The Sea of Trolls

FAREWELL TO JOTUNHEIM

“It was fated,” said Rune that night as they lay at anchor in the fjord. They had started too late to reach the open sea. “I always knew Odin would call Olaf in the prime of his life. Warriors like him are too great for Middle Earth.”

“We saw his funeral pyre,” Sven the Vengeful said. “We didn’t know what it was then.”

“It went straight up to Valhalla. I thought it was a pair of dragons fighting,” said Eric the Rash.

“There was a dragon.” Jack was mortally tired, but he felt he owed Olaf’s friends at least part of the story tonight. “She flew back and forth over the flames, shrieking.”

“I think I heard that,” said Sven.

“She was honoring Olaf,” Thorgil said heavily. She had been crying off and on all evening. Now that there was no danger to occupy her, she could give herself up to grief.

“Wasn’t that wonderful?” said Sven with an envious sigh. “And you say there was a troll-bear at his feet.”

“Yes,” said Jack.

“A FIRST-RATE FUNERAL,” Eric Pretty-Face declared.

“I’ve warned you about talking after dark, Eric my friend,” said Rune. “We won’t be safe until we leave Jotunheim, so silence is important.”

“OH. ALL RIGHT.”

The Northmen sat quietly under the stars. Even the stars seemed larger in Jotunheim. The water was as still as a sheet of black ice. One by one the warriors lay down to sleep, except for Rune, who was on watch and never slept much anyway. Bold Heart kept him company but soon nodded off like the others. Jack, for all his exhaustion, found it hard to relax. So much had happened. So much had changed. He had never dreamed, in his little village on the English coast, that he would ever meet such things as dragons and trolls. They were something that lived far away. Well, here he was: far away.

Jack resettled the grain bag he was using as a pillow. The deck was hard, and the bilge was as fragrant as ever. Whisper, whisper, whisper went the trees, birds, and animals of Jotunheim in his mind. Jack covered his ears, knowing it would do no good.

He didn’t know how he was going to cure Frith yet. But Mimir’s Well had taught him not to try to force the order of things. Leaves uncurled and flowers opened when it was their time. Knowledge would be given to him when the moment came.

Toward dawn he awoke and saw Rune sitting by the sea serpent’s head at the prow. A silvery light shone on the water. Jack got up and picked his way through the sleeping bodies.

“That’s going to stink in a couple of days,” said Rune, running his fingers over the scales. “I wouldn’t dream of asking Eric Pretty-Face to leave it behind, though. He was so proud of killing it. It followed us around from the day we left you, working up its nerve to attack. It’s only half grown, you see.”

“I see,” said Jack, noting that the head alone weighed twice what Eric Pretty-Face did.

“It came at us yesterday, tried to wrap itself around the boat and sink us. Bad mistake.”

“Rune,” said Jack.

“Yes?”

“We found Mimir’s Well.”

“What great good fortune! I hoped you had, but we were speaking of Olaf earlier, and I didn’t want to change the subject.” The old warrior’s voice was sad.

“I don’t want to talk about it with the others. Not yet. I don’t think it would be right.”

“I’ll shut them up,” Rune said decisively. “I’ll tell them it has to do with the magic. Did you drink?”

“Yes, and so did Thorgil.”

“She did? I thought she seemed different. She didn’t once try to hurt anybody. Tell me, how did it taste?” The longing in the old man’s voice was almost unbearable.

“You tell me,” said Jack, handing him the bottle with the poppy on the side.

“Ohhhh,” Rune said with a deep sigh.

“It’s all right. I told the Norns you had sacrificed your voice to defend your friends and had given me your best poem. That seemed to satisfy them.”

“You’ve seen Norns too? How wonderful!”

“I didn’t like them,” said Jack.

“Shh. It’s never good to offend the forces that govern our lives. I can really drink this?”

Jack nodded. Rune opened the bottle and drank. A light came into his eyes, and he stood straighter than Jack had ever seen him do. “So, what does it taste like?” Jack said.

“Like the sun coming up after winter. Like rain after drought. Like joy after sorrow.”

“Your voice!” Jack cried. For the old man no longer whispered. His words were strong and new. Rune didn’t have a young man’s voice. He would never again be the magnificent singer of his youth, but he sounded deeper and more moving.

“Why is everyone making a racket?” grumbled Sven the Vengeful. “I haven’t had nearly the rest I wanted. Are you talking in your sleep again, Eric Pretty-Face?”

“NOT ME,” said Eric Pretty-Face.

That morning they came to the mouth of the fjord. The cliffs on either side were seething with birds, and thousands of nests clung to the rocks. The water was silver with haddock and salmon. Bold Heart chased off a few seagulls when they tried to land on the sea serpent’s head. “We’re leaving Jotunheim,” Jack said somewhat regretfully.

“And entering Middle Earth,” said Rune.

The birds swirled and screamed. Thorgil crouched in the bilge with her hands over her ears. “She understands what they say,” Jack whispered. They came to open water and turned south on a bright gray-green sea with a brisk wind. Eric the Rash and Eric Pretty-Face put up the sail.

Jack felt as though something had lifted that had weighed on him ever since they’d entered Jotunheim. “This place welcomes us,” he said in wonder as he gazed at the coastline slipping by to their left.

“This is where we belong,” said Rune. “Jotunheim ever hated our presence.”

Jack turned and looked out over the vast ocean toward the place where Utgard had lain. Fonn’s great-great- great-grandmother had walked from there when it was a sea of ice. But each year summer moved closer to the heart of the frost giants’ world.

“I can’t understand the seagulls anymore,” Thorgil said. “Well, I can, but I can’t pick up every single word.”

“Don’t you like that? You hated listening to them,” said Jack.

“I did… but it was still kind of nice.”

“Magic is closer to the surface in Jotunheim,” said Rune. “I’m sure you haven’t lost the ability. You’ll just have to work harder at it.”

And Jack, too, felt the life force had moved deeper. It was there, but it would not come easily to his bidding. Which wasn’t a bad thing, he decided, grasping the blackened ash wood staff. He’d become afraid to summon its power in Jotunheim. The fire was too wild and unpredictable.

They traveled south, camping at night on little beaches. Jack and Thorgil told the warriors most of what happened, keeping only the Norns and Mimir’s Well to themselves. The Northmen were mightily impressed with Thorgil’s slaying of the dragonlet as well as Jack’s triumph over the spider. They hadn’t been idle either. Besides the fight with the sea serpent (which now stank to the heavens), they’d battled with a giant, evil-tempered pike.

“Tried to get me every time I drew up water,” said Sven the Vengeful. “I finally showed it what was what.”

“TASTED GREAT WITH CRANBERRIES,” commented Eric Pretty-Face.

Then there had been a battle with a pair of huge wolverines when the warriors went foraging on shore, and an encounter with a giant lynx, and one afternoon, when Eric the Rash took a nap under a tree, he woke to find that a slug had devoured most of his shirt and part of the skin underneath.

They met more ships as they approached the entrance to King Ivar’s fjord. The fishermen cheered as they