by Nancy Farmer
“Stoke up the fires!” sang the Bugaboo. “We’ve got a load of sinners to deliver!”
“We repent!” cried Mrs. Tanner.
“Too late.” Blewit stuck his long face close to hers, and she screamed. “You stole, you lied, you cheated—and you hurt little girls.”
“We’ll never do it again. We’ll leave the village.” Ythla tried to hide behind her mother, but the Nemesis pulled her out by one leg.
“You are leaving the village,” he said, grinning dreadfully.
Jack by now had got back his breath. He was satisfied with the girls’ punishment, but he felt the hobgoblins were being too hard on Mrs. Tanner. “Stop that at once,” he called, getting to his feet.
“Eek! It’s the young bard!” shrieked the Nemesis, bouncing into the air with exaggerated terror.
“Please, oh great one, don’t turn us into stone!” cried the Bugaboo, falling to his knees.
Jack understood then that the hobgoblins were inviting him to rescue the Tanners. “I might or I might not turn you into stone,” he said carelessly. “The girls certainly deserve to be dragged down to Hell, but you’ve gone too far with their mother. She’s innocent.”
“She is not!” Blewit said indignantly. “I heard her plotting to drive Hazel and Pega away—and you, too, if she could manage it. I say let’s sharpen the pitchforks and roast them all.”
“Submit, demons!” cried Jack, raising his arms the way the Bard had when he battled the draugr. The Nemesis rolled into a ball, and the Bugaboo unfurled his ears to their fullest extent—fwup!—and furled them up again. Blewit merely folded his arms and waited. “I’ve decided that these sinners should be spared—for the moment—on condition that they leave the village as soon as possible.”
“We’ll do it. We’ll be good,” whimpered Mrs. Tanner.
“Very well. You demons can go,” Jack said grandly.
“Oh, can we? Oh, thank you, great bard,” said the Nemesis, groveling in a way Jack knew was sarcastic.
“But if we see one scrap of bad behavior,” growled Blewit, “if you make Hazel cry or upset Pega, we’ll be back!”
All three of the hobgoblins popped out of sight, but their voices still resounded: “We’ll! Be! Back!”
The Tanners clung to one another, not daring to move, until Jack took Mrs. Tanner’s arm. He still felt sorry for her, although he believed Blewit. She wasn’t innocent. She had probably trained her daughters to be thieves. “I’ll take you home,” he said. The Tanners followed him docilely, and at the edge of the hazel wood he cast his mind out to feel what creatures were abroad in the darkness.
To his amazement the scene before him cleared, as a muddy stream does when clean water flows into it. He could see exactly where the paths were, and he knew that the draugr had hidden herself elsewhere. “Hold hands and follow me,” he commanded.
On the other side Ymma, very hesitantly, said, “I’m sorry I called you a ‘damned wizard.’ It was foolish of me. We would have been lost”—she swallowed hard—”if you hadn’t rescued us. How did you know we were in trouble?”
“I’m a bard,” said Jack. “I know these things.”
“You do realize what you’ve done,” said the Bard the next day. He and Jack had set out to inspect the inlet where Skakki and his crew would land. The stones of the old Roman road were covered in moss and shaded by a canopy of beech trees so thick that the twilight never lifted. The air was hot and still. The only thing moving was a haze of mosquitoes. “You do realize that in forcing the Tanners out, you’ve taken responsibility for their move.”
“I couldn’t leave them here. They’d be up to their old tricks in no time,” Jack said sullenly.
“I’m not criticizing you.” The Bard stopped and wiped sweat from his brow. “Whew! It’s as hot as a dragon’s belly in here. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a thunderstorm tonight.” Which meant, Jack knew, that they would have a thunderstorm tonight. The Bard was never wrong about such things.
“The Tanners will be far better off in Bebba’s Town,” the old man went on, “where their troublemaking won’t be so noticeable. There are many places they can find work. Really, lad, you’ve done them a favor.”
“So … how will they get to Bebba’s Town?” the boy asked, guessing he wouldn’t like the answer.
