by Nancy Farmer
“He’s a bard?” cried Jack.
“A failed one. You have to be very sure of your own identity before attempting such a feat. I always suspected that Pangur preferred being a cat rather than a human. There are no responsibilities and endless chances for fun, and he was always a happy-go-lucky lad.”
“But still … never to be human again.” Jack was appalled. “What happened to his body?”
“It was inhabited by the cat’s spirit and wandered away. To outsiders the cat/lad appeared to be simpleminded, but of course he wasn’t. I heard that he became a rat-catcher in Dublin and was very good at it.”
Thorgil called the ponies, and Jack packed up the remnants of the lunch. He mounted, settling the awkward bundle containing Fair Lamenting before him. “Now comes the hard part,” said the Bard.
As they drew near the monastery, Jack noted the extensive fields and newly planted orchards all around. Monks were busy weeding, setting up trellises, and digging seedbeds. He recognized some of them. They were thinner and better-muscled than before, and it was clear that Father Severus’s discipline had been good for them. The boy also recognized the former criminals by their missing ears and slit noses. These seemed to have been freed from slavery, for they were dressed as monks and were working alongside the others.
Yet the faces were as shifty and brutal as before. The monks had never been much more than thieves, and the criminals had been condemned murderers. Whatever sermons they endured didn’t seem to have reformed them.
“What’s going to happen here, sir, if Father Severus is removed?” Jack said in a low voice.
“An excellent question,” the Bard replied. “I’d hate to see this lot run wild again.”
They were shown into the courtyard Jack remembered from his first visit. It had been repaired after the earthquake, but the fountain barely trickled. Instead of rosebushes and lavender, the yard was covered with gravel, and the pleasant wooden benches had been replaced with cold, hard stone.
“Severus does like his penances,” remarked the Bard, lowering himself carefully.
They waited. The abbot—Father Severus—was meditating, they were informed by a villainous-looking monk with a withered hand. Jack knew the man had endured a trial by ordeal and had been forced to carry a glowing piece of iron for nine feet. When the wound festered, he’d been found guilty.
“His Future Sainthood always spends the afternoon on his knees,” the monk said. “That’s after a good fast in the morning and a light scourge for lunch.”
“What’s a scourge?” Jack said after the man left.
“A special kind of whip,” the Bard said. “It leaves deeper scars.”
Jack felt repelled and disgusted. What kind of madness was going on here? It was impossible to believe that these monks had any kinship with gentle Brother Aiden or St. Cuthbert.
“The Northmen endure pain gladly,” Thorgil said, “yet they do not inflict it on themselves. I see no honor in such wounds.”
“You’re correct there, shield maiden,” said the Bard.
The sun had inclined to the west and shadows had begun to fill the courtyard when Father Severus strode in. He was as thin as ever, but underneath, Jack sensed an iron strength. The boy looked for the kindness he’d seen in the dungeons of the elves and found it missing.
“You! Wizard! Why have you come?” the abbot said.
“And a very good afternoon to you too,” said the Bard. “Do you remember Jack and Thorgil?”
Father Severus cast a piercing look at the two. “Oh, yes. The pair that brought down Din Guardi. It’s back again, you know. My monks built it.”
Jack felt uneasy at the words my monks.
“With help from the Lady of the Lake,” said the Bard.
“That vile witch,” swore the abbot. “It should have been a proper fortress, and her mincing sorcery turned it into a playground.”
“It isn’t as though Brutus is a warrior,” the old man remarked.
“He does nothing. Nothing! Parties all night, sleeps all day. If anything needs doing in Bebba’s Town, the people come to me.”
“I’m sure you tell them what to do,” the Bard said.
Father Severus glared at him. “So what if I do? These people need a firm hand, and most of them are pagan backsliders. I’ve gotten rid of naughty practices like Yule singing and dyeing Easter eggs, but they still sneak into the woods for May Day. Well, why are you here? I have confessions to hear and penances to hand out.”
Jack couldn’t believe the change that had come over Father Severus. What had happened to the man who’d sheltered them in Elfland and given them hope when all seemed lost?
