by Nancy Farmer
“Please stop offering up your pain to God,” the Bard said wearily. “We have a serious problem, and it hasn’t been helped by your deception.” He walked over to Lucy and looked into her eyes. Mother had sunk to a bench. She hardly seemed to breathe. Jack felt he was in a bad dream. How could Lucy stop being his sister? But he had to admit she sometimes acted strangely.
“Who is she, sir?” he asked the Bard.
“That is a most interesting question,” the old man replied. “I’ve seen changelings”—Father moaned and Mother caught her breath—“but never one like this. Changelings, poor things, are misfits in our world.”
“Could I be one?” Pega said suddenly. Jack looked up to see her anguished face. It was half in shadow from the birthmark and half pale with fear. “I’ve often thought I was. The chief’s wife has a mirror made of polished bronze, and I looked into it.”
“No, my dear,” the Bard said gently. “Changelings are always terrified because they’ve been torn from their rightful place. They fall into terrible rages and scream until everyone is driven mad. But changelings don’t understand what they’re doing, for they can’t understand other people’s feelings. You, my child, are not like that.”
Pega’s relief was so obvious, it was painful to watch.
“Lucy…” the Bard said hesitantly, “seems to care, and yet her emotions flit by like sunlight on a stream.”
“She cares for me,” Giles said stoutly.
“When it suits her.”
“Well, she’s not a changeling, and that’s that. Everyone loves her,” declared Father.
“That’s because I’m a princess,” said Lucy, fluffing her pretty golden hair.
“I need to think about this,” the Bard said, ignoring Lucy’s adorable smile. “Such a fine spring evening shouldn’t be spoiled with useless worry.” The old man removed an oilskin packet from his carrying bag. It contained four excellent smoked trout that Pega had caught. Mother had already prepared barley cakes and a pot of parsnips mashed with a knob of butter.
Pega helped to serve dinner. She set to work as easily as she had in the Bard’s house, and Mother thanked her warmly for it. I helped too, Jack thought. I mended fences all day and chased evil-hearted ewes. No one paid the slightest attention to me. Nobody ever does. Good heavens, I sound like a whiny three-year-old. It must be that fever the Bard was talking about. And he forced himself to look pleasant.
The Bard entertained them with a story about an island made entirely of ice, on which he had spent a week. He’d had a battle with a troll-bear floating on the same island and drove it into the sea.
Jack’s thoughts kept going back to Lucy. She had always been different from the rest of them, so fair and golden-haired. It wasn’t only her coloring. She moved in a way that made you glad. Her smile made you forget how irritating she’d been a moment before. Even Jack, who wasn’t as besotted as Father, found himself laughing for no good reason when she chose to be pleasant.
The Bard and Pega stayed the night, for which Jack was grateful. He felt uncomfortable around Father. There wasn’t enough bedding for all of them, so of course the Bard got the best of it. Jack and Pega made do with meager piles of straw, while Lucy, as befitted a lost princess, slept on a heap of fluffy sheepskins.
Jack woke before dawn, cold and irritable. The Bard was already sitting by a lively fire and beckoned him to the hearth as though nothing had happened the day before. “I’ve been thinking about your sister,” the old man said, poking the flames with his staff.
“I suppose she isn’t really my sister,” Jack said. In a way it felt as though Lucy were dead, though of course she was sleeping in the loft.
“It isn’t a matter of blood ties, lad. All your life you’ve cared for her, and that makes her your sister in your heart. What concerns me is what she is capable of feeling.”
The dawn chorus of birds was beginning—the whistle of robins, burble of wrens, and trill of thrushes. Beyond them all, in orchards and woodlands, crows called to one another as if reassuring themselves that their comrades had survived the night. Thorgil would have understood what they were saying, though she found their empty-headed chatter annoying.
“I saw Thorgil, sir,” Jack blurted out. “When I was farseeing.”
“You succeeded? Well done!”
Jack basked in the praise. He explained how he’d seen the painted bird sitting on the cane and how it suddenly had a grasshopper in its beak.
