Ulf leaned back his head and let some of the snowflakes drop onto his tongue. They melted instantly. Then he held out his hand and caught two. Against the touch of his warm skin, they quickly turned to water. He studied the two small separate pools of water on his palm as they coalesced into one.
“I’ve heard that no two snowflakes are identical,” he said finally.
Wulf caught two flakes on his own palm, watching as they melted. “These two are,” he said.
Ulf gave him a pained look. “Well, they are now,” he said. “But they’re not snowflakes anymore. They’re little puddles—like rain.”
“They looked the same when they were snowflakes,” Wulf said. He caught several more, holding them out for inspection before they too melted almost immediately to water. “Like these two.”
“But they’re not snowflakes anymore either,” Ulf said.
Wulf shrugged. “They were,” he said. “And when they were, they looked the same. Identical even.”
Ulf shook his head. “No. They didn’t,” he said, with the firm conviction of someone who knows he’s right.
“You didn’t see them. I did,” Wulf told him. “And I tell you, they were identical.”
“But if you were able to look at them very closely—”
“Which I was,” Wulf interrupted.
“You would have seen that they were not the same,” Ulf continued, not allowing his brother’s protest to divert him. There was silence for a few moments, then Wulf decided to challenge from a different direction.
“Where did you hear this?” he asked, and when his brother didn’t reply immediately, he continued. “You said, ‘I heard that no two snowflakes are the same.’ Where did you hear that?”
“From a famous philosopher,” Ulf replied.
Wulf inclined his head to look at him more closely. He wasn’t aware that his brother knew any famous philosophers, let alone spent his time talking to them.
“And his name was?” he asked, letting the question hang in the silence that followed.
Finally, Ulf replied. “Actually, it was my mam who told me.”
“If that’s the same woman who’s my mam,” Wulf said, “she’s no famous philosopher. She’s a great cook and an expert seamstress. But not a famous philosopher.”
“I didn’t say she was. She heard it from a famous philosopher. And she told me.”
“And who was this famous philosopher? What was his name?”
“Aha!” Ulf crowed. “You’re showing your male prejudice there. Who said the philosopher was a man?” He smiled, happy to have caught his brother out.
Under his breath, Wulf cursed himself for falling for the old trick. But he refused to be diverted. “Well then, what is her name?” he asked.
“It was Old Gert,” Ulf said triumphantly.
Old Gert was an elderly widow who lived in a ramshackle hut just above the high-water mark on the western fringe of Hallasholm. She collected driftwood and odds and ends that were washed up with the tide. Young children used to follow after her and tease her until Erak banned the practice. She was a kindly old soul, and it offended Erak to see the children behaving so badly. Still they persisted until the day when he caught three of them at it, and slinging them under his massive arms and carrying them, shrieking, back up the beach, he set them to cleaning out Hallasholm’s numerous cesspits. After that, the teasing stopped.
“Gert-by-Sea?” Wulf asked, using the title by which she was most often known.
Ulf nodded emphatically. “That’s the one.”
“When were you at Gert’s home by the sea?”
“I wasn’t. I said she told Mam. Mam had taken her a batch of hot honey cakes for her afternoon snack and she told her about the snowflakes. Then Mam told me.”
“She never mentioned it to me,” Wulf said.
Ulf smiled, delighted that Wulf had walked into another verbal trap. “That’s because she loves me more than you.”
This nonsense, diverting as it might be for the twins, could have gone on and on, but Stig interrupted, his voice cutting over the twins’.
“Stefan!” he called.
Stefan half turned, without breaking the rhythm of his stroke. “What is it, Stig?”
“You were doing impersonations the other day. I’ve got a new one for you.”
Stefan looked at Thorn. The one-armed sea wolf was hauling on his oar, using his left hand and his wooden hook clamped around the butt end. He raised one eyebrow in warning.
“I’m not sure about that, Stig,” Stefan said warily. “What do you want me to impersonate?”
“Can you do the sound of two idiots babbling?” Stig asked. Thorn turned away to hide a grin.
Stefan frowned. “What does that sound like?”
Stig jerked his head at the twins. “Like those two.”
* * *
• • • • •
They continued rowing through the rest of the afternoon, thankfully without the accompaniment of Ulf and Wulf discussing snowflakes and philosophers. The twins had learned, through bitter experience, how far they could push their shipmates’ patience with these discussions, and Stig’s request to Stefan served as a warning that the limit had been reached.
The snow continued to fall, and as the sun dropped behind the mountains to the west, Hal began to search for a landing place.
He found one when they reached the first of the portages—where the river flowed rapidly down a steep chute. The force of the water, contained by a narrower section of banks, hurled ice floes down the slope. The eastern bank continued to be steep and difficult. The western bank was wider, but the slope was just as steep. Studying the terrain, Hal could see a narrow track winding off to the left, between the trees.
He brought the ship in to the bank, grounding the stem in the fine gravel.
“Stig. Lydia,” he said, and gestured to the path leading off among the trees. Stig and Lydia dropped lightly to the ground beside the bow and headed off into the trees to reconnoiter. The rest of the crew remained on board, and they remained alert. As ever, their hands never strayed far from their weapons. This was unfamiliar territory, and the trees could conceal any number of enemies.
