by Nancy Farmer
“She’s in Freya’s cart,” Freya’s priest said quickly. “She’s been there a long time, waiting for the sacrifice.”
“Then I must go to her,” said Heide. For the first time Frith noticed the wise woman’s presence.
“You! Hel hag!” she spat out. “What are you doing in my fine hall with your nasty spells and witchcraft?”
“Trying to keep my skirts clean,” said Heide. The birds and fish on her robe glowed, and her eyes were dark and dangerous.
“Get out! And take that croaking spy of Odin’s with you!”
“Gladly,” said Heide, holding out her arm for Bold Heart. “You should pray the girl is well,” she added in her smoky voice. “I would not wishhh to be youuu if she isn’t.”
“Get out! Get out!” shrieked Frith. She began throwing things around—a goblet, plates, a footstool.
“Now, now, my little troll-flower,” said King Ivar.
“Where’s your old hair?” said Jack, feeling he should take charge of the situation. “I’ll need it if I’m going to undo the charm.”
“There!” screamed Frith. She kicked a basket at him. It rolled, and a disgusting sludge dribbled out the side.
“That doesn’t look like hair,” Thorgil said.
“It isn’t! It went bad after you left! My mother made it, and it’s turned to slime. Typical of her stupid enchantments!” Frith was so beside herself, she could hardly breathe.
“Then I’ll—I’ll have to find a substitute,” Jack said. He’d had some idea of singing her old hair back, but that was clearly impossible now. What to do? What to do? he thought. Panic threatened to swamp his mind. Tonight was the harvest moon and tomorrow was the sacrifice to Freya.
Lucy would be drawn to Freya’s Meadow, the site of the sacrificial ceremony, by the cats. There she would be garlanded and presented with a little image of the goddess. Then her hands would be tied to the cart. The priest would push it into the mist-shrouded fen to float, but ultimately to sink beneath its dark waters.
Jack took a deep breath. In his mind’s eye he saw the sacred meadow with the full moon overhead. And then he knew what to say.
“ This is how your beauty will be restored,” he cried. Rune, Skakki, and Thorgil flinched. They turned to him in amazement. Jack knew he sounded different. His voice filled the hall, and he could see fear in the eyes of his friends and King Ivar. He was no longer a mere boy, but an agent of the Norns. They spoke through him from their haunt by Mimir’s Well.
“You will cut hair from Freya’s cats—not too much. Take a third and leave the rest for the cats to keep themselves warm. Go to Freya’s Meadow and lay out a white cloth to catch the moonlight. Over this you must place the hair and lie down upon it. When the moon is at zenith, your beauty will be restored.”
Jack gazed at Frith in the smoky light of the fish-oil lamps. He felt no fear. He felt no hate, only a calm assurance of the truth of what he had said. Frith had turned pale.
“You look like—” She stopped, seeming to gather her thoughts. “My mother used to host a chess game with someone like you.” She shook her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll try your little trick. If it doesn’t work, I can still sacrifice your sister.” She strode over to King Ivar, who was watching Jack with his mouth open. “Wake up, you weakling!” Frith screamed. “Call your warriors! Tell them to bring me my cats !”
Moments later Ivar’s warriors dragged in the cats on leashes. They had bound their feet and mouths, but the cats managed to get free. They bit and scratched and yowled and hissed. The men yelled and swore and shaved . Under Frith’s orders, they shaved off every bit of the beautiful red-gold hair from the beasts until they had a bag bulging with fur and nine absolutely maddened and naked cats.
“Now I know where those things come from,” Jack remarked to Thorgil, who was relishing every minute of the animals’ humiliation. “Jotunheim. They’re troll-cats.”
“Troll- rats, from the look of them,” said Thorgil.
“Oh, my, my, my,” groaned Freya’s priest. “She’s taken all their fur. They’ll never forgive me.”
“I want him and her with me at the meadow,” commanded Frith, pointing at Jack and Thorgil. “And bring Freya’s cart. If anything goes wrong, I want the boy to see his sister die!”
“No wonder the Mountain Queen threw her out,” muttered Thorgil as she and Jack were herded through the forest by Ivar’s warriors. Skakki and Rune had been forced to stay behind.
