The spider dashed out and sank her fangs into it. The eagle tore at her with its beak and claws, but it was greatly outmatched. Soon it was wrapped in silk while the spider sat back, waiting for her poison to work. After awhile the bird stopped moving. Jack and Thorgil clung to each other as they listened to the monotonous sucking sound of the spider’s feast. When she was finished, she dropped the husk to the forest floor far below.
“Now will you call up fire?” said Thorgil.
“Wait,” said Jack. The giant spider approached the egg sack. Jack tensed, his staff at the ready in case she made a rush up the tree, but she merely set about mending the hole the eagle had torn in her web. She moved back and forth, pulling long ropes of silk from her spinnerets. When she had laid one line, she squatted down and deposited a glob of goo. Delicately, she plucked the rope with one claw-tipped leg. The goo immediately vibrated out into droplets along the line.
Jack watched intently. This was extremely interesting. Not all of the web was sticky. If you could step between the droplets, you wouldn’t stick at all. The spider occasionally leaned back and looked up at the tree where Thorgil and Jack were. At the top of her body was a turret with eight shiny black eyes, but she didn’t seem to see the two humans cowering in the branches.
Now the spider did another interesting thing: She walked up to the egg sack and rested her fangs on it, apparently lost in an ecstasy of motherhood. Jack was convinced that was exactly what she was doing. He could feel the whisper of her thoughts and the tiny responses from the hundred or so eggs inside. She plucked rhythmically at a thread holding the sack. The whispering intensified, becoming more joyous.
“You know… I think that’s a lullaby,” said Jack.
“That’s a huge, ugly, people-eating spider,” Thorgil said. “Don’t go soft on me.”
“You’re the one who cooed over the baby rocks.”
“I didn’t know what they were. Burn all of them up. They’re our enemies.” Thorgil looked fierce enough to attack a hundred spiders.
“I’ve been studying the mother. She seems almost blind. She didn’t see us when she looked straight at us. I suppose the dragon had to get close before she realized the danger to her young. The spider can’t hear, either, or she would have gotten you when you were cursing so loudly in the egg sack.”
“So she has weaknesses. It makes it easier to kill her.”
But Jack couldn’t bring himself to do it. When he drank from Mimir’s Well, he’d remembered those moments when everything felt exactly right. When Mother sang to the bees or Father built the house, they were doing it so lovingly and well, the simplest activities were lit up from inside. They were filled with the life force. What the mother spider was doing now was the same.
It was necessary to kill to feed or protect one’s family and self. That was what the spider had done with the eagle. If she attacked Jack or Thorgil, he would have to slay her. But Jack also understood that if he killed the spider without need, he would lose his power and his music would go from him. He put the staff away.
“You are so stupid,” fumed Thorgil. She cursed him roundly as they clung to the tree trunk in the tossing wind. “I should go down there and stab her—and stab all those eggs, too.”
Jack knew she wouldn’t. The reckless frenzy that had driven Thorgil was gone. She was capable of great courage and daring, but she wouldn’t throw her life away.
In the early afternoon the spider returned to her vigil in the middle of the web. The wind dropped, and Jack felt safe enough to pass out the last of the meat pies and cider. “Our last meal,” Thorgil said sarcastically.
“Look,” said Jack, pointing. In the distance they saw a tiny speck. It grew larger until they could see it was a single crow flying back and forth. Jack stood up and waved.
Bold Heart sped straight to the top of the tree. He balanced there, cooing and warbling. “I’m glad to see you, too,” said Jack. “As you can tell, we’re in a mess. You mustn’t get close to the web.”
“Tell Jack to kill that spider,” ordered Thorgil. Bold Heart cawed back. “He says—idiot bird—he says you don’t have to kill her. You can send her to sleep. I think it should be a permanent sleep, but who listens to me?”
“All right,” said Jack, wondering how this could be done. “What then? Do we climb down?” Bold Heart clacked and burbled and cawed, going on at great length.
“He says, ‘Wait here. Help is on the way,’” said Thorgil.
“That was a lot of conversation for such a short translation. I’m sure he said more.”
“You’ll never know,” Thorgil said smugly.
