Stormriders Read online

  Dúngal dropped onto the bank and slid his toes into the water. He let out a yelp and jerked his legs upwards.

  ‘It’s hot!’ he cried.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Thora and Oddo knelt down and cautiously dipped in their fingers. They stared at each other in astonishment.

  ‘It is hot,’ spluttered Thora.

  ‘Let’s get in!’ said Dúngal.

  A moment later, with squeaks and gasps, all three of them eased themselves into the steaming bath.

  ‘It’s . . . certainly . . . hot,’ panted Oddo.

  He bounced up and down, his feet digging into the gravelly bottom, so that tongues of heat gushed out of the ground. Hairydog, half hidden by wisps of steam, yapped anxiously from the shore.

  A few minutes were enough for Oddo. He scrambled out, with Thora close on his heels, but Dúngal was determined to stay in longer. When he crawled out at last, his face was dripping with sweat and his skin was red and shiny.

  ‘You’re practically boiled,’ said Oddo. ‘I reckon that water’s hot enough for cooking.’

  ‘Let’s try!’ Thora exclaimed. ‘Here’s the fish!’

  A short time later, they were sitting on the bank, watching the fat trout simmer in the steaming lake.

  Thora shook her head in disbelief. ‘I don’t believe this place!’ she said. ‘Hot water that comes out of the ground. Fish that want to be caught. It’s the best land in the world!’

  ‘Not as good as Ériu,’ growled Dúngal. ‘In Ériu we don’t have mountains made of ice that spit fire and rocks. We—’

  ‘But Ériu’s already full of people!’ said Oddo. ‘Look at this place. All this empty land! You could build a house anywhere you wanted.’

  ‘And you’d never have to worry about Grimmr the Greedy stealing your land.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to worry about the stupid King and his taxes, either.’

  ‘You could bring the cows and sheep here in Farmer Ulf ’s longship.’

  Oddo stared at Thora.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘You think we really could live here.’

  Before Thora could answer, Dúngal interrupted.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘that trout must be cooked by now.’

  Oddo hardly noticed what he was eating. He was picturing the house his father could build on the hill near the lake. He dug his finger into the ground and crumbled the soft, rich soil. He imagined a field of barley, a cowshed, a haystack . . .

  ‘First, we have to get back to Norway and fetch our families,’ said Thora.

  Oddo blinked, and the vision vanished.

  ‘How?’

  ‘There must be someone living here – somewhere. And they’ve got to have a boat. Come on.’

  As they set off again, the wall of mountains seemed to curve across their path. Drawing close, they saw that one mountain reared up alone from the surrounding meadows. The sun was beginning to set, but in the twilight Oddo could make out dark hollows in the rocky slopes.

  ‘Hey, look at the caves. Let’s sleep in—’ His voice caught in his throat. There was something moving at the foot of the mountain. Something big. An animal . . . or a person.

  They had all seen it now and they stood, frozen, as the figure detached itself from the shadow of the mountain.

  18

  Father Connlae

  ‘It’s a woman,’ breathed Oddo.

  Dúngal, too, saw the long robe flowing to the ground. It was the colour of the rocks, and girded at the waist with a cord. But then he noticed the hair – long on the neck, but shaven from ear to ear.

  ‘That’s no woman!’ he cried, his voice ringing in excitement. ‘That’s a priest!’ He ran forward, shouting in his own tongue. ‘A Athir! A Athir!’

  The priest turned in astonishment and put out his hands to catch Dúngal as he hurtled forward.

  ‘Fáilte!’ he cried, and at the sound of the Irish greeting, Dúngal thought he would burst. ‘Uch, boy, what are you doing so far from home? How came you here?’

  Dúngal stared with delight at the shaven chin, so different from the Vikings’ long, rough beards. He looked into eyes that were the pale, transparent blue of the sky.

  ‘I was captured by Viking raiders. I built a curach and tried to get home, but . . .’ Dúngal’s chin quivered and he felt tears welling up. He gulped. ‘But I ended up here!’

  ‘And who are you, child? What is your name?’

  ‘I’m Dúngal macc Flainn of Laigin.’

  ‘And I hail from the monastery of Cill Dara. My name is Connlae.’

