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But tonight is better than most. By the time Thorkild and I came home with the mussels, his wife, Gunhild, and sister,
Thora, had already piled the axes and tools and buckets into a corner and pushed the loom and the vats of pickled fish for this winter against the rear wall to make space. All because a stranger had arrived while we were out on the boat. It turns out that's who the mussel feast tonight was for. We roasted so many, we'll have mussels tomorrow, too. And still more wait in the current, the ends of their ropes tied to a tree that leans out over the water. They'll stay fresh that way.

The stranger calls himself Beorn, and he says his father was a bear, some kind of huge, ferocious animal. Beorn is even taller than Thorkild, so I half believe him, though I can't understand how his mother wasn't killed by the bear that was his father. She was human, after all.

Where Beorn comes from, the bears have white fur. Like the fur of the white fox—the
melrakki
that Thora thought I was asking for that first night when I cried out Mel's name. Beorn was the original source of those fox skins. He's a traveler, by boat if he can catch a ride, or by land if he can't. He carries things from one farm or settlement to the next, allowing trade all the way from the north country Nóreg, where his home is, to Heiðabý, a big city down south and the biggest port in all the lands around here. That's where he's heading when he leaves us. He says it's a wonderful place, with traders from all over the world who have the most beautiful wares he's ever seen. He'll
board a ship there and go back home before winter sets in. Then he'll start his journeys next spring again, arriving at this farm in autumn, like always.

Trading isn't all he does, though; Beorn is a storyteller. All Norse people are storytellers, it seems. But Beorn's special. Here the best kind of storyteller is called a
skald
. A
skald
goes from town to town, telling stories to the chieftains—just like
seanchaís
do in Eire. Beorn is a
skald
. Thora announced that proudly after dinner, for the benefit of Randolf and me. We're the only ones who weren't here in past years when Beorn has come through. And maybe for the orphan Åse's benefit, too, since she's young enough that her memory might not hold that well. Åse turns out to be only six—though I thought she was my age when I first saw her. They're all so tall here.

I'm glad that these people love storytelling; at least they have that much in common with the people of Eire. My own brother Nuada can tell tales that make you fall on the floor laughing or huddle together terrified. Now that his hand is cut off and he's no longer perfect, he can never become king. So I wonder if he'll become a great storyteller instead—a
seanchaí
. If I could only see him again, I'd tell him he'd be the best
seanchaí
ever.

I press my fists against my cheeks and sit back on my heels and try not to think about Nuada. It only makes me
sad. And angry. They should have come for me by now. But I won't think about that. Tonight is a celebration, because Beorn's visit is a treat.

I look at him now and wonder what it's like to travel so much. I bet Beorn doesn't have a home. Not really. Housing a
skald
would be like taming a wild bird; it makes no sense. When he gets on that boat and heads north for winter, I bet he doesn't nestle in a house with ordinary people. I bet he does something extraordinary. Maybe he wanders with the bears till spring comes. Maybe he turns into a bear himself.

I imagine him all white with blood smeared across his face fur from eating a human. My stomach turns.

“Who wants to drink blood?” says Beorn.

I flinch. It's as though he's heard my thoughts.

Beorn takes a flask from a pouch that hangs off his belt. He holds it up so the firelight flickers on it. The silver is as shiny as the host bowl for communion in our church back in Eire.

Øg makes an appreciative gurgle and reaches both hands toward the flask. Everyone laughs. I wince. I want to snatch Øg from Randolf's lap. He should be sitting with me. I'm the one who saved his life, after all. It was Randolf who meant to throw him to the pigs. Øg practically lived in my arms for months, except when Gunhild
nursed him or he napped. But today, because I was off getting the mussels with Thorkild, Randolf took over his care. Randolf is a thief.

“This feast was good enough for a god,” says Beorn, “so . . .”

“That's because you're a god,” interrupts Gunhild. Little Gudrun on her lap nods happily at her mother's words.

“True. You look like Ægir himself,” says Thorsten.

I know about Ægir. He's a sea giant or a god or something important like that. But in our nightly stories, he's the one who gives the parties, not the one the parties are thrown for.

