by Nancy Farmer
Jack couldn’t really blame Pega. When he had grandly presented the thirty-one pieces of silver and the freeing was duly recorded by Brother Aiden, the chief had said, “Well, that’s one less mouth to feed.”
For the first time Jack realized what he’d done. He’d taken a scrawny, unlovable girl away from the only livelihood she knew. No one had a use for Pega as a paid servant. No one, in fact, wanted her around. She might mark unborn babies or make the sheep come down with foot rot. Who could tell what effect that weird birthmark on her face would have? Even Father wouldn’t pay her a wage, not that Jack dared ask him.
“I will serve you all my days,” Pega had announced. “You have given me freedom, and I’ll never forget it.”
She had followed Jack back to the Roman house. He didn’t know what to do. He considered pelting her with rocks and was ashamed for thinking of it. He hoped the Bard would tell her to go away, but the old man welcomed her enthusiastically.
Now she was plaiting grass into mats at the other end of the house. She warbled like a little bird, and the Bard plucked his harp and smiled. That’s another thing, Jack thought as he sank further into gloom. Pega’s voice was remarkable. The Bard was enchanted by her, and Jack, try as he would to overcome it, was horribly jealous.
“Could you fetch some wood?” the Bard called. “I swear the frost giants are stamping around outside.”
Right, thought Jack. Give me the nasty work. Let Pega sit by the fire like a princess. But he knew he was being unfair. Pega toiled from dawn to long past dark. She attempted any task you set her, even if it was beyond her strength. She worked, to be honest, like a slave. But it was different, she insisted, from actually being a slave. She never minded work so long as it was of her own free will.
Jack couldn’t see the difference and thought her rather stupid.
He hauled driftwood from a back shed and nestled it in the coals of the hearth. Green and blue flames danced along the wood. “The colors of the sea,” said the Bard.
“Is that because it came from the water?” Pega asked.
Of course, you half-wit, thought Jack.
“There’s my clever girl,” the Bard said. “Wood that has been at sea becomes partly sea. I have even seen trees turn to stone from long lying in the earth.”
“Truly?” said Pega, her eyes shining.
“You could break an axe on them, for all they appear to be alive.”
“I’m bored,” said Jack. The Bard looked up sharply, and the boy regretted his outburst. Father always said the cure for boredom was hard work, so Jack expected to be handed another nasty chore. It had been a while since anyone had chipped the ice off the privy.
But the Bard put down his harp and said, “I think it’s time for a lesson.” Pega, without being told, fetched the poker to heat in the fire. “It’s Brigid’s Eve,” the old man began.
“St. Brigid?” said Jack, who had heard of her from Father.
She had prayed to become ugly to avoid marriage. After her husband-to-be had rejected her, she became a holy nun. She had performed a number of entertaining and useful miracles. Her cows gave milk three times a day, and once, when a group of priests unexpectedly arrived for a visit, she changed her bathwater into beer.
“Our Brigid existed long before any saints,” the Bard said. “She’s one of the old gods out of Ireland. She taught the first bards how to sing.”
Pega plunged the hot poker into the cider cups, and the smell of summer filled the room.
“She taught us the skill of farseeing,” said the Bard. Suddenly, Jack no longer heard the storm blustering outside. He no longer felt cold or bored or even irritated by Pega, who had settled herself by the fire as though she really belonged there. The Bard was speaking of magic. And magic was what Jack wanted more than anything in the world.
“Farseeing is a matter of attention,” the old man explained. “It’s a matter of looking with particular intent, of peeling away the barriers between you and what you wish to know. I can’t tell you how to do it. I can only tell you the steps. If you have the ability, and I think you do, you’ll find the way. But be warned. You can become lost on this journey. Anger and jealousy can hide the path as surely as fog can cover a marsh. You can wander into darkness and never return.”
