Raven of the Waves by Michael Cadnum

often on their way to the city. They were always freight ships, with a few dark-tanned men aboard their slow, heavy-burdened vessels. The men on the ships rarely took an interest in Dunwic or its people. Sometimes Wiglaf would wave, and a sailor might wave back. But these three ships were not like any Wiglaf had ever seen before. These were sleek, long vessels, with more sailors than usually manned any river craft.
    Wiglaf could not think of the words, but his blood and his breath answered the glory of these ships. These were like beings out of Heaven.
    The men were looking at him. They had golden hair, and their eyes took him in. These were not the faces of trading men.
    The rowing stopped at a command Wiglaf could just hear.
    Wiglaf dropped his crook and ran. He ran across the field, leaving the sheep untended.
    He ran until his side ached and his eyes wept, but he did not stop.
    Brother Aelle was sharpening a quill with his blade. Wiglaf could not speak, trying to catch his breath.
    â€œWhatever could it be?” asked the brother with a slight, lingering cough.
    â€œShips!” called Wiglaf. “Ships—filled with strangers!”
    The brother was a scribe, an inkster of holy texts. His life was quiet, and perhaps he was pleased to be distracted for a moment by some news from the outside world. “Indeed, ships—how wonderful,” he said kindly. “On the river, no doubt.”
    â€œThese are not river ships!”
    â€œHow exciting!” said the brother, coughing.
    â€œWhere is Father Aethelwulf?”
    Brother Aelle brushed his lower lip with the white goose feather. “He hurried forth again,” he said. When he saw Wiglaf’s impatience, he added, “Some further illness in the village. That mud cutter’s wife you visited recently. It seems she has swallowed her tongue.”
    Wiglaf ran.

17
    Wiglaf ran hard to his father’s house and danced into the manure-scented half darkness where Sigemund was unyoking the oxen. The yoke left dark sweat patches. The ox hair was swirled and spoked, and the two beasts turned their massive heads to gaze at Wiglaf with dull curiosity.
    â€œSo, little Wiglaf comes to see his father yet again—can’t stay away, can you, lad?” said his father, in a manner which was almost friendly. “And without his dog. Where’s your dog?”
    Wiglaf started. Stag would be hurt! But then he steadied himself. What ships would trouble sheep, or a small, lean dog? But he reminded himself that his place was not here either watching oxen give him their flat, stupid stare. He had to warn the abbot.
    Being in the presence of his father always steadied Wiglaf, or at least made him cautious. Just now he began to believe that all of his worries were the concerns of a fool.
    â€œThere are ships,” said Wiglaf weakly.
    â€œShips.”
    â€œStrange ships,” Wiglaf added, knowing how pointless he sounded.
    â€œStrange ships?” echoed his father, with something like gentleness.
    â€œThree.”
    His father found the hay fork.
    â€œAnd,” Wiglaf continued, thinking there was no purpose in stopping now, “a ship army.”
    â€œA ship army? A ship army floated past you on the river?” His father said the words for ship army— scip here —with special humor. He shook hay from the wooden tines. “Is that what you saw, Wiglaf? A mighty army floating by you on the river?”
    â€œYes,” Wiglaf croaked.
    His father laughed. “Wiglaf, when I was a boy I shoveled shit. With that very shovel, worn smooth by my father’s hands, God keep him.” He indicated the broad, worn wooden shovel hanging on the wall. “I didn’t learn how to read or how to write.”
    He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “I did things that made me strong, and made my mind clear. I didn’t stand around looking at whatever happened to be floating by on the river, did I? So, what if