01 - The Sea of Trolls

  “At last we’re getting somewhere,” muttered Jack. He continued pouring water on the cloth until the Bard had had enough. Then the boy refilled the bowl and this time dipped the wool in the stew and gave it to the old man to chew.

  It seemed to take hours, dipping and feeding, each time prying the Bard’s jaws apart. Finally, the man spat out the wool and belched. A sleepy, contented look came into his eyes. Jack sat down by the cauldron and—at long last—satisfied the hunger that had been gnawing at him.

  What was he to do now? Call up fog by himself? Go to the forest to seek help? He wasn’t sure it was safe to leave the Bard alone.

  All but one of the crows had departed through the hole in the roof. This one waited just out of reach of Jack’s foot and watched him with sharp eyes. It was a fine creature with black feathers groomed to perfection. Its only defect was a missing claw on its left foot. Jack thought it must have come too close to a fox.

  “All right. You can have a spoonful. One spoonful,” said Jack. He held it out, and the bird fed delicately, like a cat. “Who taught you that?” the boy cried with delight. He gave the crow another spoonful. “Maybe the Bard did. People say he talks to birds, though he’s never shown me how.

  “I wish you could tell me what to do,” the boy went on. “I’ve got to protect the village, but I also have to protect the Bard. And I can’t go long without food. Magic makes you really hungry.” The crow bobbed up and down as though to say, You got that right. Jack laughed and gave it another dollop of stew.

  “I ought to take the Bard to the forest,” Jack mused aloud. “That way he’ll be safe and I can protect the villagers.” Something stirred deep inside the boy’s heart, like hearing a hawk scream on a frosty morning or seeing a dolphin leap out of a wave. It was unexpected—and scary—and yet wonderfully exciting. I can do the job by myself, he thought. I won’t be an apprentice anymore. I’ll be a real bard.

  The crow hopped to the door and tapped on the wood with its beak. “You’re right,” Jack said. “The sooner we get going, the better.” He threw open the door. The sky was clear, and the sun had risen almost to noon.

  Jack tugged at the Bard until he had the old man standing. Then it was merely a matter of keeping him going. To do this, Jack tied a rope around the Bard’s waist and pulled. Slowly, steadily, the old man put one foot in front of the other, apparently quite willing to go for a walk. “Wud-duh,” he said with great authority.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Jack as he led the Bard down the path to the village.

  Jack’s original plan was to go through the village to the forest. But the Bard moved so slowly, he began to despair of getting there before dark. They passed below Jack’s farm. The boy looked up with longing. What a fine, well-built place it was! Every building, every fence and field of it had been shaped by Father’s hands. It looked so terribly deserted now. Jack wiped his eyes with a sleeve and grimly yanked on the rope tied around the Bard’s waist.

  No response. Jack turned and saw that the old man had taken it into his head to sit down. “Not now,” the boy said. “I know you’re tired, sir, but we simply can’t stop until we’ve reached shelter.”

  “Gaaw,” said the Bard, staring up at the house.

  Jack followed his gaze. There was a wisp of white coming out of the smoke hole. Was the place on fire? Jack dropped the rope and sprinted up the hill. It was definitely fire. He could smell it. He threw himself at the door, found it bolted, and pounded on it with his fists.

  “Don’t move, Lucy,” whispered a voice Jack recognized.

  “It’s me, Mother! It’s Jack! What’s wrong? Why are you here?”

  There was a pause and then the sound of an iron latch being drawn back. Father peered out. Jack saw he had a pitchfork ready to jab whoever stood outside. Behind him Mother held a pot of boiling water.

  Lucy shrieked and pushed by her father. “Oh, darling,” said Mother, putting down the pot.

  “Welcome home,” said Father mildly, as though it were perfectly normal to aim a pitchfork at a visitor.

  “Now everything’s perfect,” Lucy cried, dancing around. She pulled Jack inside. The house was bare, with most of the belongings buried or hidden in the forest, but beds of heather lay close to the hearth and a bag of provisions leaned against a wall.

  Jack felt dazed. “Has everyone moved back to the village?” he asked.

  “Only us,” said Father.

  “We’re the smart ones,” said Lucy.

