Two of them – there were eight and others, Leif couldn’t tell how many, in the trees around the campsite – separated from the group and came sidling towards him and it became apparent they were there to lead Leif away from the rest.

A plan, he thought. As with the whales. The two ravens had a plan and were going to ‘work’ Leif and keep him away from the drying fish while the others fed.

Well, he thought, no.

‘No!’

He said it aloud and rolled out from under the canoe, stood and made his way to the firepit. The wood he had stacked nearby had been hit with the mist and the top sticks were damp but he found some beneath that were fairly dry and he soon had the fire going again. He put more leaves and grass to make smoke and drank some of the fish soup from the pot.

It was amazing to him that the ravens didn’t fly off. In the fish camp with the men they would fly away when the men swore and threw rocks or sticks at them, but here they just moved off and stood on rocks or gravel, burbling to one another.

Waiting.

And again, Leif wondered what they were saying. The sounds were changing all the time, sometimes almost a whisper, then again an open squawk or a long string of gurgling throat noises. They meant something, some words, to one another.

Wait, he will sleep again and we can get the food.

He is a silly creature who will forget to watch us.

Wait.

Perhaps, Leif thought. Something like that.

Or possibly scorn. Sometimes their tone of voice seemed on the edge of insulting. Scornful little statements.

Look at the poor weakling – he can’t even fly.

See how ugly. Just bare skin. He has no feathers to catch the sun and shine and keep out the weather.

I will have to stay awake more, he thought, take better care of the fire and smoke or I won’t have anything to eat. There will be nothing but fat ravens.

At least the rain-mist had stopped and he sat close enough to the fire to dry out his hair and blanket and damp cotton clothing.