Erik grew restless, and under Olafs constant needling, his temper snapped at the slightest provocation. Neil was amazed by the paradox that was Erik. He was an excellent seaman with an uncanny sense for keeping his ship on course. He knew the stars like an astronomer, and he would send the ship in the right direction by a slight correction of the tiller-a few degrees to the right or left. He knew, too, which of his men were working and which were merely leaning on their oars. On the second day of their search for land, Erik had found one sailor drunk at the tiller. He had clamped a gigantic hand in the man’s tunic and smashed a blow home to his jaw. The hapless seaman had collapsed to the deck, and Erik handled the tiller himself for that watch.
And yet, at night, when the men rested from their rowing, and wind leaped into the sail, Erik was the first to start a song, the first to break out the wineskins and fill the cups.
Then, for hours on end, he would stand in the bow of the ship, his hand resting on the head of his ax, his deep blue eyes staring out over the horizon.
Neil would watch him at these times, would watch the captain pace the ship like a worried cat, lean on the starboard rail for a moment, then pace back to port and stand there restlessly, his eyes searching, always searching. The sun would gleam like molten fire in his beard, and the wind would lift it playfully from his chin.
But there was nothing playful about the grim set of his mouth.
For three days they sailed, the water surrounding them in a monotonous circle, a dazzling sheet of green that hurt the eyes in the glare of the midday sun.
And still no land.
Neil and Dave sat on coils of rope in the bow and watched the big Norseman.
“He’s worried,” Dave said. “He’s afraid we won’t find land.”
“I’m worried, too,” Neil admitted.
“Not much we can do, Neil. Even if we had our rifles, there’s an awful lot of crew to…”
“Neil!” It was Erik’s voice. He was standing in the stern sheets, near the tiller.
Neil looked up. “Yes?”
“Come here.”
“What now?” Dave asked.
“I’ll be right back,” Neil said. He got to his feet and made his way to the rear of the ship. Erik had turned his back on Neil and was leaning over the rail. His big shield hung from his shoulders, covering half his back. When he heard Neil approaching, he turned again, and leaned his elbows on the rail of the ship.
For several seconds, his eyes bore into Neil’s, and Neil almost wanted to turn away from the serious intensity of them.
Erik gestured with his head, a sharp movement, a twisting that indicated the area behind his right shoulder.
“What do you see out there?” he asked in Swedish.
“Water,” Neil said.
“And there?” Erik pointed to the ocean on the port side of the ship.
“Water.”
“And there?” He pointed forward.
“W-water.”
“Do you see any land?” Erik snapped.
“N-n-no,” Neil answered, his voice wavering.
“When?” Erik demanded. “When will you find land?”
“I-I don’t know, exactly.”
“Do you know what will happen if you don’t find land?”
“Yes.”
Erik smiled with his mouth, but his eyes remained cold and impassive. “Would you like a bit of advice?”
“Well,” Neil said uncertainly, “sure.”
Erik’s answer was brief. “Find land.”
He turned his broad back on Neil then, and his right hand went to the glistening ax that dangled from his belt.
Neil walked slowly to the bow of the ship and sat down beside Dave.
“Well, what did our captain want?” Dave was lighting a cigarette with his lighter. He puffed on it, put the lighter in his shirt pocket, and looked quizzically at Neil.
“He wants land,” Neil said.
Dave blew out a puff of smoke. “Does he really? Well, well.”
“He’s serious, Dave.”
“I know. If only it weren’t for Shorty. That runt has been giving Erik the needle ever since he took us aboard. I can’t blame him for being a little uneasy.” He blew out more smoke.
Neil noticed that several of the crew members were watching Dave’s cigarette. Their eyes widened, and they turned to each other, speaking in concerned tones.
“You’d better put that out, Dave. I don’t think our friends like it too much.”
Dave took a last drag on the cigarette and stamped it underfoot. Almost immediately, Olaf was standing beside them, looking down at the crushed cigarette.
“What is that?” he asked Neil.
“My friend was smoking,” Neil replied.
Olafs face remained blank. “Tell your friend to throw this evil cylinder overboard.”
“He wants you to throw it overboard, Dave,” Neil explained.
“Throw what overboard?”
“The cigarette.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell him,” Dave said, his eyes glued to Olaf’s face, “that the cigarette is no longer burning. It can do no harm.”
Neil swallowed and said, “My friend’s cylinder no longer burns. It cannot harm…”
Olaf’s arm shot out with a sudden movement, and he gripped Neil by the shirt front.
“Tell your friend to pick it up!” he shouted.
Dave’s face went tense, and tight lines formed about his mouth and his eyes. Before Olaf knew exactly what was happening, Dave’s hand had come down on his wrist, hard, forcing it away from Neil’s shirt.