“I'm no Ægir.” Beorn smiles ruefully. “I have no goddess wife, no nine maiden daughters, alas. My family consists of my dog. And I'm grateful for the luck that brought him to me.” He jerks his chin toward the dog Vigi, curled near a post. “But I have this flask of blood, and it's a way to repay you for such a fabulous feast.” He waves that silver flask around. “If you drink blood, you become strong. As strong as . . .” Beorn raises his eyebrows and looks around.

“A troll,” says Åse. “As strong as a troll.”

Beorn smiles in a superior way. “Exactly. Strong as trolls, with their tusks and claws and lizard tails.” He moves his hands as he talks, making his pointer fingers curve out and down from his mouth, so I figure out tusks are long
teeth. And I already knew trolls were special giants, but now I know what they look like. “But this . . .” Beorn taps the side of the flask. “This is not ordinary blood. This blood does much more than what ordinary blood does. Can you guess what kind of blood it is?”

“Bear.” It's Thorkild. I bet he's right.

“Wrong.” Beorn looks around. “Any other guesses?”

“Wolf.”

“Reindeer.”

“Walrus.”

More guesses are coming out of everyone's mouth and I don't know half the animals they're naming—they can't be animals from around here, because I've learned the name of every animal I've seen so far. But it doesn't matter, because Beorn keeps shaking his head no.

“Dragon,” shouts Randolf.

Beorn jumps around and stabs his finger at her. “Right!”

Randolf smiles at Beorn in delight.

Beorn smiles too. “Clearly you're a person who understands we may meet a dragon at any turn, in any cave, under any wave. You're a person of discernment.”

Randolf blushes.

I look around quickly. But the others don't seem to notice. How is it that no one realizes Randolf doesn't
behave like men do? And what about how small Randolf is? Size alone should make them suspicious. Even Thorsten, who's barely fourteen, towers over Randolf. And Randolf doesn't have a hint of a beard. And Randolf wears that huge cloak—even on the warmest days. They should figure out Randolf's hiding something under that cloak. They shouldn't just let Randolf sit there with Øg, my Øg, on that lap. I glare at Randolf.

Randolf looks at me, then quickly down. My eyes told her she's acting girly.

I look away. Randolf is right. If they figure out she is a woman, they might figure out Øg is her baby. Then not only is Randolf's secret out—with whatever consequences that carries—but no one will think Øg is the terror born of the elf, which is what he and I are supposed to be, which is why we weren't thrown out at the very start. No one feeds an extra mouth for nothing; they feed us because they fear what would happen if they didn't.

But I'm growing bigger. Somehow I didn't grow all spring or summer. This autumn, though, I've started to. My head comes up to the brown blotch on my favorite cow's horn now. It isn't a lot—she's a short cow—but it's something. Pretty soon they'll have to notice. And Øg, well, that egg of a baby has turned into the sweetest little giggler anyone ever knew. It's ridiculous that his name means “terror” in Norse.

We're in danger—Randolf and Øg and me.

Gunhild touches me on the shoulder. “Alfhild,” she says softly. “Didn't you hear me?” She uses my new name. Thorkild came home today and told everyone I was to be called Alfhild from now on.

Gunhild's holding the silver flask out toward me. Clearly it's been going around the room. And everyone whose hands it has already passed through is now talking about how different they feel—stronger, wiser. The dragon's blood has an instantaneous effect.

Dragons here are different from dragons back in Eire. Norse dragons are huge serpents, and instead of protecting the world, they cause horrendous problems. But their blood is good. I remember a story about a man named Sigurd who kills a dragon named Fafnir and saves his blood in a trench. Then he bathes in it—and that makes him invulnerable, except for one of his shoulders, where a leaf stuck, so the dragon's blood didn't touch it—a big mistake later, of course. Anyway, Sigurd drinks the blood, and that makes him able to understand the language of birds. And he roasts and eats the dragon heart, and that makes him able to see the future.

Maybe dragon blood doesn't do the same thing to everyone. But no matter what, it makes you better than you were. I look at Beorn. Where did this man find a dragon? How did he dare to confront it? But no one else
asks, so I hold my tongue. It doesn't matter anyway. All that matters is the power of the blood. I take the flask and bring it to my lips, but Gunhild stays my hand. “Just dip in a finger and lick it, like everyone else.”

