by Nancy Farmer
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.
Rage swept over Jack. To have finally achieved his goal and have it snatched away drove him into a fury. He struck Pega across the mouth and sent her spinning. She fell to her hands and knees and scuttled out of reach.
“Jack!” cried another voice. The boy swung around.
“Mother?” he whispered.
“This is very, very bad,” said the Bard, hurrying past Mother to lift up Pega. “Oh, my poor dear!” Her chin was dripping blood. She wasn’t crying, only staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.
“Mother,” Jack said again, dazed by what he’d just done.
“I came to fetch you home,” Mother said. “Lucy’s gone mad.”
Chapter Seven
GILES’S SECRET
Jack followed his mother down the path. He was shaky, as though he were coming down with fever. He remembered his hand striking Pega’s mouth and her spinning away. An ache in his arm told him how hard he had hit her.
“Why did you do that?” came Mother’s quiet voice.
Jack didn’t know why the rage had swept over him. It was just so wonderful to see Thorgil. He’d never expected to, not in this life or in Heaven. Girls like Thorgil didn’t end up in Heaven, not even close. And then Pega spoiled it, coming between him and the vision.
“I suppose I’m jealous,” Jack said.
“Of Pega?” said Mother, amazed. She had wanted to treat the girl’s injury, but the Bard had waved her away.
“Pega will recover more quickly with that boy out of here,” he’d said.
That boy. Jack cringed inwardly. “I know it’s wicked to be jealous,” he explained, “but she sings so well and the Bard likes her so much. I’m not sorry I freed her,” he went on hastily, “but I thought … somehow … she’d go away.”
“Pega worships you,” said Mother. “She tells everyone how wonderful you are.”
“She won’t now.”
They walked on in silence. The path descended from the sea cliff to meadows drenched in wildflowers—cowslips, marigolds, and daisies. Jack and Mother forded a stream buried in ferns. Skylarks called to one another from high above the ground.
As they drew near the farm, Mother stopped. “I must explain,” she said. “Ever since the need-fire ceremony, Lucy hasn’t been right in the head. Oh, she behaves well enough around others. She can feed herself and talk, but she’s become convinced she’s a real princess.”
“She went mad in the Northland too,” said Jack.
Mother gazed at the farmhouse with its thread of smoke coming from the smoke hole. “Lucy has always been fanciful. So has Giles.”
Jack could see it worried her to criticize Father.
“He knows what’s real and what isn’t,” Mother went on. “Lucy doesn’t. She orders us around like servants. She won’t let her father touch her, says he’s a peasant. It hurts him.”
“I hurt him,” Jack said. “What makes you think he won’t throw me out again?”
“Your father is sorry for what he did. He won’t admit it, but if you ask his forgiveness, he’ll give it.”
“He’ll also thrash me.”
Mother sighed. “He probably will.” And then she added with a hint of mischief, “You could always offer up your pain to God.” Jack was startled. Father went on and on about how pain was good for you and how you could offer it up to God. Mother had never contradicted him. It seemed she had her own ideas on the subject.
Why do I always have to be the one in the wrong? thought Jack as they continued on. But he knew he deserved a thrashing for striking Pega. What had possessed him to do such a thing?
Jack had not been home in months, and he was shocked at his father’s appearance. The man’s shoulders were hunched, as though he carried a heavy burden. His face was full of shadows. He crouched on a stool by the hearth and whittled a chunk of wood. It wasn’t normal for Father to be indoors at this time of day. A farm in springtime wasn’t a place you could ignore.
“What muck!” Lucy sneered, throwing a clumsily carved animal into the fire. “You’ll never be as good as Olaf One-Brow. Never, never, never! He made me beautiful toys.” She was dressed in her white Yule dress, now smudged with soot, and wore the necklace of silver leaves.
“Father?” said Jack, swallowing hard. Giles Crookleg looked up. “Father, I’ve come to apologize.”
“So you should,” said the man.
Jack forced down a surge of anger. “I was wrong to hide the money. It was disl
oyal and dishonest. I’m here to take whatever punishment you think fit.”
“I’d say you deserve it.” Giles reached into the heap of kindling and selected a birch rod. Jack mustered his courage. Father hit hard and thought anything less than six of the best was a holiday.