“I wish she’d married Frith to an ogre,” Jack said.
“Even ogres are picky.”
Behind them the cart rumbled along the forest road. Jack badly wanted to see how Lucy was, but the warriors stopped him. He caught only a glimpse of her in Heide’s arms. The cats pulling the cart were pale in the moonlight. They were in a towering rage and raked their claws at anyone who got near.
Behind them came Frith with a group of house-thralls and King Ivar. He was so infirm, he could barely walk and had to lean on two of his men.
Wuh-huh-huh went the little brown owls in the trees. A lynx screamed in the distance. The cool, green smells of the forest filled the night, and the road was brilliant with the full moon.
They came to a clearing covered in white flowers—Freya’s Meadow. It was like a mass of stars fallen to earth, and beyond, where the meadow ended, stunted trees rose over peat bog and black water. That was Freya’s Fen.
The cart was pulled to the edge of the meadow. Four of Frith’s house-thralls laid a white cloth over the flowers. Two more scattered the red-gold fur on top, but it looked black in the moonlight. The cats hissed and spat when they saw it.
“They’ll never forgive me,” mourned the priest of Freya.
“Shut up or I’ll have your tongue!” shouted Frith.
A murmur rose from among the warriors. “She’d attack a priest?” one of them whispered.
“Shut up or I’ll have all your tongues! All of you get back into the trees—not too far. The boy and Thorgil are to stay here.” The Northmen withdrew, half carrying King Ivar, whose feet were swollen from the walk.
The house-thralls then disrobed Frith. Jack closed his eyes, but Thorgil nudged him. “You want to see this. It’s interesting,” she said.
And it was. Horrible, but interesting. Frith’s body was white under the harvest moon, and her skin looked soft, like a fungus growing on spoiled meat. It kept reshaping itself with bulges and puckers and seams, never quite human and never quite troll. Scales formed on her arms and flaked off. Her toes splayed out, six or seven on each foot, before shrinking to normal human size. Altogether it was disturbing to watch.
The house-thralls folded her clothes at the edge of the meadow. On top glinted the necklace of silver leaves that Thorgil had so coveted and that she had been forced to give up. Jack saw Thorgil’s hand tighten on her sword.
“Don’t even think of attacking me, shield maiden,” came Frith’s cold voice. “You’re ringed with warriors. One move and I’ll have your sword hand cut off. How would you like that? Forever disabled and never to fight in battle again.”
Jack heard the girl’s teeth grind. In the old days she would have attacked and to Hel with the consequences. Mimir’s Well had taught her patience.
Frith sent her thralls away, and now there was only her, Jack, and Thorgil in the center of the meadow. The moon was almost at zenith. Frith lay down on the fur, and it rustled softly under her weight. There was so much of it from nine, huge, long-haired troll-cats. Frith would surely have hair that would be the wonder of Middle Earth.
Slowly, the moon crept up until it was overhead. A loon called from the fen, and something splashed. Wavelets lapped against the far edge of the meadow. “Look,” whispered Thorgil.
Here, there, all over the white cloth the fur began to move. Strands joined together, making long tresses. They writhed and rustled up to Frith’s head and attached themselves. Soon she was lying in a bed of long, beautiful hair, and now she herself began to change. Her body lengthen
ed and thinned. Her face became heart-shaped, the kind of face that made kings throw away their crowns. Jack understood why Ivar had fallen in love with her. Even Freya could not be more fair.
But the fur kept on rustling. Frith had been told to take a third, and she had taken all. The rest crept over her body and then her face. Frith seemed hypnotized or else unaware of what was happening. She stared up at the moon as more and more and more fur covered her until she was as hairy as a wild beast. Her body changed again to something large and shaggy that had never been seen before.
She put her hand to her face and screamed. It was a savage cry with nothing human in it, and nothing troll, either. Frith sprang to her feet and tore the white cloth as easily as you might tear a gossamer web in early-morning dew. She ripped it to shreds, all the while screaming and shrieking. There were no words in her speech. Perhaps she was incapable of them in her new form. Then she reared up and bellowed her rage at the moon.