Or none.
Fifteen minutes later, the two scouts returned. Stig gave Hal a reassuring wave.
“All clear,” he said.
Hal relaxed. “All right, everyone, we’ll camp here. Edvin, get a fire going. Jesper and Stefan, you can collect wood for him. We’ll post sentries tonight, and tomorrow we’ll get started on the portage.”
chapter thirteen
The following morning, Hal surveyed the track they would use for the portage.
It ran up the hill, twenty meters inland from the riverbank, where the slope was slightly easier. It was narrow and it twisted and turned as it made its way up the hill. As Erak had suggested, it would have been impossible to haul a full-size wolfship up to the next level.
“Obviously,” Hal said to Lydia, who had accompanied him, “someone’s come up this way sometime in the past. But there’s no record of it.”
The crew set to work lightening the ship, removing all excess weight. The two yardarms and sails came out, and all the oars. The food and other stores were piled on the bank, and Hal allowed the large freshwater tank under the deck to drain away. This close to the river, there was no shortage of drinking water. By the time they had finished, the ship had lost about two-thirds of its deadweight and they were able to haul it onto the bank with relative ease.
Hauling it up the track would be another matter. But Hal had thought of that. He took a set of blocks—wooden pulleys—from the ship and went inland to the beginning of the track. He peered uphill and picked out two solid-looking trees, one either side of the track, thirty meters up the slope, where the track angled to the right. He attached a block to the base of each and ran ro
pes through them, leading the rope back down to where the ship would be positioned. Instead of shoving the ship up the hill with brute strength, the Herons would be able to haul it up using the ropes. Using two ropes and pulleys would serve to keep the ship moving straight up the hill, rather than being pulled off to the side as it got closer to the top. And the mechanical advantage of the pulleys would virtually halve the effort they would need to exert.
It wouldn’t be easy, of course. But it would be a lot easier for the small party than if they had to rely on sheer muscle power.
When he was ready, the crew heaved and shoved the lightened hull until they had it positioned at the bottom of the track. Hal tied the two ends of the ropes to the bow post. But before he set the crew to work, he gestured to the pile of equipment on the riverbank.
“Get your weapons and keep them handy,” he said. “We can leave the food and spars and sails where they are for the time being. We’ll come back to fetch them later. Lydia?” The girl looked up expectantly, waiting to hear his orders. “Scout the hill for a couple of hundred meters.” He jerked his thumb uphill. “I don’t want anyone to surprise us when we’re busy hauling the boat up.”
She nodded and moved swiftly up the track, passing out of their sight when she rounded the point where it angled right. As she went, she moved off the narrow, cleared path and stepped in among the trees. All her senses were alert—sight, hearing and, in the light of her experience at Serpent Pass, her sense of smell as well. If there were Temujai hidden among the trees, that might well be the first she knew of them.
She made her way to the top of the portage track, a distance of some two hundred meters, stopping at the level ground above it. There was no sign of any enemy. She waited several minutes, concealed in the shadows under the trees, watching and listening. Eventually, she was reassured that there was nobody nearby and made her way back down the slope to where the Herons waited.
“All clear,” she told Hal. He stooped and took hold of the left-hand rope, gesturing for the rest of the crew to take their places.
They all seized hold of the tow ropes, except for Edvin. He was by the bow, with a pile of six wooden rollers—meter-long pieces cut from sapling trunks. He picked up the first and slid it under the bow of the ship as the crew began to heave. The curved keel section rode up on the roller and slid uphill. After it had gone two meters, Edvin slid another roller under the bow, then another. With the addition of each roller, the task of pulling the ship overland became progressively easier and the ship moved slowly up the track. Lydia, watching keenly, quickly caught on to the idea. She ran to the stern as the first roller came clear. She picked it up and ran back uphill to the bow, placing it under the keel. Edvin nodded his thanks and trotted downhill to retrieve and replace the second roller. As he did, Lydia went downhill again to retrieve the third, carry it uphill and place it under the up-curved keel at the bow once more.
Working in tandem, they kept the ship moving on the constantly renewed bed of rollers, while the rest of the crew heaved and tugged on the ropes.
“Keep it moving!” Hal gasped to his crew. “If we let her stop, it’ll be twice as hard to get her going again.”
Nobody replied. They had no breath to spare for unnecessary chatter. They strained and heaved, feet slipping in the loose earth and leaf mold as they searched for solid purchase. And all the while, Lydia and Edvin kept up their back-and-forth ritual, constantly renewing the rollers under the ship’s keel so that there were always five of them in place.
And slowly, ponderously, Heron inched her way up the slope.
After an hour’s backbreaking, muscle-straining labor, they reached the top of the first section.
“Rest!” Hal shouted. At least, he attempted to shout. The command came out more like a breathless grunt. But the crew heard and understood it, releasing the drag ropes with a chorus of groans and flinging themselves onto the ground. Hal stood leaning against a tree trunk, his chest heaving with exertion as he studied the slope they had just conquered. He shook his head with relief. He hadn’t been sure if his ropes and pulleys and rollers would work as well as they had. He felt a sense of exultation. They had beaten this hill.
