Embers of fire help us get through the cold winter

On the seventh day after the barley fell into the soil, Harald said it was time to start the fishing season.

The morning fog was heavy, making the fjord's surface look like it was covered with a layer of unfinished gray wool. On the dock, men carried oars and fishing gear onto the boat; the sound of their boots crunching on the wet planks was mostly absorbed by the fog and didn't carry far. This time, they weren't setting sail on a long-haul cargo ship like the "Grey Goose," but on a small six-oared boat—short in hull and shallow in draft, capable of maneuvering nimbly among the reefs.

Tora stood at the entrance to the longhouse, clutching a small bag of salt her mother had just given her—to deliver to Uncle Brody at the dock, where he needed it to salt fish on the ship. As she ran down the slope, Harald was at the stern checking the rudder's ropes.

"Father," she said, holding the bag of salt above her head, "Mother asked me to bring it."

Harald took it, put it in the leather basket at his feet, and pressed his palm on Tora's head.

Tora showed no sign of leaving. She stood on tiptoe and looked towards the ship.

Are we going out to sea to fish for cod today?

"Um."

"Can I go?"

Harald lowered his head and looked into his daughter's bright eyes, which were almost reflective. He remained silent for a moment.

"Next time," he said.

Tora's lips twitched slightly, but she didn't argue. She was seven years old; a sensible child shouldn't cause trouble for adults, she thought.

Uncle Brody leaned out from the ship's railing, grinned at her, revealing his yellowed gums: "Tora, when I get back, I'll show you fish teeth. Cod teeth are sharper than rat teeth."

Tora pouted, "I don't want rat teeth."

"Then let me show you fish bones, grind them into pendants."

Tora didn't respond, but her eyes lit up.

Ragnar had also descended the slope at some point and stood half a step behind his sister, wrapped in sheepskin, with only half his face showing. He was examining the harpoons stuck diagonally in the cabin—the tips had been removed and wrapped in tarpaulin, leaving only the birchwood sticks exposed, their old white gleaming in the overcast sunlight.

Brody followed his gaze and chuckled, "Kid, we don't need that today. Cod don't recognize spears, they recognize hooks."

The oars dipped into the water. The figures on the dock gradually shrank.

Tora stood there, watching the ship glide into the fog. The outline of the stern blurred first, then the gunwale, and finally the folded, grayish-brown sail. The fog swallowed everything, leaving only the sound of the oars cutting through the water, one stroke after another, growing farther and farther away, until it disappeared completely.

She turned around and tugged at Ragnar's sleeve.

"Let's go," she said, her voice lower than usual. "Mother said we're transplanting vegetable seedlings today."

Cod Reef is located southeast of the fjord. Three black reefs are arranged in a triangular shape, partially submerged in the sea. At low tide, their jagged peaks are exposed, while at high tide, only the northernmost reef is visible above the water by half an arm's length.

This is the spring fishing ground used by the Fjørdla family for generations. Although it's not the best fishing ground—the best one is deep in Broken Oar Bay—that's the Blood Eagle family's territory. This is "their own," and since their great-great-grandfather's generation, the first catch of spring has been gathered here.

The fog had not yet lifted when Harald's ship sailed out of the fjord.

But Brody saw it.

Stop rowing.

Six long oars shot out of the water simultaneously, and the boat continued to glide for several more feet under the propulsion of inertia before slowly coming to a stop. Waves gently lapped against the hull, making hollow thuds.

A dozen or so driftwood anchors float on the waters surrounding Cod Reef. Between the anchors are three ships.

—It is clearly not a fishing boat.

It was longer than a fishing boat, with thinner hulls and densely packed oar holes on both sides. It was a warship—a shallow-water snake boat, agile, fast, and even faster than a fishing boat.

There were people sitting on the boat, but no oars were being used; the boat simply bobbed gently with the waves.

A low, suppressed growl escaped Brody's throat. His hand reached for his waist, only to find it empty—he hadn't brought his tomahawk from fishing today. The harpoon's fin was still wrapped in its oilcloth; the rod wasn't attached.

