The storm eventually passed, but still, it was not warm.

Mira shook uncontrollably. Her clothes remained soaked, and her hair, which had come undone during the gusts, formed a tangled nest at the nape of her neck. She could feel the sea sloshing in her ears, and no matter how she tilted her head, it would not come back out.

The men stopped rowing with the water calm; the sail filled with wind and managed their work for them, heaving the ship further into the misty, salty void tinted pink by the morning sun. Many slept. Others drank, humming in deep voices a haunting tune that seemed to reflect the spectre-coloured sky and wisps of mist rising off the blackened waters. The song made Mira feel as if she were already dead, passing into the world of demons through a thick fog that prevented her from seeing their torturous lair until she was within their gates, and it was far too late to flee.

Three men were sitting across from where Mira clung to the ship railing with all her might, still not altogether convinced the storm was gone. She could tell by how they were looking at her that they were speaking about her. One man was frowning as he stared; another had his brows raised. The third was thinking things Mira was absolutely certain she didn’t want him thinking.

They elbowed each other and laughed, and the one with raised brows slid a wineskin in Mira’s direction. They watched, an eager curiosity on their faces, as Mira let go of the rails for a moment to slither forward and take the skin. When she drank from it, her lips and throat burned. Despite this, the heat from the drink spread quickly through her body, and she was grateful to have it. Mira didn’t want to be drunk around the men, but she drank more than she meant to, to be warm again and to burn the awful smell of dozens of damp rowing men out of her nostrils.

It came time for the men to eat (which happened twice each day rather than three times, as Mira had previously believed was common to all people). She watched the men chew big chunks of soggy bread with open mouths and nasty slurping noises, and rather than be disgusted, she was pained. It was the longest she had gone without eating, and her stomach felt like it was chewing on itself. Finally, the pink-bearded man, the one who had stolen her harp, noticed her desperate stares and held out some of his bread for her to take.

As hungry as Mira was, she was more terrified and so did not move forward and accept the gift. She liked having the rails to her back, as this meant none of the men could sneak up on her without her noticing. Pinkbeard crept forward on his hands and knees like a wild beast and left a piece of bread on the deck in front of Mira. Once he had backed away again, she crawled to the hunk and devoured it feeling such relief for a moment she could have cried.

When the sun rose higher in the sky, (bringing no heat given it was filtered through thick clouds), something happened that Mira could only describe as magical, though, at the time, she didn’t think on it, as it was too confusing to have such a pleasant moment in the midst of the terror. One of the men (the one with the thick lips who’d made some sort of joke after the lightning came for Mira’s captor) grinned at her with wide eyes. She was frightened of the wild look, and when he pointed, even though she was filled with fear, Mira’s eyes followed his finger into the foam-capped sea.

A big fish surfaced, bigger than any she’d seen before. It was larger than even the ship, and Mira jumped when she noticed its big white eye, scrambling away from the rails as fast as she could.

The drumming ceased, and the Northmen grew silent, shuffling to the ship’s railing to have a look. Many of the men reached out and touched the creature in hushed awe.

Is it a whale? Mira had heard stories about whales before, but she always thought them fantasy, like dragons or unicorns or eagles.

The pink-bearded man caught her eye and waved her over. She shook her head and held back, certain the beast would thrash about and knock the ship. If she was close to the edge when it happened, she might fall over.

Pinkbeard did not allow her refusal. He took her by the hand and brought her to the edge of the ship, pulling her cold fingers out towards the animal. Her arms were too short to reach, so he lifted her up. One arm tight around her waist, the other guiding her hand to the creature’s skin.

It was like nothing Mira had felt before. Both hard and soft, sort of like a bathing sponge but also completely different. In awe of the sensation, she ran her fingers along the smooth, slippery surface until the beast sank back into the depths.

As the Northman set her back on the deck, Mira’s eyes met those of the other stolen woman, the one who’d named her witch. The woman scowled and spat in her direction. Though it hurt to be looked at with so much contempt, Mira couldn’t bring herself to regret touching the sea creature. It had been too magnificent.

When the time came to part paths with the wind, the men took up their oars again. Mira stayed near the pink-bearded northerner. He seemed less irritated with her than the others, and when he ate, he gave her pieces of salted meat from his own rations. She was too ravenous to care that they had no forks or spoons aboard the ship. She ate from her palm like a wild animal.

At one point, the man next to Pinkbeard left the oar to piss off the ship’s edge. In her mind, Mira called the man Wolf-head, for he had a wolf skin tied around his neck and, at first, the wolf’s head—which was left on the skin for some barbaric reason—was kept atop his own hair. From above, the man would not look like a man at all; the gods would think him an animal. By the time the storm passed, he’d let the creature’s head flop down and dangle on his back, its dead eyes empty and frightening.

When Wolf-head was gone, Pinkbeard called to her, “Soten!” and gestured to the empty seat. He showed her where to place her hands on the sea-bleached wood and how to push from the chest and pull the oar into her stomach.

This is how they stay so warm, she thought.

Rowing was hard work, and she was certain she was not even truly helping.

Wolf-head returned and hooted with laughter; he was so overcome that his body crumpled in on itself and the wolf’s head flopped back atop his hair. He sat again in his place, squishing Mira between himself and the pink-bearded Northman, making a jest of the situation, resting his arms behind his head as if he was relaxing while she did all his work.

Mira had never seen men who laughed and sang like children. How can men be like this one moment and be axing innocent creatures the next?

Her arms burned from the work, and when she let go of the oar, she found that her hands were shaking from the strain on her muscles. They’ve been rowing for several days. We must be nearly there.

But where was there?

Mira didn’t know where the Northmen were from. She’d been told as a child that they lived aboard their ships, but that didn’t seem right. How could they grow food, raise goats and chickens? How would they get fresh water?

Once again, Mira caught the stare of the other stolen woman, narrow beady eyes on a gaunt face. The woman was glaring at her with such hatred that Mira had to look away. I’m helping them take her further away, Mira defended the woman’s anger in her mind. She is right to hate me.

But what could Mira do? She didn’t want to die like the farmer’s wife. Surely refusing a Northman’s request would bring about some form of brutal suffering.

Mira didn’t have to deal with the woman’s glare for long, as it turned out. The following morning, the woman didn’t wake up. Had she died from the cold? Mira could not be sure. One of the Northmen pushed the body into the sea, and no one said any words for the dead woman.

Mira tried to think of a prayer to say, but it was challenging to find the right words. In the end, she knelt on the deck, clasped her hands together, and simply asked that the gods take the woman, even though her body was in the sea and not in the ground like the gods preferred. And if she tells you I am a witch, she is mistaken.

Pinkbeard watched as she did this. At first, it made Mira nervous, as, in her own country, heathens were not well-treated. But the man did not seem bothered by her prayers. If anything, he found them fascinating.

It was one or two days after the woman died that the pink-bearded man shouted to another at the head of the ship. This one had hair as red as corn poppies and a beard forked into two peculiarly woven strands. The man coughed out some scratchy words in return before gazing at Mira. “Soten!” he said, motioning for her to come to him.

Mira looked to Pinkbeard, unsure if she was meant to listen to the man with two beards or not. He nodded and grunted, so she went to the man who was calling her, careful to stand far enough away to be out of his reach but close enough that she could admire the shiny golden beads woven into his coarse beard. He pointed to the horizon.

“Imgya, Soten. Imgya.”

Land.

Just a small sliver, far off in the distance, but still—land. A great relief flooded Mira’s body. The light danced on the water, and the sight was beautiful. She forgot briefly where she was and what was happening and watched the green hills grow larger in astonishment.