by Nancy Farmer
“I’m afraid so. Many years had passed, but Frith had never given up her thirst for revenge for her sister’s death. She sent a fire-breathing dragon to destroy Beowulf’s land. Jotuns are long-lived, and Frith was hardly past her youth, but Beowulf was an old man. The battle was too much for him and he died.”
That’s the problem with stories going on too long, Jack thought. Sooner or later you get to a bad part. When he, Jack, became a bard, he’d stop talking while everyone was still happy.
“By then I was working at the court of Ivar the Boneless. Don’t scowl, lad,” said the old man. “Bards have to work like everyone else. Ivar wasn’t so bad in those days. He was your usual pea-brained bully, but he had a sense of honor. Not after Frith got hold of him, though. She was as beautiful as a ship under full sail. An illusion, of course. She got hold of him, sucked the marrow out of him, and turned him into the half-mad tyrant he is today. Probably the last decent thing he did was save my life.”
“That’s when you came to us,” Jack said.
“Indeed it was. Ivar took me out in his ship and put me adrift in a flimsy coracle. Perhaps he thought I would drown. I’m sure he told Frith that. But I like to think he gave me a chance to survive.”
“I’m so glad you came here,” Jack said in a burst of gratitude.
“I am too.” The Bard took down his harp and played a tune the villagers danced to at summer fairs. It made the firelight flicker on the walls of the Roman house. The painted birds spread their wings and swayed from side to side.
The harp was carved from the breastbone of a whale. After a while the old man played something grander and more sad. Jack wondered if the long-dead whale was remembering its life and whether the music came from the Bard or from the sea.
* * *
Jack ran along the shore, stopping once as a wave washed over his feet. The March sky was blue, the air filled with the cries of migrating birds. He was headed toward a line of rocks. With the tide out, he had an excellent chance to gather whelks. His collecting bag was slung over his shoulder. He had spent over a year as the Bard’s apprentice and now felt he had earned this chance to play.
He reached the rocks and flopped down to catch his breath. “What a beautiful day,” he said to no one in particular. The air was soft with spring, and sunlight polished the seaweed tossing at the edge of the waves. Jack lay back against a sand dune and watched a line of geese pass overhead. He could call them down. He could even—but wouldn’t dare—kill one for dinner. The Bard said using the life force in that way was evil.
The winter had been so cold, and the Bard had driven him for such long hours, even Father had been pleased. Today was the first time Jack had managed to get away. He was supposed to gather whelks and sea tangle. If there was time, he was to practice calling up fog.
“I… really… hate fog,” Jack said as he gazed up at the sky. After a while he felt guilty and got up. He shaded his eyes. There was something out at sea. It was small, almost hidden in the vastness. At first Jack thought it was a bird, but as the waves brought it closer he saw it was a box.
Perhaps it contained treasure. Perhaps it carried a ring that could grant three wishes or a cap that made you invisible.
Jack tore off his clothes and plunged into the water. He was a good swimmer. He raised his head between strokes to keep track of the box’s location, and soon he had it.
Back on shore he eagerly studied it. It was locked, although water sloshed when it was shaken. On five sides it was plain. On the sixth was a carving of a man.
Or at least Jack thought it was a man. The stocky creature had legs and shoes. It carried a sword. But its body was covered with hair and the head was that of a wolf.
The boy shivered. The box smelled—not rotten, exactly, but strange. Sweet and bitter at the same time. He had intended to bash it open with a rock. Now he thought it wiser to consult the Bard. Jack quickly gathered the whelks and hurried home.
The old man took one look at the box and rushed outside to the edge of the cliff. He gazed at the sea. “It has come,” he murmured.
“What has come? What’s the matter?” cried Jack.
“I can’t see them, but I know they’re out there. They’re smashing… and burning… and spreading death like a red tide.”
“Please, sir! Tell me what’s happening.”