“That happens when the vision comes alive,” the Bard explained. “You saw the bird as he was when the old Roman painted him.”
“There was a light on the cane, and when I turned to find out where it was coming from, I saw a fire on a seashore. Thorgil was having a fight with a strange boy.”
“That sounds about right,” the Bard said. “Tell me, was the water to the east or west of them?”
Jack was suddenly swept with longing, and the vision strengthened in his mind. He saw the gray-green sea stretched out beyond the fire. The sun was rising above a fog bank far out on the water. And that meant—that meant—“The water lay to the east!”
The Bard nodded. Jack understood at once. The Northmen had crossed the sea again. What were they planning? Was Thorgil even now sailing down the coast with a band of berserkers?
The Bard put his finger to his lips. “We’ll speak of this later.” Jack heard Lucy complaining from the loft and Father apologizing. Pega sat up abruptly with straw dripping from her wispy hair. She sprang into action, storing bedding, lining up cups, and placing a poker in the fire to heat cider. Jack appreciated her efforts, but sometimes her incessant energy made him feel tired. Before Mother arrived, Pega had the iron pot, purchased with Jack’s silver, on the hearth and was heating water for oatmeal. Father lurched down the ladder with Lucy in his arms.
“Where’s my cider?” the little girl demanded. “I’m dying of thirst. I like my porridge with lots of honey.”
“I’ll help you,” Jack said hastily, before Pega could drop the poker on Lucy’s head. He took the skin bag and filled the cups. Mother took over the task of preparing oatmeal.
“I want to see Brother Aiden,” she said, looking down at her work.
“Of course,” Father replied meekly.
“Excellent idea!” said the Bard. “I have questions for him too. I’m fairly certain what those creatures in the hazel wood were, but Brother Aiden’s opinion would be useful.”
“I want to know where they live.” Mother stirred the oatmeal without looking up. “I want you to find them, Giles, and bring our daughter home, and I want this to happen immediately, with no side trips to drink ale with the blacksmith. Do you hear me?”
It was so rare for Mother to give orders that everyone stared at her in amazement. People forgot she was a wise woman with knowledge of small magic and an ability to control animals by voice alone. She was using that voice now. No one spoke, not even the Bard. Jack felt the air tremble.
“Do you hear me, Giles?” repeated Mother.
“Yes, dearest,” said Father. The air stopped vibrating. Everyone relaxed and continued with whatever he or she was doing.
Chapter Nine
BROTHER AIDEN
Mist was curling up from the fields and meadows as they walked to Brother Aiden’s hut. Lucy insisted on riding Bluebell, though Jack thought it would have done her good to walk.
Brother Aiden was sitting outside, his face turned toward a flock of swallows wheeling in the upper air. He regarded them with an expression of such joy that Jack looked up to see if he’d missed something. They were ordinary birds swooping and twittering, but Jack noticed that they never strayed far from Brother Aiden’s hut.
“They’re worshipping God,” said the little man, waking from his trance to greet his visitors. When Brother Aiden turned his attention from the sky, the swallows drifted away toward the hazel wood.
The chamber inside the beehive hut was dark and cramped, with a tiny altar topped by a small pewter cross. Father had ma
de him a stool and worktable, as well as a chest to store supplies. When everything was inside, there was scarcely room for the monk himself. And so Father had built him a shed for cooking. Beside this neat little compound was a garden for herbs and vegetables.
When the weather was good, Brother Aiden dragged his table outside to work on a copy of the scriptures. He was working on it now, and his inks were lined up next to goose quills and brushes tipped with marten fur. He had only three pieces of parchment, but he worked so slowly, it didn’t matter. The parchment was covered in swirling designs with odd little details like vines or snakes or eyes.
“Do they truly worship?” Father said in wonder, watching the swallows fly away.
“All things praise Him,” Brother Aiden said. “When St. Cuthbert used to meditate in cold seawater up to his neck, the otters swarmed over his feet to dry them when he came out.”
Jack was about to ask how something as wet as an otter could dry anything when he was silenced by a stern look from the Bard.
“We’ve come to you with questions,” the old man said.
