At last he could paddle no more and he leaned back to rest and let the currents take them. And he knew now that the spirit of the boat, and the spirit of Little Carl, and his own spirit had become one. And he thought, the boat has eyes, has our spirits mixed with its own, let it find the way.

Let the Norse spirits find the island.

The sun now was on his back and shoulders and he leaned into the stern and closed his eyes and dozed. Not passed out this time. Not lost in the sickness, but light sleep in the warmth of the sun and the wash of sounds around him. Slow thought, brain-rest, thought-rest – to heal, to open, to be. He had not heard, had not listened to the sounds in days.

Ravens constantly talking, making the throat-words to tell, to tell of Leif and the canoe and the spirits; and crows – forever ravens and crows nearby – with their raucous air-ripping cries that always sounded angry but were sometimes a warning.

Jays rasping. Short words, short jay-words like swearing.

And red squirrels chuckering endlessly, always fussing.

The sounds of forest and sea surrounded the canoe and the spirits as the currents took him along. A kind of music, the way the circling, looping echoes came together, a full music that fed into his spirit. The clicks of crabs and the soft moans of distant whales coming through the sides of the canoe from the sea made a kind of dance. A spirit dance that grew and swelled as long as he kept his eyes closed and let the glory of the blended sounds take him.

But the canoe bumped, stopped gently, and he opened his eyes and found that the sound had lost its rhythm, had gone back to single notes, single cries, and the boat was resting against a small island.

And more, the canoe and moon-current had found a perfect island for Little Carl. Small and compact, nearly in the middle of the main channel, so perfectly round and composed that he could have thrown a stone completely across any part of it. But covered with tall trees alive with jays and crows and ravens in the branches, all complaining about an eagle’s nest high up, set in a cradle of forked limbs on one majestic cedar. Most other birds hated eagles – though the mighty white-headed, bald-looking ones ate almost only fish and carrion – and the ravens and crows often attacked them in flight, trying to peck their eyes out. Old Carl had once said it was all in envy, the small birds jealous that they were so small and could not fly as high to soar as the eagles did.

The ghost spirit of Little Carl would never be truly alone, or lonely, on this perfect island, far enough from any nearby landmass that held bears and wolves so they wouldn’t spend the time and energy to swim to it.