She shipped her oars and scrambled over to the mast and pulled up the old sail. Asta’s right, she thought. It’s a rag of a thing. Less like a sail than a colander. Then she remembered her stepmother’s bitter words: “You? You wouldn’t get as far as Trondheim. Wolves would eat you.” At least there aren’t any wolves out here, thought Solveig. There are other things, though. Things I can’t see. Things without names. For a little while, Solveig could still see their farm in the breaking light. Then she thought she could. Then she knew she could not. Everything, she said to herself. The farm, this fjord, they’ve been everything to me. She could feel tears welling up. What am I without this water, this earth? This is where I was born. Where my father taught me to fish, and told me stories, where he showed me how to carve the runes, and . . . Solveig swallowed loudly. “You know all I am,” she whispered. “Will I ever see you again?” But then she tossed her head. Where will all this get me?