The Bard turned over the box. Water dripped out of a small crack. “I hoped never to smell this again,” he said. He pressed the wood in various places until it made a small snap. The carving of the wolf/man slid out. Beneath was a mat of dark green leaves. The Bard drained off the seawater. “That, my lad, is bog myrtle.”
Jack was deeply disappointed. He had hoped for magic.
“And that”—the Bard tapped the lid—“is the fellow who owns it.”
“Is he a Jotun?” asked Jack.
“Jotuns aren’t our immediate problem. This fellow is a berserker, and from the condition of the box, I’d say he’s not far away.”
Jack followed the Bard into the house, wishing the old man would explain things more clearly. “Is a berserker a man or a wolf?”
“A very good question,” said the Bard. “Most of the time they’re men, but when they make a drink of this plant, they become as frenzied as mad dogs. They bite holes in their shields. They run barefooted over jagged rocks without feeling it. Neither fire nor steel can stop them. They believe themselves to be wolves or bears then. My observation is that they’re merely nasty, dim-witted thugs. They’re just as dangerous, though.
“Somewhere, not far from here, a pack of them has landed. Run and warn the village, lad. Tell the men I’m coming. Tell them to send their loved ones into the forest and to gather axes, hoes, whatever can be used for weapons. They will need them soon.”
Chapter Seven
THE END OF DAYS
But Jack didn’t have to tell the villagers anything. He met the blacksmith’s son, Colin, running up the path. “Jack! Jack! Call the Bard. Something awful has happened!” Colin stopped to catch his breath.
“He’s on his way,” said Jack.
“Good old Bard,” said the blacksmith’s son. “Dad said he’d know what to do. He’ll throw those pirates back in the sea and let the fishies eat them.”
“Pirates? Already?” cried Jack.
Colin wiped his nose on his sleeve and then put the same arm around Jack’s shoulder. “You knew about them? Oh, of course. You’re an apprentice bard.”
Colin didn’t seem worried by the appearance of pirates. Jack noted his new friendliness and warmed to it. Jack was no longer a farmer’s brat to be bullied. He was an apprentice bard, soon to be a real one with powers to drive people mad or make them come up in boils if they displeased him.
“They haven’t arrived yet,” said the blacksmith’s son, removing his arm and wiping his nose again. Jack moved out of reach. “Dad says there’s going to be an awful fight. Aren’t we lucky? Years go by without the least excitement, and now we’ll go to war like heroes of old. Maybe the king will knight us.”
Jack knew there was a king far to the north. No one had ever seen him. There was also rumored to be a king to the south. Which one might show up and knight them was unclear, but Jack was just as thrilled as Colin by the possibility.
The two boys ran down to the village, where they found everyone gathered outside the chief’s house. The men had clubs and hoes. A few carried the bows they used to hunt deer, and all were armed with knives. Even Father carried a scythe. He swished it through the air to demonstrate what a fine weapon it was. Lucy cheered.
Jack suddenly felt cold. That scythe wasn’t going to cut down harmless grain. It was going to slash arms and legs. The same dizziness that came over him when the pigs were slaughtered made Jack’s senses reel. The air was full of cries. Horses whinnied. Crows croaked as they gathered over a battlefield.
“Jack, are you all right?” came Mother’s voice.
He looked up to find everyone staring at him. He was kneeling on t
he ground—how had he got there?—with his hands out to push away the evil vision. He scrambled to his feet. “I was looking for the pirates. It’s a bard thing.”
He was gratified to see everyone smile. “Are they coming soon?” cried Lucy, clapping her hands. “Oh, I do want to see one!”
“Tell us the direction, lad,” said the chief with more respect than even Father got. Jack was ashamed. He had no idea where the pirates were. He’d simply said the first thing that came into his head.
“We have to form a battle plan,” the chief said. “Are they on the old Roman road? Or in the marshes?”
Jack tried to sense where the pirates were and failed. He had a one-in-two chance of getting it right. If he guessed right, he would be a hero. If he got it wrong, the villagers might find the wolf-headed men waiting for them when they came home.
“How did you hear about them?” he said, to stall for time.
