“You’ll never know,” Thorgil said happily.
They came to the wide bay and the town where Jack had almost been traded to Picts. He looked with dislike at the fine wharf and prosperous houses. These were people who dealt in slaves. They asked no questions about how the Northmen obtained their captives. They merely bought them as you might buy apples.
Here, too, Skakki spent little time. He and Sven went into town to see merchants while the rest of the warriors made camp. They would sail at dawn. “Why aren’t we waiting for market day?” Jack asked Rune as they sat around a fire roasting gobbets of meat on sticks.
“The goods we carry can be traded privately and quickly,” the old warrior said. “We have no time to waste. I can feel the storms brewing in my bones.”
“We’ll make up for it next time,” one of the men volunteered.
Jack stared at him. “What does that mean? ‘Next time’?”
“Oh, um…” The Northman seemed to have trouble thinking of an answer.
“It means they’ll come raiding,” Rune said.
Jack was flabbergasted. The thought had simply not crossed his mind. “No!” he cried.
“They’re warriors,” Rune said.
“They don’t have to be! They can farm.”
“We have barely enough decent land to feed ourselves in a good year. Most of our years are bad. We live by trade and plunder.”
“You’re worse than trolls!” Jack shouted. There was a murmur of anger among the assembled Northmen, but Jack didn’t care. He’d been lulled into thinking of these people as friends. They were still foul, evil destroyers!
“Listen well, young skald,” said Rune, and he looked dangerous in spite of his age and many scars. “When you visited Jotunheim, you were protected by the Mountain Queen. You may have a rosy picture of Jotuns, but let me assure you that they’re capable of slaughtering whole villages down to the youngest child. They’re enemies, though they have honor.”
“Yes, well, you don’t have to imitate them,” said Jack.
“Need drives us. Nothing you or I say is going to change that. Skakki has taken an oath not to harm your village, but no such oath stands between him and others of your kind.”
Jack couldn’t believe his ears. Kind, likeable Rune, who’d saved him from Olaf’s wrath and given him his best poem, had turned into a monster. Jack felt betrayed.
“For a long time you felt safe on your little island,” Rune went on. “The ocean protected you. Your lives were as warm and friendly as a summer afternoon. But your land was too beautiful, and so, like all bright things, it attracted destruction.”
“Like Hrothgar’s hall,” Jack murmured.
“Frothi destroyed Hrothgar’s joy, and her sister Frith brought desolation to you. Now that such attention has been drawn here, it will not turn away. Tales of the Holy Isle’s wealth have echoed throughout our lands,” said Rune. “Even now Magnus the Mauler and Einar the Ear-Hoarder are building ships and planning war.”
“It’s so unfair,” whispered Jack. He looked across the beach to where evening shadows were gathering. In the blue dark between the houses he thought he saw a Pict.
“Life and death are in constant battle. There’s no way in this world for happiness to exist alone,” said the old warrior.
“But what are we to do?”
“Wake up,” Rune said simply.
When night came, Jack stayed on the ship with Lucy. He didn’t want her to meet any Picts, and he didn’t want to talk to the Northmen. Skakki and Sven returned, clanking with many new weapons. They’d had a successful day. Late into the night Jack heard them singing and playing their silly games. Thorgil got into a belching contest with Eric Pretty-Face and won.
They sailed past the lonely towers of the Picts. There was never anyone around them, and Jack never saw friendly trails of smoke to show anyone was warming himself or cooking a meal. The few villages appeared deserted as well. Bold Heart went off with a flock of crows.
“He’s leaving us!” Lucy cried in alarm.
It wouldn’t surprise me, Jack thought. Everyone here is evil and faithless. But Bold Heart returned at evening. After that he took many trips to the mainland, to Thorgil’s annoyance.
“He has such interesting things to say,” she complained. “Not like the other birds.”
“Too bad,” Jack said, turning his back on her.
“Those are really nice trees on the shore,” she said. “What are they called?”
Jack ignored her. He thought about calling up fire and burning the ship when they camped at night. That would fix the Northmen, but it wouldn’t do anything about Magnus the Mauler or Einar the Ear-Hoarder.