“On Skakki’s ship, of course. Will you look at that road! Straight as an arrow and hardly a rock out of place. The Romans were amazing builders. Unfortunately, they didn’t have a speck of sympathy for nature. A road had to go from here to there by the shortest way possible, and if a tree was in the way, they cut it down. If there was a hillock, they leveled it. That’s why the Romans aren’t here anymore. Nature doesn’t take kindly to being pushed around.”
They continued walking, with the Bard stepping sure-footedly on the slippery moss with hardly any help from his staff. The air changed as they neared the inlet, becoming cooler and mixed with the smell of seaweed. In the distance Jack heard surf. “Perhaps there won’t be room for the Tanners,” he said hopefully.
“I sailed on this ship with Olaf,” the old man said. “He could ferry a herd of horses with it—well, to be accurate, he could steal a herd of horses with it. Our cargo isn’t large, and we’ll only have you, me, Thorgil, and Seafarer for passengers. There’s plenty of room for the Tanners.”
Wonderful, thought Jack. Ymma, Ythla, and Thorgil crammed in together like a box full of spiders. Not to mention Sven the Vengeful, Eric Pretty-Face, and that new fellow, Schlaup. Thorgil said Schlaup could lift an ox over his head with one hand.
Northmen loved picking fights better than swilling ale, and they were extremely fond of ale. Jack remembered how Olaf had kept order with blows and threats, and wondered whether Skakki was tough enough. “Isn’t Brother Aiden going?” the boy asked. By now they had reached the path that led from the road to the sea.
“Aiden would die rather than set foot on a Northman ship,” said the Bard. “He saw his friends murdered by some of the very people we’re going to travel with.”
Jack, too, had seen Northmen run berserk, and the memory still haunted his dreams.
A tongue of land formed a shallow bay and made an ideal place to anchor. It was well hidden from view, and on either side was a beach of clean white sand. The Bard found a rock to sit on. “Swallows have reported seeing Skakki’s ship a week to the south. You can stop furrowing your brow, Jack. He’s trading amber and sea ivory this time, not slaves.”
“This time,” Jack said bitterly.
“I’ve told the villagers we’re taking an Irish merchant vessel and have been vague about where it’s to be anchored,” the old man said. “You understand that we can’t let them catch sight of the crew. You and Thorgil will have to do all the loading.”
“What about the Tanners?” said Jack.
“I’d rather they didn’t know who we’re sailing with until it’s too late.”
They sat for a while, watching the waves break beyond the tongue of land. Green sandpipers scurried along the beach, running for safety when the water foamed in. A flock of black-and-white eider ducks sailed overhead.
Brother Aiden had told Jack that eider ducks had once befriended St. Cuthbert. They had attended his sermons, and the mother eiders trusted him so much, they had let him pick up their chicks. When St. Cuthbert became abbot of the Holy Isle, he forbade anyone to hunt the birds. But a wicked monastery servant had killed one and thrown the evidence into the sea. The very next day the sea had coughed up bones and feathers onto the chapel doorstep. For even the sea, Brother Aiden said, knew better than to lie to a saint.
Jack had heard many stories about St. Cuthbert and animals. Otters kept him warm when he meditated, sea eagles dropped fish when he was hungry. Once, the saint scolded a pair of ravens for stealing thatch, and they brought him a lump of fat to oil his boots with, by way of apology. It was Christian magic and, as far as Jack could see, not that different from the Bard’s magic.
The old man said the life
force flowed in streams deep in the earth. If you understood its workings, you could call it forth—or rather it chose to listen to your call. This was where the power to do magic came from. Jack didn’t understand much of this explanation, but he knew the power was difficult to control. And sometimes things happened that weren’t supposed to happen.
“I could see the paths in the hazel wood last night,” Jack said aloud.
“That’s excellent,” said the Bard.
“But I don’t know how I did it.”
The Bard smiled. “Quite a lot of what we do is a mystery, even to us.” Jack’s heart warmed to the word us. “Learning magic is like knocking at the same door again and again. For a long time no one answers. You imagine that the tenant is at the other end of the garden pulling weeds, or perhaps he’s in bed. After a while you decide no one’s at home. You turn to go, but knock one last time and lo! The door opens.”
“Does that mean I can see the paths whenever I want now?”