Harald didn't react. He looked at the ships, at the people sitting at the bows—the one at the very front, blond, who stood out even in the fog.

Sigurd.

The new leader of the Blood Eagle Clan.

Brody took a step forward. The ship rocked violently. Harald's voice boomed from behind:

"Brody".

Brody stopped. His shoulders were taut like a fully drawn bowstring, and his breathing was heavy.

Sigurd did not get up. He didn't even turn his head to look this way, but just stared at the distant reefs, as if waiting for the tide, as if waiting for a school of fish, as if waiting for a guest he already knew would come.

"The cod hasn't arrived yet."

He paused.

"You don't need to wait any longer."

Brody's axe wasn't on his waist. His hand reached for the wooden oar on the side of the boat, his fingers digging into the edge until his knuckles turned white.

Harald didn't look at his brother. He looked at Sigurd, his voice steady, as if stating the weather on a morning: "This is our family's fishing ground."

Sigurd finally turned around.

Through the fog, through the vast, greyish-white sea between the ships, he smiled, but only one corner of his mouth turned up. "Before last winter, yes."

He raised his hand and pointed to the gunwale at his feet.

"My father’s father came to this reef when he was young. He said that there were many cod back then, and the seawater was black when the fish passed by. People from Fjördra rowed over, and when the two boats collided, they threw half a fish to each other to taste."

He pulled his hands back onto his knees.

That was a long time ago.

Brody's voice squeezed out of his throat, like cracking ice: "Your father never touched this place when he was alive."

Sigurd did not deny it. He looked at Brody for a long time.

"My father," he said, "not me."

silence.

The fog was slowly dissipating. A sliver of sun peeked through the edge of the clouds, illuminating the rocks in a greyish-white light. The waves were higher than before, and the boats rocked more violently, the sea between them rippled and wrinkled, unable to reflect any images.

Harald spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but every word was as heavy as an anchor: "When did your ship arrive?"

Sigurd tilted his head slightly. "Yesterday at low tide."

"Where's the fish?"

"Release them."

"Where's the internet?"

"They were released too."

He paused.

"Starting this year, this reef will be guarded by the Blood Eagles. Anyone who wants to cast their nets must ask permission first."

Brody moved.

No one saw how he crossed the gunwale. In that moment, he was no longer Uncle Brody, whose old knee injury kept him awake on rainy days. He was like a bear driven to the brink, lunging from one ship to another, clutching a harpoon pole with the fork removed and only the wooden shaft remaining.

Bloodhawk's ship tilted violently as he landed. The two oarsmen behind Sigurd lunged at him, only to be struck in the face with a wooden pole, blood spurting from their noses and splattering onto the deck.

But there are more than two Blood Eagle members.

Three boats. Each boat has ten oarsmen, plus the foreman, at least thirty men. The boat of Fjørdra has one, with seven men, six oars, a basket of fishhooks, and a bundle of harpoon rods without forks.

As Brody was pushed against the gunwale, his forehead slammed against the oars, making a dull, wet thud. Blood trickled down his brow bone, past his eyes, down his cheekbones, and pooled at the edge of his jaw, dripping into the puddle of seawater at the bottom of the boat.

He was still struggling. His eyes were covered in blood, but he was still waving the broken wooden pole in Sigurd's direction.

Harald did not cross the gunwale to save his brother. He stood at the bow of his own boat, his right hand hanging at his side, his left hand on the rudder, his knuckles digging into the wood, into the groove worn smooth by three generations of hands.

He looked at Sigurd.

Sigurd didn't look at Brody. He looked at Harald, as if waiting for an answer.

"Your men," Sigurd said, "go back to recover from their injuries. We'll talk from the other bow next time."

"Next time," he repeated the word, his voice trailing off, "the net won't be able to be pulled back in."

Brody was pushed back onto Fjördra's ship. He lay on the bottom of the hold, blood still seeping from the gash on his forehead, soaking the old burlap sack that had been lining the deck. Blood trickled down the edges of the sack, flowing into the icy, chilling seawater at the bottom of the ship, spreading into a very pale pink.

Fjordela's oars re-entered the water, rowing slowly and heavily, as if dragging the entire sea.

