Jack stared at her. He might have known. If something was good, she’d be sure to reject it. “It’s a mistake, you know, to call someone a ‘stupid thrall’ when he has the only knife.”
“Ate birds. Huh-huh- hate birds,” Thorgil said, and burst into tears.
Jack was confounded. In spite of himself, he felt sorry for her. She’d saved him from the dragon, after all, and she’d found the valley. What was wrong with her? “Is this place dangerous?” he asked. “Is there something I should know?”
“No. Hate birds, is all.”
“Well, that’s not enough,” Jack said. “I like them. I even talk to them, or at least smart ones like Bold Heart. We absolutely have to rest. If you don’t like the singing, stuff moss into your ears. I’m going off to find food—another of our little problems, in case you’ve forgotten.”
She did as he suggested: stuffed moss into her ears. Then she sat staring at the stream with tears rolling down her cheeks.
He left Bold Heart to keep her company. There was no reasoning with the shield maiden. She was determined to suffer no matter how nice things were. His mood lifted as he walked along the stream. The life force seemed to be everywhere, in the leafy trees, the ecstatic birds, the lemmings and voles that rustled through the strawberries, in the butterflies, midges, and beetles. The place was simmering with activity.
Jack found berries, but he wanted something more sustaining. He considered the mushrooms—or were they toad-stools? He found and dug up wild leeks.
He froze as he heard something crackling in the underbrush. Slowly, carefully, a magnificent bird stepped from the shadows. Her majestic brown tail fanned out behind her, and around her feet flocked ten speckled chicks. Jack’s mouth watered. It was a capercaillie, big as four hens put together. Heide had served one in Olaf’s hall. Jack remembered clearly its rich flesh flavored with lingonberries from Dotti’s garden.
The capercaillie gazed at him haughtily. Her eyes, topped by patches of red that resembled eyebrows, seemed mildly surprised. She wasn’t even afraid. Jack felt for his knife.
The creature moved toward him. The speckled chicks pecked at the ground and glanced up for approval from their mother. The capercaillie lowered her head and clucked softly. Jack knew she could feed them for days. He could roast her with the leeks he’d gathered earlier and serve her with the wild strawberries her chicks were so busy eating.
The bird walked past him with a dignified tread. She wasn’t afraid of him. It would take only a second to cut her throat, but Jack couldn’t do it. The Bard had told him it was evil to use the life force to lure game. This valley was brimming with it, and the capercaillie felt secure in its presence. To kill her was—somehow—wrong.
I must be stupid beyond belief, he thought as he watched the bird disappear into the forest. Soon, however, he came into a different sort of woodland. He saw apple, walnut, hazelnut, and pear trees among the more familiar pines and aspens. They were covered with both flowers and ripe fruit, as though spring and autumn had run together. Jack took off his tunic and used it as a carrying bag.
And then he heard a buzzing in the distance that sent a thrill along his nerves. It was an uncountable number of bees, so many that there must be hundreds of hives up ahead. Jack, who was well used to the insects from Mother’s work, understood the quality of their hum. You could tell their mood by the sounds they made.
He’d heard angry bees and cheerful ones, worried bees and some so despairing that the whole hive was sinking into death. But these were possessed by mad joy. Jack could imagine them rising and falling in their thousands over the trees. It filled him with alarm, though he’d never been afraid of the creatures before. Their emotions were simply too strong to bear. Jack turned away.
Thorgil was still staring at the stream when he returned. He sliced up ripe pears for her. He found a flat rock and pounded nut meats into powder. She ate and went back to watching the stream.
You’re welcome, Jack thought. But after a while he got up and changed the binding on her ankle. She couldn’t help being an infuriating berserker. He saw that the puffiness over her ankle had vanished, as had the blisters on her cheek. In spite of herself, Thorgil was recovering.
The rest of the day was spent dozing or playing a game of rolling a walnut back and forth with Bold Heart. Jack knew he should make plans to leave, but he was far too contented. It had been a long time since he’d felt so good.