The ship sped south, far from shore to avoid attention. This was the coast Olaf had raided, and Skakki wanted to avoid complications. And at last they came to Jack’s land. They drew up on a deserted beach in late afternoon. The Northmen brought down several geese and roasted them over a fire.
“It’s our last night together,” said Rune. “Let us spend it with good stories and good food.”
“Ooh! I love stories,” cried Lucy.
“We have two skalds here, so we should have no end of tales. I’ll go first.” Rune told them of Loki, whom Odin had met in Jotunheim.
“I thought he was a god,” Jack said, intrigued in spite of his determination to snub the old warrior.
“He was a shape-shifter like Frith. His father was a troll and his mother a goddess. If you think a Jotun/human cross is bad, you should see what happens when you mix gods and trolls. Loki appeared to be handsome and clever, and Odin was besotted with him.”
“BIG MISTAKE,” said Eric Pretty-Face.
“Odin named Loki brother. They cut their wrists and mingled blood to seal it. God blood flowed into Loki’s veins and shape-shifter blood into Odin’s. It didn’t do either of them any good. Ever after, Loki had the run of Asgard. No one dared throw him out. Odin gave him the goddess Sigunn for his wife.”
“A great waste,” said Skakki.
“Sigunn was gentle and sweet, so of course Loki was bored with her. He went straight back to Jotunheim and married an ogress. She was nasty enough to entertain him. They had foul, monstrous children—a giant serpent, a giant wolf, and Hel, whose icy hall waits for cowards and oath-breakers.”
Jack was trying to remain uninterested in Rune’s story. He wanted to hate the Northmen, but they kept being nice to him. If they noticed Jack’s silence, they didn’t show it. They were probably used to people who got angry and sulked.
“Fenris, the giant wolf, was so fierce, the gods imprisoned him on an island covered by iron trees. But Fenris grew. Soon he was beyond the power of the gods to control, and Odin decided he would have to be chained. The problem was, of course, how to get the chain around his neck.
“They made a game of it. ‘Here, wolfie, wolfie, wolfie,’ called Thor. ‘Wouldn’t you like to play with this string? A big, strong beast like you could snap it in an instant.’ Fenris was flattered. He let the gods put the heavy chain around his neck, and then he snapped it in two.”
“It was the biggest one they had,” added Skakki.
“So they had to ask the dwarves for help,” Thorgil burst in for the first time. She looked truly beautiful in the firelight, Jack thought. Her eyes shone, and her hair—vigorously washed that evening—framed her face like a dandelion puff. She had always been beautiful, the boy realized, but her blighted spirit had hidden it. Now she was happy. Jack felt an ache over his heart. She would be leaving in the morning. He’d never see her again, not even in Heaven.
“The gods knew they had to have a magic cord made of the secret things of the world—the roots of a mountain, the footfall of a cat, the breath of a fish,” said Rune. “Only the dwarves had the knowledge to make such things. When they were finished, they presented Odin with a cord that looked like a silk ribbon, but it was stronger than death.
“‘Here, wolfie, wolfie, wolfie,’ called Thor, trying to lure Fenris. ‘This
one’s going to be even more fun.’ But the wolf was no fool. He knew what the gods were up to, though he had complete confidence in his strength.
“‘I’ll wear that thing if someone puts his hand in my mouth,’ he growled. Odin’s son Tyr, bravest of the brave, stepped forth and put his hand between the wolf’s slavering jaws. The others bound Fenris with the ribbon.” Rune paused, and the Northmen turned to Jack.
Here we go again, thought Jack. Whenever the Northmen paused in a story, it meant something horrible was about to happen. They loved making Jack ask for the ending because he was so satisfyingly disgusted. Sven the Vengeful was practically bouncing up and down with excitement.
“Oh, very well.” Jack sighed. “What happened?”
“Fenris struggled and howled and fought, but he could not break that fetter, and so he was trapped on the island,” said Rune.
“But first he bit off Tyr’s hand!” Sven cried.
“I was supposed to finish the story,” Rune said.
