“You see, whatever power a bard has,” the old man continued, “comes from the life force: his music, his ability to hold an audience, his skill in calling up storms.”
Jack straightened up. That last sounded interesting.
“It takes years to control it, and my friend didn’t want to wait. He refused to stop while it was still safe. At first he was successful. He could cause a fire to hang in midair or birds to fly upside down. But one day—while he was trying to make a forest pull up its roots and walk—something went snap. I could actually hear it. He fell over. A second later he sprang up and his body shook as though a giant dog had him in its jaws. Then he gave a mighty howl and ran off as fast as he could go.”
Jack was horrified. The Bard had said his defenses were gone. Was it his fate to go mad as well?
“I followed him,” said the old man. “It wasn’t easy, for I had to stop at nightfall and go around bramble bushes and streams. My poor friend went straight ahead no matter what was in his way. I found pieces of his clothing on thorns. At last I came to the Valley of Lunatics.”
A mist had blown up from the sea, and the air was beginning to chill. The bees had left their feeding. Each moment there were fewer of them as they sped off to their warm hives.
“I could hear them cackling before I could see them,” said the Bard. “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. I saw my friend, but he was nothing like the man I’d known. His eyes and hair were wild. He was in the grip of a power far beyond him, and I, poor apprentice that I was, had no way to free him.”
The old man climbed to his feet and held out his hand. “Let us not dwell on the unhappy past. I may have done you harm, but I’m no longer a raw apprentice. I can help you. And perhaps it was all for the best. Dangers sweep upon us. Storm clouds are gathering. Swords are being forged….” Muttering to himself, the Bard made his way up the path.
Jack followed him. He felt somewhat dazed. The sleepiness that had come upon him earlier was creeping back, but the farther they got from the little valley, the better he felt. And by the time they reached the Roman house on its windswept cliff, he was fine.
Chapter Five
Hrothgar’s Golden Hall
Moons waxed and waned over the little village. The apples on Father’s trees turned golden. Grain bent in waves before the west wind, and presently, harvest time arrived. Sheep were shorn, honey was taken from the hives, pigs were slaughtered in preparation for winter. Jack stayed in the Roman house. He couldn’t hear the killing of the pigs, but he could feel it. The air trembled with their deaths.
All the while he practiced magic with the Bard. He learned to call up mist, make apples drop from a high branch, and call birds down from the sky. It was small stuff, but it delighted him.
Then it was winter. Snow settled over the high hills. The sea turned dark and the sun fled. Jack stayed indoors and memorized poems. The Bard had made him a small harp, but the cold was so intense, Jack’s fingers were clumsy on the strings. The old man decided it was time to teach the making of fires. “Concentrate on heat,” he said, sitting across from a jumble of sticks and straw.
“I’m freezing,” said Jack. The Bard had put out the fire at dawn, and the air was so cold, it was frightening. Ice rimed the paintings on the walls.
“It’s only freezing if you think it is,” the Bard said.
That’s all right for you, Jack thought resentfully. You’ve got a thick woolen cloak and fur-lined boots. I’ve only got this miserable tunic.
“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times.” The old man sighed. “Don’t use anger to reach the life force.”
How does he know what I’m thinking? thought Jack. Anyhow, it’s true. I’ve outgrown my tunic, and my shoes have been through so much mud, you could bake them like pots.
“Anger belongs to death,” said the Bard. “It turns on you when you least expect it.”
Jack, with an inward sigh, thought about the hot sun pouring down last summer. Rain fell on the earth and flowed out of hillsides months later. Surely light remained trapped as well. He searched for it, going deep into the soil, beyond the nests of mice and voles, beyond even the gnarled roots of the forest, until he came to rock. And beyond the rock he found heat. He saw a faint glow in his mind and drew it forth. He called to it, mentally held out his hands to it.
Jack felt sick. Magic sometimes did that to him. The power roiled in the pit of his stomach, and he thought he was going to throw up. He opened his eyes to see a thread of smoke curling up from the straw.