“It means you won’t be kept waiting as long next time.” The old man reached into a sack tied to his belt and removed his silver flute. “I thought it was time you practiced this. Have you ever played a flute?”
Jack’s mind went back to the years before the Bard had arrived. When John the Fletcher had shot a swan, he’d made whistles from the hollow wing bones. All the village children had received such gifts, but only Jack had shown talent. He’d been able to create a tune with the crude instrument while the others had been satisfied with blasting one another’s eardrums. When the huntsman had seen Jack’s ability, he’d made him a real flute out of apple wood.
The boy had been transported by its music. He’d played and played until Father, who thought such activities were a waste of time and probably wicked, had cast the instrument into the fire.
Jack was swept with anger as he remembered. He reminded himself that Father had changed since the trip to Bebba’s Town. There were fewer lectures on sin and more opportunities for fun. But still, the memory of that beautiful instrument burning—
“An acorn for your thoughts,” the Bard remarked.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” Jack was startled out his reverie. “I have played a flute, sir, but not one so fine.”
“There are none finer. This was made for Amergin. We won’t call bats now because it’s unfair to drag them into the sunlight. Let’s start with field mice.”
“Field mice?” echoed Jack.
“You never know when you might need something chewed. Watch where my fingers go and listen to the sound.” The Bard put the flute to his lips and his fingers covered seven of the eight holes. Jack heard a faint squeaking, such as one might detect near a haystack on a summer day. The old man repeated it several times, with the boy watching intently, before handing the flute over.
The first sound came out as an alarming buzz.
“Stop!” cried the Bard, covering his ears. “You’re calling up hornets!” He demonstrated the method again, and gradually, Jack got the idea. It wasn’t the same as playing a harp. It was more like talking to one person in a crowded room. He or she could pick out your voice from all the others because only you were trying to communicate. In this case, the field mice were like a single, listening ear among a thousand ears in the forest.
Jack looked down to see dozens of beady little eyes observing him from the leaf litter. Some mice had crept onto his feet and a few bold ones had climbed onto his lap. Jack kept playing, elated and a little frightened, until the Bard gently took the flute from his hands.
“That’s enough, lad. We must let them go before a hawk discovers them.” The old man waved his hand and the tiny creatures pattered away. The sun had turned toward the west and the predicted thunderclouds had begun to build. They hurried home along the moss-covered Roman road.
Chapter Fourteen
SCHLAUP
A week had passed and the inlet was wrapped in fog so thick, dawn barely penetrated it. Jack and Thorgil had traveled by the light of a horn lantern, and now they waited together on the chilly sand. Thorgil was barely able to sit still for excitement. “We’re going to take ship again. I’m going home. Isn’t it wonderful?” she said.
Jack pulled his woolen cloak tighter. Water droplets beaded his hair. His backside was as wet as a frog’s bottom.
“Well, isn’t it wonderful?”
“I suppose so,” he grumbled. “What’s taking them so long?” Only a foot or two of water was visible and a pale ribbon of foam moved in and out of sight.
“They have to be careful in fog,” said Thorgil. “Eric the Rash has to stand at the prow with a weighted line to call out the depth. Listen! I think I can hear him now.”
Jack listened. All he could hear was surf muttering along the coast. Gradually, the sky paled and the sea turned a faint gray-green. The tongue of land appeared like a stain against the fog.
“Four oars deep,” floated a voice over the water. Jack had to strain to understand the words. It had been almost two years since he’d spoken the Northman language. “Three oars deep … slowly, slowly, I can see land. Two oars deep. Slow down, you kindaskitur! It’s as shallow as a miser’s purse!”
Kindaskiturs: sheep droppings, translated Jack. And then he saw it: the long graceful outline, the sail reefed against the mast, the shaggy shapes leaning on the oars. The prow was oddly shortened, and he remembered that the great dragon head, carved by Olaf One-Brow, had to be removed when they came to shore. Otherwise, it would anger the land spirits.
“Drop anchor!” roared a new voice Jack recognized as Skakki’s.
“We’re here! We’re here!” screamed Thorgil, jumping up and down.