Toward nightfall he took another stroll and saw the snowy owls sitting in a small clearing. They were feeding on cloudberries and hoo-hooing among themselves. Jack noticed a vole working earnestly on a sprig of wild pea in their midst. The owls Jack was used to would have pounced on the little creature at once.
Jack decided to stay longer, although Thorgil argued against it. She could talk now and did so at great length. “We’re on a quest,” she said. “I don’t expect a thrall to understand, but it means we mustn’t get too comfortable. It’s our duty to see the Mountain Queen as soon as possible. Olaf would have wanted it that way. I’ve had enough of lying around.”
“That’s all you’ve been doing,” Jack retorted. “I went out and found food.”
“I found the valley.”
“How did you manage that?” Jack asked.
Thorgil flushed red. “It was a lucky guess.”
“Anyhow, your ankle needs to heal. I can’t carry you around like a pet cat.”
“I’m not a pet cat! I’m Thorgil Olaf’s Daughter. I’ll crawl on bloody hands and knees if I have to!”
Jack was pleased to see her old spirit back. It meant she was returning to normal. For a broken bone, her ankle was healing with amazing speed. In a day or two she’d be able to walk, and he intended to wait until she could move easily. He felt no urgency.
The lush valley with its warm air grew more attractive with each passing day. Jack fell into a schedule of strolling out each morning for food. He bathed in the stream at midday and explored in the afternoons. Between times he talked to Thorgil (who had turned increasingly sullen as she recovered) and Bold Heart, who seemed not quite happy with the situation either.
The air hummed with joy. At moments Jack felt a feverish desire to roll in moss or to cram raspberries into his mouth and let the juice drip down his chin. At moments he did just that. Sometimes he laughed and laughed for no reason until he couldn’t catch his breath. This place has to be pure life force, he thought.
Jack sat up abruptly.
He remembered the Bard talking about his training with his best friend in Ireland. Day after day we sat, struggling to open our minds to the power of the life force. And just as quickly retreating when it got too close. But my friend liked the feeling of power. He refused to stop while it was still safe. One day something went snap. He gave a mighty howl and ran off as fast as he could go until he got to the Valley of Lunatics.
I could hear the lunatics cackling before I could see them, the Bard had gone on. It was a terrible sound, so like laughter and yet so completely joyless. All the failed bards in Ireland had found their way to this one place, where the life force was stronger than anywhere else. And there they stayed.
“Maybe it isn’t a good idea to laugh until I can’t breathe,” murmured Jack. His eyes had been closed as he let the power of this place flow through him. Now he opened them on a most unwelcome sight.
Before him stood the first dangerous creature he’d seen in this enchanted valley: a great, hulking troll-boar with his mouth hanging open. Jack could see razor-sharp tusks.
The boy was stupefied. All he could think to do was chant Mother’s charm for calming angry bees. He sang it again and again, feeling it echo in the life force. That power was too close, too strong. It was like a wave of flame sweeping toward him.
Jack felt himself knocked onto his back into a strawberry patch. His mind cleared and the flames vanished. The boar was whuffling him all over, placing little kisses on his arms, chest, and face.
“Golden Bristles?” the boy cried. He
hugged the monster’s head and scratched him behind his leathery ears. “You found your way home. Goooood piggy!” Jack pulled himself up and petted the brute all over his bristly back. “I’m so happy. Isn’t this a lovely place?” Golden Bristles oinked in agreement.
Jack led him back to the camp Thorgil had made. The instant she saw him, she stood up and aimed a rock at the boar’s head. “No, no, no! He’s a friend,” Jack cried. “See?” He climbed onto the pig’s back, half expecting the creature to toss him off. But Golden Bristles was perfectly happy to be ridden like a donkey.
The pig grunted, and Bold Heart warbled back. “He says you freed him,” Thorgil said with a scowl like a thundercloud.
“I did. Wait a minute. How do you know what he said?”
“None of your business. Olaf almost got killed capturing him!”
“So what? He was only going to drown him. Unlike pea-brained berserkers, I don’t like suffering.”
“You stupid thrall! Now Lucy will take his place,” cried Thorgil.
“That’s not my doing!” Jack shouted, jumping down from Golden Bristles’s back.
