Raven of the Waves

by Michael Cadnum

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  Praise for Michael Cadnum

  “Not since the debut of Robert Cormier has such a major talent emerged in adolescent literature.” —The Horn Book

  “A writer who just gets better with every book.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Cadnum is a master.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Blood Gold

  “A gripping adventure set during the 1849 California gold rush. Complementing the historical insight is an expertly crafted, fast-paced, engrossing adventure story full of fascinating characters. This is historical fiction that boys in particular will find irresistible.” —Booklist, starred review

  “This novel is fast paced.… The well-realized settings, which range from remote wildernesses to sprawling cities, create colorful backdrops for Willie’s adventure. An enticing read.” —School Library Journal

  “The prose is lively.… A spirited introduction to the gold rush for older readers.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Breaking the Fall

  Edgar Award Nominee

  “Tension hums beneath the surface.… Riveting.” —Booklist

  “Eerie, suspense-laden prose powerfully depicts the frustrating, overwhelming and often painful process of traveling from youth toward adulthood.” —Publishers Weekly

  Calling Home

  An Edgar Award Nominee

  “An exquisitely crafted work … of devastating impact.” —The Horn Book

  “Probably the truest portrait of a teenaged alcoholic we’ve had in young adult fiction.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  “Readers … will never forget the experience.” —Wilson Library Bulletin

  “[Readers] will relate to the teen problems that lead to Peter’s substance abuse and the death of his best friend.” —Children’s Book Review Service

  “Through the prism of descriptive poetic images, Peter reveals the dark details of his sleepwalking life.… An intriguing novel.” —School Library Journal

  Daughter of the Wind

  “Readers will enjoy the sensation of being swept to another time and place in this thrill-a-minute historical drama.” —Publishers Weekly

  Edge

  “Mesmerizing … This haunting, life-affirming novel further burnishes Cadnum’s reputation as an outstanding novelist.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

  “A thought-provoking story full of rich, well-developed characters.” —School Library Journal

  “Devastating.” —Booklist

  “A psychologically intense tale of inner struggle in the face of tragedy.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  Forbidden Forest

  “Cadnum succeeds admirably in capturing the squalor and casual brutality of the times.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Heat

  “In this gripping look at family relationships Cadnum finds painful shades of gray for Bonnie to face for the first time; in her will to grasp the manner and timing of her healing is evidence that she is one of Cadnum’s most complex and enigmatic characters.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Compelling. Adopting the laconic style that gives so much of his writing its tough edge and adult flavor, Cadnum challenges readers with hard questions about the nature of fear and of betrayal.” —Publishers Weekly

  In a Dark Wood

  Los Angeles Times Book Prize Finalist

  “A beautiful evocation of a dangerous age … Readers who lose themselves in medieval Sherwood Forest with Cadnum will have found a treasure.” —San Francisco Chronicle

  “In a Dark Wood is a stunning tour de force, beautifully written, in which Michael Cadnum turns the legend of Robin Hood inside out. Cadnum’s shimmering prose is poetry with muscle, capturing both the beauty and brutality of life in Nottinghamshire. In a Dark Wood may well become that rare thing—an enduring piece of literature.” —Robert Cormier, author of The Chocolate War

  “[T]his imaginative reexamination of the Robin Hood legend from the point of view of the Sheriff of Nottingham is not only beautifully written but is also thematically rich and peopled with memorable multidimensional characters.” —Booklist

  “Cadnum’s blend of dry humor, human conflict and historical details proves a winning combination in this refreshing twist on the Robin Hood tale.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “A complex, many-layered novel that does not shirk in its description of [the period], and offers an unusually subtle character study and a plot full of surprises.” —The Horn Book

  The King’s Arrow

  “The King’s Arrow is an adventure story full of color and romance, as resonant as a fable, told in clear, clean, swift prose. A wonderful read.” —Dean Koontz