  Jack looked at Mother, who was the only one who seemed uneasy. “It was Lucy,” she began.

  “The forest was nasty! It was all wet and cold,” Lucy cried. “The ground was covered with rocks. It was no place for a lost princess.”

  “It was a safe place for a lost princess,” said Jack. He knew at once what had happened. Lucy, faced for the first time with discomfort, had demanded to return. He knew how persistent she could be. She would go on and on until you wanted to slap her, only you didn’t, of course, because she was so small and beautiful. “I think it’s a really bad idea to stay here,” Jack said.

  “I know, but—” Mother gestured at Father. Giles Crookleg had clearly caved in to Lucy’s pleas. He had never denied her anything.

  “I’m not going back!” yelled Lucy. “Not after last night!”

  “Well, there was something awful,” Mother said.

  “It was like the End of Days,” said Father in a hollow voice. “It came screaming out of the sky. Ice fell like daggers. The stars were blotted out. People ran around, banging into trees. The blacksmith’s son knocked himself out, and the horses broke their tethers and ran off. They were still looking for them this morning.”

  “The Nightmare,” murmured Jack. And then he remembered. “Oh, my stars, I forgot. The Bard was attacked last night—something magic, I don’t really understand it—but his wits have fled. I was taking him to the forest.”

  They went down to the road. The old man had planted himself in the middle like a tree stump. “The wolf-headed men will get you if you don’t move,” said Jack. He grabbed the Bard’s arms and pulled.

  “Wow-wow-wow-wow!” the man screamed.

  “Shush. Don’t make a noise.” Jack tried to cover the Bard’s mouth, and the man’s teeth came down hard.

  “Wud-duh!”

  “I’ll wudduh you right back,” Jack shouted, nursing his hand. “No, I won’t. I didn’t mean that. But you’re driving me crazy. I know you’re under a spell, sir, so I won’t take offense. But couldn’t you help out just a bit?”

  “No point reasoning with him. He’s like a sheep.” Giles Crookleg lifted the old man right off the ground. He staggered back to the house as the Bard bellowed and tried to kick him. Father might have been lame, but years of hard work had toughened his muscles. “Whew!” he said, dumping the old man, none too gently, on the floor. “You’re right about his wits, son. They’re clean gone. Did you say the Nightmare got them?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a spell.”

  “Or maybe it’s just age,” Mother said gently. She wiped the Bard’s face with a damp cloth and put a rolled-up cloak under his head for a pillow. “With rest and care, it may come right.”

  Jack sat on the floor, trying to think. It wasn’t easy with Lucy climbing over him and telling him of her woes in the forest. “The fog was awful! It got into everything, and the chief wouldn’t let us light a fire. He’s so mean!”

  “The Bard called up fog to protect you,” Jack said.

  “Pooh!” Lucy sneered. “Anything can walk through that. Monsters! Trolls!”

  “Don’t talk about trolls.”

  “I will if I want. Trolls and trolls and trolls and trolls!”

  Jack’s hand itched to slap her.

  “Leave him alone, dearest,” said Mother. She distracted Lucy with a handful of hazelnuts. The little girl applied herself to smashing them with a rock and picking out the kernels.

  “You mean the Bard called up the fog?” said Father. “That?
??s not the act of a God-fearing man. That’s wizardry.”

  Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? Jack thought. Anything to do with magic set Giles Crookleg off. It was evil. It reeked of fire and brimstone. Demons with long claws would drag you off.

  “I hope he hasn’t been leading you down the paths of wickedness,” Father said. “Hellfire awaits those who transgress the laws of God.”

  “It was a normal fog,” Jack said wearily. “I was only trying to explain things to Lucy.” He felt overwhelmed by the situation. His family had walked back into danger. The Bard was out of his head. And the wolf-headed men might be moving along the Roman road at this very moment. He felt very, very tired.

  “Perhaps you’d like to sit in the garden and eat something,” Mother said. Jack realized she knew far more than she was letting on. He suddenly understood the unspoken sympathy that existed between the Bard and his mother. She was a wise woman herself with magic to charm bees and wild beasts. Why had he never understood this before? But perhaps working with the life force had sharpened his wits. Now he recognized the gentle spells that had been woven around his childhood, the songs that cooled fevers, the touch that made even the plainest food taste good.