The Bard looked into Jack’s eyes, and the boy knew, sure as sure, that the old man had seen into his secret heart. He knew Jack resented Pega’s presence. He was warning him of the danger this posed to becoming a bard. Very well! If that’s what it took, he’d learn to love the pesky girl. “This is good!” remarked the old man, sipping his cider. “It’s from your mother’s hands, none finer.”
For a while they sat in silence, watching the blue and green flames among the yellow. Pega gathered up the cups and put them away. Jack’s and Pega’s were cheaply made and easily broken. They were produced by the potter in the village. But the Bard’s had a pale green glaze that reminded Jack of a cloudy sea and came from somewhere to the south.
“Can I do farseeing too?” Pega chirped.
Jack almost lost his resolve to stop hating her.
“This is not for you,” the Bard said gently, and Jack’s spirits soared. “You have your own talent, greater than you realize, but being a bard is a dangerous path and lonely. Your spirit craves a family and warmth.”
“I’ll never have those,” Pega said.
“I think you will.”
“No, never!” cried the girl with more anger than Jack thought she possessed.
“One thing you learn in a life as long as mine is never to say ‘never’,” said the Bard.
“I’m sorry,” Pega apologized at once. “I sound ungrateful and I’m not. I’d be happy staying here—and doing chores forever—and just being a fly on the wall.”
“You’re worth much more than that.” The Bard patted her wispy hair, and she smiled, somewhat tearfully. “Now I’m about to teach Jack something important. Your job is to stay quiet. Do you think you can do that?”
“Oh, yes, sir! Anything!” Pega withdrew to her heap of straw in a corner, looking for all the world like a frog perched on a clump of weeds.
“You must curl your hands, Jack, to make what we call a ‘seeing tube’.” The Bard demonstrated, curling his fingers around each of his eyes. “This helps you concentrate your vision. You walk sunwise around the fire and say to yourself:
I seek beyond
The folds of the mountains
The nine waves of the sea
The bird-crying winds.
I seek beyond
The turning of a maze
The untying of a knot
The opening of a door.
I am light, I am dark
I am both together
Show me what I seek!
“Say it over and over until you have traveled around the fire three times three. Then stand with your vision concentrated on the fire. Breathe deeply and begin again.” The Bard put down his hands.
“That’s it?” Jack asked.
“It’s harder than you think.”
“How many times should I do it?”
“I don’t know,” the old man said. “You won’t succeed today or perhaps ever. If you’re patient and have the gift, the way will open for you.”
Jack would have liked more information, but that was how the Bard taught. He’d sent Jack out over the hills for months to observe birds and clouds without explaining why. All the while the boy had been learning about the life force.
The Bard repeated the charm until Jack had it right, for it was perilous to make a mistake. Jack understood this very well. He remembered what had happened when he tried to sing a praise-song for Queen Frith. All her hair had fallen out.
Pega sat solemnly on her clump of weeds. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, and her ears seemed to stick out more than usual. Half her face was covered by the birthmark, making her appear to be half in shadow. She didn’t make a sound.
“What should I look for, sir?” Jack asked.
>
“The sight will come to you, depending on what you most need. Later you can learn to bend it to your will.” The Bard went to his truckle bed and lay down with his back to the fire.
What do I most need? Jack asked himself. To see Mother. She had been forbidden by Father from visiting him. The boy missed her terribly, and he felt deeply wronged. Father should never have tried to buy a slave, not after what Jack had told him about being carried off by Northmen. It was as though nothing Jack said made the least impression while Lucy’s slightest wish was of overwhelming importance.
The boy made the seeing tubes with his hands, one for each eye. By some magic they came together to make one view that was somehow clearer and deeper. Jack gazed at the old pictures on the wall of the Roman house. A painted bird perched on a reed cane to which was tied a rosebush. Odd how he’d never noticed it was a rose before. He could see delicate thorns and a long sliver of light reflected on the cane. Where was the light coming from?
He turned and walked around the hearth, staring straight ahead and keeping the warmth of the fire on his right. The scene shifted from the bird to a shelf with bundles of dried herbs and on to the far end of the room, which was in shadow. Even that was interesting. He could see, just over the Bard’s bed, a line of little holes where something had been attached. He’d never noticed them before.