Jack dashed to the cart to free Lucy and Heide. The warriors had come back, but seeing Frith’s new shape, they halted under the trees. The cats had gone berserk. They bared their teeth and yowled ferociously. The hair would have stood straight up on their backs, if they’d had any. Thorgil drew her sword and slashed their leashes.
They sprang into the meadow. Frith immediately saw her danger and fled. She bounded into the fen, still screaming, with the nine cats in pursuit. Jack heard their feet splashing and their cries disappearing in the distance.
There were safe places to walk through the fen, Rune said, if you knew where. Perhaps Frith and her pursuers knew. Perhaps not.
“Oh, Jack,” Thorgil said, collapsing against the cart with a sigh. “That was the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done!”
And the priest of Freya walked up and down the edge of the fen, calling, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”
Chapter Forty-one
Lucy’s Return
Jack lifted Lucy from the cart. She was smaller and lighter than he remembered. She sagged in his arms. “Lucy, it’s me,” whispered the boy. “You’re safe now. We can go home.” But she didn’t respond.
“Her mind iss far away,” said Heide, climbing down. “It may be a good thing. She wass not made to endure such as Frith.”
One of Ivar’s warriors offered to carry the little girl, and Jack walked at his side, holding her hand. King Ivar was loaded onto the cart—he was much too heavy to carry. A pair of Northmen pulled it along. The king seemed bewildered by what had happened, even when it was explained to him several times.
“My little troll-flower should be here,” he complained as the cart creaked along. “She doesn’t like being out so late. She needs her beauty sleep, does Frith.”
“There iss someone else whose mind iss traveling,” said Heide.
Skakki and Rune shouted for joy when they returned, and as the news of Frith’s disappearance spread, Jack heard cheering from the crowd gathered outside Ivar’s hall. He was too wrung out to feel much joy. He was glad when they left the hall and turned toward Olaf’s home.
Dotti and Lotti took Lucy from the warrior’s arms and immediately set about cleaning her up. Her dress was so filthy that they had to burn it, and her hair was in such a wretched state that they had to cut it off. She looked even more woeful then, like a little drowned mouse.
“Will she ever come back?” Jack said as Heide wrapped her in a blanket and placed her near the fire.
“She may iff you call her,” the wise woman replied. “I could try, but my voice would not reach as far. It iss you she wants to hear.” Heide placed a tray of food and drink by them. Then she and the others left them alone.
Jack watched his sister’s face in the flickering light. He talked to her for what seemed like hours. Now and then he felt her face to be certain it was still warm. She was so still, he sometimes feared she had died. “We’re going home,” he said again and again. “Mother and Father are waiting for us. They’ll be so happy! Do you remember the footstool Father carved? You used to sit on it by the fire, and Mother heated cider for your breakfast.” He brought out memory after memory, trying to reach the place where Lucy had hidden herself, but nothing worked.
Jack got up and walked around the hall. His body was stiff, and in spite of the fire, he was cold. Bold Heart stirred in the rafters, where he’d been sleeping, so it must have been nearly dawn. Jack stumbled over a litter of toys Olaf’s children had left behind and saw four little wooden figures in a heap: a cow, a horse, a man, a woman. They were the toys Olaf had made for Lucy so long ago. Jack gathered them up and knelt by the little girl. He folded Lucy’s fingers around the horse and put the other three in her arms. “Do you remember playing with these on the beach, dearest? You made a fence out of sticks and you drew a house in the sand. You used shells for chickens because Olaf hadn’t made you any.”
Bold Heart swooped down and landed on the floor. He watched the toys intently. “Yes, you stole them, didn’t you?” Jack said to the crow. “I could never figure out whether you were really playing a game. It seemed too clever for a bird.” The crow darted forward and plucked the horse from Lucy’s hand. “Stop that!” Jack yelled. Bold Heart dropped the horse and chuckled, deep in his throat.
“How could you take something from a helpless child?” Jack cried. He put the horse back in Lucy’s hand. Bold Heart made off with the cow.