  Nightsong: The Legend of Orpheus and Eurydice

  “Cadnum (Starfall: Phaeton and the Chariot of the Sun) once again breathes life into classic mythological figures.… Skillfully creating a complex, multidimensional portrait of Orpheus (as well as of other members of the supporting cast, including Persephone and Sisyphus), Cadnum brings new meaning to an ancient romance.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Another excellent retelling of one of Ovid’s mythical tales. This well-written version is a much fuller retelling than that found either in Mary Pope Osborne’s Favorite Greek Myths or Jacqueline Morley’s Greek Myths. The story is a powerful one, delivered in comprehensible yet elevated language, and is sure to resonate with adolescents and give them fodder for discussion.” —School Library Journal

  Raven of the Waves

  “[A] swashbuckling … adventure set in the eighth century, Cadnum (In a Dark Wood) shows how a clash of cultures profoundly affects two distant enemies: a young Viking warrior and a monk’s apprentice.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Convey[s] a sense of what life might have been like in a world where danger and mystery lurked in the nearest woods; where cruelty was as casual as it was pervasive; where mercy was real but rare; and where the ability to sing, or joke—or even just express a coherent thought—was regarded as a rare and valuable quality … Valuable historical insight, but it’s definitely not for the squeamish.” —Booklist

  “Hard to read because of the gruesome scenes and hard to put down, this book provokes strong emotions and raises many fascinating questions.” —School Library Journal

  Rundown

  “Deep, dark, and moving, this is a model tale of adolescent uneasiness set amid the roiling emotions of modern life.” —Kirkus Review

  “Cadnum demonstrates his usual mastery of mood and characterization in this acutely observed portrait.” —Booklist

  Ship of Fire

  “Brimming with historical detail and ambience, this fact-paced maritime adventure will surely please devotees of the genre.” —School Library Journal

  Starfall: Phaeton and the Chariot of the Sun

  “Cadnum (In a Dark Wood) once again displays his expertise as a storyteller as he refashions sections of Ovid’s Metamorphoses into a trilogy of enchanting tales. Readers will feel Phaeton’s trepidation as he journeys to meet his father for the first time, and they will understand the hero’s mixture of excitement and dread as he loses control of the horses. [Cadnum] humanize[es] classical figures and transform[s] lofty language into accessible, lyrical prose; he may well prompt enthusiasts to seek the original source.” —Publishers Weekly

  Taking It

  “Cadnum keeps readers on the edge of their seats.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Cadnum stretches the literary boundaries of the YA problem novel. This one should not be missed.” —Booklist, starred review

  Zero at the Bone

  “
Riveting … [an] intense psychological drama.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Much more frightening than a generic horror tale.” —Booklist, starred review

  “A painful subject, mercilessly explored.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Raven of the Waves

  Michael Cadnum

  FOR SHERINA

  Faith shall wing father, heart higher

  Hope nearer Heaven as night falls.

  —from Aethelwulf’s Hymn

  1

  794 A.D.

  The fjord was calm, the high cliffs and the ships’ prows mirrored in the blue.

  Lidsmod turned back to Gunnar, trying to hide his disappointment.

  Gunnar smiled sympathetically and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You know how much we would like you to sail with us,” he said.

  At seventeen Lidsmod was old enough to take an oar in a warship. But the voyage was fully manned, and Gunnar had refused permission to older and more experienced shipmates than Lidsmod.

  “Come on, you two,” Opir cried from the distance. “You’ll be late!”

  Gunnar waved but stayed where he was.

  Lidsmod straightened his back and looked the tall, tanned Gunnar in the eye. “I understand, Gunnar,” he managed to say. He added the old blessing, “May the gods blind every foe.”

  Gunnar smiled. “I would be grateful to have the son of Fastivi in my ship, especially on a fighting voyage like this.”

  “We’ll be late for the horse fight,” said Lidsmod.

  “It was a bad idea to have a horse fight the day before our three ships sail,” sighed Gunnar. “But no one can tell these men what to do.”

