The Sea of Trolls

faithless. But Bold Heart returned at evening. After that he took many trips to the mainland, to Thorgil’s annoyance.

“He has such interesting things to say,” she complained. “Not like the other birds.”

“Too bad,” Jack said, turning his back on her.

“Those are really nice trees on the shore,” she said. “What are they called?”

Jack ignored her. He thought about calling up fire and burning the ship when they camped at night. That would fix the Northmen, but it wouldn’t do anything about Magnus the Mauler or Einar the Ear-Hoarder.

The ship sped south, far from shore to avoid attention. This was the coast Olaf had raided, and Skakki wanted to avoid complications. And at last they came to Jack’s land. They drew up on a deserted beach in late afternoon. The Northmen brought down several geese and roasted them over a fire.

“It’s our last night together,” said Rune. “Let us spend it with good stories and good food.”

“Ooh! I love stories,” cried Lucy.

“We have two skalds here, so we should have no end of tales. I’ll go first.” Rune told them of Loki, whom Odin had met in Jotunheim.

“I thought he was a god,” Jack said, intrigued in spite of his determination to snub the old warrior.

“He was a shape-shifter like Frith. His father was a troll and his mother a goddess. If you think a Jotun/human cross is bad, you should see what happens when you mix gods and trolls. Loki appeared to be handsome and clever, and Odin was besotted with him.”

“BIG MISTAKE,” said Eric Pretty-Face.

“Odin named Loki brother. They cut their wrists and mingled blood to seal it. God blood flowed into Loki’s veins and shape-shifter blood into Odin’s. It didn’t do either of them any good. Ever after, Loki had the run of Asgard. No one dared throw him out. Odin gave him the goddess Sigunn for his wife.”

“A great waste,” said Skakki.

“Sigunn was gentle and sweet, so of course Loki was bored with her. He went straight back to Jotunheim and married an ogress. She was nasty enough to entertain him. They had foul, monstrous children—a giant serpent, a giant wolf, and Hel, whose icy hall waits for cowards and oath-breakers.”

Jack was trying to remain uninterested in Rune’s story. He wanted to hate the Northmen, but they kept being nice to him. If they noticed Jack’s silence, they didn’t show it. They were probably used to people who got angry and sulked.

“Fenris, the giant wolf, was so fierce, the gods imprisoned him on an island covered by iron trees. But Fenris grew. Soon he was beyond the power of the gods to control, and Odin decided he would have to be chained. The problem was, of course, how to get the chain around his neck.

“They made a game of it. ‘Here, wolfie, wolfie, wolfie,’ called Thor. ‘Wouldn’t you like to play with this string? A big, strong beast like you could snap it in an instant.’ Fenris was flattered. He let the gods put the heavy chain around his neck, and then he snapped it in two.”

“It was the biggest one they had,” added Skakki.

“So they had to ask the dwarves for help,” Thorgil burst in for the first time. She looked truly beautiful in the firelight, Jack thought. Her eyes shone, and her hair—vigorously washed that evening—framed her face like a dandelion puff. She had always been beautiful, the boy realized, but her blighted spirit had hidden it. Now she was happy. Jack felt an ache over his heart. She would be leaving in the morning. He’d never see her again, not even in Heaven.

“The gods knew they had to have a magic cord made of the secret things of the world—the roots of a mountain, the footfall of a cat, the breath of a fish,” said Rune. “Only the dwarves had the knowledge to make such things. When they were finished, they presented Odin with a cord that looked like a silk ribbon, but it was stronger than death.

“‘Here, wolfie, wolfie, wolfie,’ called Thor, trying to lure Fenris. ‘This one’s going to be even more fun.’ But the wolf was no fool. He knew what the gods were up to, though he had complete confidence in his strength.

“‘I’ll wear that thing if someone puts his hand in my mouth,’ he growled. Odin’s son Tyr, bravest of the brave, stepped forth and put his hand between the wolf’s slavering jaws. The others bound Fenris with the ribbon.” Rune paused, and the Northmen turned to Jack.

Here we go again, thought Jack. Whenever the Northmen paused in a story, it meant something horrible was about to happen. They loved making Jack ask for the ending because he was so satisfyingly disgusted. Sven the Vengeful was practically bouncing up and down with excitement.

“Oh, very well.” Jack sighed. “What happened?”

“Fenris struggled and howled and fought, but he could not break that fetter, and so he was trapped on the island,” said Rune.

“But first he bit off Tyr’s hand!” Sven cried.

“I was supposed to finish the story,” Rune said.

“And he chewed it up and swallowed it!” Sven was too carried away to stop.

“Crunch! Mangle! Chew!” yelled Thorgil.

I’ll never understand Northmen, Jack thought.

“What did it taste like?” asked Lucy, not at all bothered by the tale’s gory ending, and a lively discussion of what Tyr’s hand tasted like followed. Then Jack told them the story of the Jotuns’ escape from Utgard and how the whales carried them the last few miles when the ice disappeared.

In between tales, they feasted on roast goose and drank the cider Skakki had saved for this occasion. The stars moved toward morning, and Lucy went to sleep. Finally, when the first trace of dawn showed over the sea, Thorgil said, “I have written a poem.”

“Girls can’t write poetry,” said Sven, but no one paid attention to him.

“Let’s hear it. Your eulogy for Olaf was fine indeed,” said Rune. “I’d say the song-mead was not wasted on you.”

“It’s about Mimir’s Well,” she replied, and Jack was surprised. They’d agreed not to discuss it. She stood and bowed.

Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.

Thorgil waited.

“That’s it?” Skakki said, puzzled.

“My mother named me Jill,” Thorgil explained. “And Jack and I climbed a hill, and we fell down.”

“DOESN’T SEEM LIKE MUCH OF A STORY,” Eric Pretty-Face said.

“Well, it really happened, and a poem doesn’t have to tell a story,” Thorgil cried.

“Yes, it does,” said Sven.

“It’s nice. Really it is,” said Rune as Thorgil looked ready to lose control. “It’s not the kind of thing that lasts, but it’s sweet.”

“It is not sweet!” shrieked Thorgil. “And it’s going to last! People will be saying my poem long after your moldy old verses disappear!” She ran off down the beach and hid herself behind some rocks.

The Northmen, as usual, paid no attention to her flight. They began to pack up. Jack followed her. The light was growing swiftly, and the boat would soon leave. He found her behind a rock, sobbing as though her heart would break.

“Jill,” he said softly, kneeling by her.

“Have you come to make fun of me?” she said.

“Oh, no! I thought it was a wonderful poem, and I think it will endure.”

“Its fame will never die?” She looked up at him through her tears.