“It is land,” said Skallagrim, “and I am sure of this, that we run into a firth. Look, the seas boil like a hot spring. Hold on thy course, lord, perchance we may yet steer between rocks and land. Already the wind falls and the current lessens the seas.”
“Ay,” said Eric, “already the fog and rain come up,” and he pointed ahead where dense clouds gathered in the shape of a giant, whose head reached to the skies and moved towards them, hiding the moon.
Skallagrim looked, then spoke: “Now here, it seems, is witchwork. Say, lord, hast thou ever seen mist travel against wind as it travels now?”
“Never before,” said Eric, and as he spoke the light of the moon went out.
Swanhild, Atli’s wife, sat in beauty in her bower on Straumey Isle and looked with wide eyes towards the sea. It was midnight. None stirred in Atli’s hall, but still Swanhild looked out towards the sea.
Now she turned and spoke into the darkness, for there was no light in the bower save the light of her great eyes.
“Art thou there?” she said. “I have summoned thee thrice in the words thou knowest. Say, Toad, art there?”
“Ay, Swanhild the Fatherless! Swanhild, Groa’s daughter! Witch-mother’s witch-child! I am here. What is thy will with me?” piped a thin voice like the voice of a dying babe.
Swanhild shuddered a little and her eyes grew brighter—as bright as the eyes of a cat.
“This first,” she said: “that thou show thyself. Hideous as thou art, I had rather see thee, than speak with thee seeing thee not.”