“I, too, have important business,” the Bard said quietly. “Something to do with mermaids.”
For an instant Father Severus looked startled, but just as swiftly he recovered. “That matter was concluded years ago. It was bad judgment on my part, but no harm was done.”
“Much harm was done,” said the Bard. He recounted the arrival of the draugr and the havoc she had wreaked.
“How can you expect me to believe that tale,” the abbot scoffed. “A wolf slaughters a lamb, a cow bellows in the woods, and everyone panics.”
“I saw the draugr. So did Jack.”
“Oh, that’s a fine source of information—a wizard and his apprentice.”
Jack was beginning to dislike Father Severus. “Brother Aiden believes in her too,” he broke in. “He says a wild animal wouldn’t kill things without eating them.”
The Bard put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That’ll do, lad,” he murmured. He looked up at the abbot. “Severus, you were responsible for the mermaid’s death. Did you think there’d be no consequences? She has appealed for justice before the councils of the nine worlds.”
“This gets better and better.” Father Severus laughed, a hollow, cheerless sound, and Jack remembered that he had never been good at laughing. “There are only two worlds: this one and the world to come. Now I’m supposed to worry about a creature with no soul coming back from the dead. She complains to councils that don’t exist, and a wizard with nonexistent powers comes along to threaten me.”
“You take that back!” Jack shouted. The Bard held out his staff, and the boy felt a wave of heat.
“Stop wasting my time and run along,” snarled the abbot.
“You leave me no choice,” the Bard said quietly. “Jack, unwrap Fair Lamenting.”
The boy’s hands trembled as he put the bundle on the floor and fumbled with the cords binding it. Thorgil bent down and cut them with her knife. “This will be fun,” she whispered. Jack wished he were as calm about calling up the draugr, but then, he’d actually seen her and Thorgil hadn’t.
“Fair Lamenting,” murmured Father Severus, and for once he didn’t look so confident. “It has been long since I heard it. If it hadn’t been St. Columba’s sacred bell, I would have sunk it in the depths of the sea.”
“You would have done better to sink yourself,” the Bard snapped. “Last chance, Severus. Shall we discuss how to deal with the draugr, or should Jack ring the bell?”
The abbot drew himself up, tall and proud. The man had courage, Jack conceded unwillingly. He’d faced down Northmen and the Elf Queen. He’d offered himself as a sacrifice in place of Pega. He had confronted Hell itself, and if he’d fallen to his knees in terror, it didn’t lessen his nobility. They had all cowered.
“There is no draugr,” Father Severus said. “I am a Christian. I do not believe pagan lies.”
The Bard nodded. Jack quickly unwrapped the layers of cloth, and the object within rolled over the floor with a clanging and clanking.
It was a small copper cauldron with a stone inside.
Father Severus barked a startled laugh. He bent over with mirth, slapping his knees with his hands. “By blessed St. Bridget, there’s no Fair Lamenting, either! This is a fine joke, wizard! Did Brutus put you up to it?”
The Bard, Jack, and Thorgil could only stare, thunders
truck, as the cauldron came to a halt against a wall.
“Nothing to say?” the abbot jeered. “Then be off with you!” He clapped his hands, and a pair of hefty monks came through the door. The Bard, Jack, and Thorgil left with as much dignity as they could muster.
Chapter Nineteen
FIND TANNERS
“The Tanners did it,” Jack said at last, after they had traveled several miles. The Bard had gone ahead and the air around him had swirled, and his pony had laid back its ears in fear. But finally the air cleared. The pony’s ears went up, and Jack dared to break the silence. “We know they’re thieves. No one else would have done it.”
“They stayed behind when we camped on the beach,” Thorgil said. “They claimed to be afraid of Schlaup, though anyone with sense could see his good character. I wonder what else the Tanners took.”
“I should have brought Fair Lamenting ashore with me,” said Jack. “The minute Ymma and Ythla thought they were alone at the farm, they went through everything. I should have known they’d do the same thing on the ship.”