“You’ve been bad,” Lucy announced smugly, wiping her hands on her grimy Yule dress. “I shall enjoy watching you suffer.” Jack promised himself to take the silver necklace away the first time he got her alone. Father grabbed Jack’s hair and raised the birch rod. The boy braced himself.
But instead of striking him, Giles Crookleg hurled the rod away and sank to his knees. “I can’t do it! I can’t do it!” he cried. He began to howl.
Jack was horrified. He’d never seen his father so distraught. “It’s all right, Da,” he said uncertainly.
“I shouldn’t have lied,” the man wailed. “It’s my fault. Lucy’s my fault. It was the sin of pride.”
“You must lie down, Giles,” Mother said, kneeling beside him. “I think you have a fever—yes, I can feel it. Come to the loft. I’ll get you a healing drink.”
Jack and Mother walked Father to the ladder. He climbed slowly and painfully with Jack behind in case he fell. Giles crawled into bed, still sobbing, and Mother brought him a tea of lettuce and willow to make him sleep. Presently, he went off to whatever dreams awaited him.
Jack sat by the fire, too stunned to talk. What had Father lied about? What sin had he committed?
“I did not give him permission to sleep,” said Lucy, curling her hair around her finger and pursing her rosebud lips. “I shall have my knights thrash him.”
Jack felt a tremor of dread as he looked at his sister. She had gone mad, and so, apparently, had Father. After what he’d done to Pega that morning, Jack wondered if he had too.
It was a long, depressing afternoon. A boy from another farm arrived to help with chores. Most of the black-faced sheep had been driven to pasture, but a pair of milking ewes remained. They tried to force their way through the fence the boys were repairing, to get at the peas and beans. When they failed, they chased poor Bluebell for sheer malice until she fell down with exhaustion. Jack had to shut her into the barn.
Ewes could leap onto a stone wall taller than a man, pause delicately with all four feet together, and spring to the other side. But a fence stopped them because they couldn’t balance on the narrow top. Jack watched with satisfaction as the ewes attempted the leap and failed.
Jack ignored Lucy’s repeated attempts to give him orders. He didn’t think she was really out of her mind. She wasn’t like Daft Tom, the miller’s father, who had to be tied to a tree to keep him from harm. Lucy had simply hidden herself away, as she had when Queen Frith held her captive. With patience, Jack thought he could call her back.
I could try farseeing, he thought. I found Thorgil. Would it be any different hunting for Lucy? But it might be very different. Thorgil inhabited the same world as he did. In what strange realm was Lucy wandering?
Shortly before sundown the Bard arrived at the door of the farmhouse with Pega in his wake. “We’ll sort things out, Alditha,” the Bard told Mother. He frowned at Lucy in her smudged dress and at Father hunched by the fire. “You can stop staring, Jack,” the old man said. “Pega’s decided to forgive you.” Jack saw to his horror that her mouth was swollen and she had a long cut on her lip.
“I—I didn’t mean to hit you. I’m awfully sorry,” he stammered.
“I’ve been hit harder. Dozens of times,” boasted the girl.
“Well, um.” Jack’s wits were scattered by her response. “That’s not good either.”
“I, however, was not sure about forgiving you,” said the Bard. “It’s vile and shameful to hit someone who barely comes up to your shoulder.”
Jack said nothing. What could he say?
“But I’ve been thinking about this family all afternoon. It seems nothing has gone right since the need-fire ceremony.”
Silence fell over the room. The last long rays of sunlight faded from the doorway, and the hearth fire, by contrast, grew brighter. It was a mild spring evening with hardly a breath of wind. Jack heard a nightingale call from the apple tree by the barn.
“There were dark forces abroad that night,” said the Bard. “The door lay open between life and death, and it was of critical importance to have an innocent child receive the flame. Unfortunately, Lucy was not innocent.” He gazed intently at the little girl. She stared back at him, untroubled by his concern. “At first I thought only Lucy was vulnerable to whatever crept through, but it seems she has passed it on. I should have guessed it when Giles tried to buy Pega.”
“It’s my fault! It’s the sin of pride!” Father moaned, rocking back and forth.
The Bard glared at him and continued. “I’ve been worried about you as well, Alditha. You were forbidden to see Jack, but a loving mother would have sent messages to him. It seemed you had closed your heart.”
“I hadn’t! I swear,” cried Mother. “But things were so difficult here.”
