by Nancy Farmer
“Thrashing is good for boys,” Giles Crookleg said. “Why, I was smacked six ways to Sunday by my father, and it made me the man I am today.”
Then, because it was Sunday, Father told them a story about the holy saints. Father couldn’t read, nor could anyone in the village except the Bard. To Giles Crookleg, writing was a kind of magic. When the Bard marked letters on a scrap of parchment, Father always crossed himself to avert a spell.
But he had memorized dozens of stories from the monks of the Holy Isle. Tonight’s tale was of Saint Lawrence, martyred by pagans. “He was roasted over a slow fire,” said Father to Lucy’s horrified gasp. “They stuck garlic cloves between his toes and basted him all over like a chicken. When he was about to die and be taken into Heaven, Saint Lawrence said, ‘I think I’m done. You may eat me when you will.’ The pagans were so impressed, they fell on their knees and begged to become Christians.”
Trolls eat people, thought Jack. They would come over the sea and stick garlic cloves between everyone’s toes. He put his head down and thought about green hills and puffy clouds instead. He must not be afraid. Jotuns followed fear like a trail.
Later Lucy wanted to hear her own story of how she had lived in a palace.
“This will come to grief,” said Mother. “She can’t tell the difference between fact and fancy.”
Father ignored her. Jack knew he looked forward to the tales as much as Lucy did. The boy understood—how had he changed so much in a few weeks?—that these, too, were a comfort to his father. Giles Crookleg might grumble like a crow, but he lost himself like a bird in the clouds of his own imaginings. He no longer had to set foot on the earth or know that he was doomed to creep upon it.
“Once upon a time,” said Father, “the queen dropped a honey cake on the ground.”
“My other mother,” prompted Lucy.
Mother sniffed. She had long since stopped explaining that Lucy couldn’t have two sets of parents.
“It put down roots and grew,” said Father.
“Until it was as tall as the oak by the blacksmith’s shed,” Lucy said.
“Every branch was covered with honey cakes. Invisible servants flew through the air to fetch them.”
“Invisible servants! I’d like that,” said Mother.
“You had a little dog with a green collar with silver bells sewn on it. You could hear it running through the house.”
“Castle,” Lucy corrected.
“Yes, of course. Castle. And it could talk. It told you everything that went on in the kingdom, but alas, it was very naughty. The dog ran away, and the nurse ran after it.”
“With me in her arms,” said Lucy.
“Yes. She got lost in the woods. She sat down to weep and tear her hair.”
“She laid me under a rosebush first,” said Lucy.
“A bear came out of the woods and gobbled her up, but he didn’t find you, dearest.”
“And that was how I got lost,” crowed Lucy, not at all concerned about the fate of the nurse.
Jack fell asleep listening to the north wind fussing with the thatch over his head.
Chapter Four
THE VALLEY OF LUNATICS
The Bard’s face was tanned, as though he’d been out in the sun a long time. Jack wondered about it, but he hesitated to ask.
“You look well enough,” the old man said. “Everyone in the family is fine?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jack.
“I’ve been casting about for information. It seems that things are stirring across the water. Ships are being built, swords are being forged.”
“Is that bad?”
“Of course. People don’t make ships and swords unless they intend to use them.” The Bard strode ahead, leading Jack along a path above the sea. The green cliffs broke off to their right, and Jack could hear waves foaming at the rocks far below. Seagulls coasted the breeze, sliding back and forth in the updraft with a lazy flap of their wings.
“You see, the land across the water isn’t as rich as it is here. Farms are carved out of the mountains. Snow and ice cover them most of the year. Only a few people can survive there, and the rest have to go somewhere else.” The Bard climbed the steep path without slowing or even getting out of breath. Jack had to struggle to keep up with him. “The Northmen who live there are looking east to the land of the Rus and south to the land of the Franks. They don’t look north because that’s where the Jotuns live.”
Jotuns. Jack shivered.
“I’m afraid some of them are looking west. Toward us.”
“Is that the shadow you felt, sir?”