“I don’t blame you, lad,” the Bard said. “I was also entirely too trusting.” They stopped at a flowery meadow beside a rushing stream. Thorgil took off her boots and led the ponies into the water, where they drank noisily and sloshed their hooves. After a while she led them out to graze. The Bard broke the seal on the flask of mead and drank morosely.
It was getting close to sunset. Long shadows stretched across the grass and swallows dipped and fluttered in the upper air. “Mrs. Tanner said she was going to her brother,” Jack said. “Perhaps King Brutus could help us.”
“Brutus couldn’t find his crown with both hands,” said the Bard. “There are a thousand people in this town—farms and houses everywhere. We don’t know what her brother does for a living; to go by her, he’s probably a pickpocket. We don’t know what he looks like.”
“The arrival of a widow with two daughters can’t be that common,” Jack pointed out. “King Brutus could send out searchers. In time—”
“In time! We don’t have time, lad. If someone rings that bell, we’ve had it. Which brings me to the question, how did the Tanners know where it was?”
“Ymma and Ythla were always lurking about,” Jack said bitterly. “They saw me carry a mysterious bundle to the ship and decided to look inside. They knew enough to substitute one of Egil’s copper cauldrons.”
“I hate the sight of that wretched pot,” said the Bard, swigging more mead. Jack had brought the small cauldron back with them. It belonged to Egil, after all, and was valuable. It was a rich red-gold color, reflecting light from a dozen surfaces made by the artisan’s hammer. Egil said it had been made by men burned dark by the sun, the same ones who had traded merini sheep to him.
Thorgil returned from tending to the ponies and settled herself on the grass. She, at least, was in a good mood. The long ride and misadventure at the monastery had amused her. Her cheeks were rosy and the sun had brought out a spray of freckles on her nose. She was as finely dressed as a young knight. But where a year ago she had been easily mistaken for a lad, subtle changes had occurred. Her waist was more defined, her mouth was softer, her chest—
Jack looked away. No matter how hard Thorgil attempted to hide it, her chest definitely hadn’t stayed the same.
“An acorn for your thoughts,” the shield maiden said.
Jack felt his face grow hot. “I was trying to think where the Tanners might be hiding.”
“They’ll be easy to find,” Thorgil said.
“Easy! Where in this rats’ nest of a town do we start looking?” cried the Bard.
“We don’t have to look. Remember, Mrs. Tanner practically promised to marry my brother. He certainly thinks so.” Thorgil pulled up strands of grass and began chewing on them.
“Schlaup?” said the Bard, sitting bolt upright. “My stars! You’re a genius, Thorgil!”
“I know,” said the shield maiden, idly chewing.
They galloped back to the harbor in the gathering dusk. Egil and his crew had made camp on the beach. By day the men could pass for Saxons, but now, roaring songs and cavorting around a giant bonfire, they were clearly something else. A few women they had managed to lure from town huddled together in a frightened group. One of the crewmen swung a woman around in a wild dance, ignoring her screams.
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” laughed the Northmen. “She’s playing hard to get!” Kegs of beer, half buried in sand, were strewn around.
“Dragon Tongue,” cried Egil, rising as the ponies were reined in. “Have you found lodgings? You’re so late, we were beginning to worry about you.”
“Turn those women loose!” said the Bard, dismounting. “Thor’s thunderbolts! Do you want the whole town down on us? Go on, shoo, you silly geese!” He pointed his staff at the women and they fled. He pulled the dancing crewman away from his captive.
“I was only flirting,” the man grumbled. The last woman sped after the others.
The Bard sat down on a beer keg and mopped his brow. “Once and for all, get it through your heads: No pillaging. This is a trading mission. You can’t just carry off anyone you take a fancy to. Egil, I expected you to have them better trained.”
The captain grinned, not the least repentant. “Yes, sir. I’ll have a talk with them. I have to say, though, that those ladies were eager to come here when it was still light.”
“I’m sure they were,” the Bard said, sighing. “There’s featherheads in every port. Now we have a very serious problem.” He explained about the loss of Fair Lamenting and the dire consequences if it were rung. “We need Schlaup’s assistance.”
