Embers of fire help us get through the cold winter

Three years have passed, like the ebb and flow of the tide in a fjord, silently carrying away the chaos of infancy. Ragnar Fjordela can now walk unsteadily on the dry ground of the longhouse. He can understand many words and can piece together his vague needs with a few simple words and short sentences. "Mother, drink." "Tora, walk." The outline of the world is gradually becoming concrete from a blur of light and temperature, although behind those details still lie many meanings he cannot understand.

The fjord's waters had turned a heavy, dark blue-black, reflecting the leaden, fleeting clouds. The birch and alder trees along the shore had almost lost all their leaves, leaving only their damp branches, like jagged fingers reaching towards the sky. The wind had taken on a sharp edge, whipping up withered leaves and lashing them against the wooden walls of the longhouse with a mournful howl each time it swept into the fjord from the sea.

The days are getting shorter and shorter, and the long polar night will soon completely cover this little bit of light.

Fiordlanders never go out to sea in winter—it's the last chance to set sail.

Harald stood on the newly paved, makeshift wooden pier, squinting at the uneasy gray line where the sea met the sky. Behind him, the Grey Goose was ready. It was a Knar cargo ship, unlike the longships used for combat; its bow and stern were relatively gentle, its hull wider, and its draft deeper. The cargo box in the center of the ship was tightly covered with tarpaulin—it contained the last batch of furs, salted fish, and amber to be transported to the neighboring bay to the east, Broken Oar Bay, in exchange for winter supplies. Six oarsmen were already in position, wrapped in thick fur or wool cloaks, their breath instantly dispersed by the wind.

Olaf, carrying Ragnar and holding Tora's hand, walked down the slope to the dock. A salty, cold sea breeze immediately swept over them, and Olaf tucked the sheepskin wrapping Ragnar in even tighter. Three-year-old Ragnar was bundled up like a sturdy package, only his face showing. His eyes were much clearer than when he was an infant, but most of the time they still held a quiet, almost observant quality. At this moment, those light gray eyes were watching the large ship gently bobbing with the waves, and the unfamiliar, busy people on board.

“Take them to see it today,” Harald said to Olaf, turning to him, his voice carried on the sea breeze. “The Tora will know how a ship moves. As for the boy,” he glanced at his son, “let him remember the taste of the sea. Men of Fjordela have salt in their bones.”

Olaf nodded. She first lifted Tora by her armpits and handed her to a strong-looking sailor by the side of the ship. Six-year-old Tora blushed with excitement. Wearing altered leather pants and a thick top, she was not afraid at all. She climbed over the ship's side on her hands and feet and landed steadily inside the ship. She immediately went to touch the thick mast with curiosity.

Next was Ragnaros. As Olaf handed him over, her fingertips lingered for a moment on his thickly wrapped back. "Hold him tight, Eric," she whispered to the broad-shouldered, braided sailor.

"Don't worry, madam. The waves aren't even as thick as my arm." Eric grinned, revealing his missing front tooth, and took the heavy "package," placing Ragnar carefully in a sheltered corner of the boat, lined with hay, as if it were a bundle of valuable furs. "Here, kid, sit here and see how we make this big guy obey."

Olaf followed her aboard. She sat down next to Ragnal and half-embraced him. Tora stayed near the bow, looking ahead.

Harald was the last to leap onto the boat, his boots slamming against the deck. He glanced around, his gaze lingering briefly on his wife and children before turning back to the sea. "Cast the mooring lines! Raise the gangplank!" His command was short and forceful.

The rope was thrown back to the dock, and the gangplank was retrieved. Long oars extended from the oar holes on both sides of the boat and plunged into the grey-blue seawater.

"Raise the oars—push!"

The oarsmen roared in unison, leaning back and tensing their muscles. The long oars sliced ​​through the water, and the heavy cargo ship shuddered slightly as it slowly left the wooden dock and glided towards the fjord's exit.

This was the first time Ragnar had truly been embraced by the sea.

He sat there, his small body swaying with the boat, his eyes wide open. The scenery before him flowed backward: first the familiar Leosvik coast and his own longhouse and village receding into the distance, then the black cliffs covered with sparse patches of snow, and then the two headlands at the fjord's mouth, like the arms of giants, drawing ever closer.

The wind suddenly picked up the moment the ship left the mouth of the fjord.

It felt like a cold, heavy wall crashing into them. The ship tilted sharply to one side, the swaying transforming from side to side into a more unsettling combination of pitching and rolling. The waves were no longer the gentle ripples of the fjord, but rather surging, greyish-white mounds. The cargo ship slumped heavily onto the crests, hovered briefly, and then plunged heavily into the troughs, its bow cleaving through the water, sending up icy spray that some even landed on Ragnar's face.

"Wow! This wind's strong!" one of the oarsmen laughed, wiping the water droplets from his face.

Olaf hugged Ragnar tighter, shielding him from most of the wind and spray with his body. Ragnar didn't cry. When the cold seawater splashed on his face, he flinched, but then a strange sense of familiarity gripped him.