“Don’t give up now,” said the Bard. “Keep calling it. Keep calling. ” But the nausea won out. Jack stumbled to the door, and when he returned, the spark had died.
“Don’t worry,” the Bard said cheerfully. “What’s done once can be done again. We have all day.”
So we do, thought Jack as the north wind buffeted the walls of the house.
“If you feel sleepy, walk around,” said the Bard.
I’m not sleepy, I’m cold, thought Jack. But he found he was sleepy after all. It would feel so nice to give himself up to the sensation. He could almost see the frost giants calling to him. Lie down, boy, they said. It’s a fine old bed, ice is. Nothing like snow for a cover either.
He felt himself being shaken. “I said, walk around!” the Bard shouted. “You’ve got to recognize the danger.” He forced the boy to put first one foot, then the other before him. Jack almost fell over before he got the hang of walking again.
“Life and death are in constant battle,” said the Bard. “In winter death is strongest. The frost giants lie in wait for the careless. When you work magic in winter, you have to be especially careful.”
“Y-Y-You d-don’t stare out o-over the sea any-ah-anymore,” stammered Jack, his teeth chattering. “A-Aren’t you w-worried about Q-Queen Frith?”
“Very observant of you.” The Bard briskly marched Jack up and down the house. “I’m not worried because the servants of Queen Frith can’t travel now. No Northman would take his beloved boat out in winter. And those ox-brained oafs do love their boats. They sing to them and buy them jewels as though they were women. When a chieftain dies, he is sent out with all his worldly goods in a blazing ship. He even has a slave woman to wait on him.”
“A woman?” Jack gasped. “Is she—? Do they—?”
“Do they kill her? Yes. An old hag called the Angel of Death strangles her. Then she is laid next to her lord and they are both burned.”
Jack shivered again, this time not entirely from cold. The more he heard about these Northmen, the worse they sounded.
“Try the fire-making again,” said the Bard. “I’ll watch to make sure you don’t go too far.”
Jack’s second attempt went more smoothly, and the third, fourth, and fifth almost succeeded. Finally, on the sixth try, hours later, he got the plume of smoke to burst into flame.
“I did it!” he cried. He danced around the room, feelings of cold and defeat gone. “I’m a bard! I’m a wonder! I’m the cleverest boy in the world!” The heat was pouring out of the earth now. The rime on the walls melted. The frozen thatch softened and dripped. It began to smolder.
“Begone!”
The room suddenly darkened and the air filled with ashes and smoke. Jack stopped and stared.
In the dim light of the doorway the Bard stood with folded arms. “I’ve told you before. Know when to quit.”
Jack felt as though he’d been struck. “How dare you put out my fire!” he screamed. “How dare you spoil my work!” Jack felt the power rise through his feet and heat his whole body. He was filled with a savage joy. He could do anything— anything —better than this old fool who didn’t appreciate what a great magician Jack was.
The Bard raised his staff. “Stop now,” he said quietly. “If I can repel a Nightmare from across the se
a, you don’t want to know what I can do to a fledgling apprentice.”
The power vanished. Jack sank to the floor. He felt like he was alone on a dark sea with devouring waves all around. He was a mere insect crawling on a fragment of driftwood. How could he have imagined hurting the one person who had tried to help him? How could he have been so stupid? He began to cry.
“Oh, my, my, my,” said the Bard. “You really are a child. I’ve pushed you too hard.” He knelt down and put his hands on Jack’s head. Presently, the boy felt something drop over him like a soft blanket. It felt safe and warm. He wanted to wrap himself up and never come out.
“Listen, child,” came the old man’s soft voice. “You must respect the limits of your power. You can cause a great deal of harm if you don’t. I’ve cast a spell of protection over you. Let all wandering spirits see my mark and keep away.”
Jack heard no more words, though he did register the sound of the wind. It was like many voices calling to one another. And he heard the crackling of fire and felt its warmth—true warmth and not the false heat of anger.
On the long evenings Jack went back and forth to the heap of driftwood he had gathered during summer. It was then that the Bard told stories, and he wanted a cheerful fire in the background. “They are cruel tales,” he said. “They should be told in the light, with good friends and a merry heart.”