“Schlaup?” echoed Egil. “Begging your pardon, Dragon Tongue, but if you think a little innocent pillaging is going to stir things up, wait till the townsfolk see a half-troll walking their streets.”
“I know,” the old man said, shaking his head, “but he’s our best hope. If we’re lucky, the whole thing can be accomplished under cover of darkness. Any late-night drunk who encounters Schlaup will think he’s hallucinating.”
With much complaining, and threats and blows from Egil, the crewmen unloaded the ship’s cargo. Half of them remained behind to stand guard and the other half took up the oars. This would be a dangerous voyage in near complete darkness. The Bard stood at the prow to navigate.
The night was moonless. Sandbanks and islets lay in their path, but when the Bard held out his staff, the sea was covered by an eerie glow. Waves foaming against rocks shone whitely. The water was as clear as glass with the sand below a pale green.
The Northmen had started out in a mutinous mood, but when they saw the strange light, they quieted down. Jack felt the fear radiating from them as they pulled the heavy oars. A bard that could do this kind of magic could turn them all into dolphins and order them to tow the ship.
When they reached the hidden inlet where Skakki’s ship lay, Egil blew a loud blast on a ram’s horn. Torches suddenly flared on the shore. Men scrambled for their weapons. Grinning with satisfaction, Egil guided his craft to shore.
“You rotten pile of fish guts!” screamed Skakki. “What do you mean sneaking up on us in the middle of the night? What’s the matter? Did the ladies of Bebba’s Town get a whiff of you and throw you out?”
“On the contrary, he threw the ladies out,” Egil said, pointing at the Bard. “But we have a problem and we need Schlaup.” After a quick conference it was decided to take Skakki’s ship. Speed was necessary, for they would need to ferry the half-troll there and back again before sunrise. Soon the swift, sleek karfi left the dock, with the Bard providing directions and Jack and Thorgil crouching beside Rune in the stern. Jack and Thorgil had changed into sturdy work clothes and were bundled up in cloaks. The midnight air had turned cold.
Rune manned the rudder. He might be crippled by old age, he told Jack and Thorgil, but his sense of place in the sea was as good as ever. Even without the Bard’s light, he could have remembered the way. “You feel that breeze?” he
said. “It comes from a stream that cuts through hills on the mainland. It’s like a warm current in the cold sea air. Directly opposite is a tiny island. You can feel the breeze reflected back, along with the smell of bird poop.”
“I didn’t have a chance to ask the Bard,” Jack said after a while. “What’s so special about Schlaup?”
Thorgil laughed. “Everything’s special about my brother.”
“Schlaup has a skill the rest of us lack,” explained Rune. “You’ve noticed how he’s riveted on Mrs. Tanner. Love-smitten he is, the poor ignorant lout, while she’s as winsome as a box full of adders.”
“I think the whole situation is disgusting,” said Jack.
“Aye, you’re right there,” Rune said. “Our Schlaup deserves better. Did you notice how he kept sniffing Mrs. Tanner’s braid?”
“Yes … why, he’s like you,” said Jack as the realization dawned on him. “He has a memory for smells.”
“Schlaup’s ability beats me hollow,” admitted Rune.
“He inherited the gift from his mother,” Thorgil said proudly. “A Jotun can track an elk through fifty miles of forest.”
“He can sort Mrs. Tanner’s musty stench from a thousand others,” Rune said, turning the rudder to avoid an islet. The sound of crashing waves passed to the right. “Things should get interesting when we reach Bebba’s Town.”
Amidships, where there was less danger of capsizing the vessel, the large shape of the half-troll loomed. He had not yet been told what his task would be and so he sat, humming a tuneless song through his front teeth. All around, the green glow from the Bard’s staff fell into the sea and landed on the sand far below.
They reached Bebba’s Town and slid into a berth. Schlaup lumbered ashore, causing the dock to creak dangerously and Skakki’s ship to sway.
“Schlaup Olaf’s Son, I have a little chore for you,” the Bard said. “Do you remember Mrs. Tanner and her daughters?”