“That… and something else.” The Bard halted and looked out toward the sea and the gulls sliding back and forth on the air. “These particular Northmen—the ones who are looking west—are led by a king called Ivar the Boneless.”
Ivar the Boneless! Jack felt as though a cloud had come between himself and the sun. The sound of the waves was muted, and the cries of the gulls came to him from a great distance.
“Jack, are you all right?” said the Bard.
“What a terrible name,” murmured the boy.
“No more terrible than he is. His eyes are pale blue, like sea ice. His skin is as white as the belly of a fish. He can break a man’s leg with his bare hands, and he wears a cloak made from the beards of his defeated enemies.”
Jack felt almost dizzy with terror. What was happening to him? He’d heard plenty of frightening tales from both the Bard and Father. He liked them—the scarier the better. Now he felt as weak as a newborn lamb.
“But Ivar the Boneless is nothing compared to his wife.” The Bard continued to peer out over the sea. He seemed to be searching for something. After a moment he shook his head and went on. “Queen Frith is a half-troll,” he said in a lower tone.
“Did she send the Nightmare?” Jack’s chest felt as though it was being squeezed in a giant hand.
“Aye, lad. Her spirit rode it like the venomous monster she is behind her lying, beautiful face. Did you know Nightmares have eight legs?”
But Jack heard no more. He’d fainted dead away on the grassy cliff above the foaming waters of the North Sea.
When he awoke, he saw the old man sitting on a gray stone next to the path. A crow left the Bard’s shoulder and flapped off over the dense stands of gorse and heather that lay between them and the western hills. Jack rubbed his forehead. He felt as if he’d been trampled by a dozen black-faced ewes.
“Tell me,” said the Bard, turning his attention from the crow. “Have you felt anything unusual since I knocked you down?”
Jack told him about wanting to cry all the time. He said he’d noticed a lot more things—colors and smells, for example. He said his father seemed like a child one moment but turned back into an adult the next. “I’m putting it badly,” he said.
“You’re putting it very well,” said the Bard. “I must say this is an unexpected development.”
“Am I going mad?”
The Bard chuckled. “Oh, no. You’ve merely spread your wings.” The old man felt around in the bag he carried on hikes and fished out a pair of biffins—whole, dried apples. He tossed one to Jack. “You see, lad, most people live like birds inside a cage. It makes them feel safe. The world’s a frightening place, full of glory and wonder and danger. It’s better—so most people think—to pretend it isn’t there. Ow!”
The Bard ran his finger around his mouth and extracted a seed. “I wish the baker would take out the cores before he dries apples.” Jack was struggling to understand what the old man was saying.
“A few people realize the door isn’t locked,” the Bard continued. “They keep pushing and pushing until—presto!—the door swings open and they fly away. The world looks completely different outside. Suddenly, there’s hawks and crows and snakes and rats—”
“Stop,” cried Jack, flinging up his hands.
The Bard looked at him sharply but said nothing. He fished in his bag and found a scrap of oatcake, which he
held up. Presently, a seagull swooped down and took it. “Is that magic?” said Jack, greatly impressed.
“It’s patience. If you sit quietly, most things will come to you. That’s what I’ve been trying to teach you these past few weeks. Sit quietly. Look at things. It’s how I was trained. It’s a long, slow process because real magic is dangerous. Now you’ve opened the door too soon. When you touched me, while I was battling the Nightmare, the life force I was gathering flowed out of my hand and into you. It cast you down. It very nearly killed you.”
Jack climbed to his feet. His legs felt suspiciously wobbly.
“Your defenses have been torn away,” said the Bard. “Everything, from the plight of a chick fallen from its nest to the terrible beauty of the hawk swooping down to kill it, will shake your very soul. It’s a pity. You aren’t ready to face so much reality, but there it is. Can you walk?”
“I’ll try, sir.”