How you could tell a cruel tale with a merry heart was a mystery to Jack, but it wasn’t his place to argue. “If you were trained in Ireland, sir,” he dared to ask one night, “how did you meet up with…um…that northern king?”
“Ivar the Boneless?”
“Yes.” Jack hated to say the name. It sounded so horrible. It was like a long, green worm slithering through a swamp.
“I was young and foolish, like you,” said the Bard. “I had earned my harp from the College of Bards and had been awarded the Golden Mistletoe for outstanding spell-casting. Have I told you about that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was ready for adventure, and thus it came to me, as adventure always does to the foolish. A northern warrior arrived at the college. He asked for a bard to accompany him to his lord’s castle. It sounded wonderful! Hrothgar was a mighty lord who lived in a golden hall. There was none like it in the world.
“It was as large as a hundred houses and filled with brave warriors and shield women. The fire pit alone could hold an entire oak tree. Hrothgar was generous as well. He gave gold rings to his followers and lavish feasts to all who sought shelter under his roof. But the one thing Hrothgar didn’t have was a first-rate bard. Have I told you I was awarded the Golden Mistletoe for outstanding spell-casting?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jack.
“So you see I was the natural choice for this honor. And the thought of traveling didn’t bother me. It’s what we bards do. I sailed to Hrothgar’s kingdom, and it was even better than described. His hall was like a great light in the midst of a wilderness.”
Jack listened breathlessly. The walls of the Roman house trembled in a winter storm, and the stones on the beach far below rattled like an army clashing its shields. No matter how carefully Jack stuffed heather and wool into crevices, the wind still found its way inside. The coals of the fire brightened and light danced on the walls.
But Hrothgar’s hall had allowed no winter. It was as sound as a nut and as warm and friendly as a summer afternoon. Its walls rang with laughter, even more so after the arrival of the Bard.
“I should have known,” mourned the Bard. “I should have guessed. ”
“Guessed what?” said Jack, unable to contain himself.
“It’s as I have told you. Life and death are in constant battle. There’s no way in this world for happiness to exist alone. The golden hall was too beautiful, and so, like all bright things, it attracted destruction. In the deeps, in the depths of a murky swamp, lived Grendel, who was a monster.”
“Was he a troll ?” gasped Jack.
“Partly,” said the Bard. “His father was an ogre. Anyhow, monsters hate light,” said the Bard. “They cannot bear laughter, and the smell of feasting enrages them. Grendel waited until everyone was asleep. Then he crept into the hall and bit off the heads of ten warriors sleeping near the door. Don’t wince like that, Jack,” said the Bard. “When you retell this story, you’ll have to look confident.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jack.
“Grendel took home the bodies for dinner. I can tell you, that cast a shadow over the fun and games at the hall. The warriors all swore they would avenge their comrades. But that night they discovered a terrible thing. Grendel could not be harmed by weapons. He was protected by a charm. The warriors slashed at him until their swords broke, but they couldn’t make a dent in his scaly hide.
“It went on for weeks,” said the Bard. “Whenever the monster got hungry, he dropped off at Hrothgar’s for a snack. No one asked for songs from me anymore. They were too depressed.”
Jack might have been mistaken, but it seemed the Bard felt insulted. “Weren’t you scared, sir?”
“Of course! But there’s no point giving in to fear. That’s like opening the door and saying, ‘Come right in, Master Grendel, sir. Wouldn’t you like to bite an arm or a leg off me?’ No! Death must be fought with life, and that means courage and that means joy. I can tell you, I was disgusted by the way Hrothgar and his crowd were handling their problem. They hid under the stairs like rabbits. Until Beowulf showed up.”
“Beowulf?” said Jack. The fire had died down. The flaring coals cast weird shadows. As often happened when the light was dim, the painted birds on the walls seemed to open their wings. Their feathers stirred in a breeze that was nothing like the fierce storm outside. Jack hastily got up and put more driftwood on the fire.