“John the Fletcher was searching for wood to make arrows,” said the chief. “He saw a ship just as darkness was falling. It was long with many oars. It ran before the wind like a bird flying to its nest, and it was coming our way. I haven’t seen a pirate ship, but I’ve heard descriptions.”
“It wasn’t a fishing vessel, that’s for sure,” said John the Fletcher, who was one of the men carrying a bow.
“Well? Where are they?” said the chief.
Jack knew then he would have to admit his ignorance. It would be too dangerous to make a mistake. He opened his mouth to speak.
“I’ve told you not to do magic without my permission,” said the Bard. Jack spun around. He felt limp with relief and gratitude. The old man wasn’t going to expose his foolishness. “The enemy is on the Roman road, O Chief. You won’t fight them, however. Your weapons are to be used only in direst need. Gather your families and whatever goods you can carry, and hide in the deep forest.”
“I do not like to hide,” said the chief.
“Me neither!” shouted the blacksmith.
“Nor I!” cried several other men.
“We Saxons don’t slink away like dogs,” the chief said. “We are the proud masters of this coast.”
“Once you were,” said the Bard. “Once. But you’ve forgotten your war skills. You’ve let your swords grow rusty and your spears fall into decay. You’ve grown fat along with the sheep.”
“If you weren’t our bard, I’d have your tongue for saying such vile things!” cried the chief.
“But I am your bard,” the old man said calmly. “The men you want to battle are not such as you and I. They are berserkers.” A murmur went through the gathering. Apparently, berserkers weren’t unheard of. The Bard held out the box Jack had found. The chief passed it around, and each man smelled it. The odor clearly did not cheer their hearts.
“Do they… really… have the heads of wolves?” said the chief. Jack could see he was trying to look bold, but the confidence had drained out of him.
“No one knows,” said the Bard. And Jack saw that uncertainty was worse than actually knowing your enemy was half beast. “What I understand is this: The berserkers feel neither fire nor blade. They live only to fall in battle. Any other death is shameful to them, and so they fight on and on, no matter how terrible their wounds are. They say you can cut off their heads and the heads still try to sink their teeth into your ankles. I don’t know if that’s true, but it gives you an idea of what they’re like.”
“Indeed,” said the chief, turning pale. “Indeed.”
“There’s no shame in retreating from such a foe,” the Bard said. “Your aim is to protect these women and children. A wise leader relies on strategy and leaves the empty heroics to the yokels in the next village.”
“They are yokels over there, aren’t they?” said the chief.
“Their chief is probably leading them into battle now—the idiots!” said the Bard.
“Well, I’m not going to be stupid,” declared the chief. “You, Blacksmith! Organize the women to clear the houses. We’ll drive the sheep into the hills.”
“Speed might be advisable,” said the Bard.
“Right! Everyone move on the double. We’ll show those pirates. They won’t take us by surprise!”
The Bard signaled Jack to stay with him. “Our work begins when theirs is over,” he said in a low voice. Jack watched as women carted out furniture and hid it in the hedges dividing the fields. Girls ran down to the beach to bury pots and utensils. Boys thrust squawking hens into baskets. Grain was poured into carrying bags, fruit piled into packs. The blacksmith strode around bellowing directions, although it seemed the women and children were doing fine on their own.
In the midst of this bustle Jack saw a distant figure stumbling along the road. It came over a rise and almost fell. The person managed to right himself by leaning on a staff and dragged himself on. “Look, sir,” whispered Jack, pointing at the road.
“Oh, my stars, it’s a monk,” said the Bard. He made his way through the villagers with Jack following behind. No one else had noticed the man.
As they drew near, Jack saw that the monk’s robes weren’t black as he had thought, but smeared with soot. A reek of smoke blew toward them. The monk stumbled again, and this time he didn’t rise.
The Bard hurried to him. “It’s all right. You’re among friends,” he said.
“Gone, all gone,” moaned the monk. “Dead. Burned to ashes.”
“Fetch help, Jack. This man is no longer able to walk.”