Bold Heart sped off, and Jack climbed down to the egg sack. The spider loomed at the middle of her web. One eagle probably wouldn’t satisfy her for long. She might be ready for dessert. He drew the staff from the sling on his back, just in case, and cleared his throat. He began singing. The words came out awkwardly. He couldn’t seem to get the right music. How did you serenade a deaf spider?
After awhile Jack stopped. It was a waste of time. The spider ignored him, and he’d run out of poetry. Far away a large bird blundered into one of the other webs and was pounced on. Birds must be what these things live on, Jack thought. Bugs wouldn’t even whet their appetites.
How did you serenade a deaf spider?
The same way a spider sings lullabies to her young. Of course. Jack had studied the harp with the Bard, but he hadn’t made much headway. His voice was his best talent. Voice wouldn’t do him any good here, though. He put the staff away. He needed both hands for what he was about to do.
Spiders are nearly blind and deaf, but their sense of touch makes up for it. They can feel every quiver on their webs, thought Jack. Wonderful. He’d have to come up with something that felt like music and not dinner. He remembered the rhythm the mother spider had plucked when she was soothing her eggs. It was a thing Jack noticed automatically, being musical. I think I can repeat it, he thought. If I’m wrong, I’ll find out soon enough. And I thought the Northmen were a tough audience.
Jack leaned over the edge of the egg sack. He could see—barely—the long strands of the web. If you thought about it right, you could imagine they were harp strings. He lay on his stomach and studied them. He’d have to pluck the strands between the globs of goo, which also were hard to see. The whole web was hard to see. That, of course, was how it worked.
Jack found two dark green lines stretching over a cluster of fir trees. He thought he could just make out a safe area. He reached out.
Sproinnnng! The spider reared up on all eight legs. It was like she was on tiptoe. Jack froze. He certainly had her attention.
“I’ll come down and defend you!” called Thorgil.
“Stay where you are! I know what I’m doing,” cried Jack. I hope, he thought. At least the spider didn’t react to his voice. She really was deaf. I’ll have to do this fast, he thought. No stopping, no matter what she does. My only chance of success is to play the lullaby back to her. It has to be perfect. No stopping.
Jack then began the most important music recital of his life. He emptied his mind of everything but the rhythm. He plucked and picked, he chanted and caroled, he yowled and yodeled and twanged. He needed the sound to keep his fingers true.
The spider crept so close, she was almost on top of him. She cast a dire shadow that almost made him faint, but he didn’t stop. He could see her fangs glint and her mouthparts working. He didn’t stop. Jack felt her quiver—the motion came to him through the web. He felt an answering quiver from the eggs below. All the little spiderlings were dancing in their shells.
The spider suddenly keeled over. Her body flattened sideways in an untidy tangle of legs. She was still alive, he knew, because he could see the tips of her claws move. She was dreaming!
Jack climbed the tree as fast as he could go. “Where’s Bold Heart?” he cried. “Where’s the help he promised? I don’t know how long she’s going to be out. Merciful heavens, I don’t ever want to do that again.�
� He burst into sobs.
“Over there,” said Thorgil, pointing.
Jack saw four enormous white birds and one small black one gliding above the forest. He was shaking so much, he thought he’d fall out of the tree. His teeth were chattering.
“It’s all right. You did it,” said Thorgil, putting her arm around him. “The owls said they wouldn’t come until the spider was asleep. I have to say that was the worst music I ever heard.”
“H-How do you know? Y-You aren’t a s-spider,” said Jack.
“Thank Freya for that!” swore Thorgil.
The owls came in a cluster. Hooo-uh, hooo-uh, hooo-uh, wuh-wuh-wuh, they cried. They barked and cackled and shrieked and hissed.
“They say we have to leave at once. They’ll take you first,” said Thorgil.
Jack didn’t understand what she meant until the owls clamped on to his arms and legs and flew off. I can’t take much more of this, he thought as the forest sped by below. After a short time the owls deposited him in a meadow and took off. They returned with Thorgil.
“By Thor! That’s a wonderful way to travel!” she exclaimed. “If only we could train birds to carry us! We could attack our enemies from the air.”