  Father Connlae’s voice was soft and rustling, like the wind through leaves. He was a small man, elderly and shaky. His hand trembled as it rested on Dúngal’s sleeve. But his face was curiously unlined, just like the abbot’s at the monastery where Dúngal had learnt his letters.

  Dúngal heard Thora and Oddo coming up behind him, and Hairydog’s panting breath. The dog’s muzzle butted his knee and he stroked her head. ‘This is Hairydog, and these are my friends, Oddo and Thora. They’re Vikings, but they helped me. And now, because of me, they’re stranded too.’ He looked around at the bulky shape of the mountain and the shadowy trees. ‘What is this strange land, anyway?’ he asked. ‘Are there other people here from Ériu?’

  Father Connlae shook his head.

  ‘No longer. I am the only one from Ériu now. There were other Brothers with me, but they have left. For the Vikings are arriving now. Even here, in this place of peace and prayer, they find us and harass us.’

  ‘Vikings? Where? We didn’t see them!’

  ‘No, as yet there are but few. They have settled yonder.’ He lifted a trembling hand. ‘In the west.’

  Dúngal felt Oddo pinching his arm.

  ‘What is it? What are you saying? What’s he telling you?’

  ‘He says there are Vikings here.’

  ‘Here? But what is this place?’

  Dúngal turned back to the priest and caught a puzzled expression on his face. ‘You can speak to these people in their language?’ he asked.

  Dúngal nodded proudly. ‘And they’re asking you the name of this place,’ he said.

  ‘The Vikings call it Iceland.’

  ‘Iceland? But what about the fire? I’d call it Fireland!’

  ‘Yes,’ said the priest. ‘Buried beneath the mountains of ice, there is a heart of fire. But it is a land of bounty, too. My goats and I never want for food. The rivers teem with fish, there is endless pastureland . . . It was a haven till the dreaded Vikings came. And now, I live in fear that they will find me and make me their slave.’

  ‘Why don’t you go back to Ériu, then?’

  ‘Uch, how I long to leave. But I have no boat. I chose to remain when the other Brothers left, and now . . .’ Sadly he shook his head. ‘But enough about me, you are weary and hungry. Come, bring your friends and share my supper.’

  He ushered them towards a crevice in the side of the mountain, and they squeezed through to find themselves in a cave. There was dry grass on the floor, and furniture made from branches and rough-hewn logs.

  ‘This must be his house,’ whispered Thora, her voice faltering as she eyed the laden table in the middle of the room.

  ‘Father Connlae says have biad – food!’ said Dúngal.

  They all dived at the table. There was a round, flat bread made from wild grass seeds, strips of dried fish topped with a sweet relish of sea fennel, and a bowl of white, lumpy curds.

  Dúngal snatched up the bread and crammed most of it into his mouth at one bite.

  ‘Hey,’ said Oddo, ‘how about the rest of us?’

  Dúngal felt his face burning. He pulled the loaf out of his mouth. It was damp and slightly mauled.

  ‘Sorry. Want some?’

  ‘Not now!’

  ‘Please don’t argue. There is plenty of food.’ Father Connlae heaved open a wooden chest. He drew out handfuls of shrivelled fruit, nuts and seaweed and poured them on the table. ‘Here, he
re.’ With shaky hands he thrust them towards the children. ‘Eat.’ He beamed and nodded, picking up titbits and pushing them into their hands whenever they paused.

  ‘Tell him I can’t eat any more!’ said Thora.

  ‘Me neither!’

  The three friends collapsed on a heap of soft heather at the side of the cave.

  ‘What’s this?’ Thora picked up a book lying on the floor and lifted the cover. ‘It’s names, like you drew in the dirt, Dúngal. Lots of names!’

  Dúngal took the book and read a few lines.

  ‘It’s not just names. It’s a story.’

  ‘A story?’ Thora brushed her hand over the soft, white page. ‘And what’s this stuff it’s drawn on?’

  ‘Skin from a . . . lóeg . . . a calf.’

  Thora and Oddo looked inquisitively around the room.

  ‘And what are those funny torches made from?’ Oddo pointed at candles stuck on rocky projections around the walls.

  ‘I . . . don’t know how to say it in your tongue. It comes from the bees.’

  ‘Is that what you have in Ireland? Why don’t you just use wood, or fish oil, like we do?’