“I’ll do my best, though you know I’m not greatly educated.”
“You’ll do,” said the Bard, smiling. “Giles has just revealed that his girl Lucy isn’t his.” And he recounted the story of the elder tree and swarm of little men.
“Interesting,” said Brother Aiden. “They sound like pookas.”
“Pookas?” said Jack, to whom the term was unfamiliar.
“Or hobgoblins. They go by many names,” said the Bard. “I thought of them too.”
“I can’t bear to think of my child being carried off by those—those things! Is she even alive?” cried Mother.
“My poor Alditha!” Brother Aiden grasped her hands. “We’re a pair of fools, talking about your daughter as though she were only an amusing problem. I think it very likely your child is alive. Pookas aren’t evil, just mischievous. They sometimes turn milk sour or knock holes in buckets. Nothing major.”
“But what did they want with her?”
Brother Aiden and the Bard exchanged glances. “That’s the only flaw in the theory,” said the Bard. “I’ve never heard of pookas stealing a baby.”
“If they did, I’m sure they’d be kind to it,” Brother Aiden said.
Mother slumped down with her face in her hands, and Father, hesitantly, as though he expected to be rebuffed, knelt beside her. “I’ll look for them. I’ll offer them a ransom,” he said.
“You don’t know where they live.” Mother’s voice was muffled.
“That’s where I might be of help,” said the Bard. “There are ways into their land if you know where to look. And, of course, I do. Pookas live in caves under the ground, and I visited them often when I was a young man. They’re fond of dark forests and mountains with rushing streams. The nearest place like that is the Forest of Lorn.”
The Forest of Lorn, thought Jack. What a wonderful name! The very sound of it was exciting. He could almost see craggy ravines overhung with ferns. “Where is it, sir?” he asked eagerly.
“A few days’ journey north of Bebba’s Town.”
“If the creatures lived that far away, what were they doing here?” said Father.
“You don’t know pookas,” the Bard said. “They’ll run thirty miles to gather hazelnuts and be home in time for dinner. They’re crazy about hazelnuts.”
“If only I hadn’t stopped in the woods,” moaned Father.
“Well, you did, and that brings us to the second question,” the Bard said. “Where did they get Lucy from?”
Everyone turned to her. She was picking wildflowers next to Brother Aiden’s garden like any normal child. But then she thrust them at Pega and said in a nasty voice, “Weave them into a crown for me, froggy.”
“Do it yourself, bedbug,” retorted the girl. Bedbug was Pega’s worst insult. She absolutely hated the bloodsucking creatures, having been locked into a hut swarming with them by one of her owners.
The Bard explained about Lucy’s change of behavior since the need-fire ceremony and the anger that had spread from Giles to Alditha to Jack.
“She might be possessed,” observed Brother Aiden. “It’s well known that demons are attracted to children who are indulged by their parents. The souls of children forced to endure hardships are too tough for demons to get their teeth into. They go after the tender lambs.”
“Don’t say things like that!” begged Father.
“I’m sorry. That’s just the way things are,” the little monk said. “Exorcism might do Lucy a world of good.”
“She’s not possessed!”
“Call it madness or a demon or whatever you like, something happened at the ceremony,” the Bard argued.
“Oh, please stop,” Mother broke in, and Jack was aware of how tired she looked. For the first time he saw strands of gray in her hair and lines on either side of her mouth. They must have been there before, but he hadn’t noticed them. “Lucy draws away from us more each day. At first she only claimed to be someone else’s daughter—little did I know how true that was!—but now she talks to people I can’t see and repeats conversations I can’t hear.”
Jack saw that his little sister was talking to someone at that very moment. She was seated on the grass with the flowers she had picked scattered around her. She was looking at a spot just above Brother Aiden’s herb garden. Her face was filled with joy, and she clasped her hands as though she were watching the most delightful entertainment.
“You didn’t mention this before, Alditha,” said Father.
“How could I, with you going on and on about demons?”
There was nothing in the herb garden except rosemary, mint, and sage, and a few bees hovering over the flowers.