The longhouse door was forced open as dusk fell.

Brody was being held up by two men, half of his face covered in blood, the gash on his forehead like a second gaping mouth, the skin and flesh at the edges rolled back to reveal something deep red underneath that shouldn't be seen.

Tora stood by the threshold, still clutching the black mud she'd picked up that afternoon while transplanting the seedlings. She looked at her uncle's face, at the tar-black liquid dripping from his chin, her mouth agape, unable to utter a sound.

No one speaks.

Olaf helped Brody to the fireside and began cleaning the wound. Brody didn't make a sound as the deer tendon thread, guided by the bone needle, pierced the flesh. He simply kept his eyes closed, his jaw clenched tightly, and the veins on the side of his neck bulged like tree roots.

The thread pierced through the flesh. In the firelight, the stitches crawled inch by inch across the tear, like the hundred legs of a centipede.

Tora finally spoke. Her voice was very soft, as if afraid of waking something:

"uncle……"

Brody struggled to open his eyes.

He saw his niece standing two steps away, her face deathly pale, her little fists clenched tightly, her nails digging into her palms. He tried to grin, revealing his yellow front teeth, but his smile froze halfway through.

"It's nothing," he said, his voice hoarse like two rocks rubbing together, "just from a collision."

Tora didn't speak. She looked at the still-bleeding stitches, and at the patch of skin around her uncle's eye covered in congealed blood. She knew it wasn't from a collision.

The impact won't cause a crack that runs from the brow bone all the way to the hairline.

Harald stood in the doorway. His back was to the firelight, his face expressionless, his entire face shrouded in shadow. He stared at the neat, fine stitches on his brother's forehead for a long time.

Then he spoke:

"Sigurd said that Cod Reef belongs to Bloodhawk starting this year."

The longhouse was deathly silent.

Someone's breathing stopped. Someone clenched their fist. Someone bit their teeth, making a soft, grinding sound.

"He said that the next time he saw Fjøldela's ship," Harald paused, "the nets wouldn't be able to be retrieved."

Olaf's hands didn't stop. She finished sewing the last stitch, cut the thread with a bone scalpel, and pressed a wad of clean linen onto the wound.

"Brody," she asked, her voice as calm as if she were asking what was for dinner, "do you remember Sigurd's face?"

Brody opened his eyes. His eye sockets were covered with blood clots, leaving only a narrow slit, but light shone through that slit.

"Remember."

"That's enough."

Olaf stood up. She looked at her husband.

Harald met her gaze.

He didn't speak, but walked back from the doorway, back to the hearth, and back to his seat. He sat down, picked up the battle axe that had been sharpened for a long time and continued to polish it with deerskin.

Rustle. Rustle. Rustle.

No one spoke in the longhouse. The women continued preparing dinner, and the men sat at their seats, no one touching their wine cups, no one uttering a word. Only the crackling of the fire and the rustling of deerskin against metal, rhythmic like heartbeats, filled the air.

Tora sat in the corner, close to Ragnar. She stared intently at the linen patch on her uncle's forehead that was slowly turning red.

Ragnar watched his father's hand as he wiped the axe—a steady hand, pulling the deerskin with the same length and force each time. He suddenly remembered the day of spring plowing, when his father stood at the end of the field ridge, planting the pale silver beech branch into the soil, with the same steadiness.

He remembered his father saying that by the time the first furrow cuts through the frozen soil, our soldiers must already be standing behind their oars.

The bloodstains on Cod Reef have been washed away by the sea.

But the wound on Brody's forehead, which required nine stitches, was still scabbing over, still itching, and still aching faintly every night.

Every time he raised his hand to scratch, Olaf would slap his hand away.

"It left a scar," she said.

Brody grinned: "It's not like we haven't kept them before."

Olaf didn't say anything. She pressed a new, clean piece of linen onto it, pressing it down hard, making Brody wince in pain.

Outside the longhouse, the sun had risen a little higher. The ice at the edge of the fjord had retreated another hand's breadth. The southerly wind carried an increasingly strong salty taste from the sea.

And so the fishing season begins.

However, there were no fish.