I do. Then I pass the flask along. The blood is thick. It coats my fingertip. I lick half of it, then I walk over to Randolf and Øg and put my finger in Øg's mouth. Obediently he sucks it clean. I knew he would; Øg sucks anything clean.

Am I different now? Did the dragon blood work? I hug myself and rub my arms.

The flask finally returns to Beorn, and he closes it and puts it away. “Now you're all dragon-strong, so listen close to my dragon tale.” And he's practically singing now, telling the story of a young and brave king named Frotho. “Frotho needed money to pay for his country's battles—for it costs a lot to build ships and arm the brave men who sail them.”

As Beorn describes each weapon and every step of building a ship, his audience nods in agreement, nudging one another knowingly. I wonder if any of them has ever been on a real ship. This farm seems to be their world.

“One day King Frotho overheard a farmer singing about an island where no one lived but dragons. And one of those dragons kept a magnificent treasure in his lair, deep in a mountainside.”

Beorn describes that treasure, and all of us are oohing and aahing, even me. Thora fingers her brooches as though imagining them much more elaborate. Gunhild clinks her bracelets together. Even Åse touches her arm ring.

“King Frotho immediately decided to go to the island and claim that treasure. The farmer tried to dissuade Frotho from going to the Island of the Dragons.” Beorn points at us. “Wouldn't you?”

And we all agree, the farmer is sensible, yes yes, King Frotho should listen to him.

“Indeed. And I bet you're envisioning an ordinary dragon. But the dragon that guarded that treasure was no ordinary dragon. His flickering tongue ended in three points, his teeth were sharper than razors, his tail could coil around you, around and around and around, and squeeze out your last breath.” Beorn pauses. “And if all that failed . . .” His voice is quiet now, and we strain to hear. “. . . he could spew poison from his mouth. That poison blinded you . . . then drove you insane . . . then killed you . . . all so slowly that you screamed for someone to stab you in the heart.”

I hear the swallows of the people around me as my own ears pop.

“But Frotho was determined, and he sailed to the island. Ah, you're groaning.” Beorn points at each of us.
“But you knew he would do that, you knew he had to take the challenge. He sailed all alone, of course . . .” Of course? It's not “of course” at all. It's crazy to go alone into that den of dragons. “. . . for he wouldn't endanger his men.” And we all gasp at Frotho's honor. “Frotho entered the dragon's cave quiet as your most secret thought. He drew his sword and brought it down hard on the dragon's back. But no sword could pierce that thick hide.” We wait, openmouthed, aghast as the possibilities. “The dragon's wrath was now awakened, and he stretched to his full height and glowered down at Frotho.” Beorn looks around at us. “And that's when Frotho spied the creamy spot on his underbelly, the weak point of any dragon, and he plunged in the sword.” Everyone leans back in relief as Beorn tells about Frotho hauling away the dragon's treasure and going home wealthier than ever.

They're drinking beer now, the very beer I helped Thora make from the early barley harvest, before we planted the rye. Everyone's swilling it down except Øg and Åse and little Gudrun and me. The four of us curl up on our berth built into the wall, wrapped in one another's arms and covered with hides. The steady, hot breath of my companions warms my neck and back. But I can't sleep.

The treasure belonged to the dragon. Didn't it? So Frotho was just a wicked Viking, not a hero at all. Unless
the dragon had stolen the treasure from someone else. In the story of Sigurd, the man who killed the dragon Fafnir and bathed in his blood and drank it, Sigurd also was after the dragon's treasure—which Fafnir has stolen in the first place, so that wasn't so bad. But no one tonight asked about how the dragon got his treasure. That wasn't part of the story. It was as though just being a dragon was enough to justify robbing and killing it.

I shiver. Could they find a way to justify doing something awful to me and Øg? No one has threatened us. But no one really likes us either. And winter is coming. Thora already pickled herring and eels in salt water, and everyone's been drying salmon and plums for the long months ahead. And, alas for us but lucky for her, Gunhild is with child again. Resources will be scarce soon. Øg and I are extra.