“And he chewed it up and swallowed it!” Sven was too carried away to stop.
“Crunch! Mangle! Chew!” yelled Thorgil.
I’ll never understand Northmen, Jack thought.
“What did it taste like?” asked Lucy, not at all bothered by the tale’s gory ending, and a lively discussion of what Tyr’s hand tasted like followed. Then Jack told them the story of the Jotuns’ escape from Utgard and how the whales carried them the last few miles when the ice disappeared.
In between tales, they feasted on roast goose and drank the cider Skakki had saved for this occasion. The stars moved toward morning, and Lucy went to sleep. Finally, when the first trace of dawn showed over the sea, Thorgil said, “I have written a poem.”
“Girls can’t write poetry,” said Sven, but no one paid attention to him.
“Let’s hear it. Your eulogy for Olaf was fine indeed,” said Rune. “I’d say the song-mead was not wasted on you.”
“It’s about Mimir’s Well,” she replied, and Jack was surprised. They’d agreed not to discuss it. She stood and bowed.
Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.
Thorgil waited.
“That’s it?” Skakki said, puzzled.
“My mother named me Jill,” Thorgil explained. “And Jack and I climbed a hill, and we fell down.”
“DOESN’T SEEM LIKE MUCH OF A STORY,” Eric Pretty-Face said.
“Well, it really happened, and a poem doesn’t have to tell a story,” Thorgil cried.
“Yes, it does,” said Sven.
“It’s nice. Really it is,” said Rune as Thorgil looked ready to lose control. “It’s not the kind of thing that lasts, but it’s sweet.”
“It is not sweet!” shrieked Thorgil. “And it’s going to last! People will be saying my poem long after your moldy old verses disappear!” She ran off down the beach and hid herself behind some rocks.
The Northmen, as usual, paid no attention to her flight. They began to pack up. Jack followed her. The light was growing swiftly, and the boat would soon leave. He found her behind a rock, sobbing as though her heart would break.
“Jill,” he said softly, kneeling by her.
“Have you come to make fun of me?” she said.
“Oh, no! I thought it was a wonderful poem, and I think it will endure.”
“Its fame will never die?” She looked up at him through her tears.
“That’s right. Sven doesn’t know anything about verse, and Eric Pretty-Face hears only half of what’s said. Rune, well, he’s set in his ways.”
“You think it’s good?”
“I’m a skald trained by Dragon Tongue,” Jack said sternly. “Of course I think it’s good.”
“Oh, thank you!” Thorgil flung her arms around him. They held each other for a long moment in the pearly light. The birds of the forest had awakened and were greeting the new day. Thorgil sat back and unclasped the necklace of silver leaves she’d retrieved from Frith. “I want to give this to Lucy.”
“Are you sure?” Jack said. “I thought you really liked it.”
“I’m allowed to be as generous as anyone else,” she snapped. “Are you calling me a miser?”
“No, no,” Jack said.
“Well then. I do like it. That’s why it’s a great sacrifice to give it up. Besides, I have Thor’s hammer and—this.” She closed her hand over the invisible rune.
Jack looked longingly at her hand. “Someday you’ll have to pass that on.”
“Someday everything has to be passed on. But I will do it gladly and without regret,” the shield maiden said proudly.
They returned to the others. Lucy was sitting up, half dazed, with Bold Heart on her lap. The ship was already in the water, and all the Northmen were aboard except for Rune. “Here,” he said, handing Jack the glass bottle with the poppy on the side.
Jack held it up. At the bottom were a few drops of liquid. “Song-mead!” he cried.
“When I went to store the bottle, I saw that it wasn’t quite empty,” said Rune. “I don’t know how much good so little can do, but I think you’ll find it useful.”
“Thank you,” the boy said. Now that the actual moment of parting had come, his anger at the old warrior had vanished.
“Thank you. You saved us from Frith and gave me back my voice. You’re a brave lad. If you were a little more vicious, you’d make a fine warrior.”
“I don’t think so,” said Jack.
Then it really was time to go. Thorgil and Rune climbed into the ship, and Skakki gave orders for them to row. “Good-bye, Jack. Good-bye, Lucy. Bold Heart, you can come with me if you like,” called Thorgil. But the crow ruffled his feathers and stayed put.
