It was clear the giant didn’t like the painted men, but he was there to make a profit. The Picts carried a clanking assortment of weapons and bags of ornaments as they made their stealthy approach from the forest. They spread these on the ground before the fire.
“Troll spawn,” murmured Thorgil. A strange light gleamed in her eyes.
Jack had to admit the weapons were beautiful. They were decorated with fanciful designs much like the patterns on the Picts’ skin. The jewelry—pins, brooches, earrings, and bracelets—was finer than anything Jack had expected from such wild creatures. Perhaps they weren’t so bad. But he looked into their brooding eyes and knew that nothing good could be expected from such folk.
The Picts examined the captives. They seemed uninterested in the scars on the men’s backs or the lameness of one of the women. They drew back when the other woman screamed at them but returned at once with secretive smiles. They were clearly delighted by the plump monk. They pinched him all over, exclaiming and hissing. Sven the Vengeful translated, setting a price for the lot.
Then it was Jack and Lucy’s turn.
A broad-chested Pict with a shaggy beard and drooping eyebrows inspected them. He seemed to be the leader. He felt Lucy’s fair hair and admired her small hands and feet.
Jack clenched his fists, longing to drive his head into the man’s stomach.
The Pictish leader smiled and brought out a weapon not displayed yet. It was a magnificent sword with a dragon etched along its shining blade. The handle was of dark wood inlaid with gold. Thorgil gasped.
“It’s your decision,” Olaf said in a low voice.
“Yes,” said Thorgil with that strange light in her eyes.
“You would please the queen if you kept the girl. You would please me, too.”
“I know !” Thorgil scowled and reached for the magnificent sword. She turned it over in the leaping light. She ran her finger along the dragon design.
“Dainty work. Not strong, but pretty,” commented Olaf.
“All right! All right! I know what you want me to do,” shouted Thorgil. She threw down the weapon and grabbed Lucy by the hair, pulling her away.
The Pictish leader replaced the sword in his bag and put out a small, cheaply made dagger. He pointed at Jack. Jack was obviously not worth much.
“You’re joking!” said Olaf. The Pict produced a blanket pin of some dull metal. “Better,” said the giant. They bargained back and forth until the dagger, the pin, and a thin copper ring lay on the sand. Olaf raised his hand to clinch the deal. He looked at Jack as if assessing whether he could get more.
No! No! thought Jack. He was about to be taken away from Lucy. He was about to go with them into their dark forests and silent hill forts. All at once it came to him that he’d understood every word Olaf had said.
For weeks he’d been listening and translating. The Northman language was not that different from his own, but he’d been afraid to speak it. Afraid of being laughed at! How stupid could that be? “Don’t sell me,” he said.
Olaf put his hand down. “What?”
“I said, don’t sell me.”
Olaf One-Brow chuckled. “And why not?”
Jack cast desperately around in his mind. He knew better than to plead. Berserkers hated whiners. He had no skills to offer unless you wanted someone who could catch sheep. But wait! He did have a skill. He didn’t know if it would impress a berserker, but he knew music.
Without pausing to think, he sang a charm the Bard had taught him. It was in Saxon, but that couldn’t be helped. Sven the Vengeful could translate.
These chants I know. No noble lord or lady knows them.
The first is called “help.” It helps me against strife.
It saves me from every sort of misery.
The second is to hold my foes in check.
I blunt the blades of enemies.
The third is this: If men put shackles on my legs,
My chant will let me walk free.
The chains fall from my arms.
Olaf looked absolutely stunned. “Is that what I think it is?”
“A magic charm,” said Sven in a shocked voice.
“I’ve heard it before. I can’t think where,” said Olaf. “Is it likely to harm us?”
“I wouldn’t take a chance on it,” said Sven.
“Are you a bard?” Olaf asked Jack. For answer, Jack sang the first verses of “Beowulf’s Saga.” It was one of his best pieces, full of adventure with a rousing melody. His voice was rather fine, he thought, even better than when he last sang for the Bard.