Jack heard splashing and thrashing as oars were unshipped and heavy shapes dropped into the water. Jack found that his heart was thudding. It was hard not to feel fear at the arrival of Northmen. The first shape waded to shore, taller than any man had a right to be, and swung Thorgil around in a bear hug.
“Little sister!” cried Skakki. “You’re as welcome as sun after storm! Scrawny as ever, I see.”
“I am not!” protested Thorgil, laughing.
“It’s that feeble Saxon food. I’ll put you on the outside of a couple of roast oxen to fatten you up. Who’s this runt?”
Jack looked up, appalled. Skakki had grown more than a foot since he’d last seen him, and the man’s shoulders and chest had broadened out. He was a true son of Olaf One-Brow now, except for the eyes. Where Olaf had peered out at the world with cheerful brutishness, Skakki had his mother’s depth of mind.
“I am Dragon Tongue’s assistant,” Jack said, drawing himself up as tall as possible.
“Ah! The skald,” Skakki said, using the Northman word for bard.
“He’s really only an apprentice,” said Thorgil.
Jack let it pass. He was more interested in the other shapes that appeared from the fog: Sven the Vengeful, Eric the Rash, Eric Pretty-Face, and other men he didn’t know that well, but who were as villainous-looking as the rest. Eric Pretty-Face had horrific scars and ears that were almost chewed off. “IT’S JACK!” he roared, and the boy remembered that the man was nearly deaf and always shouted. “GOOD TO SEE YOU, SKALD. DO YOU HAVE A CHARM AGAINST HANGNAILS? I’VE GOT ONE THAT’S DRIVING ME CRAZY.”
How can you be bothered by a hangnail after being chewed on by trolls? thought Jack, but he said he would ask the Bard for help. The Northmen welcomed him with playful punches and insults, and the boy was moved in spite of himself. He knew they were murderous thugs. They had destroyed the Holy Isle and driven Brother Aiden mad. They’d sold slaves and burned down villages. They’d almost sacrificed Lucy to the goddess Freya. And yet … he couldn’t bring himself to hate them.
“Where’s Rune?” Jack asked.
“These days he needs help getting to shore,” Skakki said. “Hey, Schlaup!” A sound somewhat like the grunt of a wild boar came from the ship. “Bring Rune.”
Something large dropped into the sea. A shape loomed in the dove gray fog. If Jack had
thought Skakki was enormous, he was nothing compared to what was approaching. Fully seven feet in height, the creature was made taller by bristly hair sprouting from his head. His brow jutted forward in a way Jack had seen before, and two fangs lifted his upper lip into a permanent snarl.
He’s a troll, he thought, amazed because Jotuns and Northmen were bitter enemies. As Schlaup came forward, Jack saw that he was actually smaller than a troll. He seemed, in an odd way, more refined. He had a troll’s clawlike fingernails, flat teeth, and eyes the color of rotten walnuts, but these features were softened by something vaguely familiar.
“Good Schlaup. Put Rune down,” said Skakki. And then Jack noticed the emaciated Northman the creature carried in his arms. Time had not been good to the old skald, and constant exposure to icy winds couldn’t have been healthy either. But Jack knew Rune would have it no other way. He would not die in bed like a cowardly thrall. When his time came, if the gods were kind, he would hold a sword in his hand and fall in battle.
“Oh, Rune,” said Jack, feeling an ache in the back of his throat. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“I wouldn’t have missed this voyage for the world,” said the skald, standing carefully. “We found Thorgil alive, and now Dragon Tongue will take ship with us. By Thor, I’m looking forward to seeing the old rascal!”
Sven the Vengeful and Eric the Rash had chopped open logs to get at the dry wood inside, and soon a merry fire was blazing on the beach. “You warm up,” said Schlaup, urging Rune toward the fire. Jack was startled, for he hadn’t expected the creature to speak. Trolls had trouble forming words and usually communicated with one another by thought. Those who did make the effort had harsh, unmusical voices. Schlaup’s voice was completely human.
They sat around the fire, exchanging news and making plans on how to load the ship. Thorgil and Jack would move the trade goods halfway and crew members would meet them. No one wanted the Northmen—especially Schlaup—spotted near the village. Jack kept glancing at him.