“Good lad.” The Bard led the way, going more slowly now. The path moved away from the cliff and into a small valley with a rowan tree at the bottom. The tree shadowed a pool fed by a spring. Its smooth gray branches were dotted with clusters of creamy flowers, over which hovered a cloud of bees. Their hum was so intense, it swamped the noise of the spring. Jack wondered if they came from his mother’s hives, and presently, as one of the insects landed on his sleeve, he knew they did. He recognized the bee. He could feel its tiny mind at work, excitement at finding the honey-rich tree, eagerness to get back to the nest Mother had provided. Jack stumbled.
“We’re almost there,” said the Bard. He led the boy to a shelf of rock on which they sat to rest. The valley seemed to tremble, like heather on a hot day.
“We’ve been following one of the courses of the life force. That’s why you feel strange,” said the Bard.
It seemed hot. Jack’s skin prickled as though ants were crawling on him. He slapped himself to get rid of them.
The old man spoke, but Jack found it hard to concentrate. Sometimes the words seemed to come from nearby, and sometimes they floated to him from a great distance. They were important. Jack knew they were. The sound of the bees was important too, and the bubbling spring and the stealthy rustle of the tree.
“Wake up!” Jack felt himself shaken and gaped at the Bard’s worried face. “You must pay attention. I was telling you about how the life force flows in streams deep in the earth. It is this that feeds the great forests and meadows sweet with grass. It is this that calls forth the flowers and the butterflies that are so like flowers. The deer follow its courses as they browse. The badgers and moles build their homes over it. It even draws the swallows in the midst of the sea. All things are subject to it—except people.”
The Bard got up and paced around the small meadow beside the pool. Jack got up too, just to be moving. He felt he might fall asleep if he didn’t.
“Long ago, people decided they didn’t want to be like animals. They wanted to choose their own destinies, and so they did a very dangerous thing. They walled themselves off from the life force.” The Bard spread his arms wide to the sky. He looked, Jack thought, like a great bird about to fly. The light of the little valley seemed to gather around him. Then he lowered his arms and the light faded.
“In doing so, they lost the ability to understand it. They could no longer merge themselves thoughtlessly like the animals. And this cut them off from a great joy. They felt as if their lives were dull and meaningless. A few people tried to tear down the wall, but they were no longer able to endure such reality. Did you ever hear of the Valley of Lunatics?”
Jack pushed himself away from the rowan tree. Without quite realizing how he’d got there, he had found himself leaning against it in a quiet daze.
“Come on, get moving,” cried the Bard. “Things are worse than I thought.” He pulled Jack into the meadow and whirled him around. “Jump! Run! Do handstands!” he ordered. And so Jack danced and cavorted around the meadow, feeling silly and exhilarated at the same time. His mind seemed to clear. The heavy air of the valley freshened. Finally, he threw himself to the grass, laughing and panting.
“That’s more like it,” said the Bard with his hands on his bony hips.
“Where’s this Valley of Lunatics?” Jack asked.
“In Ireland.” The Bard lowered himself carefully to the grass. The boy could almost hear his bones creak.
“That’s on the other side of the world,” said Jack.
“Not really. You could reach it in a few weeks.”
“Father says the Irish walk upside down and have eyes in their feet,” said Jack.
“Your father—don’t get me distracted, lad. The monks told him that as a joke. Half of them are Irish. The Valley of Lunatics is real, though.” The old man flexed his fingers, and Jack heard his joints pop. “My best friend and I trained as bards in Ireland. We studied for many years before we were trusted with the secret knowledge of the life force. We were taken to a place where it pooled under the earth. That’s where its strength is greatest. Day after day we sat, struggling to open our minds to its power. And just as quickly retreating when it got too close. The minute we felt it taking over, we had to get up and run around.”
“Is that why you had me do handstands?” said Jack.
“Exactly. It puts you back in your body, keeps you from being overwhelmed. But my friend liked the feeling of power.” The Bard sighed and fell silent for several minutes. Jack found himself growing drowsy again.
“Move around if you have to,” said the Bard. So Jack did a few somersaults and finished up by walking on his hands, as he’d seen a jester do at a village fair.
“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 one 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
Mo
ons 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.