Must repeat the charm, Jack scolded himself. He began chanting silently. It was difficult to keep track of the number of times he circled because he was only used to counting things he could see. The ever-changing scene made him slightly dizzy. Once, he blundered into the coals and burned his foot. When he had gone round three times three—hopefully—he turned to stare at the hearth.
Most of the green and blue flames had gone. It was a normal yellow fire, dipping and waving with an occasional snap of sparks. That was all.
Jack breathed deeply and began again. He performed the ritual until he got so sleepy, he lost track of how many times he had circled. He also thought he’d chanted untying of a sheep instead of untying of a knot the last time round. He banked the fire and went to bed.
Pega still watched the coals of the hearth with her bright little eyes and her ears sticking out, as though she could hear something far away. Probably listening to bats, Jack thought as he drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Six
THE LIGHT FROM FAR AWAY
It was lambing time, but this year Jack was not sent to hunt for newborns. Father had help from other village boys. Jack occasionally saw them dodging headbutts from the vicious black-faced ewes. He didn’t miss the job—not one bit!—but he did miss coming home to Mother’s cockle soup and bannock cakes. Lucy would run to hug him. He would sit down in his favorite place, and Mother would talk in her quiet way of something the hens had done or of a plant that had opened its leaves.
Jack wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He would not care. He was an adult now with important duties as a bard’s apprentice. He had poetry to memorize, charms to learn, and fog to call up.
Pega did most of the household chores. She hauled logs from the beach, scampered over rocks in search of whelks, and picked weevils out of oats.
Whenever possible, Jack practiced his farseeing charm. Sometimes he thought he saw the fire dim. Sometimes the air dimpled like a pond with the first drops of rain. But always the vision cleared and Jack found himself back where he started. He continued to wonder about the source of the light shining on the painted cane. The Bard didn’t ask about his progress, and Jack didn’t volunteer any information.
Winter slipped away. A haze of green covered the hills, and the clouds turned from gray to white. Crickets began to chirp, and a warm wind blew from the south, bringing the first bees to the flowers. The bees reminded Jack of Mother and made him sad.
A group of Pictish peddlers arrived from Bebba’s Town, leading their donkeys and blowing a horn to announce their presence. “They’ve got everything!” Colin, the blacksmith’s son, cried as he delivered the daily shipment of bread. “They’ve got pots and knives and three-pronged eel spears and sewing needles! I’m to spy and find out how the needles are made. They won’t tell Father.”
“What else?” the Bard said.
“Boring stuff like parchment.” Anything that wasn’t made of iron didn’t interest Colin.
“Parchment?” said the Bard.
“Heaps of it. Brother Aiden was bargaining for a piece.” Colin handed the basket of bread to Pega and took his leave.
“I could use a bit of parchment,” said the old man, considering. “Brother Aiden knows a secret formula for ink that never fades. I tell you what, let’s pack a lunch and make a holiday of it.”
But Jack didn’t want to go. Father would be there, and the confrontation was more than he could bear.
“You’ll have to face him sometime. You can’t spend the rest of your life here,” the Bard said.
“I’m not afraid of Giles Crookleg,” declared Pega, dancing around. “I’m free, and he can’t lay a hand on me.”
“Oh, dry up,” said Jack.
The Bard put on his white cloak. Pega decorated herself with a garland of flowers (which didn’t improve her looks at all, Jack thought privately). She packed a basket with bread and cheese. “Sure you won’t go?” the old man said at the door. “You could scare up a game of Bull in the Barn. It would do you a world of good.”
Jack liked playing Bull in the Barn. A group of boys formed a ring around whoever was chosen to be the bull. The bull would ask each in turn, “Where’s the key to the barn?” and each child would reply, “I don’t know. Ask my neighbor.” Until one of them suddenly shouted, “Get out the way you got in!” which was the signal for the bull to try to break through the encircling arms. It was a rough game that usually ended with someone running home, bawling at the top of his lungs. Jack enjoyed it, but he dreaded meeting Father.