“It is so, you Saxon fool!”
“ Brjóstabarn! You’re the one who gave her to Frith!” yelled Jack. They stood toe-to-toe, panting with rage. Jack’s mind was clearer than it had been for days. Fury swept away the dreamlike enchantment of the valley. He suddenly remembered Lucy. By Heaven, she was why he was here, and he’d forgotten! He couldn’t even remember how much time had passed.
“That’s right,” Thorgil said, correctly reading his face. “While you’ve been drooling into the raspberries, time has passed.”
“Oh, Lucy,” he whispered. Then another thought struck him. “You did know what Golden Bristles said. You’ve been practicing sei er all along. You lied to me!”
Thorgil bowed her head. “I never lie. This accursed power came upon me suddenly. I’m so ashamed,” she murmured.
“You? Ashamed? I’d sooner expect that of Freya’s cats.”
The shield maiden squared her shoulders. She was not one to turn away from pain. “I can’t understand the troll-boar, but I do know what Bold Heart says. And all those wretched little birds!” She shook her fist at the trees. “It’s like being in a hall full of drunk warriors. Yak, yak, yak all the time. They say things like ‘Get out of my tree’ or ‘Did you ever see such beautiful chicks?’ Or they say, ‘Excuse me, I’ve got to poop.’ And they never shut up from the minute they wake until they fall asleep! The owls keep it up all night.”
“That’s how you found this place,” Jack said. “The owls.”
“Yes! That was the first time I realized I could understand birds. They were upset about the dragon and what she’d do when she found her children dead. One of the owls told the others how to find this valley. Apparently, the dragon’s forbidden to come here.”
“You’re like Sigurd. You got dragon’s blood in your mouth.”
“I wish I never had! It’s turned me into a horrible witch!”
“It’s a wonderful skill, Thorgil,” Jack said.
“I hate it!” She was determined to despise her good fortune. Jack would have loved to understand birds, but the dragon’s blood would probably have killed him. It had almost killed Thorgil.
“I guess we’d better leave,” he said. “The sooner we get to the Mountain Queen, the better.”
“About time,” grumbled Thorgil.
Packing was no problem. They had almost nothing. Jack gathered a supply of nuts and fruit for the journey. He used Thorgil’s cloak to carry it. She would be cold when they left, but so would he and they needed the food. On the way back he saw the owls lying in the meadow. They were so weak, they couldn’t fly.
They had fled the dragon only to encounter an even greater peril here. The peacefulness of the valley had lured them, as it had Jack. They hadn’t realized they wouldn’t be able to hunt. Owls could not survive on fruits and berries alone.
Jack put down the food and carried each owl out of the meadow and up into the barren rocks of the nearby hills. He left them on a trail leading up to the cliffs. They were out of sight of the valley and seemed more alert when he left them.
“What took you so long?” Thorgil complained when he returned.
“Owls,” Jack said shortly, and didn’t explain.
He carried the food over one shoulder and grasped his staff for a weapon. Thorgil took the one remaining knife on the grounds that she was better at using it. Bold Heart perched on Golden Bristles’s back, for the boar had already been on his way to the Mountain Queen’s cave when they met. He was good friends with her, he said, and always dropped in when he was in the neighborhood.
Jack learned this in a roundabout way. Golden Bristles spoke to Bold Heart, who translated from Pig to Crow so Thorgil could understand. Then she passed on the information. Or some of it. She kept most things to herself, either because Golden Bristles asked her to or because she wanted to irritate Jack.
Chapter Thirty-two
The Ice Bow
At the end of the valley, where the stream plunged underground, Golden Bristles found an opening hidden by vines. It was invisible until you were actually in it, and when you got to the other side, all you saw was a crack in the hillside. The air turned cold at once.
This trail was at the bottom of another deep ravine. It twisted and turned with occasional forks as it went down. Golden Bristles selected their path. When darkness fell, they were still in the ravine with only rocks to lie on.