“It’s not like you to be cruel,” the old man said, “yet you called Jack back, knowing Giles would probably beat him. This morning, when I saw what Jack had done to Pega, I was prepared to turn him into a toad at the very least. What were you thinking of, lad? You could have broken her jaw!”
“I—I wasn’t thinking,” Jack said. He wanted to crawl under a rock and never come out.
“I raised my staff, but Pega caught my arm. ‘He’s not like that,’ she said. ‘He didn’t know what he was doing.’ And I realized she was right. If it hadn’t been for her, lad, you’d be hopping around a swamp right now.”
“Thank you, Pega,” said Jack humbly.
“It’s the least I can do for someone who freed me from slavery,” Pega declared. “Besides, I’ve been hit by champions. Your blow wasn’t even in third place.”
Jack had trouble sorting out the compliments from the insults in that statement.
“Harm came to Lucy during the ceremony. It spread to Giles and then to Alditha. Last of all, it came to Jack,” said the Bard. “It’s like a fever in the life force. For all I know, it will infect the whole village.”
It was entirely dark outside now, and a cool breeze began to stir from the hills to the west. Mother got up to close the door. The hearth cast a dancing light, and everyone’s shadow stretched out behind him or her to make giant figures on the walls.
“Why hasn’t anyone given me dinner?” demanded Lucy. The light glittered coldly on her necklace of silver leaves. While the hearth was warm and yellow, the light on the necklace had a blue quality that made you think of glaciers and frozen lakes.
“We’ll eat later,” said Mother.
“I want food now!” shouted Lucy. “I’m a princess, and I don’t have to wait! Tell that froggy slave to get moving!”
Pega jumped up with her fists clenched. “You take that back! I’m no slave!”
“Froggy, froggy, froggy,” taunted Lucy. Pega lunged, but the Bard blocked her path.
“That’s how it begins!” he cried, raising his staff. Jack felt a wave of heat, and Pega sank down where she stood. The air rustled as though something was flying over the house on giant wings. The Bard lowered his staff, and the moment passed.
“That’s how the contagion moves,” the old man said. “It brings a fever and a rage. We must drive it off before it consumes all of us. The first thing is to get rid of that necklace.”
“No!” screamed Lucy. “It’s mine! It’s mine! It was given to me by my real mother! I won’t let any of you touch it!” She became completely hysterical then, and Father placed himself between her and the others.
“I won’t let you hurt her,” he said.
“Giles, you loon, we’re trying to help her,” said the Bard. “She was vulnerable during the need-fire ceremony because of that necklace. It must go.” Mother, Jack, and Pega stood behind the old man. Jack felt somewhat hysterical himself. It seemed possible they would have
to overpower Father, and the outcome of that wasn’t certain. Father might be lame, but he’d been hardened by years of farmwork. He was as tough as an old oak tree and as stubborn as a black-faced ram.
“It’s not her fault, see,” Giles Crookleg said. “It’s mine, from a lie I told long ago. I knew better—yes, I did—but I had the sin of pride. I was tempted and found wanting. Now the wages of sin have come upon me.”
The Bard sat down on a bench and rubbed his eyes. “You’re making even less sense than usual. I swear you’re responsible for half the headaches in this village.” The dangerous tension in the room ebbed away. Jack and Pega settled themselves at the Bard’s feet, and Jack was heartily grateful they hadn’t come to blows.
“You’d better tell me about that lie, Giles,” said the old man, massaging his forehead. “From all the sin you keep going on about, I’m sure it’s going to be spectacular.”
Chapter Eight
THE LOST CHILD
“Lucy was only two days old,” Father began, “but Alditha was sick with milk fever. She was unable to nurse the infant. Fortunately, the tanner’s wife had just given birth to a child. I packed Lucy in a basket and carried her to the tannery, which, as you know, is on the other side of the hazel wood.”
Jack knew the place—who didn’t? Before the tanner had died two years ago, you could smell his workyard long before you could see it. He soaked hides people brought him in a great lime pit. After the hair had fallen off, he scraped the skins, soaked them in a sludge of bark to turn them brown, and packed them in whatever rotten fruit he could beg from farmers. He finished with a coating of pig and chicken manure. To say the place reeked like the back gate of Hell didn’t even come close.
But it was a matter of life and death, Jack realized, for Lucy to be taken there. He half remembered her being gone. He’d been more concerned with Mother’s illness at the time.