“Beowulf. Ah, there was a warrior!” said the Bard, his eyes gleaming. “No hiding under the stairs for him. Hrothgar embraced him. The queen offered him a cup of foaming mead. When midnight came, all had fallen into a weary sleep brought on by fear. All but Beowulf…and me.
“Beowulf sat by the door. When Grendel arrived, the warrior grasped him by the arm. No weapon wrought of steel could harm the monster, but honest human hands could destroy him. Grendel took fright and ran. Beowulf held on so tightly, he tore Grendel’s arm right off. ”
This time Jack managed to keep from wincing.
“Shrieking, the monster staggered back to the swamp and plunged into its depths. But before he reached the bottom, he was dead.”
“Hurrah!” cried Jack.
“Wait. There’s more.”
“More?” said Jack. “You mean, where everyone celebrated the victory?”
“Of course they celebrated,” the Bard said. “What they didn’t know, however, was that Grendel had a mother. This is where it gets interesting.”
How can it possibly get more interesting? Jack thought. The earlier story had been so thrilling, Jack’s heart was still pounding.
“Grendel’s mother clawed her way out of the swamp, howling for revenge. She broke down the door, bursting the bars asunder. The warriors felt for their spears, but in a trice she was across the hall. She tore Grendel’s arm off the wall. Hrothgar had nailed it there as a kind of trophy. I did warn him it was a bad idea.”
“Please go on, sir,” said Jack, wriggling in his seat.
“Then the she-monster killed the king’s best friend and went back to the swamp. Beowulf had been sleeping in a back room and had heard nothing.
“In the morning the warriors rode to the lonely mountains where the creatures of the night lived. Toads bleated melancholy cries from slime pits. Trees trailed twisted roots into swamp. Frozen water hung like fallen daggers over the gloomy cliffs. Beowulf blew his battle horn, and all manner of snakes and scaly beings came hissing out. Hrothgar and his warriors fought them with axe and arrow until they were all dead. But one creature remained.”
“Grendel’s mother,” whispered Jack.
“Did I tell you her name was Frothi? Or
that she was a half-troll?”
Chapter Six
The Wolf-Headed Men
Jack crept closer to the fire. The driftwood burned green and blue, as driftwood did when it had been at sea a long time. The Bard pulled a goatskin bag from a peg. He took a hearty drink and offered it to Jack. The apple cider was warm from being close to the fire. It reminded Jack of the sunlight that had ripened the apples.
“I didn’t know who Frothi was until later,” the Bard said. “I only knew that a foul monster lived at the bottom of the swamp. Beowulf blew his horn to call her forth to battle. ‘Coward!’ he shouted. But the water only quivered. Nothing stirred, not in the swamp, the trees, or the mountains. ‘If she will not come to me, I shall go to her, ’ he announced.
“Beowulf was a fine man,” said the Bard, “but he wasn’t overly furnished with brains. That’s the way it is with great warriors. They’ll rush out to fight a dragon ten times their size. Sometimes they’ll even win, but most of the time the dragon winds up picking its teeth with the sword.
“‘Beowulf,’ I said, ‘you’re going to sink like a stone with all that armor. And what are you planning to use for air down there?’
“‘I care not! This battle will win me fame or death,’ he bellowed.
“‘Old friend,’ I said, ‘let’s not start thinking about death. I think I can help you.’ I sang him a charm for the swiftness of a trout, the suppleness of an eel. I made his sword shine, to light his way in the dark swamp. I gave him the ability to breathe under water.”
“You can do all that?” Jack cried.
“For a short while. I can only bend the laws of the world, not change them.”
Jack was wildly excited. Up till now the Bard had only hinted at the magic he could accomplish. If the old man could do such wonderful things, couldn’t he— wouldn’t he—teach his apprentice how?
“Beowulf plunged into the swamp. The darkness swallowed him, and with it came silence. The toads stopped croaking. The wind died. All seemed to be watching and waiting. ‘Hurry,’ I thought. Beowulf had only a short time to carry out his mission. If he took too long, the charm would wear off and he would drown.