by Nancy Farmer
She laughed, totally unrepentant. “They want to leave before dark,” she said, pointing at the villagers and warriors. “Skakki has been arguing with them.”
There was a shouting match going on, and Skakki appeared to be on the losing side. The villagers had already picked up their makeshift weapons and were starting back down the trail. The warriors soon followed, with the skald hurrying to keep up with them. “No deathless poetry today, I see,” said the Bard.
Skakki threw up his hands in exasperation. “I can’t talk sense into them. You’d better go along to protect them, Eric.” Eric the Rash gratefully trotted after the fleeing villagers. The Northmen all knew he was afraid of the dark and would be useless anyhow once the sun went down.
“It’s not much of an army,” observed Jack. The remaining warriors, minus Eric the Rash, numbered twelve. Or eleven, because Rune was too crippled to fight, though he would certainly try. Ten, when you subtracted Thorgil, because she was small. Nine, because Jack wasn’t really a warrior, and eight, because Big Half was quaking with fear. But there was also Schlaup, who might count for four or five warriors on his own.
“It will do,” said the Bard. He sent Seafarer on one last mission to look over the wall.
Two-legged beasts hiding, the albatross reported. Air feels nasty.
The wall is awakening, the old man said. You must go and sleep now, my friend. Seafarer soared out to sea, aiming for a distant rock covered with seagulls. “Now our work begins. Jack and I will tackle the wall. The rest of you stay back where it’s safer.”
Are you joking? Jack thought. Us? Alone? He could already feel the rage radiating from the stones. It made him sick, this hopeless anger and despair. He felt dizzy.
“It’s all in a day’s work for a bard, or perhaps I should say a ‘night’s work’,” the Bard said cheerfully. “And yes, it’s nasty, but far less terrible than what these poor spirits endured. Put your hands on the wall.”
Jack, after a moment’s hesitation, obeyed. The rage flared up. He collapsed against the stones.
“Good. You’ve made contact,” said the old man. “Now tell them about the hogboon’s destruction. I’d do it, except they wouldn’t believe me. You were there.”
Jack didn’t know how to begin. All around him he felt unending pain, loss so extreme that it surpassed his ability to comprehend. He heard voices, terrible voices that called to loved ones who couldn’t hear them. They were all at the bottom of a pit, bound and helpless. Earth fell on their faces. The light of the sky vanished. They couldn’t breathe.
“Steady, lad. You’re seeing their memories.” Jack felt the Bard’s hand on his shoulder.
“Nechtan,” he said weakly. Instantly, the attention of the spirits was drawn to him. “Nechtan has been destroyed. I saw it.” He told them of the barrow and of the hogboon. He described the moon standing directly overhead and of what happened when the hogboon grasped the rune of protection. “It was life,” he said. “Nechtan could not bear the presence of life. He has utterly disappeared.”
Dimly, Jack heard a voice say, Is this true?
“Yes, I was there,” he replied. He felt the presences crowd around him, reaching into his mind.
It is true, the voice said. He does not lie.
“Now your long vigil is over,” said the Bard from somewhere close by. “You must go into the west, there to be restored and in time to return with the sun.”
But it seemed that the spirits could not let go of their sorrow. They continued to rage and cry out against their fate. Jack lay against the wall and felt himself pulled down into their desolation.
“Men of the sea, do you remember the feel of a deck beneath your feet,” said the Bard, “when waves stood high and the ship flew before them like a bird returning to her nest?”
Voices sighed. We remember.
“Never were there more seacrafty men or mariners surer of strength under sky than you. You returned to your halls, bright with hearth fire and filled with friends, your wives waiting onshore for first sight of sail.”
We remember.
Gradually, the Bard awakened their memories, and gradually, the anger dimmed, to be replaced by a great longing for all that had gone before. “It is time to take ship again,” the old man said, “to fare forth to the islands where winter never comes and the sea is as clear as sky. You are young again, worthiest of warriors, and your wives and children stand beneath the apple trees.”
