But the rowers were strong and Ingvar knew the river well. He guided us into a channel of smoother water and as suddenly as it had come, so the turbulence was behind us and we were in water that was as flat as burnished silver.

“That is the worst of it for a while,” Ingvar said, wiping water from his face. “But keep up your rowing. The water here looks still, but it still flows fast, and,” he dipped his hand into the water, seeming to forget that we had all just been doused in spray, “it is cold. It comes down from the far mountains where there is always snow, even in the summer. But we should be able to relax for a while now. Like a serpent, the Lågen shows her teeth at her mouth, but she is quiet from now on.”

As if his words had taunted the spirit of the river, the Lågen quickly reminded us never to be complacent of her power. Something beneath the water’s surface snagged Sygbald’s oar and he was suddenly thrown backwards off his thwart as the loom smashed into his chest.

All was chaos for a time.

Ingvar screamed orders, making himself understood with gestures and shouts. Ulf barked incessantly. Sygbald released his grip on his oar and it began to slide into the water. With the speed that made him so deadly with a blade, Gwawrddur sprang forward, catching the tip of the loom before it was lost.

Drosten caught Sygbald, pulling him back to make room for Gwawrddur, who clambered onto the empty thwart. Gullbringa rocked alarmingly and there was much shouting. All of the men at the oars had stopped rowing in shock, and both Ingvar and Runolf yelled for them to start pulling again. The boat was rapidly sliding towards the brown surge of the standing wave. If we did not maintain our position upriver of it, we would need to once again negotiate that treacherous water. Perhaps it was that thought that made the men snap their focus away from pale-faced Sygbald and start to row once more. Their motion was ragged at first, oar blades clattering together as their strokes were snarled. But quickly, they found their rhythm once more and we began to pull away from the rapids.

As we passed the place where Sygbald had been flung off his thwart, a trunk of a tree broke the surface, rolling over in the seemingly placid water to show branches and roots, before tumbling away out of sight once more. It reminded me of the whale we had seen and how it had shown the flukes of its tail before vanishing into the deep.

“How do you fare?” I asked Sygbald. His face was pallid, his skin dotted with sweat and splashed water.

“I will be well soon enough,” he replied, through clenched teeth. “When I have caught my breath.”