Hooo-uh wuh-wuh-wuh, said one of the owls.
“He’s thanking you for saving their lives. I didn’t know about that,” said Thorgil.
“It happened in the little valley after we escaped the dragon. They were starving to death, and I took them outside so they could hunt again,” Jack said. “You’re very welcome.” He bowed to the birds. Bold Heart sat on a nearby bush and warbled.
“Bold Heart says they’ve told him a safe way to the fjord,” said Thorgil.
Hooo-uh! Hooo-uh! Krujff-guh-guh-guh! screamed the owls.
“What was that?” asked Jack.
“They’re giving their opinion of spiders. I don’t think I’ll translate it,” said Thorgil.
Jack and Thorgil waved good-bye to the snowy owls, and then, with Bold Heart leading the way, they found an elk trail at the edge of the meadow. On the way they gathered blueberries, each one as big as a plum, and cracked giant hazelnuts for lunch. In late afternoon they reached the fjord.
Jack built a fire—a normal one using quartz and steel because he couldn’t trust the ash wood staff to make anything small. Soon they saw the ship approaching over the water. Something large was hanging on the prow. It was a scaly green head with a crest of spikes and long whiskers. Eric Pretty-Face roared greetings, and the other Northmen all cheered.
Imagine, thought Jack. I’m actually glad to see Northmen.
The longboat came in close, and the warriors jumped out to make it steady.
“WELCOME BACK!” bellowed Eric Pretty-Face. “WAS IT A SUCCESS? DID YOU KICK THE TROLLS’ BUTTS? LOOK AT THE SEA SERPENT I CAUGHT.”
And Rune said, “Where’s Olaf?”
Chapter Thirty-nine
FAREWELL TO JOTUNHEIM
“It was fated,” said Rune that night as they lay at anchor in the fjord. They had started too late to reach the open sea. “I always knew Odin would call Olaf in the prime of his life. Warriors like him are too great for Middle Earth.”
“We saw his funeral pyre,” Sven the Vengeful said. “We didn’t know what it was then.”
“It went straight up to Valhalla. I thought it was a pair of dragons fighting,” said Eric the Rash.
“There was a dragon.” Jack was mortally tired, but he felt he owed Olaf’s friends at least part of the story tonight. “She flew back and forth over the flames, shrieking.”
“I think I heard that,” said Sven.
“She was honoring Olaf,” Thorgil said heavily. She had been crying off and on all evening. Now that there was no danger to occupy her, she could give herself up to grief.
“Wasn’t that wonderful?” said Sven with an envious sigh. “And you say there was a troll-bear at his feet.”
“Yes,” said Jack.
“A FIRST-RATE FUNERAL,” Eric Pretty-Face declared.
“I’ve warned you about talking after dark, Eric my friend,” said Rune. “We won’t be safe until we leave Jotunheim, so silence is important.”
“OH. ALL RIGHT.”
The Northmen sat quietly under the stars. Even the stars seemed larger in Jotunheim. The water was as still as a sheet of black ice. One by one the warriors lay down to sleep, except for Rune, who was on watch and never slept much anyway. Bold Heart kept him company but soon nodded off like the others. Jack, for all his exhaustion, found it hard to relax. So much had happened. So much had changed. He had never dreamed, in his little village on the English coast, that he would ever meet such things as dragons and trolls. They were something that lived far away. Well, here he was: far away.
Jack resettled the grain bag he was using as a pillow. The deck was hard, and the bilge was as fragrant as ever. Whisper, whisper, whisper went the trees, birds, and animals of Jotunheim in his mind. Jack covered his ears, knowing it would do no good.
He didn’t know how he was going to cure Frith yet. But Mimir’s Well had taught him not to try to force the order of things. Leaves uncurled and flowers opened when it was their time. Knowledge would be given to him when the moment came.
Toward dawn he awoke and saw Rune sitting by the sea serpent’s head at the prow. A silvery light shone on the water. Jack got up and picked his way through the sleeping bodies.
“That’s going to stink in a couple of days,” said Rune, running his fingers over the scales. “I wouldn’t dream of asking Eric Pretty-Face to leave it behind, though. He was so proud of killing it. It followed us around from the day we left you, working up its nerve to attack. It’s only half grown, you see.”