  ‘It lasts longer, I think.’

  ‘It smells nicer too.’

  The priest was watching them talk, beaming, his head moving from side to side as each one spoke. Then the candle over Thora’s head gave a sputter and began to smoke. Father Connlae rose to his feet.

  ‘It is time to sleep.’ He snuffed out the sputtering candle. ‘Please, lay your heads here.’ He patted the heather they were sitting on. ‘And cover yourselves with these.’ He handed them a bundle of goatskins, then moved around the room, snuffing the other candles.

  ‘He says to go to sleep.’ Dúngal yawned, and leaned back.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Thora, ‘we’ll find those other Vikings. And their longships!’

  ‘No!’ Dúngal shot up again. ‘You can’t do that! If they see me, they’ll make me into a thrall again. And Father Connlae too!’

  By the faint glow of a single candle, Oddo and Thora gaped at him.

  ‘Then how are we supposed to get out of this place?’

  There was no answer. The last light went out. In miserable silence, the three weary travellers lay down. They were shivering now in their cold, wet clothes. Groping in the darkness, Dúngal tugged a goatskin over himself and curled up, trying to get warm.

  19

  Goatskin

  When Oddo opened his eyes again, he could see the dim shapes of the other sleeping figures. Daylight was trickling through the entrance, making a pale streak across the floor of the cave. Father Connlae was lying on the hard earth, his head pillowed on a rock.

  ‘We took all his bedding!’ thought Oddo guiltily. He sat up, shivering. Hastily, he pulled the goatskin around his shoulders and up over his head.

  Thora stretched, yawned, and poked Dúngal.

  ‘Where’s Oddo?’ she whispered.

  Dúngal peered round the room.

  ‘Maybe he went outside.’

  Oddo frowned at them. ‘I’m right here.’

  Thora looked straight at him. ‘Where?’

  ‘Here, stupid, right next to you.’

  Thora’s hand wavered through the air and landed on his arm. She let out a scream.

  ‘I can feel you, but I can’t see you!’ she cried. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything. Look, I’m here.’ Oddo stood up.

  Thora blinked. ‘Yes, I can see you now, but . . .’ She snatched at the goatskin that was sliding off his shoulders. ‘Did you just have this round your head?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  Thora’s eyes were very wide. ‘It must have worked like Ketil’s goatskin hood – you know, the one that makes him invisible.’

  Oddo stared at the white, furry hide.

  ‘Do it again!’ said Dúngal.

  Oddo reached out, took the skin and wrapped it around his head. From the others’ expressions, he knew it had worked.

  At that moment, Father Connlae grunted and sat up. Quickly, Oddo dropped the hood, feeling his cheeks flush as the priest gave him a puzzled glance. Rubbing his back, Father Connlae tottered to his feet. He caught the children watching him and smiled. His smile was reassuring, like a hand reaching out to pat their heads. Then he murmured something to Dúngal, picked up two buckets, and carried them out of the room.

  ‘He’s going to milk the . . . gaboro . . . the goats,’ Dúngal explained.

  ‘We should help,’ said Oddo.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Thora’s eyes were blazing with excitement. She held the goatskin and waved it in the air. ‘We’ve got to think of a way to use this magic,’ she said.

  ‘Well, if I’m invisible I can sneak up on people without their seeing me.’

  ‘You could sneak up on the Vikings,’ suggested Dúngal. ‘Steal a longship!’

  ‘Well, maybe not a whole big ship. But . . . a boat.’

  They all looked at each other.

  ‘Right,’ said Thora, standing up. ‘Dúngal, you talk to Father Connlae, find out exactly where the Vikings are. Oddo, we’ll take over the milking.’

  As she marched out of the room, Oddo raised his eyebrows at Dúngal. ‘Yes, Captain Thora!’ he whispered.

  Father Connlae was crouched inside the pen with his small herd of goats. When Oddo and Thora slipped around one of the rough willow-branch hurdles, he beamed again, his warm, gentle smile, and handed them the empty bucket.

  ‘Now, Dúngal, you ask him where we have to go!’ said Thora.

  ‘Yes, Captain,’ said Dúngal.

  Thora looked bewildered as Oddo and Dúngal burst into a fit of giggles.