  “Thank you, Mother,” Jack said. Soon he was in the herb garden with a cup of hot cider and bread spread with honey. Mother looked north to the Roman road. She said nothing, but she knew. It was from there the danger would come.

  As soon as Mother left, Jack got to his feet. He was tired and achy. More than anything he wanted to be a small child again, with no worries and no responsibilities. But it was not to be. That time was gone. Only he stood between the village and the wolf-headed men, and it was his duty to see the job through.

  Chapter Ten

  OLAF ONE-BROW

  Jack sat in a hollow near the Roman road. He was surrounded by bracken like a rabbit hiding from a fox. No one would be able to see him, but Jack intended to be even more invisible. He breathed in the green odors of earth and fern. He felt with his mind the damp roots of trees. Come forth, he called. Come forth to me. Cloak the air with your gray presences. Bring sea and sky together.

  He felt, rather than saw, the curling mist. Sunlight muted to pearl white, to dove feather and dusk. Dampness flowed into his lungs. Water gathered on ferns. Round drops paused on the tips of leaves and fell, sending pale threads over moss. The air sighed and rustled with it.

  He had never been so deep in the life force. He swam through it like a minnow, like a woodland creature with no more thought than to be. It was enough. It was more than enough. The glory and wonder of it swept him on.

  “Jack… Jack…”

  The voice reached him from a great distance. He turned from it, unwilling to become human again.

  “Jack… oh, please! I’m so cold and scared!”

  He came to his senses. For a moment he was filled with unreasoning anger. How dare anyone disturb him!

  He heard gulping, hiccupping cries that cut him to the heart. It was Lucy! She was nearby but hidden by a fog so thick and heavy, it frightened even Jack. He’d really outdone himself this time. “Lucy, I’m here,” he called.

  “Where’s ‘here’? It’s so dark and awful. I know there’s monsters.” She began to sob.

  “Don’t move, Lucy. Just keep talking so I can find you.”

  “When I went outside, it was sunny. You were supposed to be in the garden. Father said you were in the garden, but you weren’t.” Some of Lucy’s fear was replaced by indignation.

  Jack tripped over a rock and scratched himself on a branch.

  “I saw you from far away,” said Lucy. “You were walking fast. I wanted to call, but I didn’t want Mother to know I was outside. She’s been so mean to me today. She wouldn’t let me play outside or anything.”

  Jack thought Mother was out of her mind with worry. She knew the danger they were in. So did Father, but he chose to ignore it.

  “I walked to the Roman road, but you were gone. You went off and left me. Bad Jack! Then the fog came in really fast. It got dark and I got scared. Have you been doing magic? Father says wizards do magic and then they go to Hell. Are you going to Hell?”

  “I couldn’t even find it in this fog,” muttered Jack. He felt the edge of the road with his feet. A moment later he saw Lucy crouched on the stones. He touched her arm, and she screamed. “It’s me,” he said, fending off her blows.

  “Why did you sneak up on me like that?” she wailed.

  “I wasn’t sneaking—oh, never mind. Listen, I’ve got a very important job to do, and I need you to be quiet.”

  “I’m always quiet. I can keep my mouth shut for hours. Father says I’m like a dear little mouse. He said I was changed into a mouse by a bad fairy when I lived in the palace, but a good fairy changed me back.”

  “How about being quiet now?” Jack said. It seemed to him the air was beginning to move. Perhaps a sea wind had sprung up.

  “It’s a good story. I can tell it really well. Father says I know as many words as a ten-year-old.”

  “Shh!” Jack pulled her down into the bracken.

  “I’m getting wet,” cried Lucy.

  “Be quiet. Someone’s coming along the road,” Jack whispered. “Maybe a monster,” he added. Lucy clung to him and made no more complaints about wetness. In the distance they heard voices. They were too far to distinguish words, but something about the sound made Jack’s hair prickle on the back of his neck. Then, shockingly, someone blew a hunting horn nearby.