Jack heard distant shouting and the sound of wind crackling in a sail and a thump as an anchor was hauled up. The voices, now joyful, faded until there was only the hiss of wind over stone. Jack found himself lying in an uncomfortable heap at the bottom of the wall. The air was cold with the first bite of fall, and the night was empty of fear.
Chapter Thirty
THE WATER OF LIFE
The moon was at zenith, painting the earth with a pale radiance, but a small slice had been taken out of its side. Jack saw Schlaup, Skakki, and the others clustered together for warmth. He was so cold, he couldn’t move. “You’ve done extremely well,” the Bard said. “Talking to the dead is one of the most difficult tasks a bard has, and one of the most dangerous. In my opinion, you’re ready to take on a draugr.”
No thanks, thought Jack. No draugrs. He was unable to speak. His arms and legs were numb.
“I’ll raise a fire,” the old man said. Someone must have gathered firewood earlier, because there was a large heap of it near the gate. The Bard thrust his staff into it and a flame shot up.
“Thank Freya,” groaned Thorgil. “Dragon Tongue wouldn’t let us have a fire earlier. What were you doing over there, mumbling all that time?”
“N-N-Nothing,” Jack managed to say, annoyed that she didn’t appreciate his bravery.
“Certainly looked like it. Someone kick Schlaup. He’s got his head on the cider keg.”
Jack slowly came back to life. He took a grateful swig when the cider keg was passed. “We freed the spirits in the wall,” he said. “What’s next?”
“Cleaning out the hall,” said the Bard. “Are you up for a little gate-pulling, Schlaup?”
“Sure,” said the giant, taking an enormous drink of cider. He went straight to the gate and began tugging on it, his large legs firmly planted on the ground. Jack could hear each lock as it popped out of its holder. With a dreadful splintering of wood, Schlaup wrenched the gate from its hinges and threw it to one side. Excited voices came from the ruined hall beyond. Torchlight shone from the gaping hole where the hall’s roof had been, but no one ventured outside.
“Good. They think the wall’s still haunted,” said the Bard.
“Should we storm them? Or wait for the villagers to arrive?” said Skakki.
“They’d only get in the way. Schlaup, attend to the iron door,” the old man said. The giant went to work and tore it out easily. This time there was a reaction from inside as arrows flew through the opening.
“Hunh! Bee stings,” said Schlaup, picking an arrow from his arm.
“Come back,” the Bard told the giant. “I want you to hear what happened to Thorgil last night.”
“Wait a minute,” said Jack. “I thought we weren’t supposed to tell him anything. You said the last thing we needed”—he glanced at the giant—“was a shape-shifting half-troll.”
“Perfectly true. That is the last thing we need. We’ve done everything else. Thorgil, proceed.”
“Excuse me, sir,” faltered Big Half. He had said nothing until now, and everyone had forgotten about his existence. He stood up in the flickering light and bowed to the Bard. “I know my brother’s been bad and I should hate him. But I can’t. He’s always looked after me, you see. I was wondering… before you do things in that hall… could Little Half come out?”
There was silence for a moment. Then Skakki said, “Your brother is responsible for many deaths.”
“I think he did it for me,” said Big Half. “I’m the one who always got us thrown out of places. I am an ox-brain, like
he says. I forget to feed animals and they die, or I leave doors open or set things on fire. He could have abandoned me many times, but he didn’t. Sometimes he did bad things so he could take care of me.”
Skakki looked to the Bard for guidance. The old man shook his head. “There is always a choice between good or evil,” he said. “You chose to save Thorgil and Jack, showing that your heart is wiser than your brother’s. He chose, not once but many times, to drug travelers, knowing full well their fate. The answer is no.”
Big Half didn’t argue. “Then I want to join him.”
“You don’t have to. We’ll take care of you,” said Jack.
The big man smiled. “That’s awfully nice of you, but I’ve been with Little Half all my life. It wouldn’t feel right to leave him now that he’s in a tough spot.”
“You don’t know what’s going to happen,” Skakki said. “No one is going to survive in that hall.”
But Big Half couldn’t be persuaded, and eventually they gave him a burning branch from the fire. “Hold it up by your face so they know who you are,” said Thorgil. They watched him go through the ruined gate, cross the courtyard, and go inside.
