The Sea of Trolls

by Nancy Farmer

  Generous is he, that striker of terror.

  “Stop!” cried Olaf, blushing like a youth. “I don’t want to open my presents before the party.” He poked in the flames with his spear. “It’s a lovely beginning, though.”

  Jack and Rune exchanged glances. Egil, who’d been tiptoeing around all afternoon, smiled at them.

  “There’s more, isn’t there?” said the giant.

  “Oh, yes,” said Jack.

  “Lots more,” Rune wheezed.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to hear a different poem,” Olaf said, so Jack sang the tale of Beowulf and his battle with Grendel. It was perhaps not the wisest choice, but it cheered up Olaf.

  “I assume Dragon Tongue made that,” he said. “I can tell it wasn’t written in our language.”

  “I translated it,” said Jack.

  “And didn’t do too bad a job,” whispered Rune. “You used the wrong words for ‘melancholy’ and ‘croaking toads.’”

  “Poor Dragon Tongue,” said Egil. “Frith would never have known who killed her sister if he hadn’t bragged about it. He never knew when to keep his mouth shut.”

  “At least he had the courage to stand up to her,” growled Olaf.

  Jack was surprised. These men seemed to have liked the Bard. They certainly weren’t fond of the queen. “If Frith—I mean, the queen—is a half-troll,” he began, working out the idea, “can she tell when people don’t like her?”

  A chill seemed to descend over the campfire. “If you mean, can she read minds,” said Olaf, “the answer is no. Half-trolls are very different from either of their parents. They are—what would you say?”

  “An abomination,” said Egil.

  “Jotuns are honest folk. They’re stupid, crude, and ugly—”

  “ Very ugly,” said Egil.

  “—but they’re decent in their way. Why, I’d live next to a troll if the ground rules were worked out,” said Olaf.

  “A half-troll is a shape-shifter,” whispered Rune. “It has no hold on reality. It hates everything.”

  “So…can Frith lie?” said Jack.

  “Frith doesn’t know the meaning of truth or any other virtue,” Olaf said. “Now listen to me, boy, and listen well. We can speak of her here, but when we come to the palace, you must hold your tongue. And keep your pet crow out of sight. She hates crows. She thinks they carry tales about her to Odin.”

  “We honor Ivar for the man he was, but he’s let the kingdom go to ruin,” said Egil.

  Jack was asked for another tale to round out the evening. He hadn’t translated any more poems, so he gave them one of Father’s bedtime stories. The martyrdom of Saint Lawrence was a huge hit with the Northmen. “Saint Lawrence was roasted over a slow fire,” Jack told the ring of enthralled warriors. “The pagans stuck garlic cloves between his toes and basted him all over like a chicken.”

  “Sounds like troll work to me,” said Olaf.

  “What are pagans, anyhow?” said Sven the Vengeful.

  When Jack got to the part where Saint Lawrence said, I think I’m done. You may eat me when you will, the listeners all cheered.

  “Now that’s a warrior,” said Egil Long-Spear. “A man like that would go straight to Valhalla.”

  “I think he went to the Christian Heaven,” said Jack.

  “If there are people like that in Heaven, I might just become Christian,” declared Olaf.

  All in all it was a successful evening.

  The next day was spent in camp. Everyone bathed in the sea and combed his hair for the big homecoming. Jack took Lucy to a private beach. Her original dress, sewn with such care by Mother, was in rags. Olaf had given her a new and beautifully embroidered frock.

  Jack felt strange when he picked it up. It was as though the original maker had left something of herself behind. It hung like faint music in the air. “Ooh! That’s nice!” cried Lucy, grabbing it. She discarded Mother’s dress without a second glance. Well, she was very young, thought Jack. He buried Mother’s dress high above the shore, where the tide would not reach it.

  Thorgil bathed behind a rock, using a bar of soap she had looted from a Saxon village. She dried her hair in the sunlight, and Jack was surprised to see how golden it was. She was almost as pretty as Lucy. But then she yelled a string of curses at him and spoiled the effect.

  Jack sat next to Cloud Mane and watched the preparations. Bold Heart perched on the horse’s back. “You have to stay out of Frith’s way,” Jack told the crow. “I wish I could be sure you understood. You seem awfully intelligent, but you’re only a bird. A kind of black chicken, really.” Bold Heart ignored him and searched for ticks on Cloud Mane’s back.