The long, beautifully made craft slipped through the water with scarcely a splash and made its way to the open sea. It disappeared into the mist as though it had never been.
“Come on, Lucy,” Jack said, lifting his little sister to her feet. “We have a long walk ahead, and Mother and Father are waiting.”
Chapter Forty-three
WELCOME HOME
Mist drifted through the trees and water dripped off the leaves. Jack followed a path he knew led to the Roman road. He had his blackened staff from Jotunheim in one hand and Bold Heart on his shoulder. With his other hand, he led Lucy. “Can’t I lie down?” she complained. “I’m sooo tired.”
“We’ll rest when we get to the road. And you should stop getting a free ride,” Jack told Bold Heart. The crow only gripped harder.
The boy trudged on. Sorrow fought with joy in his mind. He was going home, but he had lost Thorgil and Rune forever. For the past months all he’d thought about was returning here. Now he felt let down. There’d be no more sailing, no more adventures. But he missed his family dreadfully. If only they didn’t live in a tiny village where the most exciting thing was a ewe having twins. How could he go back to hauling water, stacking firewood, and chasing black-faced sheep?
“I want to sit down now,” said Lucy.
Jack could see the Roman road looming through the bracken. He led her to its moss-covered stones, and they both rested for a while. Jack shooed Bold Heart away. The crow landed nearby with loud caws of complaint. “If you don’t like it, go back to Thorgil,” the boy said. He rubbed his shoulder where the bird’s claws had dug in.
He took out food the Northmen had given him: roast goose and dry bread they had traded for farther north. Lucy nibbled the bread, and Bold Heart pecked at a shred of meat. Water dripped all around. They were getting soaked.
“How much farther is it?” said the little girl.
“An hour’s walk. Maybe more.”
“I’m tired,” she said.
To divert her, Jack took out the necklace of silver leaves. “Thorgil wanted you to have this.”
“Ooh!” Lucy grabbed the necklace and put it around her neck. “It’s from the queen,” she sai
d, running her fingers over the bright metal.
“It’s from Thorgil,” he corrected.
“No! I saw the queen wearing it. She took me away to her palace. She gave me honey cakes and flummery.”
“That’s not true,” Jack said, losing patience. “You were sleeping on filthy straw and starving.”
“I was not! The queen sent me this necklace!”
Jack yanked it from Lucy’s neck. “You can have this back when you’re grateful to the person who really gave it to you.”
“You kindaskitur!”
“Call me ‘sheep droppings’ all you want, but—” Bold Heart cawed and flew into a tree. Jack was instantly alert. “Hide in the bracken, dear,” he whispered. Lucy, without a word, tumbled off the edge of the Roman road and scurried under a bush. She had certainly learned about avoiding danger.
Jack stood in the middle of the road. He heard footsteps and a tuneless whistling. He saw a figure emerge from the mist. At the same time the figure saw him.
“Don’t hurt me!” the boy yelled, turning and fleeing back down the road.
“Colin!” cried Jack, but the blacksmith’s son pounded away as fast as he could go. Jack looked down at himself. He was wearing the clothes the Mountain Queen had given him. Beneath his marten-fur coat he wore a fine green tunic and brown pants stuffed into his cowskin boots. He had a leather scabbard on his belt, and the knife from that scabbard was in his hand.
“Oh, my,” said Jack. “I look like a Northman. Come on, Lucy. We’d better get home before someone shoots me with an arrow.”
She climbed up and took his hand. “If I’m with you, they won’t shoot,” she said, which was so brave and perceptive, Jack leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head. They walked on. Bold Heart immediately fastened himself to Jack’s shoulder.
After awhile they heard many voices in the distance. The mist was thinning and sunlight broke through, turning the autumn forest red and gold.
“There he is! Wait! Don’t shoot yet! There’s a girl with him!” said several voices.
Yet? thought Jack. They came out to a clearing. Several men crouched with the kind of weapons you found around farms. John the Fletcher had an arrow nocked to his bow.