“Lucy,” said the Bard gently. “What do you see?”
She turned abruptly, her face contorted with rage. “Leave us!” she snarled. “You have not been given permission to speak.”
“Then I ask permission,” the old man said, and Jack wondered at his patience.
Lucy seemed confused for a moment. She turned toward the herb garden and back again. “You may speak,” she said.
“I fear I cannot see your friends.”
“That’s because you’re a commoner,” said the little girl.
“Lucy!” cried Mother.
“It’s all right. I’d like it very much, Lucy, if you’d give your friends my greetings.”
The little girl turned toward the herb garden and spoke earnestly. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. The Bard came closer and watched the garden intently. Finally, she replied. “They say you are a foolish old man with hair growing out of your ears.” Mother started to protest, but the Bard held up his hand.
“All true except the foolish part,” he said. “Tell me, do these friends have names?”
“They don’t like to give their names.”
“What are they doing now?”
“Dancing—oh!”
For the Bard had thrown his cloak over the herb garden. He held it down with his foot. “Quick, Jack! Get the other end!” he shouted, but before Jack could react, a sudden fierce wind whipped the cloak back over the old man’s head. The cloth wrapped itself tightly around his face. “Get it off me!” he cried in a muffled voice. Jack had to fight to peel the cloth away—it seemed to have a mind of its own!—but then it went limp and fell to the ground.
“I almost had them!” panted the Bard.
“You scared them off!” screamed Lucy. She threw herself down and rolled from side to side gnashing her teeth. When Father tried to pick her up, she struck him with her fists.
“They were demons!” Father groaned.
“We aren’t sure of that,” said the Bard, tidying his beard. “Personally, I think ‘demon’ is a ragbag category. There’re sprites and boggarts, will-o’-the-wisps and pixies, spriggans and flibbertigibbets, not to mention yarthkins—wonderfully different beings. It makes just as much sense to refer to anything with wings as ‘bird’.�
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Brother Aiden knelt by Lucy and laid a hand on her tossing head. He said nothing, but somehow his touch calmed her as a good farmer’s hand calms a frightened lamb.
“She’s possessed, isn’t she?” said Father.
“I’m not sure,” said the little monk. “There’s an abbot in Bebba’s Town who specializes in such things.”
“If you want my opinion, and of course you should,” the Bard said, “an abbot wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to handle Lucy’s problem.”
“What’s the harm in an exorcism?” Brother Aiden argued.
“An exorcism is like using a boulder to kill a gnat.” The Bard paced around the herb garden as he thought. “It could do as much harm to Lucy as the gnat.”
“We can’t leave her like this.” The little monk stroked Lucy’s hair, but her eyes were still bewildered and unseeing.
“Bebba’s Town is near the Holy Isle,” murmured Father with a faraway look in his eyes. Jack knew he was remembering his visit there long ago, when the kindly monks tried to mend his leg.
“There’s no one left on the Holy Isle,” Brother Aiden reminded him. “The abbot, Father Swein, lives at St. Filian’s Monastery. St. Filian’s Well is famous for cures.”
“Do you think it could fix my leg?” said Father.
“All things are possible with God, but the well’s better known for afflictions of the soul. It might be just the thing for Lucy.”
“It would be like going on a pilgrimage,” Father said, that faraway look still in his eyes.
“A pilgrimage?” echoed Brother Aiden.
“We could go on to the Forest of Lorn,” added Jack. All this while a strange feeling was uncurling inside him like a seedling reaching for the sun. He saw a ship leaning into a cold wind on a gray-green sea. Dark trees massed on the shore. I should have learned my lesson by now, he thought as the exhilarating sense of adventure grew. Last time this happened, I almost wound up in a dragon’s stomach. The feeling was too strong to suppress, however.
Despite his joy at returning home from the Northland, Jack had found living in the village somewhat dull—not that he enjoyed bumping into trolls or being carried off by giant spiders. Far from it! But looking back, the trip seemed nicer than it had, in fact, been. That’s the nature of adventures, Jack thought wisely. They’re nasty while they’re happening and only fun later.
