Little Ulf frowned at his copy of the script.
He didn’t mean to catch Ulf Mikkel’s attention, but the older man didn’t miss much. “What’s wrong, Son?”
“It’s just...” Little Ulf bit his lip before continuing, “I know it’s ‘Based on’ a true story, but Olaf Wit didn’t write the Sven Silverhair books until Year 47.”
Ulf Mikkel sighed. “Yes, I know. The problem the script-writers have is two-fold: firstly, until your grandfather and his comrades brought back their hauls from Silent Denmark, there were very few copies of any Old World books at all. Even now, there are no remaining copies of the book the boy mentioned in his diary, so we don’t really know what was in it and what they discussed about it. Secondly, even if we did know, only a few Old Time experts would know what the discussion was about, so by using a book most everyone is familiar with, we can give the scene its due.”
Little Ulf sighed unhappily. “This tale makes me understand the Danes a bit more--we have all lost so much.”
“And so we must fill that void,” his father said. “We can only hope our inventions aren’t too far off the mark.”
Little Ulf snorted. “Tales of the wonders the Old-Worlders could work are more fanciful than Grandfather’s stories of what a Finn Mage can do when pressed. I mean, things that knew to a millimeter where you were and fit in your palm? Things that could let you speak any language you pleased, or that held the sum of all that had ever been known? Anything we conceive could hardly be enough off the mark as to strain credulity like that!”
Ulf Mikkel snorted even as he gently batted his son’s ear. “Any more of that,” he said as sternly as he could, “and I’ll make you repeat it to your grandfather verbatim.” Then he laughed outright at Little Ulf’s look of horror.
The director yelled for them then, and father and son went about their work.
*
The fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, the light it gave giving the room a cheery glow in stark contrast to the cold, snowy darkness that lurked outside. The snow would keep the grosslings at bay, but Mankind would never learn to like the darkness.
The elder adjusted his glasses before carefully raising the ancient and well-worn book into position. At his feet, the youngster fidgeted impatiently as the elder cleared his throat a few times.
“There’s really nothing of any importance for many days after the entry where he notes the Captain’s decision to make for Norway.”
“Read it anyway,” the youngster urged.
“Oh, very well...”
*
“Our world is built upon a mountain of anguish. Once you stir it up, who can tell what you will find?”
Days at sea: 14
The storm had broken all across Europe’s Atlantic coasts at once. It was an extension of the storms that had been battering the North for weeks now, but the few meteorologists left on duty hadn’t anticipated just how fearsome it would remain as it swept southwards.
More and more of the passengers and crew were showing signs that they’d been infected, and a few had already begun to die. As yet, there had been no overt panic, but the Captain, though infected himself, was grimly determined that it would not break out as long as he lived.
It was a most ironic thing that, as more of their fellows fell ill, the food situation improved for those (as yet) un-afflicted. The boy and his father were among these, of course, as they more or less had had Deck 13 to themselves. They had also brought along special hypo-allergenic filters for the vents, as the boy was allergic to certain foods and fragrances.
Nevertheless, the boy perforce was the one who had to run up and down the length of the ship to get things for his blind father, so the boy always wore his face mask and carried an epi-pen, just to be sure. Anaphylactic shock was nothing to sneeze at.
It was on one of these runs that the boy made the fateful discovery that they were off course...