  It was time. The awful moment when they would face Ivar the Boneless came nearer with every oar-stroke. Jack morosely watched the coast speed by as the warriors rowed with renewed energy. They’d decked themselves with finery—brooches, armbands, and finger rings, the more, the better—and exchanged their greasy leather caps for headbands worked in gold. Olaf wore a fine woolen cloak, pinned on the right shoulder to leave his sword arm free. Even Thorgil had a necklace of finely worked silver leaves over her faded tunic. With her bright hair streaming in the wind, she looked quite girlish.

  Jack thought about telling her this, but he knew the penalty for baiting her.

  They met boats of all sizes, though none as grand as King Ivar’s drekar or even as large as Olaf’s and Egil’s ships. When they came to the mouth of the fjord, a swarm of little fishing boats scooted out of their way. The fishermen cheered, and Olaf stood tall and grand at the prow.

  They followed the fjord deep into the land. The sound of the sea died away. The waves disappeared. Soon the water was as calm as a lake. On either side were grim, forested mountains, with here and there a hawk coasting the upper air. And far away to the north lay high mountains covered in snow.

  “Jotunheim,” said Olaf.

  Troll country, translated Jack with a sinking heart.

  Presently, they saw farms high in the hills and steep meadows with herds of sheep and cattle. At a bend in the fjord, where the meadow came down to the water, was a large dock and many houses. A child saw them coming and ran back along a street, shouting. Immediately, the houses emptied out. Men, women, children, and dogs hurried to the dock, hollering and barking for all they were worth.

  “Any sign of Ivar?” said Olaf.

  “Not yet,” said Sven the Vengeful.

  The celebration on the shore went on. The people were working themselves into a frenzy, but there were some who were less joyful. They shaded their eyes and looked from one ship to the other. Jack guessed they were searching for the third ship, the one that presumably went down, or for kinfolk who might have been rescued.

  “There’s Ivar,” said Sven.

  Beyond the town was a shoulder of mountain leaning out over the fjord. It was an outcropping of dark blue stone, as bleak and lifeless as metal. On top was a long house Jack hadn’t noticed before. A group of people—it was too far to see clearly—stood outside.

  “He’ll wait for you to come to him,” said Sven.

  “Troll-whipped weakling,” muttered Olaf under his breath.

  In spite of the absence of the king, the warriors’ welcome was everything they could have wanted. The women hugged and kissed them. The men, who were mostly old, gave them friendly punches. Parents greeted sons; wives—sometimes two or three to a man—welcomed their husbands. Children ran around shrieking. Those whose family members had not returned wept quietly at the side. Perhaps their men were still on the way. Perhaps not.

  Jack held Lucy’s hand tightly. The crowd surged around them, pushing them this way and that. “What a pretty little thrall!” cried a woman, chucking Lucy under the chin.

  “Go away!” shrilled Lucy.

  “With a temper, too,” the woman said approvingly.

  Jack pulled his sister out of the crush until they were up among the houses. He didn’t know what to do. He felt lonely and scared. No one in this t
own cared about them. They were livestock, to be sold or slaughtered. But he had to stay in control so he could protect Lucy. He looked around to find something to take his mind off his troubles and saw Thorgil walking slowly up the street. She, too, was alone. No one had come to greet her. She didn’t even seem to have friends.

  Something twisted inside Jack. How could anyone be that alone? No matter how desperate his and Lucy’s situation was, they had each other. And they had parents who missed and mourned for them. They had a village where they would be greeted as enthusiastically as the returning Northmen. How could anyone come home to nothing ?

  Then, racing down the street, Jack saw a pack of dogs. They were unlike anything he’d ever seen and unlike the curly-tailed dogs frisking around the dock. These animals were huge , almost as tall as he. They had long, lean heads and small ears. Their coats were matted and gray.

  Jack pushed Lucy behind him. The dogs galloped toward them like horses. But at the last minute they pulled up and danced around the children, baying and leaping.