“Anyone think to bring a canteen?” he asked, his throat dry. He was met by blank looks. But Lydia stepped forward. There were half a dozen canteens back down the hill, where the food and stores were piled.
“I’ll get some,” she volunteered, and Hal nodded gratefully as she set off down the hill, running lightly over the ground where they had just struggled with so much effort.
Not that Lydia had enjoyed an easy time, he thought. Constantly running back and forth up and down the hill, retrieving and then replacing the rollers, was an exhausting task and she had probably covered four times the distance the rest of the crew had. But it was nowhere near as exhausting as dragging the ship overland and uphill. Hal slid down the trunk of the tree, resting his back against it as he sat at its base, legs sprawled out in front of him. He gave Thorn a tired grin. The old sea wolf was white-haired and many years senior to the rest of the crew. But his strength seemed endless. He was barely breathing heavily. Nor was Ingvar, Hal noted.
“This is why we go to sea,” he told the one-armed warrior.
Thorn nodded. “No hills at sea.”
Lydia returned a few minutes later with the half dozen canteens. She passed them around, and the crew drank greedily. Mindful that they still had several sections of track to negotiate, she collected them and headed off through the trees to the river to refill them.
“We’ll rest a few minutes,” Hal told the crew.
Thorn looked up warily. “Not too long,” he cautioned.
Hal nodded agreement. If they waited too long, their muscles would stiffen and it would be difficult to get moving again. There was a delicate balance to giving the crew just enough rest, but not too much.
When Lydia returned with the full canteens, he rose to his feet, groaning slightly.
“Let’s get moving,” he said, and was greeted by a chorus of complaints. But he noted that they all rose to their feet.
It took them thirty minutes to manhandle the ship around the bend in the track. For this, they relied solely on muscle power, as there was no way they could use the pulleys and rollers to slide the hull up and around. Once they were positioned, with the bow pointing up the next section of straight track, Hal went ahead and found anchor points for the pulleys. He slipped and slid back down the hill. The crew were standing by the drag ropes, and Lydia and Edvin had their pile of rollers ready at the bow. He reached down and took hold of the rope, then took the strain.
“Right,” he said. “Pull!”
After a moment’s hesitation, when it seemed the ship wouldn’t budge, they overcame the inertia and the Heron began to slide up the hill once more.
Their progress was measured in inches. Heads down, eyes fixed on the ground in front of them, they heaved on the ropes, feeling the ship moving slowly, ever so slowly, up the steep track. The rollers rumbled under the keel, the noise accentuated by the empty hull acting as a sound box. Their world narrowed down to the sound of the rollers against the planks, the creaking of ropes and pulleys as they heaved, and the groaning of their companions as they fought against the deadweight of the ship, forcing her to keep moving up the hill, cursing her for a stubborn, willful beast.
Hal, leaning almost parallel to the slope of the ground as he heaved on the rope, exerting all his strength for a minuscule amount of progress, thought wryly that if there had been any Temujai in the vicinity, they could have simply strolled in and slaughtered the Heron’s crew as they labored.
“We probably would have just kept pulling while they did,” he muttered, without realizing he had spoken aloud.
On the other side of the hull, Stig heard him but didn’t understand the words. “What was that?” he gasped through gritted teeth.
But Hal shoo
k his head. “Forget it,” he croaked. He sensed Lydia hurrying past him to place a roller under the bow. Presumably she’d be keeping a watch so that they weren’t surprised, he thought. Then he shook his head. He didn’t really care and he didn’t have breath to waste asking her.
This section was longer than the first, and they had to stop two-thirds of the way up so that he could reset the pulleys.
As before, the crew sprawled on the ground where they fell. Hal allowed himself a five-minute rest before he started up the hill with the pulleys and drag ropes.
Then they began again, with Edvin and Lydia lending a hand to start the ship moving uphill.
Once more they fell into the mindless exercise of heaving on the rope, measuring the ground they won in centimeters, as they struggled against the stubborn weight of the ship.
How did I ever think she was a lightweight? Hal found himself wondering. Of course, once she was afloat, Heron was as light as a gull riding on the water. On land she was a ponderous, stubborn deadweight, trying to slide off in the wrong direction as the slope and camber of the track varied.
But they were fit and strong, with their muscles conditioned to row against the sea and wind for hours at a time, and eventually, they reached the end of the second section. This time, Hal had them manhandle the ship into position at the beginning of the third and final part of the track before he allowed them a fifteen-minute rest. Then they resumed. They groaned. They complained. They protested. But they took their places and hauled, heartened by the knowledge that this was the shortest section of the track and they could see the end above them.
They had started out before midmorning, but it was early afternoon before the Heron slid over the lip of the hill and onto the level ground at the top. They fetched the spars, sails and other equipment from the lower level and, after they reloaded the ship, launched her, shoving off from the bank and settling to the oars. After two kilometers, they reached the site of the next portage, and the whole business of unloading, hauling and dragging had to be done once more.
Return of the Temujai Page 9