
“I have,” my father replied, motioning for me to climb aboard before him. He offered no hand to steady me, but I didn’t require it. I’d boarded in rough waters enough times before to do so without plunging into the freezing depths. I held fast to the crude mast and eyed the near-ragged sail affixed to it. My father notoriously cut corners when it came to repairs, and every day that passed made that fact increasingly more evident. One day, I feared, he would forego one too many repairs, and the results would be disastrous.
“Waste no more time,” my father instructed Albrekt, and the tiniest flame of hope kindled within me. It was the first mention he’d made of being aware of the impending storm. Until now he’d appeared to be feigning ignorance.
Albrekt pulled the ropes and cast us off the dock. I held fast to the edge of the boat, the swells rocking us like a babe in a cradle. My right foot caught on a patch of ice on the floor and I lost my footing momentarily, clinging on with all my strength. I didn’t meet my father’s eyes; I knew the stern look I’d find there.
The skies were angry. They pressed down on us, urging us back, yet onwards we sailed. Everything nature had within its power seemed to be sending us a message, a warning, which we merely ignored. I forced my eyes away from above and fell into a sort of rhythm as I helped Father and Albrekt drop the nets off the back of the longboat. With any luck, before too long, we’d pull them up again teeming with fish. Some we’d keep for our families and some we’d sell or trade to the local villages, who would then dry it for the winter. Sometimes, when the winters were especially long and cold, salted and dried fish was the only thing that saw us through. If I wasn’t so entirely grateful to have enough food to survive – something of which Anneka never failed to remind me – I’d say I oft grew tired of the repetition.
The first net was less than half as full as any of us wanted to see. We placed the catch in the wooden crates tied to the edge of the boat, and then cast it out again. I knew my father was hoping that a successful catch would counter the foolhardiness of going out before a storm such as this one, but it didn’t look like that was to be. And I couldn’t help but wonder if the fish had been mostly frightened away. A rough sea like this must make even them want to take shelter.
As the winds grew, Father spent more time fighting with the sails than aiding Albrekt and I in unloading the nets. The boat rocked and swayed and sometimes we were forced to stop our task in favour of gripping anything we could reach for stability as it crashed headlong into a wave. Between hauling in nets and bracing against the swells, the crates slowly, slowly began to fill.
A solitary, indignant fish flopped out of a crate and on to the deck. I crouched to pick it up and toss it back, but as I rose to replace it, something in the waves caught my attention. I froze for a moment, no longer aware of the fish in my hand or the rocking of the boat. I narrowed my eyes, trying to separate the oppressive fog from the white waves. I was sure I’d seen something – a shadow, maybe. A bit of flotsam on the sea. But whatever it was vanished, eaten up by the roiling waves.
There.
Again.
“Father.”
I pointed away over the water, as accurately as I could despite the movement of the boat. A sail? If so, it was a dark one, unfamiliar. All the village boats were at the docks. We didn’t get travellers in these parts and no one else from the village was foolhardy enough to go out in a storm such as this.
“I see nothing,” Father said.
“Nor do I,” Albrekt replied.
Both returned to their work.
Whatever it was vanished once again, and this time it didn’t reappear. I dropped my hand to my side. Now, not even my layers of furs and knits kept me warm. Now, the cold I felt came from within.