The Sea of Trolls

“Sir, I’ve brought supplies,” Jack called at the door of the ancient house. He listened for the old man’s step. Presently, he heard a sigh and the thump of a staff. The Bard pulled the door open, and his face lit with pleasure.

“Jack! What a treat!”

That was one of the reasons Jack liked him. He didn’t say, What, you again? He actually seemed pleased.

“Do you want me to heat the cider?” Jack said.

“Ah! Your mother’s wonderful work,” said the Bard. “She has wisdom in her fingers, boy. Mark my words.”

Jack placed a poker in the fire and poured out a cup.

“I suppose you’ll be hunting lambs this morning,” said the Bard, sitting and stretching his bony feet to the fire. “If you want to know, six ewes have dropped their young. They’re in the westfold.”

Jack didn’t question it. Everyone knew the Bard had far sight. Whether the old man changed his shape into that of a bird and soared over the fields or whether he talked to passing foxes, no one was sure. But the Bard knew what was going on around him and a good deal else as well.

Jack watched the poker until it glowed and plunged it into the cup with a hissing sound. “Shall I gather driftwood, sir?” he asked. He wanted to stay as long as possible.

“It will take you half a day to round up those lambs,” the Bard said as he savored the steam from the hot cider. “You can come here when you’re finished.”

Jack wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. No one wanted him around unless they had a job for him. “Do you need help, sir?” he inquired politely.

“Help? Help, you unsprouted acorn? By Odin’s eyebrows, I’m asking you to lunch. Do I have to write out an invitation? No, no,” the old man said with a sigh. “You couldn’t read it if I did. No one’s taken the trouble to teach you. I excuse your mother. She’s done the best she could, with that monk-struck husband of hers….”

The Bard went on arguing with himself as he warmed his hands on the cider cup. He seemed to have forgotten Jack’s presence.

“I’d like to come,” the boy said.

“What? Oh, very good,” said the Bard as he waved him out the door.

Jack was so amazed, he found himself climbing the hills to the westfold without remembering how he got there. The wind tore at his cloak and the ice dug into his shoes. What could the Bard possibly want with him? A dozen boys carried driftwood and buckets of water to the Roman house, but none of them, as far as Jack knew, had been invited to lunch.

Why had he been singled out? The chief’s son was taller and better educated. The blacksmith’s son was stronger. The miller’s son provided fine white loaves for the Bard. Jack—to be honest—had nothing special to recommend him.

He found the first of the lambs huddled by a hedge. The mother attacked him, but Jack kicked her away. The black-faced sheep were as wild as mountain goats. He cradled the shivering newborn under his cloak as he hurried down the hill, all the while fending off its mother. He thrust the lamb into a heap of straw in the barn and dodged the ewe’s horns on the way out.

Back and forth he went until he’d found all six. By then he was muddy and sore from head-butts. I hate sheep, he thought as he slammed the barn door.

“Don’t forget to feed them,” called Father from the roof.

“I’ve already done it,” said Jack. Why couldn’t Father say, Six lambs? Well done! Why wasn’t he ever pleased?

Lucy sat under the ladder in spite of Father’s warnings. She was nestled in a sheepskin and looked, more than anything, like a fat bunny. She waved cheerfully, and Jack, in spite of his irritation, waved back. It was hard to get mad at Lucy.

Chapter Two THE APPRENTICE

“Come in!” cried the Bard as Jack stood nervously in the doorway. The boy looked around for an empty bucket or depleted woodpile to justify his presence. Everything seemed in order.

“I didn’t ask you here to work,” said the Bard, making Jack flinch. Could the old man read minds, too?

Between the mouthfuls of cheese, bread, and cider that made up their lunch, the Bard quizzed Jack about things so ordinary, they hardly seemed worth mentioning. How did water sound when it rushed over grass? How did it sound oozing through a bog? How did the wind change its music as it passed from the river reeds to the foxtail grasses of the meadow? Could Jack tell the difference between a lark and a swallow high in the clouds?

Of course he could, Jack said. Everyone could, by the way the birds dipped their wings.

“Not so,” said the Bard. “Very few people see beyond the ends of their noses. Another piece of cheese?”

Jack ate more than his share and felt rather guilty about it. He rarely got enough to feel satisfied.

“In my opinion, you aren’t a total waste of time,” said the Bard. “Don’t let that go to your head, boy. You could easily be a partial waste of time. How’d you like to be my apprentice?”

Jack gaped at him. His brain couldn’t grasp the meaning of it. He’d never heard of a bard’s apprentice.

“That’s the first habit we’ll have to get rid of,” said the old man, sighing. “You should look intelligent, even when you aren’t. Get along with you now. I’ll talk to your father later.”

That night Jack huddled in his blankets, listening to Father and the Bard discuss his future. He hadn’t really expected the old man to come, but at nightfall the Bard had shown up, dressed in a thick, white cloak and leaning on a blackened ash wood staff. He looked extremely impressive with his white beard blowing in the wind. Father invited him in and turned Jack out of his seat by the fire.

But Giles Crookleg wasn’t pleased when he learned what the old man wanted. “I can’t let Jack go,” Father cried. “If I had more sons or if my leg were straight—you couldn’t fix it, by the way?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the Bard.

“No harm in asking. It’s the penance I bear for Adam’s sin.”

“Amen,” said Mother.

Father, Jack, and Lucy muttered “Amen” as well. Jack noticed the Bard said nothing.

“At any rate, I need help with the repairs and plowing. I need someone to herd sheep and gather wood in the forest,” said Father. “I’m honored you should consider my son, but there’s no proof he’s bright.”

“I have faith in him,” said the Bard.

Jack felt a rush of gratitude for the old man and an equal rush of annoyance at his father.

“Jack’s ability isn’t the question here,” argued Father. “I need him and that’s that.”

“It would be nice if he got an education,” Mother said hesitantly. “You always wanted to study with the monks—”

“Be still,” said Father in a voice that allowed no argument. “I wanted to devote myself to religion on the Holy Isle,” he told the Bard. “I wasn’t given the opportunity. Not that I fault my father for it. I honor him and would not commit the sin of anger against him. I offer up my pain to God every day.”

“Amen,” said Mother.

“Amen,” murmured Father, Jack, and Lucy.

Just what did God do with all the pain Father offered up to Him? Jack wondered. Did He put it in a box with the toothaches and headaches people sent Him?

“My son shouldn’t try to rise above his station,” finished Father. “In fact, it’s good for him to learn that life is full of disappointments. Pain, cheerfully endured, is the surest way to salvation.”

“Oh, Jack won’t have fun being my apprentice,” said the Bard, his eyes twinkling. Jack wondered what he found so amusing. “I assure you I’ll make him work like a donkey in a lead mine. He’ll suffer with the best of us. As for your farm, Giles, I’ve discussed that with the chief. I won’t be needing the other boys if I have Jack, and so the chief is sending them to you. I think you’ll have more help than you know what to do with.”