“I see,” said Jack, noting that the head alone weighed twice what Eric Pretty-Face did.
“It came at us yesterday, tried to wrap itself around the boat and sink us. Bad mistake.”
“Rune,” said Jack.
“Yes?”
“We found Mimir’s Well.”
“What great good fortune! I hoped you had, but we were speaking of Olaf earlier, and I didn’t want to change the subject.” The old warrior’s voice was sad.
“I don’t want to talk about it with the others. Not yet. I don’t think it would be right.”
“I’ll shut them up,” Rune said decisively. “I’ll tell them it has to do with the magic. Did you drink?”
“Yes, and so did Thorgil.”
“She did? I thought she seemed different. She didn’t once try to hurt anybody. Tell me, how did it taste?” The longing in the old man’s voice was almost unbearable.
“You tell me,” said Jack, handing him the bottle with the poppy on the side.
“Ohhhh,” Rune said with a deep sigh.
“It’s all right. I told the Norns you had sacrificed your voice to defend your friends and had given me your best poem. That seemed to satisfy them.”
“You’ve seen Norns too? How wonderful!”
“I didn’t like them,” said Jack.
“Shh. It’s never good to offend the forces that govern our lives. I can really drink this?”
Jack nodded. Rune opened the bottle and drank. A light came into his eyes, and he stood straighter than Jack had ever seen him do. “So, what does it taste like?” Jack said.
“Like the sun coming up after winter. Like rain after drought. Like joy after sorrow.”
“Your voice!” Jack cried. For the old man no longer whispered. His words were strong and new. Rune didn’t have a young man’s voice. He would never again be the magnificent singer of his youth, but he sounded deeper and more moving.
“Why is everyone making a racket?” grumbled Sven the Vengeful. “I haven’t had nearly the rest I wanted. Are you talking in your sleep again, Eric Pretty-Face?”
“NOT ME,” said Eric Pretty-Face.
That morning they came to the mouth of the fjord. The cliffs on either side were seething with birds, and thousands of nests clung to the rocks. The water was silver wi
th haddock and salmon. Bold Heart chased off a few seagulls when they tried to land on the sea serpent’s head. “We’re leaving Jotunheim,” Jack said somewhat regretfully.
“And entering Middle Earth,” said Rune.
The birds swirled and screamed. Thorgil crouched in the bilge with her hands over her ears. “She understands what they say,” Jack whispered. They came to open water and turned south on a bright gray-green sea with a brisk wind. Eric the Rash and Eric Pretty-Face put up the sail.
Jack felt as though something had lifted that had weighed on him ever since they’d entered Jotunheim. “This place welcomes us,” he said in wonder as he gazed at the coastline slipping by to their left.
“This is where we belong,” said Rune. “Jotunheim ever hated our presence.”
Jack turned and looked out over the vast ocean toward the place where Utgard had lain. Fonn’s great-great-great-grandmother had walked from there when it was a sea of ice. But each year summer moved closer to the heart of the frost giants’ world.
“I can’t understand the seagulls anymore,” Thorgil said. “Well, I can, but I can’t pick up every single word.”
“Don’t you like that? You hated listening to them,” said Jack.
“I did… but it was still kind of nice.”
“Magic is closer to the surface in Jotunheim,” said Rune. “I’m sure you haven’t lost the ability. You’ll just have to work harder at it.”
And Jack, too, felt the life force had moved deeper. It was there, but it would not come easily to his bidding. Which wasn’t a bad thing, he decided, grasping the blackened ash wood staff. He’d become afraid to summon its power in Jotunheim. The fire was too wild and unpredictable.
They traveled south, camping at night on little beaches. Jack and Thorgil told the warriors most of what happened, keeping only the Norns and Mimir’s Well to themselves. The Northmen were mightily impressed with Thorgil’s slaying of the dragonlet as well as Jack’s triumph over the spider. They hadn’t been idle either. Besides the fight with the sea serpent (which now stank to the heavens), they’d battled with a giant, evil-tempered pike.
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