Soon the monk was lying on a makeshift bed of dry grass. Jack’s mother was feeding him lettuce juice to ease his pain, and the blacksmith’s wife was rubbing goose fat over his burns. Jack’s father and the chief knelt by his side.
“I think it’s Brother Aiden from the Holy Isle,” whispered the chief.
“Yes! Yes!” cried the monk. “That was my name.” He thrashed his legs, knocking over the pot of goose grease. “Flee, all of you. The End of Days has come.”
“We were about to do so when you showed up,” said the Bard, who was sitting on a stone nearby.
“What about the Holy Isle?” said the chief.
“Gone,” Brother Aiden moaned.
“How can it be gone?” said Father, his eyes widening.
“Dead. Burned to ashes.”
“That’s not possible!” Father lurched to his feet. He looked ready to faint. “No one attacks the Holy Isle. It’s the one safe place on earth. God protects it. God would not allow such a thing!”
“Be quiet, Giles. The man doesn’t have the strength to out-shout you,” said the Bard.
Little by little the terrible story came out. It had been a wonderfully warm day, and the monks were in the fields cutting hay. The nuns were churning butter and sewing a new altar cloth. Servants were piling stones to make a new cattle barn.
Around midday someone spotted the ships. Four of them, or perhaps five. They were speeding for shore. Visitors, someone said. What a nice surprise.
Brother Aiden ran to tell the cook. They would prepare a meal for the unexpected guests. But when the ships reached the shallows, men streamed ashore, swinging axes and screaming curses. “They chopped the first ones into mincemeat,” wept Brother Aiden.
Grim warriors tied stones around others and threw them into the sea. They killed everything in their path: men, women, servants, cattle, and sheep. Then they destroyed the buildings. They tore down the silk tapestries and trampled them. They smashed the stained-glass window.
“Not the window,” groaned Father.
“Yes, that and more,” said Brother Aiden. “They overturned the altar and urinated on the books. They ran through the library and ripped manuscripts that had taken the monks fifty years to copy.
“That’s where I was,” said Brother Aiden. “I was hiding in a loft just under the roof. They tore up the manuscripts and then they set fire to them. I dared not leave. I stayed curled up under the roof while the smoke came on thickly and the heat almost set my robe on fire. When I couldn’t stand it anymore,
I dropped down into the flames and ran.”
By then the whole island was afire, the monastery and nunnery, the church, the granary, the barns and fields. Brother Aiden had stumbled around, looking for anyone who might have survived, but there was no one. The longships had gone with their cargo of treasure and slaughtered animals. There was nothing left but smoking ruins and corpses.
“Oh, horror, horror!” cried Father, falling to his knees. Mother burst into tears. The blacksmith’s wife ran to the other villagers, who were still packing, and gave them the news. Cries of disbelief and stormy weeping spread outward like a wildfire. Jack was crying too. He had never seen the Holy Isle—few of the villagers had—but it had always been there like a kindly light on the edge of an uncertain world.
Suddenly, Jack remembered the Bard’s words: 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. “It’s like Hrothgar’s hall,” he said aloud.
“Very good,” said the Bard, and Jack saw that he alone was not weeping. “Sometimes you quite surprise me with your intelligence.”
“I should have been there,” groaned Father. “I should have been a monk and fallen like a true martyr. Oh, horror!”
“Giles, you idiot. If you’d been a monk, you would never have had this good woman for a wife or these fine children. You’d be lying there in the ashes.” The Bard stood up and spread his arms to the sky. From the distance came the harsh cry of a crow. Presently, it appeared, circled overhead, and came down to rest in a tree.
“It’s probably been feasting on the dead,” said Father.
“We should be going,” the Bard said to the chief, ignoring Father. The chief shook himself.
“Of course,” he said in a distant voice.
“I’ll organize the boys to make a litter so you can take Brother Aiden along.”
Soon a line of villagers, many still crying, made its way west to the forest. The squawking, clucking, hissing, and bleating of the livestock faded away. Silence settled over the fields.
