The Strange Maid by Tessa Gratton

mammoth to be protected. Some of his groaning sounds like please.
    Unferth nods tightly and says, “I spent last winter on an island nearby, where there are few people, an isolated tower for him, with ample practice grounds to continue improving your skills and hunting. They have electricity, running water, fine mead, and best of all they know me already and will trust me well enough when we drag this beast into their midst. We’ll be able to leave him there protected when it thaws if we position it well.”
    I wait, expecting he offered such a long list of pros because it must have a rather hefty con.
    Unferth smiles. “Jellyfish Cove, on the island of Vinland.”
    My stomach twists.
    Vinland is the northern territory where the Summerlings moved after I climbed the Tree. My wish-parents, Rome and Jesca, whom I’ve not seen in ten years. Who may hate me or, worse, have forgotten me. “That is not a good idea, Unferth.”
    “Because you’re afraid of your family.”
    “I’m not afraid of anything, you tick-eating old man.”
    “Then give me your reason.” He smiles his challenge, for he knows I don’t have a better one.
    Once the recent snow melts enough to drive—it’s early enough in the winter that the sun can still manage that—I wait with Red Stripe while Unferth returns to Toronto for a massive van we can pile the troll into without breaking the shocks. I follow behind in the truck. We make it to a tiny town named Seven Islands in about ten hours of very slow driving, and Unferth rents a ferry. Or rather, Unferth trades the van and two barrels of old wine for the winter’s use of the flat, sturdy boat. With ourselves, our gear, Red Stripe, and the truck all loaded up, we sail the Gulf of Lawrence. Unferth complains constantly but silently, and any time I think of cutting Red Stripe loose I can barely breathe. The beast looks at me as if I’m his herd mother now, and I won’t betray that, even if I should. We finally arrive seventeen days before Yule at the northernmost tip of Vinland.
    An icy island of alpine tundra and inland mountains, Vinland was home to the oldest settlement of Vikers from Scandia. Gudrid Far-Traveler and her family landed here a thousand years ago, longing for new land to make their own. It was the ruins of her longhouse, found by archaeologists, that led to the National Historic Site the Summerlings currently run. I have vague memories of Rome’s excitement at being asked, Jesca’s worry that it would be too isolated for raising children. Rome thought it would be good for me especially, space enough to run wild if I liked and maybe drag Rathi out into freedom with me. But I never made it here until today.
    Brisk wind blows across the ocean, making me think on the cold, deadly hand of destiny.
    The island is untamed where we come ashore, no sign of people but for the signal tower. Boulders left by some ancient glacier tumble near the water, and the beaches are stone and pebbles. Cormorants and gulls hover in the salty wind. There are no trees at all, but tufts of dead grass and low, rough bushes cling to the shallow hills, and frozen streams cut through the valleys, shimmering with sunlight like diamond veins. Rathi told me about it last summer when we were together in New Netherland, about the detailed historical reenactments and elaborate theater of the Viker Festival, how he thought I’d adore the drama and poetry. He showed me pictures of the pennants and tents, the cobblestone lanes and whitewashed cottages. But mostly he showed me the wild land and loud ocean, the desperate beauty of everything. Rathi remembered I loved my beauty raw.
    Unferth and I anchor the ferry as near the rocky beach as we can, using the butts of the troll-spears to shove chunks of ice out of our way. The bergs glare blue-white like the hottest of flames as they bob gently. We leave a sun-calcified Red Stripe on the ferry and jump into the water to wade to shore with bags held high over our heads.
    My