“Here! Take back your trash!” shouted Olaf, kicking the dagger away with a tinny sound. “Be off with you before I sharpen my axe on your skulls.”
The Picts carefully gathered up their goods. Olaf’s threat made no impression on them even though they were half his size. The giant hoisted Jack under his arm and strode off to the berserkers’ camp. The last Jack saw of the monk was his pale, unhappy face in the firelight.
Chapter Thirteen
Olaf Explains
the Afterlife
They sailed the next day. The wind was strong, and the great sails filled and drove them along at a breathtaking pace. Olaf’s ship was by far the swiftest in a good breeze and left the others in the haze to the south. The land broke up into inlets and wide channels to their left, and the sea turned milky green. The air smelled fresh and wild. Gulls, terns, and puffins scattered before them, and even a few crows wheeled from the rocky islands as they passed.
“Odin’s birds,” said Olaf, pointing.
Jack nodded. The Bard had told him about that. The one-eyed god of the Northmen rarely left his fortress in the far north. Instead, his black-feathered servants flew far and wide to bring him news of war and bloodshed and other things that pleased their cruel master.
A gray bulge appeared in the water to their right. Eric Pretty-Face, a hulking monster with a scar running diagonally across his face, shouted, “Whale ho!”
“Turn! Turn!” roared Olaf. The warriors scrambled for the oars, which they had not been using because of the fine wind. They gave chase, and the gray bulge fled before them until it dived beneath the surface of the water. “We gave it good sport,” said Olaf, returning to his seat by Jack. “If we weren’t so laden, I’d hunt it down.”
“That was a whale?” said Jack. He’d heard of the creature. He’d never imagined how enormous it would be close-up.
“Quite right, young skald,” replied Olaf, using the Northman word for bard. “The trolls ride them for their horses. Fine sea ivory they contain, and lamp oil to light a village through the winter.” Ever since discovering Jack’s talent, Olaf had spent much time explaining things to the boy. He also taught him vocabulary and poetry. The giant had a wide repertoire of verses, though his voice was anything but sweet. “I want you to have the words when it comes time to sing my praises,” he explained.
Jack wasn’t sure he liked the attention, but it was better than being carried off by Picts.
He and Lucy were the only slaves left. The rest of the sad-eyed captives had been replaced by furs, pottery, metal tools, medicines, and bags of grain. This was in addition to the booty taken earlier. All the berserkers were going home rich and happy. All, that is, except Thorgil. She slumped hopelessly at her post in the stern of the ship. Sometimes she roused herself enough to pull Lucy’s hair, but most of the time Jack was able to protect his little sister. Olaf was inclined to listen to his complaints now that he knew Jack was a bard.
The other berserkers, too, were careful around him, as though Jack could unleash lightning on their sorry hides. He would have loved to fry them with a thunderbolt, but he didn’t know how. I wish the Bard had taught me how to drive people crazy, Jack mused as Olaf droned on about the uses of sea ivory. I’d send them all over the side for the whales to gobble up.
“I want bread and honey,” said Lucy, who was curled up by Jack’s knee. She had learned the berserkers’ language even faster than
he and used it to order them around. She sounded utterly confident, like a real princess. Only Jack knew the fragile shell that protected her sanity. Only he saw the signs that indicated her despair. Lucy’s face had become pinched and somehow older. Her voice had a shrillness that bordered on hysteria. “I want bread and honey now, ” said Lucy.
Olaf laughed and untied the lid of a food basket. “And what will you do if I don’t fetch it?” he teased.
“I’ll tell my brother to make your beard fall off.”
“Be quiet,” Jack said in a low voice. He was terrified someone would ask him to work magic.
“Oho! I’m shaking in my boots,” said Olaf, handing her the desired treat.
“You’d better,” the little girl said. She licked the honey off and started to work on the rock-hard bread.
“Olaf,” Jack said hesitantly.
“ You’re hungry too? You kids are worse than a pack of wolves.”