  Like all the other villagers of Spjothof, Lidsmod was very curious whether Gorm’s stallion would be able to finish this fight as quickly as he had the other two that spring. Gorm’s horse was right out of Odin’s heart if there ever were such a beast. The other men had been gleeful with excitement. There had not been such a day in years—three ships taking to sea to find gold, and a horse fight and an ale feast to wish them well.

  But Lidsmod stayed a few moments longer beside the new ship Raven, her keel scar on sand down to where she rode the still water, the chests packed, the mast seated on its supports. The pine oars gave off a subtle perfume so fine that Lidsmod wanted to lie down in the ship and stare up at the sky.

  He loved this ship, as the other men loved theirs, bold Crane—its handsome bird’s head just repainted, and the famous sea-blackened Landwaster farther along—the ship that once had taken the heads of five hundred Danes. To have such a famous ship on a journey was enough to make the sword bright, but Lidsmod admired Raven, this newest, keenest ship he had watched Njord hew from tall, white-fleshed trees.

  Njord the shipwright strode across the beach, years of wood tar on his stiff leather apron. “You two don’t want to see the fight?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” said Gunnar sardonically.

  “I prefer ships to horses too,” said Njord, and the two men laughed.

  Njord nodded at Lidsmod, offering a sympathetic smile.

  I must learn to hide my thoughts, thought Lidsmod. Fighting men show no feelings.

  “I know you don’t want trouble,” Njord said. His hair was white, like the wing of a tern, his face wrinkled. “Men bet silver, lose, and carry the hard feelings for a long time, even on a voyage to great fortune.”

  From far off came the excited, lustful whistle of the mare, and the answering nicker of one of the stallions.

  The entire village of Spjothof was gathered. The little farming village at the end of the fjord had stopped everything to celebrate the most exciting day since Landwaster had returned with Danish gold five summers before.

  Lidsmod took his place among the crowd, and he was not sorry he was here. These were his friends, men and women he had known all his life. Lidsmod’s mother, Fastivi, had a place of honor at the front of the crowd, her golden hair touched with gray. Lidsmod joined her, the crowd settling around them, clapping and calling excitedly.

  Everyone in the village knew how Fastivi had discovered a bear over the torn body of her husband, when Lidsmod was a few months old. Wearing her infant son lashed to her back, safely swaddled, she had seized her husband’s spear and killed the beast with one thrust, through hide and heart. Some villagers believed that it had not been a bear at all, but an apparition—Odin in disguise to test the courage of this beautiful woman.

  The mare was tethered, jerking the walrus-hide rope. Her eyes were wild, and she danced, fighting to break what held her because she could smell the stallions.

  The villagers’ cheeks were berry bright and the sunlight was warm for the first time in many months. Everyone stood next to a friend or behind a companion he could clap on a shoulder. Opir hooted and laughed, the sound enough to make any man or woman laugh in turn.

  Only Torsten stood alone, arms folded. He watched the fighting pit with hard gray eyes. He watched the crowd. He eyed the women. There was always a space around Torsten—he wore a sword even now. No man spoke to Torsten, and Torsten rarely spoke.

  Gorm pulled Ice Lightning into the fighting pit and loosed both the hood and the rope. The horse ran as if in the far pasture, and then it scented the mare, safe behind the fence of pine spears. Gorm lifted his staff, his neighbors cheering. Ice Lightning tossed, fought the air, kicked at the sun. The frisky stallion was still shaggy with winter, and when he kicked, drifts of gray hair came free and glittered in the sunlight. He was all one color, like dirty snow.

  And then came the challenger, Floki’s horse, Biter, brown as seasoned oak and strong. Biter had gained the villagers’ admiration but no bettors. Both horses were compact, stout, hairy, and quick. They did not stand on earth but on air, dancing.

  Both stallions saw each other now and scented the mare. She thundered her hind hooves against the pine fence.

  “She wants both of them at once,” called Opir, and people laughed.

  Then the crowd was silent. Lidsmod wondered if human battle was like this, the air before the fight so still, the sun so bright.