“Come back, you thief!” shrieked Lucy. She sat up in her blanket and clutched the other three toys. Jack could only stare. His heart was too full to speak. Bold Heart hopped back and insolently dropped the cow out of Lucy’s reach. She lunged forward and grabbed it. The crow bobbed up and down, warbling and chuckling.
“Oh, Lucy,” said Jack.
“He thinks he can get away with it, but I’m watching,” the little girl said.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Of course!” Lucy said scornfully. “You’re Jack and that’s Bold Heart. He came to us from the Islands of the Blessed. When are we going home? I’m getting tired of this adventure.”
“Soon,” Jack said, his throat threatening to close. He drew Lucy’s attention to the tray of food. She immediately grabbed a bowl of cold stew and began eating, scooping it out with her fingers. Jack tore bread into bits for her and cut up an apple. Lucy ate and ate and ate. She finished with a cup of buttermilk.
“I was so hungry!” she cried. “Oh, my! My stomach hurts, but it feels so good!” Then she keeled over and went back to sleep. Jack looked up in alarm at Heide, who had just entered.
“She iss only sleeping it off,” the wise woman assured him. She wrapped the little girl in the blanket again and placed her in a corner behind the loom. “No one will step on her here,” she said as Dotti, Lotti, and a dozen children streamed in to get warm by the fire.
The year was growing old, and Jack and Lucy had to be returned to their village before the winter storms set in. Skakki checked over his father’s ship. It would be his first voyage as captain, but as he was only sixteen, he enlisted the help of such experienced sailors as Rune, Sven the Vengeful, and Eric Pretty-Face. For the most part, he asked ordinary warriors to join his expedition, not berserkers. This was a trading voyage, not a raid.
Jack didn’t have to return to Ivar’s hall, for which he was grateful. Skakki said it was being scrubbed from top to bottom, though it would take many months to remove all trace of Frith’s presence. She’d had a habit of stashing bones in little crevices to gnaw on later. It accounted for the rank smell in the hall.
Skakki proudly brought home Cloud Mane. King Ivar said he rightfully belonged to Olaf’s heir, and the horse certainly liked the boy. He trotted up to him willingly and nuzzled his hand. “His sire came from Elfland,” said Heide after she studied the animal’s fine lines. “Elf-horses are small, swift, and loyal, and they do not throw their masters.”
“Have you seen elves?” Jack asked.
Heide only smiled and did not answer.
King Ivar also returned the
wealth-hoard Olaf had gifted him with, and Skakki gave some of it to Jack. “It’s little enough for what we owe you,” he said. “Ridding us of Frith has brought life back into this kingdom.” Jack accepted the silver coins gravely. There was no telling where they had come from. Silver flowed back and forth like water in the lands of the Northmen.
They sailed on a sunny morning with a breeze behind them and a cheering crowd on the docks. Jack watched Heide, Dotti, and Lotti grow smaller and smaller until they faded into the shimmer over the water. The warriors plied the oars with Thorgil at the rudder, and Bold Heart sat on the prow cawing his defiance at the seagulls. The smelly sea serpent’s head had been removed to Eric Pretty-Face’s house.
We’re really going home, thought Jack, and he worried that they would meet storms and be blown away. But the weather was perfect. They didn’t follow the same route—the Northmen weren’t as good sailors as they led everyone to believe. They simply aimed themselves in the right direction and went on until they bumped into land. Most of the time it worked.
So Jack didn’t see again the coastlines of Magnus the Mauler’s and Einar the Ear-Hoarder’s lands, nor the ashes of Gizur Thumb-Crusher’s village. He and Thorgil played Wolves and Sheep, and they tried to teach Lucy, but she was too young. She kept trying to change the rules to save the sheep. When she was told this was impossible, she flew into a snit and knocked all the pieces into the bilge.
At night Jack sang to the little girl and told her tales he’d learned from Rune and some he made up about the Jotuns. Gradually, very gradually, Jack drew out the story of what had happened to her while he’d been gone.
It was a terrible tale of hiding behind curtains and under benches, of stealing morsels of food from Freya’s cats. When the cats caught her, they dragged her in front of Frith. The queen screamed and pulled her hair. But because Lucy never responded, Frith lost interest and left her alone.