“I’m not hungry.” Jack wasn’t sure how to approach Olaf on this subject. Much of the time the man appeared friendly, but he was capable of great rages. “I was thinking…. You don’t need Lucy. I mean, she’s awfully little, and you’re going to get twice as much work out of me. Singing your praises and so on. Couldn’t you—couldn’t you let her go? I mean, drop her off at a monastery so she’d be taken care of.” Jack talked rapidly, for he could see Olaf’s face turning red. “I’d pay you back somehow. I don’t know how, but I’d do it. Please—”
The blow knocked him sideways into the bilge. Jack’s ears rang, but he knew Olaf had pulled his punch at the last minute. He’d just got another kitten scratch. A full-grown cat mauling would have sent him into the next world.
“Stop it! Stop it!” shrilled Lucy. “I forbid you to hurt my brother! You’re—you’re a rotten kindaskitur !” The curse took Olaf completely by surprise. He bellowed with laughter and swung the little girl around in a kind of dance. The boat swayed dangerously.
“So I’m a pile of sheep droppings, little Valkyrie. You must have been taking language lessons from Thorgil.” The giant plumped her down on a bundle of furs. Jack crawled to his feet. It had been worth a try, but he saw now that being a bard didn’t protect him from everything.
He rubbed the blood from his nose on his sleeve. He didn’t dare cry. Nothing disgusted the Northmen more than sniveling. Jack hugged himself to keep from shivering. He had to stay in control if they were ever to survive.
Presently, Olaf sat down to continue Jack’s lessons as though nothing had happened. “You have to learn the ways we speak of important things,” he said. “It’s not enough simply to say ‘ship.’ That doesn’t show respect, and so we call it the ‘horse of the sea’ or ‘ocean’s chariot.’ In the same way, a sword is not merely a sword, but a ‘serpent of battle.’ That honors its ability to bite.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Jack said, interrupting what promised to be a long discussion. He’d been watching Thorgil. The girl had been slumped against the side of the ship for hours. She’d neither moved nor spoken.
The giant shaded his eyes as he looked toward the stern. “The brjóstabarn ? She’s unhappy because she didn’t fall in battle.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She didn’t die. She wasn’t killed.”
“Now I’m really confused,” said Jack, watching the drab, dirt-streaked face of the shield maiden.
“I told her, wait a while,” said Olaf. “We can’t all die the first time we go out. Sooner or later you’ll make it. But she didn’t listen. She’s always been inclined to gloom.”
“Why would anyone want to die?” cried Jack.
“It’s the only way to get into Valhalla. Surely you know that? But of course you’ve been raised a Christian.” Olaf then explained about the various heavens a Northman could try for. The best was Odin’s stronghold called Valhalla. There the best and brightest spent all day in ferocious battle, killing and being killed. At evening the dead rose and spent the night feasting and drinking with their murderers. The roast boar never ran out, the mead cups were always full. It was a wonderful place, but only those who had been slain in battle were allowed in.
“Some warriors, and women who have died bravely, are chosen by the goddess Freya to live in her world,” Olaf explained. “Personally, I’d find that boring. Freya is interested in love, so there’s no fighting there. You get to farm and train horses. The women spin and sew. It’s like ordinary life, only there’s no suffering.”
“Sounds all right to me,” said Jack.
“If you die at sea, you are taken into the halls of the god Aegir and his wife, Ran,” said Olaf. “That’s a fine place. The beer is good, the feasting excellent if you like fish. You get to sail in all kinds of weather, and you never have to worry about drowning because you’ve done that already. To be really welcome, you bring Ran a gift.”
“That’s why you passed out gold when we were about to sink,” said Jack.
“Very good! You were paying attention.” The giant beamed.
“But the captives didn’t get any.”
“Of course not. They’re only thralls.”
“So where do thralls go?” Jack asked.
“To Hel,” Olaf said simply.
Wouldn’t you know it? thought Jack. It wasn’t enough to take people captive and destroy their lives. The berserkers had to mess up their afterlife as well. Not that Jack believed he would go to one of Olaf’s heavens. The Bard said people wound up with the afterlife they expected, so it was important to have a good one. He said he intended to retire to the Islands of the Blessed with the ancient kings and queens of Ireland.