Feeling the combined force of the wind and waves, watching the rowers paddling with all their might, their muscles bulging, and the rhythm of their struggle against the waves, the scene before me seemed to be faintly overlapping with some familiar sights...

Ragnar felt a slight dizziness. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, his little hand unconsciously clutching a corner of his mother's dress.

Tora let out a short gasp, followed by an excited laugh. She gripped the gunwale tightly, half her body leaning out, only to be pulled back by the back of the collar by Eric, who was laughing beside her. "Be careful, little petrel! The water's cold!"

Harald stood firmly at the stern, as if nailed to the deck. One hand gripped the helm, his gaze constantly scanning the sea, the sky, and the distant coastline. He occasionally issued brief instructions to adjust the course, allowing the ship to cut through the waves at a more suitable angle.

"Look over there, Tora," Harald suddenly spoke, his voice cutting through the wind, pointing to a darker, indistinct area of ​​sea on the port side. "That's the 'whirlpool,' with reefs and turbulent currents. A good sailor recognizes this color like he recognizes the eyes of a wolf."

Tora strained to look over and nodded earnestly, though she might not actually be able to see the difference.

Ragnar followed his gaze. He saw only a stretch of undulating, slightly darker-colored sea. But the caution in his father's words gave him a vague sense that this seemingly calm sea concealed unseen dangers.

The journey wasn't long, but for children experiencing it for the first time, it felt like an eternity. When the familiar, narrow entrance to "Broken Oar Bay," as if cleaved by a giant axe, appeared ahead, even the oarsmen breathed a sigh of relief.

The cargo ship carefully sailed into the calmer inner bay and docked at a pier even more rudimentary than its own. The trade was a man's affair, and Harald, with two men, lifted the tarpaulin and began unloading, exchanging sacks of grain, a small amount of honey, and some flint and iron with the waiting inhabitants of Broken Bay.

Olaf stayed on the ship with his two children. Tora lay on the railing, her eyes glued to the unfamiliar crowds and the exchange of goods below, asking questions incessantly. Ragnal, held by his mother, watched quietly. He saw his father speaking with powerful gestures, saw the unfamiliar faces and cargo, and heard the different accents. This world was far larger and more complex than the world within his longhouse.

Ragnar was still a little dizzy. His gaze swept blankly over the gunwale, the mast, the oars that were now stowed... finally settling on the simple, windswept bow. Then he turned to look at the other small boats in the bay, which were slightly different in design.

A vague thought gently surfaced in his mind, like a bubble rising to the surface of the sea: "Why is the ship rocking so much? Is there some way to...?"

The bubble was popped by a mouthful of honey water fed to it by its mother, interrupting the little thought.

The transaction was completed quickly. Harald had no intention of lingering; the early winter light was fleeting and precious. The cargo was resecured, the crew boarded, the mooring lines were untied, and the oars were raised.

The return journey was carried by a favorable wind. Harald ordered the huge square sail to be raised. The heavy wool sail was pulled up to the mast by ropes, and with a "bang," it inflated in the sea wind, as if the whole ship had been given a sudden push forward by an invisible giant hand. The oarsmen cheered, put away their oars, and were able to rest.

The boat's speed noticeably increased, cutting through the waves. The creaking of the sails under the pressure became the main melody on board.

Ragnar looked up at the massive, billowing shadow overhead. The wind, gathered by the sails, was being channeled into forward momentum, a sight that made his mouth slightly agape. He didn't know what it was called, but he knew it was something he could understand. He closed his eyes, feeling the ship rocking, and went over what he was seeing in his mind again.

Tora pointed excitedly at the sail: "Father! It's so big! Like a giant's cloak!"

Harald smiled, a rare occurrence, and patted her head: "That's right. But it's stubborn; you have to understand the wind direction to make it obey."

The return journey was much faster. By the time the familiar fjord entrance of Leosvik came into view again, it was already dark, and the leaden clouds hung lower, as if they might spew snow at any moment.

The ship slowly docked at their home pier. When Ragnar was carried by his mother and stepped back onto the solid, unmoving ground, he staggered, his legs feeling weak, as if the earth continued to sway beneath his feet. This feeling of "land sickness" confused him, and he clung tightly to his mother's neck.

Harald directed the unloading, finally walking over to his family. He looked down at his son's pale face and still wide-open eyes, and asked, "How was it, son? The taste of the sea, remember?"

Ragnar looked at him without speaking. He couldn't yet organize his thoughts into complex sentences. But his eyes drifted to the dark silhouette of the ship, quietly moored in the twilight, then returned to his father. The sea breeze tousled his soft, light brown hair.

He nodded.

Haral seemed satisfied with the simple response, patting him on the back with considerable force. "Okay. Next time, when the ice melts, I'll take you to even farther places."

Tora had already run up the slope, heading towards the warm lights of the longhouse and the aroma of food, calling back as she ran, "Ragnall! Hurry! I'm hungry!"

Olaf, carrying his son, followed behind his daughter and husband toward the brightly lit longhouse.

Behind us, the bay's waters, growing increasingly dark under the fading sky, turned a thick, inky black, lapping against the hull and shore with a rhythmic whisper, as if brewing a long dream of ice and snow.