Thorgil unfolded the saga of what had happened in Adder-Tooth’s hall as they sat around the fire. As she spoke, a change began to come over Schlaup. First, he panted like a man who has run many miles. Then he moaned and drummed his feet on the ground. The Northmen moved away from him. “My sister, my little sister,” he kept groaning.
“Everybody give him space,” said the Bard in a low voice. Jack had seen a half-troll fall into a snit only once before, when he’d made Queen Frith’s hair fall out. Frith’s body had bulged in a dozen places. Her features had rippled and twisted until he couldn’t guess what she was turning into—only that he didn’t want to find out. Northmen had fought one another to get through the door, whimpering in a most unheroic way.
Now Schlaup changed in an equally alarming manner. He swelled up, and his body turned lumpy and dark. He no longer looked remotely human, or remotely troll, either. Instead, he resembled a giant wave full of rocks. He towered up and up and up until he crashed over—SCHLAUP!—and flowed through the gate like an avalanche. On he went across the courtyard and into the hall, where they couldn’t see him anymore. But they heard the rumble of boulders dashing against the walls and saw flickers of light where rocks ground together.
The noise died away. Jack’s ears rang and his heart pounded. He found that his fists were clenched so tightly, his fingernails had drawn blood. Skakki, Rune, Sven the Vengeful, and the others seemed turned to stone. The Bard leaned on his staff, intently watching the hall.
“We really… must… let Mrs. Tanner see him do this sometime,” breathed Thorgil.
A figure stepped into the courtyard. It was Schlaup. He was slightly hunched over, a habit he’d acquired to apologize for his size. “The hall’s clean,” he said.
Jack didn’t want to see what lay inside. He’d seen terrible scenes before when Olaf One-Brow destroyed a village. He’d seen the Forest Lord demolish Din Guardi. He sat down next to the fire, hugging himself and shivering.
“You need to rest,” the Bard said. “We all do.” He raised his staff and murmured something Jack found familiar. It was a spell the old man had cast long ago when he’d pushed the boy too hard. Something dropped over Jack like a soft blanket. It felt safe and warm. He wanted to wrap himself up in it and never come out.
Others lay down close to the fire. Skakki stretched out his long legs as though he were on the most comfortable bed. Eric Pretty-Face curled into a ball with his thumb in his mouth. Thorgil pulled her cloak over her face. “I’d give anything to learn how you do that,” said Rune, yawning.
The Bard smiled. “It is the lorica of Amergin, the founder of my order—a warding-spell against harm. The words come when they are needed and cannot be spoken at any other time. They may not be memorized.”
And that was true, Jack thought, slipping into welcome sleep. He couldn’t remember anything about the lorica now, though he’d just heard it.
He woke wonderfully refreshed. Not only had the spell relaxed him, it had kept him warm. The ache that had crept out of the wall the night before was gone.
The sun was still hidden by hills, but the mist lying between sea and sky to the west had turned pink. Sven the Vengeful had risen early and returned with brushwood to replenish the fire. It was crackling cheerfully now, and Jack savored the heat. “I can’t stop thinking about poor Big Half,” said Thorgil. “His courage shames me, for I despised him as a fool.”
“Everyone did,” Jack said. He dreaded going into the hall. In the morning light it looked a complete ruin, like something that had been abandoned for a hundred years. Jack was very thirsty and suspected that everyone else was too, but the closest water lay in the courtyard. No one went near it. Finally, when the sun had cleared the hills, Skakki rose and led the way.
Jack was surprised to see the courtyard covered with tendrils of grass, with here and there a tiny clover leaf pushing its way through the soil. The channel by the spring was bright with reflected clouds. He cupped the water in his hands and found it cold and refreshing, with the hint of something green in it. “This is like water from the land of the yarthkins,” he said.
“Yarthkins?” echoed Skakki.
“Landættir,” translated Thorgil. “Spirits of the land. We encountered them on the way to Din Guardi.”