  “Slasher! Wolf Bane! Hel Hag! Shreddie!” yelled Thorgil. The dogs fell on her, yipping and licking. They rolled her in the dirt, and she pummeled them back. Then one of them—Jack thought it was Shreddie—left the tangle and came back to Lucy. He plumped his front legs down on the ground and waggled his rump in the air. His tail wagged furiously.

  “Nice doggie,” said Lucy.

  “I don’t think so,” said Jack, his heart pumping.

  “Stay away from them!” shouted Thorgil, fighting her way out of the tangle. “They’re my friends. Mine! They’re not for dirty thralls.” She ran up the street. “Come, friends! Come to me!” she yelled back. The dogs took off like arrows.

  Jack stared after her, glad the huge beasts had gone. “Nice doggies,” said Lucy.

  “Let’s find Olaf,” said Jack. It occurred to him that Thorgil, when she cried Come, friends! Come to me, had spoken in Saxon.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Wise Woman

  Olaf took them to his farm above the village. Several of his thralls—with slave rings around their necks—carried chests of booty. Jack wondered if he would be fitted with such a ring. It would be a terrible and unending humiliation. No one could look at him without knowing his status.

  Any illusion Jack might have had about friendship between an owner and his slave was dispelled by the thralls’ names: Pig Face, Dirty Pants, Thick Legs, and a man-and-wife couple called Lump and She-Lump. She-Lump led Cloud Mane to a stable. Even the horse had a better name.

  The walls of Olaf’s main house were curved inward. The ridge along the top formed an arc like the keel of an overturned ship. At each end of the ridge was a carved dragon’s head. Scattered about were other buildings—stables, storehouses, kitchens, and spare bedrooms.

  Inside, as with Father’s house, the floor was below the surface of the ground. Along the sides were benches and tables and, leaning against a far wall, a beautifully made loom. Everywhere were examples of Olaf’s carving skills. Horses, birds, fish, and dragons decorated the roof beams and supporting timbers.

  A fire burned in a long stone-lined trough down the middle of the hall. It made the air pleasantly warm, but smoky. Jack and Lucy started coughing the minute they got inside. “Good for the lungs!” cried Olaf, striking himself on the chest. “A hearty cough always tells me I’ve arrived home. Come on, ladies! Come and see what I’ve brought you!”

  Olaf’s three wives crowded around, along with his towheaded children. There were at least a dozen. They mobbed their father, demanding to see what he’d brought them. “A smack on the backside!” roared the giant. The children weren’t a bit scared. They continued to climb on their father’s legs and hang off his arms.

  Finally, the wives unhooked them and the gift-giving began. There were shawls, tunics, bolts of cloth, and tools for the general running of the house. A heap of salt cakes brought cries of approval from the wives, who, Jack learned, were called Dotti, Lotti, and Heide. Olaf handed out embroidered headbands to the boys and scarves to the girls. Everyone got a new knife. He tossed necklaces, bracelets, and brooches to the wives, laughing to see them fight for the loot. “Who are the thralls for?” Dotti said. The women eagerly turned to look at Jack and his sister.

  “He’s my skald,” said Olaf.

  “Ooh! Your own personal skald!” cried Dotti.

  “You deserve it, really you do,” enthused Lotti. They were as alike as two apples from the same tree: blond and blue-eyed with fat, rosy cheeks and well-rounded arms.

  The third wife was different. She had a broad, flat face and eyes that tilted up at the corners. Her skin was bronze, which made her light blue eyes all the more remarkable. But that was not the only difference. Jack felt the air tremble as she looked at him. A lazy, drowsy warmth crept over him, and Olaf’s voice seemed to fade away. Nothing registered except this strange, dark woman staring at him. Then she laughed, and the drowsy feeling went away. “I like thiss boy,” she announced in a heavily accented voice.

  “Now, Heide, I’m not giving him to you,” said Olaf.

  “You haff not the giffing uff this boy,” Heide said.

  “And you have not the getting, woman. See, I brought you pots of herbs and medicines, as you asked.”

  Heide nodded, accepting the tribute. “How about the girlll?” Her voice was low and husky. Lucy hung on to Jack’s hand, her thumb in her mouth. She stared at the smoldering fire in the middle of the room and appeared to be miles away in one of her fantasies.

  “She belongs to Thorgil.”

  “Thorgil?” cried Dotti and Lotti together.