It was a cold, miserable night. Jack and Thorgil slept sitting up with the troll-boar’s massive body for a back-rest. The pig was infested with troll-lice. They crept through his hair and through Jack’s and Thorgil’s hair as well, though they didn’t bite. They didn’t seem to like human blood. Jack still woke every time he felt their stealthy claws.
Not that he slept much between times. The wind found its way into the ravine, and toward dawn an icy frost came down. Jack sheltered Bold Heart under his tunic, which helped them both a little.
Only Golden Bristles spent a comfortable night under his layers of fat. He snored atrociously, slobbering and whining through his long snout, and his trotters jerked when he dreamed.
“How much more of this is there?” Jack moaned as they slipped and clattered over the stones after dawn. He could hardly keep his footing, even with the staff he’d cut from the ash tree.
“I’ll ask,” Thorgil said. She was noticeably cheerful now that they were all suffering. She put the question to Bold Heart, who put it to Golden Bristles. The boar replied at length. The crow translated, taking a long time about it. Then Thorgil answered: “Not long.”
“That was a lot of talk to end up with ‘not long,’” Jack said.
“Yes, it was,” Thorgil said happily.
“You’re hiding something.”
“You’ll never know.”
Brjóstabarn, thought Jack. They stopped to eat, though little was left. A cloak full of fruit and nuts didn’t last long when you had to share it with a troll-boar. Thorgil and Jack took turns riding on the pig’s back. He was so wide, they could barely hold on with their legs, and he snarled when they tried to grasp his ears.
On and on they went until Jack despaired of ever getting anywhere. Then, just as he thought he’d collapse with weariness, they came out onto a dazzling sheet of ice. The sunlight was blinding after the shadowy ravine. The ice itself was as clear and blue as a river, and he could see the bodies of animals and humans and far stranger things suspended in its depths. It made him queasy to look down.
Even worse was the shiny surface. Thorgil tried to hurry, and her feet slid out from under her. She scooted along, coming to rest at the edge of a crevasse. After that she was more careful. Jack held on to Golden Bristles’s fur in spite of the pig’s complaints. The boar seemed to have no trouble, but of course he was made for such things. His massive trotters dug in like knives, and he left a trail of deep scratches behind him.
“Look!” cried
Thorgil as they came around a bend. Ahead rose the ice mountain, higher than Jack had dreamed possible and more complicated and magnificent than it had appeared from a distance. It resembled an enormous castle with turrets and airy walkways and courtyards. It was like something from one of Father’s stories, and Jack wished Lucy could have seen it.
“How are we ever going to cross that ?” he murmured. For reaching out from the shelf where they stood to the home of the Mountain Queen was a soaring bridge. It arced above unimaginable depths, going up and up and then down and down in a shining bow of ice—brilliant, breathtaking, and slippery.
Bold Heart croaked urgently. “He says Golden Bristles will have to carry us,” Thorgil translated.
“Can he ask whether the boar will let us hold on to his ears?” Jack said, looking into the chasm under the bridge. He couldn’t even see the bottom. A cold mist shifted and flowed around the base of the mountain. Bold Heart put the question to Golden Bristles, who growled.
“I take it that means no,” said Jack.
“He says his ears are sensitive. He’ll let us hold on to his hair, if we don’t pull too hard,” Thorgil translated. She looked doubtfully at the chasm. “I wonder if people who fall off bridges go to Valhalla.”
“I’m sure they do,” said Jack. “It’s dumb enough to qualify.”
At the last minute he had a clever idea. He tore Thorgil’s cloak into strips and made a long cord. He looped one end around Golden Bristles’s neck for a collar and looped the other end around his and Thorgil’s waists. They sat, legs spread wide on the giant hog’s back, with their hands clutching his hair. Jack’s staff—it made no sense to take it, but he was reluctant to leave it behind—was tucked under the pig’s collar. Bold Heart was nestled inside Jack’s tunic.
“Let’s go,” the boy said with a sigh, thinking, I hope I’m allowed to visit the Islands of the Blessed when we fall off.
Jack sat in front and Thorgil was behind as the troll-boar began to climb the bridge. His trotters bit into the ice. Jack could see fragments break off and disappear into the gorge. His stomach lurched, and he forced himself to look straight ahead.