“Yarthkins are the first to arrive when Unlife is driven away,” said the Bard. “They are repairing the land, and for a time this water will be full of life. We should drink deeply of it.” So they did, and all declared that it was as good as a feast. Schlaup lay on his stomach and sucked up enormous quantities of it.
Jack approached the hall in better spirits, though his mind still recoiled from what lay inside. But when he got there, he found the place had been scoured clean. With the stones melted together, it looked like a hall-shaped rock formation. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Skakki, running his hands over the walls.
Everything on the cliff overhanging the sea was gone except for one small shed. Jack approached it warily. Inside, a pit had been filled with straw to house chickens, and when Jack opened the door, a hen scurried past him. More hens clustered against the far wall, squawking and climbing on top of one another. Big Half was lying on the straw, blinking at the sudden light.
“You’re alive!” Jack cried.
“I didn’t want to hurt the nice chickens. Or him,” admitted Schlaup from behind him. He looked vaguely guilty, as though expecting to be scolded.
“You did exactly the right thing,” said Jack. “Sir! Skakki! Thorgil! Big Half’s alive!” Everyone crowded around, trying to see into the dark interior. The man rolled to one side, and they saw that he had been concealing Little Half. But the dwarf looked completely witless. He stared into space and showed no awareness of anything around him.
“Don’t hit me!” cried Big Half, cringing away from Sven the Vengeful.
“I’m only trying to get you into the fresh air,” grumbled the Northman. “Phoo! The chickens have been roosting all over you.” Sven pulled both men out and laid the dwarf on the ground.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with my brother,” said Big Half. “He won’t talk.”
The Bard knelt down and felt the dwarf’s neck. “His heartbeat is strong. What happened last night?”
“Everyone got mad when I returned,” Big Half said miserably. “Adder-Tooth told me to go away. Little Half said I was a big dummy and he was sorry he’d ever known me. Then I heard thunder. Rocks and stuff poured into the hall. Little Half screamed, but I held on to him tight and said, ‘Little Half, we’ll get through this. See if we don’t.’ The next thing I knew, we were in the henhouse.” Big Half tenderly smoothed his brother’s hair. “He hasn’t said a word since.”
“Is he injured?” Jack said to the Bard.
“Not in his body. His mind has been unhinged by terror.”
/> “Then how did Big Half escape the same fate?”
The Bard smiled slightly. “There is sometimes a point to having an uncomplicated mind. Little Half’s brain swirled with many ideas. Every scheme gave rise to further schemes and every fear called up more fears. Such an imagination is easily overwhelmed. Big Half sees things simply. A rock is a rock, a tree is a tree, an avalanche is an avalanche. He doesn’t waste time imagining what they might do to him.”
By now the villagers and warriors had arrived and were amazed at the utter destruction. They had seen the torn-off gate, the glassy walls, and the absence of their enemies. They treated Skakki with extreme respect, considering him to be the man responsible for it.
“We are your subjects now, King Skakki,” one of the men said, bowing low. “Please accompany us to the village for a celebration.”
“King Skakki! I like that,” said the young sea captain.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” said the Bard.
Thorgil called up the wild horses and rode the stallion, which she had named Skull-Splitter in honor of Bjorn. She persuaded a mare to carry the Bard. This greatly impressed the villagers, especially when the Bard informed them that she was a descendant of King Hengist. But when Seafarer arrived and Thorgil spoke to him in Bird, their admiration knew no bounds. “It’s like living in a saga,” a woman gushed. And the third-rate skald, who had shown up when it was clear the fighting was over, said he would write a poem about it.
The excited voices died away in the distance. Jack had chosen to stay behind with Schlaup and the two brothers. Schlaup was too frightening to invite to a feast and Little Half too despised. Some of the villagers had wanted to throw him off the cliff, but when they saw his vacant eyes, they left him alone.
Jack found the silence soothing. There was something to be said for people who spoke seldom and had uncomplicated thoughts. He was tired of dealing with things that wanted to kill him. It was enough to listen to the wind and watch the seabirds coasting the air above the cliff. He could understand why St. Columba and St. Cuthbert had had a fondness for lonely islands.