  “It was her first capture,” Olaf said. “She was pleased as anything about it.”

  “Thorgil,” said Heide in her smoky voice, “iss not pleased about anything.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not going to break my rules and deprive her of her first capture.”

  Jack was fascinated to see how careful Olaf was with Heide. He might knock his crew around, and he probably smacked Dotti and Lotti as well, but this woman was in a different category. If anything, Olaf was afraid of her.

  “What iss Thorgilll”—the name was drawn out—“going to do with the child?”

  “Give her to Frith.”

  “No!” cried the other wives, and Olaf looked apologetic.

  “She wants to be admitted to the Queen’s Berserkers,” he said. “It’s her dearest wish. I can invite her along on trips, but I haven’t the authority to admit her. The gift of Lucy—that’s the little mite’s name—will win her entry.”

  “It iss not well done,” said Heide. “It iss supreme foolishnesss, my ox-witted Northman. It will end in disasterrr.”

  Now Jack did expect Olaf to strike her, but he only grimaced. “Don’t try your witchy stuff on me, Heide. I’m tired, I’m dirty, and the only thing I want is a long sweat in the sauna and a nice bucket of mead.”

  “Bucket” was exactly what Olaf had in mind. Dotti filled one from a keg in one of the storehouses, and Olaf drank until his beard was dripping. “By Aegir’s mighty shoulders, that’s good!” he said. “Honey wine from your own fields. You can’t beat it.” Lotti hastily brought him bread and cheese.

  “You know what would go with this?” said Olaf. “ Graffisk. Fetch me some graffisk !” Lotti sped out the door. “You’re in for a treat, boy,” he told Jack. “Many’s the time I dreamed of this dish while at sea. It truly means I’ve come home. Because I like you, I’ll let you have some.”

  “Thank you,” Jack said uncertainly. He wouldn’t have minded the bread and cheese, but that hadn’t been offered. Suddenly, an unbelievably foul odor wafted through the door. It was like toenails and rotten teeth and ancient bilgewater. Jack couldn’t begin to describe it. He had all he could do to keep from bolting from the room.

  Lotti danced in with a bowl. “I opened a fresh keg,” she warbled.

  Fresh? thought Jack. The bowl was full of purplish lumps floating in a slimy gray liquid. It looked every b
it as horrible as it smelled.

  “Graffisk!” said Olaf. He smeared some onto a chunk of bread and gobbled it down. A smile of contentment creased his beard. “Have some.” He held out the bowl.

  “I—I’m not hungry,” Jack said.

  “HAVE SOME.”

  So Jack took a morsel of bread and dipped the tiniest corner of it in the liquid. He put it into his mouth. He swallowed quickly, but not quickly enough. The taste coated the inside of his mouth like the mud coated his legs when he mucked out the barn. Jack ran for the door, bent down, and retched for all he was worth.

  “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Brjóstabarn! ” Olaf said, guffawing. His wives and children joined in with merry peals of laughter. After a while Heide took pity on him and brought him a cup of water.

  “That’s hiss favorite joke with outsiders,” she said. Jack stumbled after her, back into the room. He’d finally figured out what graffisk meant: “grave fish,” as in dead, as in rotten.

  “ Graffisk is what we make when we have no salt,” explained Olaf, who was mopping up the nauseous stuff with his bread. He really did like it! “Sometimes we find a herring run—thousands and thousands of herring!—so many, the sea is thick with them. You can lay an axe on the water and it will not sink. So! We bring the herring home. What then? We can only eat so many. If it’s raining, we can’t dry the rest.

  “So we put the fish into barrels and bury them in the earth. For months we wait. The fish ripen like fine cheese. They turn purple. They get a delicious smell. The longer we wait, the better they taste.”

  “Why don’t they poison you?” said Jack, thinking, I wish they would poison you.

  Olaf grinned and slapped his stomach. “We Northmen are strong. Not like Saxons.” All this while Lump and She-Lump had been stoking up the sauna. Lump came to the door. The giant stood up, brushed the crumbs from his beard, and followed the glum slave.

  Jack went over to sit by Lucy. She was watching the fire in the middle of the room with rapt attention. “Lucy?”

  No answer.

  “Lucy?” He took her hand. She seemed strange, almost as if she wasn’t there.