The giant had stopped speaking. He gazed out at the ocean, his blue eyes soft with admiration. It was a fine day, with waves neither too large nor too small and with a following wind. The great sail bellied out over a ship loaded to the gunwales with booty.
Jack saw that Lucy had fallen asleep with a half-gnawed crust of bread in her hand. He got up and covered her with a fur. Then he stood brooding over the deep water, wishing he’d never seen Olaf and his evil crew. At the same time the rushing waves stirred something deep in Jack’s soul. His lungs filled with a cold, bracing wind. It was a great thing to be alive. The world was a beautiful place even if you were a thrall. The sun was as warm and the air as sweet to you as it was to Thorgil. Better, probably, to go by her sour face.
“Father talked a lot about Hell,” Jack said after a while. “You got there by being wicked.”
“Hel is a monster, not a place,” corrected Olaf. “She claims cowards, oath-breakers, and people without honor. Her fortress, the World of Ice, is filled with mist and darkness. It’s forever cold. The silence is broken only by the slither of snakes.”
“Our Hell is hot, but I suppose it doesn’t matter,” said Jack. “It’s a nasty place for people you don’t like. I still don’t understand why Thorgil wants to die.”
“You haven’t been listening,” said Olaf. “Warriors have to fall in battle. If they die of sickness or old age like any sheep-herder, they’re deemed cowards and wind up in Hel’s fortress with the thralls. Thorgil has set her heart on Valhalla. She will not be happy until she gets there.”
Olaf sent Jack to bail out the ship. This was a constant chore and one the Northmen shared now that they had no adult slaves. Jack toiled alongside Eric Pretty-Face, whose bulging arms could lift five times as much water as he. Eric whistled a tuneless song through broken teeth. One of his legs was ravaged by what looked like an enormous bite.
Steeling his nerve—for Jack knew all the Northmen were quick to anger—he said, “How did you get that?”
“EH?” said Eric, whose ears had been dulled by years of blows and who bellowed all the time.
“How did you get that?” Jack pointed at the scar.
A ragged smile broke out on Eric’s face. “TROLL BITE,” he replied.
“It’s—it’s so big.” Jack’s stomach did a flip-flop as he calculated the size of the mouth that had caused th
e damage.
“NAW, IT WAS A LITTLE BUGGER. GOT HIS TOOTH HERE.” Eric hauled up a lump hanging on a thong around his neck. It was a fang the size of a billy goat’s horn. Eric, not much on conversation, went back to bailing.
These people are crazy, thought Jack as he bent to work. I couldn’t drive them mad even if I knew how. They’re already as loony as the crowd in the Valley of Lunatics. They deserve to spend eternity in Valhalla.
At last the three ships reached a lonely island, where a small colony existed. Low houses made of turf bulged out of the soil. They looked like small hills. Or graves, Jack thought with a shiver.
This was the last stop before the ships turned east. They would sail out of sight of land now. They would be alone on the gray ocean with only the whales—or troll-horses, as Olaf called them—for company.
The warriors traded for freshwater and dried fish. One last time Jack looked at the land as it fell behind them. It was barren and windswept, but to the far west lay a gentle light. It was as though something lay shining beyond the margin of the sea. It was the Islands of the Blessed, where the old gods ruled and where the ancient heroes and heroines still had their dwelling. Perhaps the Bard was there, sitting under an apple tree.
To the east, the direction they were traveling, the sky was leaden. No light there. Jack sighed and felt for the rune of protection. So far it had done its work. He and Lucy hadn’t been murdered. They weren’t shut up in one of those dark Pictish towers. Of course, he was miserable and Lucy wasn’t far from madness, but the rune promised only life, not happiness.
Chapter Fourteen
The Lost Bird
The unending water filled Jack with a kind of dread. With each day his home fell farther behind on the trackless waste. Even if, by some magic he was able to gain control of the ship, he could not ply the oars or reef the sail. He would never find his way back.