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before the gale. His timing was perfect. He must talk to Sam; must tell him as much as he needed to know. He’d have preferred to keep his news to himself, but this was necessary. Thorvald needed a boat. Sam had one. He just hoped Sam would be able to keep his mouth shut.
    It would be a while before his friend reached the jetty, doubtless with a good catch from the treacherous waters between this northeastern shore of Hrossey and the rising ground of Hrolfsey, which the old folk called Queen’s Isle. It was most certainly not the safest place to fish, but Sam was an expert sailor and an astute judge of currents and tides. He had prospered and built his own cottage in Stensakir; he talked of marrying and starting a family. Thorvald thought that ridiculous, and had told his friend so. Being an equable sort of fellow, Sam had only smiled.
    Not only was this waterway a perilous fishing ground, it also housed thestrangest of dwelling places. On the level ground of Holy Island, situated halfway between the larger isles, lived a community of Christian hermits. The brothers had traveled across the ocean from a land far to the southwest, in tiny, frail shells of boats. This small isle with its weight of lore had been their chosen home. Folk had shunned the place for generations; it was known to be a dwelling place of the Seal Tribe, a dangerous people at home both in water and on land, the women of unearthly beauty, the men so fearsome they could scare a person to death with a single glance of their dark green eyes. Shielded by the courage of their faith—or by blind ignorance, depending on how you looked at it—the brothers had settled on Holy Island nonetheless, and now lived in a well-ordered though simple fashion, running a few sheep, a goat or two, some chickens. As far as anyone knew, the Seal Tribe had never bothered them, though it was said that the sea folk were immensely patient and had long memories. Say someone offended them, or received a favor. Generations might pass and all seem forgotten, and then suddenly there they’d be, demanding vengeance or asking for payment. Because of that, there were very few visitors to Holy Island, and those who made the trip always carried a piece of iron with them for protection. If you forgot this essential item, there was no saying you’d ever get home safely. Sam was one of the few who put in regularly to the brothers’ small jetty, with a message or a gift of bread or fresh fish. Sam was a big fellow and not easily frightened.
    Thorvald waited on the shore, watching as the
Sea Dove
bobbed closer. This was a superior kind of craft, a vessel such as a young fisherman like Sam might dream of all his life and never hope to own. Sam had built her for a man called Olaf Egilsson, who had wealth enough to buy in the fine oak from Rogaland. The
Sea Dove
was perfect in every detail, from her eye-sweet lines to the sturdy strength of her keel. The lower strakes were of oak, the sheer strake of lighter pine. She was a haaf-boat, an ocean-going craft, though small. The two pairs of oars she carried were seldom employed, for she went far better under sail, with one man stationed near the stern to handle the steering oar, which was mounted on the starboard side, the other adjusting the trim as required. Sometimes they rowed in and out from the jetty; that was all. Sam had made the sail himself, not trusting any other man in Hrossey with such a critical piece of craftsmanship. On the day she was finished, Olaf Egilsson had taken sick with an ague, and within seven nights he was dead, but not before he told every one of his kin that nobody was getting their hands on his boat but the man who had made her with such love. If hewere to die, the
Sea Dove
must be Sam’s, for only Sam would use her as she deserved.
    The haaf-boat was as well maintained as any vessel in the islands; her master had a reputation for thoroughness, for all he was barely twenty years of age. The