“I’d rather stay,” he said.
“Suit yourself.” The Bard bade him a cheery good-bye, and Pega skipped out with the picnic basket. Jack heard her warbling all the way down the path.
It was a bright, sunny day, but by contrast, the inside of the Roman house was dark. It suited Jack’s mood. He’d been thrown out by Father, and now the Bard had deserted him. Jack took down his practice harp and played a few melancholy tunes to make himself feel more wretched. He thought about running away to Bebba’s Town. The Bard and Pega would find him gone and be sorry. But another thought trickled like cold water down his spine: Maybe they wouldn’t miss me at all.
After a while Jack went outside to work in the herb garden. I should soak beans for dinner, he thought, but he’d got used to Pega doing all the cooking. She made an excellent eel stew with barley, leeks, dill, and a touch of vinegar. It was unlike anything he’d ever eaten. Pega had been traded so many times up and down the coast that she had a large stockpile of recipes. The thought of eels reminded Jack of the spears Colin had been so excited about.
I should have asked the Bard to get one, he thought. He had a few silver coins left. Very few, thanks to Pega. At least she cooked and did her share of hunting. She had a peculiar skill in catching trout. She lay on her stomach by a stream and wiggled a finger like a fat worm. Sooner or later a trout drifted over, and she tickled it under the chin—did trout have chins? When it had fallen under her spell, she whisked it up into a bag.
Jack’s thoughts kept coming back to Pega. She got into everything, like the mice during the harvest. To distract himself, he blew the hearth into life. He would practice farseeing, the one thing she hadn’t managed to invade.
The flames were streaked with green and blue, and the fire rustled like a wind in a sail. Jack began the spell.
I seek beyond
The folds of the mountains
The nine waves of the sea…
He saw the painted bird on its reed cane. There were small daisies at the base of the rosebush and a fretwork of vines beyond. The leaves extended back into green darkness, against which the bird shone brightly.
Its chest was puffed out with cream-colored feathers, and its wings were a lively brown. Jack thought it was a wren.
He circled three times three, paused, and began again. Boredom crept over him, and it seemed he had walked in this circle for years. He was hardly aware of movement anymore, only of the slow passage of images beyond the seeing tube. The room faded and suddenly—
Jack stopped. The bird was perched with its tiny claws fastened on to the cane. It had a grasshopper in its beak!
There had been no grasshopper before. Jack was sure of it. He couldn’t possibly have missed such a detail. A long sliver of light gleamed on the cane. Jack turned to see where it was coming from and saw a small fire on an expanse of sand. Beyond lay the sea. Two boys were rolling over and over in a fierce fight. One of them had a bloody nose, and he was mouthing words Jack was sure were curses. Nothing could be heard.
The other boy seemed to be winning the battle. He thrust the first one into the sand and put his foot on his throat.
A man ran up. Jack’s heart stood still. It was Eric Pretty-Face! No one else had those horrible battle scars.
Eric Pretty-Face pulled them apart like a pair of squabbling puppies and threw one in each direction. The boy with the bloody nose jumped to his feet and began screaming. The other one roared with laughter.
Turn, turn, Jack willed the boy who was jumping up and down and taunting his adversary. Then at last the boy did turn to show a triumphant, none-too-clean face.
Thorgil, thought Jack. He missed her—oh, heavens, how he had missed her!—and yet he hadn’t been aware of it till now. The gray-green sea stretched out behind her, and a wind ruffled her chopped-off hair. All the excitement of sailing to the north came back to him. He could almost feel the deck move under his feet and hear the timbers creak. Somewhere a wind blew off a glacier from an ice mountain folded into itself.
“Jack!” Someone was tugging at his sleeve. The vision collapsed, and he was back in the Roman house. Pega was there, yanking on his arm, her froggy mouth opening and shutting as she spoke.