  Biter charged the ice gray stallion, and the horse sprawled.

  Gorm stabbed at his horse with his staff, but missed because Ice Lightning was up so quickly. Floki cheered his horse, but the crowd roared with him so loudly, no one could hear the voice of one man. A bright red crescent appeared in Biter’s neck, and just as suddenly Ice Lightning’s coat was pink on his forelegs, and blood and spit flew into the air. The two stallions shrieked—a furious, terrible sound—and then, at once, they were both down.

  Mud flew, and hooves thudded turf, slashed it, ripped dirt, and the horses rose again, two necks knotted together, strips of hide dangling. The two horse handlers stood poised, spectators now, their staves unneeded.

  Then the middle period of the fight began, as it will when men are wrestling, bets placed on market day. The first excitement gone, the long, grinding work was under way. Horse hair was spiky with sweat. The two horses grunted.

  Opir shook his fist and jumped up and down so the men around him laughed, and even tall, long-haired Gunnar folded his arms and called out. This was a fight indeed. No one had guessed that Gorm’s pale, powerful horse would have so much trouble. Njord shook both fists in the air. Some men began to bet on the brown stallion, the stocky, hard-fighting Biter. Men began to call Biter’s name. Even if Biter lost, he would die with his name in song, truly nameworthy. Biter, ale drinkers would sing, the brave horse who flew at Ice Lightning.

  Men put their heads together. Women cheered and talked among themselves and to the men near them. Biter was the younger horse, some said. Ice Lightning had been in too many fights. He had not rested enough. He had not trained.

  Lidsmod cheered too, proud to see such fighting courage.

  Gorm’s hands found new places on his staff, and his jaw muscles bunched. He whacked Ice Lightning three times, but the horse could not fight harder. The cords in the horse’s neck stood out, and the ve
ins too, his eyes wide, his teeth buried in Biter’s mane.

  Biter wheeled, struggling to shake loose the snow gray horse and reach him with his hind hooves. He escaped at last, at the cost of leaving a half-moon chunk of his flesh in Ice Lightning’s teeth.

  Perhaps Ice Lightning believed all along he would defeat this new horse, this tough young stallion. Or perhaps the taste of Biter’s blood in his mouth gave him confidence, bad confidence, the kind that leads to error.

  People would murmur about it afterward. What happened to Gorm’s horse? Why did it make its mistake? But no one would be able to say for certain because, after all, probably even horses were subject to the powers of the Norns, the weavers of destiny.

  The stallions grappled. Biter spun, free of Ice Lightning. Ice Lightning did not press and find a new tooth hold, nor did he rear and prance away. He did nothing for the space of a long breath. Then Biter turned and shot a rear hoof to Ice Lightning’s head.

  There was a crack, a sickening snap.

  Ice Lightning was down.

  He was lying on the scarred grass, eyes open, ribs bellowing in and out, his hooves still.

  The villagers cheered. Opir leaped up and down, his voice louder than any other. Lidsmod cheered too, but he was sorry to see the veteran stallion so badly hurt.

  Gorm threw down his staff. His eyes had no expression, and his hands were at his belt.

  Lidsmod saw it clearly, because even when he was feasting or drunk on the deepest ale, it seemed to Lidsmod that some part of him was wide awake. He saw Gorm with the knife in his hand. Gorm stepped to the side of Biter, and Lidsmod understood at once what Gorm was about to do.

  Lidsmod lunged through the crowd and reached for Gorm’s knife.

  2

  Too late.

  Gorm’s herring-quick blade slipped into the brown horse and opened a long, red gash.

  A groan rose from every mouth, then there was silence. Lidsmod did not dare strike Gorm, a sun-bronzed fighting man with long, tallow yellow hair. Gorm held the bloody blade before Lidsmod’s eyes, and Lidsmod was certain its point would prick out his sight. And yet Lidsmod stayed where he was, shielding the struggling horse as the animal sagged, slumped, and fell into its own widening sea of blood.