The Sea of Trolls

She did as he suggested: stuffed moss into her ears. Then she sat staring at the stream with tears rolling down her cheeks.

He left Bold Heart to keep her company. There was no reasoning with the shield maiden. She was determined to suffer no matter how nice things were. His mood lifted as he walked along the stream. The life force seemed to be everywhere, in the leafy trees, the ecstatic birds, the lemmings and voles that rustled through the strawberries, in the butterflies, midges, and beetles. The place was simmering with activity.

Jack found berries, but he wanted something more sustaining. He considered the mushrooms—or were they toadstools? He found and dug up wild leeks.

He froze as he heard something crackling in the underbrush. Slowly, carefully, a magnificent bird stepped from the shadows. Her majestic brown tail fanned out behind her, and around her feet flocked ten speckled chicks. Jack’s mouth watered. It was a capercaillie, big as four hens put together. Heide had served one in Olaf’s hall. Jack remembered clearly its rich flesh flavored with lingonberries from Dotti’s garden.

The capercaillie gazed at him haughtily. Her eyes, topped by patches of red that resembled eyebrows, seemed mildly surprised. She wasn’t even afraid. Jack felt for his knife.

The creature moved toward him. The speckled chicks pecked at the ground and glanced up for approval from their mother. The capercaillie lowered her head and clucked softly. Jack knew she could feed them for days. He could roast her with the leeks he’d gathered earlier and serve her with the wild strawberries her chicks were so busy eating.

The bird walked past him with a dignified tread. She wasn’t afraid of him. It would take only a second to cut her throat, but Jack couldn’t do it. The Bard had told him it was evil to use the life force to lure game. This valley was brimming with it, and the capercaillie felt secure in its presence. To kill her was—somehow—wrong.

I must be stupid beyond belief, he thought as he watched the bird disappear into the forest. Soon, however, he came into a different sort of woodland. He saw apple, walnut, hazelnut, and pear trees among the more familiar pines and aspens. They were covered with both flowers and ripe fruit, as though spring and autumn had run together. Jack took off his tunic and used it as a carrying bag.

And then he heard a buzzing in the distance that sent a thrill along his nerves. It was an uncountable number of bees, so many that there must have been hundreds of hives up ahead. Jack, who was well used to the insects from Mother’s work, understood the quality of their hum. You could tell their mood by the sounds they made.

He’d heard angry bees and cheerful ones, worried bees and some so despairing that the whole hive was sinking into death. But these were possessed by mad joy. Jack could imagine them rising and falling in their thousands over the trees. It filled him with alarm, though he’d never been afraid of the creatures before. Their emotions were simply too strong to bear. Jack turned away.

Thorgil was still staring at the stream when he returned. He sliced up ripe pears for her. He found a flat rock and pounded nut meats into powder. She ate and went back to watching the stream.

You’re welcome, Jack thought. But after awhile he got up and changed the binding on her ankle. She couldn’t help being an infuriating berserker. He saw that the puffiness over her ankle had vanished, as had the blisters on her cheek. In spite of herself, Thorgil was recovering.

The rest of the day was spent dozing or playing a game of rolling a walnut back and forth with Bold Heart. Jack knew he should make plans to leave, but he was far too contented. It had been a long time since he’d felt so good.

Toward nightfall he took another stroll and saw the snowy owls sitting in a small clearing. They were feeding on cloudberries and hoo-hooing among themselves. Jack noticed a vole working earnestly on a sprig of wild pea in their midst. The owls Jack was used to would have pounced on the little creature at once.

Jack decided to stay longer, although Thorgil argued against it. She could talk now and did so at great length. “We’re on a quest,” she said. “I don’t expect a thrall to understand, but it means we mustn’t get too comfortable. It’s our duty to see the Mountain Queen as soon as possible. Olaf would have wanted it that way. I’ve had enough of lying around.”

“That’s all you’ve been doing,” Jack retorted. “I went out and found food.”

“I found the valley.”

“How did you manage that?” Jack asked.

Thorgil flushed red. “It was a lucky guess.”

“Anyhow, your ankle needs to heal. I can’t carry you around like a pet cat.”

“I’m not a pet cat! I’m Thorgil Olaf’s Daughter. I’ll crawl on bloody hands and knees if I have to!”

Jack was pleased to see her old spirit back. It meant she was returning to normal. For a broken bone, her ankle was healing with amazing speed. In a day or two she’d be able to walk, and he intended to wait until she could move easily. He felt no urgency.

The lush valley with its warm air grew more attractive with each passing day. Jack fell into a schedule of strolling out each morning for food. He bathed in the stream at midday and explored in the afternoons. Between times he talked to Thorgil (who had turned increasingly sullen as she recovered) and Bold Heart, who seemed not quite happy with the situation either.

The air hummed with joy. At moments Jack felt a feverish desire to roll in moss or to cram raspberries into his mouth and let the juice drip down his chin. At moments he did just that. Sometimes he laughed and laughed for no reason until he couldn’t catch his breath. This place has to be pure life force, he thought.

Jack sat up abruptly.

He remembered the Bard talking about his training with his best friend in Ireland. Day after day we sat, struggling to open our minds to the power of the life force. And just as quickly retreating when it got too close. But my friend liked the feeling of power. He refused to stop while it was still safe. One day something went snap. He gave a mighty howl and ran off as fast as he could go until he got to the Valley of Lunatics.

I could hear the lunatics cackling before I could see them, the Bard had gone on. It was a terrible sound, so like laughter and yet so completely joyless. All the failed bards in Ireland had found their way to this one place, where the life force was stronger than anywhere else. And there they stayed.

“Maybe it isn’t a good idea to laugh until I can’t breathe,” murmured Jack. His eyes had been closed as he let the power of this place flow through him. Now he opened them on a most unwelcome sight.

Before him stood the first dangerous creature he’d seen in this enchanted valley: a great, hulking troll-boar with his mouth hanging open. Jack could see razor-sharp tusks.

The boy was stupefied. All he could think to do was chant Mother’s charm for calming angry bees. He sang it again and again, feeling it echo in the life force. That power was too close, too strong. It was like a wave of flame sweeping toward him.

Jack felt himself knocked onto his back into a strawberry patch. His mind cleared and the flames vanished. The boar was whuffling him all over, placing little kisses on his arms, chest, and face.

“Golden Bristles?” the boy cried. He hugged the monster’s head and scratched him behind his leathery ears. “You found your way home. Goooood piggy!” Jack pulled himself up and petted the brute all over his bristly back. “I’m so happy. Isn’t this a lovely place?” Golden Bristles oinked in agreement.

Jack led him back to the camp Thorgil had made. The instant she saw him, she stood up and aimed a rock at the boar’s head. “No, no, no! He’s a friend,” Jack cried. “See?” He climbed onto the pig’s back, half expecting the creature to toss him off. But Golden Bristles was perfectly happy to be ridden like a donkey.

The pig grunted, and Bold Heart warbled back. “He says you freed him,” Thorgil said with a scowl like a thundercloud.

“I did. Wait a minute. How do you know what he said?”

“None of your business. Olaf almost got killed capturing him!”

“So what? He was only going to drown him. Unlike pea-brained berserkers, I don’t like suffering.”

“You stupid thrall! Now Lucy will take his place,” cried Thorgil.

“That’s not my doing!” Jack shouted, jumping down from Golden Bristles’ back.

“It is so, you Saxon fool!”

“Brjostabarn! You’re the one who gave her to Frith!” yelled Jack. They stood toe-