  ‘Well, it looks like you two are friends at last,’ she said. ‘What’s the big joke?’

  Dúngal made a face at Oddo and hurried after the priest.

  ‘U-u-uh, just something silly,’ mumbled Oddo. He wrapped his arms round one of the goats. ‘You milk, while I hold her still.’

  When the bucket was full, they carried it to the campfire, where the priest was dropping some brown, curly leaves into the cooking.

  ‘Thora,’ hissed Oddo, ‘that stuff looks like the lichen we fed the cows – you know, that time Grimmr stole the hay.’

  ‘So?’

  Oddo bit his lip. It was all right for Thora. Even at home she ate wild food from the woods and the sea, but he was used to proper meals – oat porridge, barley bread . . . He took a bite of Father Connlae’s brown leafy mush. It tasted bitter and lumpy.

  He stared into the fire, remembering his last glimpse of his mother bent over the cooking pot at home. Would he ever see her again?

  ‘Do you want more?’ Thora picked up the ladle and leaned towards the cauldron.

  Oddo caught his breath. For a moment, Thora looked just like his mother.

  ‘I . . .’ He couldn’t answer. He just stared at her.

  ‘Hey, you two,’ interrupted Dúngal, ‘Father Connlae says the Vikings are only a few hours walk away. If we leave now, we can reach there before nightfall!’

  Thora straightened and turned. Oddo blinked. With her long, silky hair and her tiny nose, how had he thought she looked like Sigrid?

  ‘Did you ask him about the goatskin?’ asked Thora.

  Dúngal nodded. ‘He says we can take it. I had to tell him why, though.’ He eyed Oddo. ‘So, he knows you’re magic now.’

  The priest waved to them as they set off, and called out something in a quavery, anxious voice.

  ‘He says to make sure the Vikings don’t see us,’ said Dúngal.

  Thora turned and waved back.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be careful,’ she called.

  Today, none of them noticed what they passed. They were all searching the distance, vying to be the first to see the Viking settlement.

  In the end, it was Hairydog who found it. She reached the crest of a hill, turned back, and let out a short bark. Oddo panted up to join her, and there in the valley below he
saw a long, low house roofed in turf. A man with a plaited beard was crossing the yard. He had a milking bucket in his hand, and a dog at his heels. There were cows, and sheep, and . . . It all looked so familiar, so much like home. Oddo felt warmth spreading out from his heart, reaching his throat and his eyes. Without thinking, he opened his mouth to shout a greeting.

  The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back with Dúngal sitting on top of him, and Thora hanging onto Hairydog with a hand clapped around her muzzle.

  ‘Oddo, tell her to stop barking!’

  With a jolt of shock, Oddo realised he’d nearly given them all away.

  ‘H-Hairydog,’ he said. His voice came out in a croak. ‘Keep quiet!’

  Dúngal crawled off him, glaring ferociously, and they all crouched low, peering down the slope. There was smoke drifting from the chimney hole, and the smell of cooking wafted towards them. But all eyes were drawn to the river, where a longship, sail furled, bobbed at its mooring.

  20

  Under the hood

  ‘Give me the goatskin,’ whispered Oddo.

  Dúngal had been wearing it as a cloak, but now he handed it to Oddo.

  ‘Good luck.’

  Oddo stood up, and wrapped the goatskin carefully round his head and shoulders.

  ‘It’s working,’ said Thora excitedly. ‘Now make sure you keep it over your head all the time.’

  When Oddo turned to go, Hairydog sprang to his side.

  ‘No, girl, you stay here.’ He watched the dog flop to the ground, and frowned anxiously. ‘I think she can still see me,’ he said. ‘And that means the hound down there will be able to see me too!’

  ‘So what?’ said Thora. ‘Just tell it to be quiet. You can talk to animals!’

  Oddo tiptoed down the hill. Just near the yard, a twig snapped under his foot. The hound began to bark and the farmer peered up the hill. Oddo’s hand flew to his head to check his hood was still in place. He waited, holding his breath and feeling horribly exposed, praying that Dúngal and Thora were well hidden.

  ‘It’s all very well Thora telling me to order the dog around,’ he thought. ‘But how can I, when the man’s standing right next to it? The cloak won’t make my voice disappear!’