Free Sigrun's Secret by Marie-Louise Jensen Page A

The only variation was in whether we were scorched by the sun or drenched by rain. Neither was pleasant. And all the time, the relentless never-ending motion of the ship in the swell.
    I prepared and served the food, endured the cold and the rain, and watched my father. He stayed busy and as far away from me as the small space on the boat would allow, avoiding my eyes. At night he wrapped himself in his cloak and in his misery and pretended to sleep. There was so much I wanted to ask him, but he didn’t give me the chance. Whenever I tried, he turned abruptly away from me. I felt hurt and shut out, and wished he could share his unhappiness with me.
    My brother was surly and bad-tempered. He spoke to me roughly, finding fault with the food and with the strength of the ale. Eventually I gave up trying to speak to either of them. I wrapped myself in my own thoughts and watched the coast of Iceland slip by. Tall rocky cliffs and headlands filled with bird colonies gave way occasionally to bays and beaches. At times, expanses of farmland or pasture, and the occasional longhouse, were visible from the ship; at others the land seemed hostile and forbidding. I realized this must be the route my parents had taken as settlers almost twenty years before, and I wondered what they had made of it all that time ago. I wondered yet again if it was true that my father had killed and stolen to get the ship. I wished with all my heart he’d explain it to me.
    When we put the last southern headland to our stern and headed out into the open sea, I felt a wrench in my heart. This was the final farewell, the absolute parting from my home. There was no turning back now.
    We sailed southwards for days on a vast, empty grey sea, the ship rolling and plunging in the heavy swell.
    ‘Land! Land!’ shouted Erik in great excitement one morning, from his lookout in the prow.
    ‘The Faeroe Islands,’ cried Asgrim. ‘Can we make a stop?’
    My father stood silently on deck, watching as the single mountain resolved into a green island, rising steeply from the water. The island became a cluster as we drew closer, each one green in the damp air, clouds hanging low over them. Abruptly my father shook his head. ‘We don’t stop,’ he said curtly. There was an outcry.
    ‘We need water,’ I said timidly, adding my voice to the others.
    ‘We don’t stop,’ Bjorn repeated angrily. ‘We’ll take on fresh water at the Shetlands.’ So saying, he went aft, took over the tiller and steered the boat well clear of the islands.
    We were all disappointed, but it was so unusual to hear my father raise his voice in anger that no one protested aloud. Asgrim flung himself onto a bench beside me, however, and began muttering angry complaints under his breath.
    ‘As if it’s not bad enough that he drags us with him into this disgrace,’ he complained, ‘he has to throw his weight around and forbid us shore leave as well. We could have lit a fire and roasted some meat tonight.’ Asgrim glanced at me from under frowning brows: ‘Have you tried asking him what we’re doing here?’ he asked. I could feel anger and resentment rolling off him in waves.
    I shook my head. ‘He won’t talk to me,’ I said sadly.
    ‘He hasn’t spoken to either of us,’ Asgrim continued, his voice rising. ‘We don’t have a clue where we’re going, or even why. He’s treating us like slaves who have to obey orders.’
    ‘Your father has a very good reason for not stopping here,’ said Erik’s familiar voice beside me. I jumped, not having seen him.
    ‘He does?’ I asked, curious.
    ‘We stopped here once before,’ Erik told me. ‘On our way to the new land. We were unlucky and the visit had dreadful consequences. Your father won’t risk that again.’
    ‘What happened?’ I asked, eager to hear more. I knew Erik had accompanied my parents to Iceland, and probably knew their whole story. But he was shaking his head.
    ‘It’s for your father to tell you,’ he said.