  Lucy tried to dive under Jack’s shirt. He held her close, feeling her tremble and himself tremble. Far away another horn answered.

  “Hvað er Þetta?” someone said so close that Jack almost yelled. He heard more voices—four or five. The fog was definitely thinning. He could see shapes on the road, shaggy beings who walked with a heavy tread. He heard the clank of swords.

  Come forth. Come forth to me. Cloak the air with your gray presences, he called to the life force, but his concentration was broken. Terror threatened to overwhelm him. These were the wolf-headed men. They were real. They were on the way to the village.

  “Are those knights?” whispered Lucy.

  “No. Be quiet.” Even without fog, Jack thought they would be well hidden in the bracken. They could escape. But what of Father and Mother? Or the Bard?

  “I think they’re knights,” Lucy said.

  “They’re monsters. Be quiet.”

  “Hvað?” said one of the men on the road. He strode to the edge and peered out over the bracken.

  “Ekkert. Þetta er bara kanína,” said another.

  The words were almost like Saxon, Jack’s own tongue. He’d heard a few other languages in his life, from people who passed through at village fairs. He’d heard Welsh, Erse, Pictish, and of course Latin, but he could speak none of them. They were nothing like his own speech. This was. He was almost certain the first man had said What? and the second had replied Nothing. It’s only a rabbit.

  Lucy wriggled beside him, and he tightened his hold on her. The warriors above were growing ever more clear. They were cloaked in sheepskins and wore leather caps over their long, pale hair. Swords and axes hung from their belts. One was only a boy.

  For a long moment the men conferred, and then, miraculously, they turned back the way they had come. They would miss the village! Jack hugged Lucy. “They’re going,” she whispered.

  “Shh,” said Jack. The boy had turned and was once again scanning the bracken.

  “Komdu, Thorgil,” called one of the men.

  “They’re the knights come to take me to my castle,” Lucy cried out suddenly. “Here I am! Here!”

  The boy on the road shouted, “Þarna er kanínan!” He leaped into the bracken, knife in hand, and grabbed Lucy. Jack tried to knock him down, but the boy yanked her up by the hair and held the knife to her throat. By now the men were running back.

  Jack had one instant—only one—in which he could have fled, leaving Lucy behind in the clutches of the berserk
ers. He couldn’t do it. She was so little and helpless. He was her brother. He had no hope of defeating such a band of warriors, but he could stay with her, little though that might accomplish. At least they would die together.

  In the next instant a huge man with one bushy eyebrow extending across his forehead fell on Jack like a tree and knocked him senseless.

  * * *

  The ground was moving. It tossed him up first and then slid him down in a nauseating roll. Jack gulped for air, got foul-tasting water instead, and then he did vomit. He crouched on hands and knees. He had been lying facedown in a filthy pool, and his whole body was wet and cold. The ground heaved again.

  “Þrællinn er vaknaður,” someone said.

  Jack’s head throbbed. He looked down to see a drop of blood plop into the disgusting pool. He felt his hair. It was matted and sticky. How had that happened?

  “Hei þræll! Þú hefur svolitið kettlingaklór þarna.” There was crude laughter, and several other voices joined in.

  Jack struggled to understand. They were speaking something like Saxon, but the accent was so barbaric, he could make out only one word in three. Was þræll their word for thrall? If so—Jack had to think hard—it meant “servant” or possibly “slave.” That didn’t sound good. Kettlingur, which was close to kettlingaklór, meant “kitten.” What did kittens have to do with him?

  Jack looked up—his head hurt so much, he was afraid to move quickly. The ground pitched again, and he saw, beyond a wooden railing, a vast expanse of gray water. He looked to the other side. More water.

  He was on a ship! Jack had been in little coracles close to shore. He used them to reach small islands at low tide, to gather seagull eggs and whelks. He never went far. Now he saw no islands, only a heaving gray sea with a pitiless gray sky above. He moaned and ducked his head to shut out the terrible sight.

  “Skræfan þín.”

  Skrafan thin. Jack easily translated that into his own language. It was a favorite insult thrown back and forth between the village boys: “scaredy-pants”. Well, he was scared. Who wouldn’t be? He was adrift on the open sea with no memory of how he got there.