Had to find a place that the spirit of Little Carl could be found by Odin, a place he could rest and know, know that he would not be disturbed.

His own place.

His . . . what? His . . . where to be safe?

It came to him then. An island. There must be an island away from all, a safe island for Little Carl’s spirit to rest peacefully while it left the body and made its way to Valhalla, where surely it would go as all warriors who fought and died went and he had fought the sickness as well and as bravely as any man.

And there were many islands, an uncountable number. It was rumoured and said by Old Carl that even this giant land to the west was itself a huge island. That you could not walk across it in a week or more, and that it was so long it could not be measured yet was still an island.

But it was too much. It was a land by itself and had bears and wolves and big cats that moved in the silent, slow curves that wound through the trees and they would find the body of Little Carl.

But if he found a small island . . .

A small island by itself away from shore, too far for bears or wolves to bother swimming to it. An island of his own for Little Carl.

He had more strength now, the strength of purpose, and he removed the bundle and smoked fish, set them aside next to the small wrapped body and slowly dragged the canoe around and into the water, where he tipped it on its side and let the waters come in. Again he used his hands and seawater, pushing the water back and forth and rinsing the filth out until it was almost like new wood.

Then he drained it, tipped it back upright, put Little Carl and the bundle and spare paddle back in, climbed in himself and used his paddle to push it away from shore into the waters of the cove where he turned the canoe about and took deep strokes to get it sliding, get it to move, to dance.

Some thing to do.

A purpose.

Find an island for Little Carl.

Island Currents

It proved not hard to find an island. The main channel between the huge island and the forest to the east that went forever away from the setting sun was full of them.

But to find the right island, the perfect small island, took longer than he expected. And while he felt stronger with his purpose and water and food, he was nowhere near normal yet and it did not take much time for him to weaken. To keep stroking the canoe and trying to fight the swirling moon-currents that flowed and swerved around the islands wore at him until it felt like his arms were going to fall off and his back cave in.