The Sea of Trolls

Father looked completely bewildered. “You’re alive,” he said. “My son, you’re alive.” Giles Crookleg began to cry, and Jack began to cry too, which spoiled some of the grand effect he was trying to make.

“I know what’s different,” the chief declared. “See that crow? Ow!” he said as Bold Heart snapped at him. “That’s what bards carry on their shoulders. Jack went off an apprentice and has come back a full-fledged bard— about time, too. The old one hasn’t been making any sense.”

Everyone congratulated Jack then, and Father hugged him. They set off for the village with John the Fletcher running ahead to spread the good news. In a low voice Jack told Colin, “If I had been a berserker, your head would have rolled on the ground before you’d gone three steps,” and he was gratified to see the boy turn pale.

An eager crowd waited outside Giles Crookleg’s farm. They cheered when they saw Jack and Lucy. The little girl danced before them, basking in the attention. Her dress was a wonder never seen in the village. Heide had made it after the style of her people. It was bright blue, with green embroidery at the neck and hem and white flowers scattered over the rest. Lucy looked like a real princess.

Everyone laughed and clapped. The little girl didn’t even notice Mother standing far back, at the door of the house. But Jack went to her immediately, fending off the hearty congratulations of well-wishers. Father had begun to recount the brief story Jack had given him of their captivity. “He saw trolls and dragons and giant spiders!” Father cried.

“Go on, Giles, that’s just one of your fantasies,” someone yelled.

Jack and Mother slipped to the back of the house. “I should fetch Lucy,” the boy said.

“Let her have her moment,” Mother said softly. “What happened to her hair?”

“It’s a long story. You won’t believe what happened.”

“I might. We suspected you’d been taken by berserkers. Father thought you were dead, but I never believed it. I looked into the water and saw you standing in a swarm of bees.”

Jack shivered. Mother was a wise woman, though she was careful to hide it. He wasn’t sure what “looking into the water” meant, but he’d seen Heide staring into a bowl, and everyone else tiptoed around when she did it. “How’s the Bard?” he asked.

She sighed. “He eats and sleeps, but his behavior is that of an infant. He screams at odd times, and he keeps waving his arms.”

“Is he at the Roman house?”

“He can’t take care of himself,” Mother said sadly, “and he’s so difficult that Father had to build him a shed near the back fence. People take turns caring for him. I don’t know what we’ll do when winter comes.”

They went down a path to the fields. Giles Crookleg’s farm was in magnificent shape. Stands of wheat were heavy with grain. Black beans and broad beans, turnips and radishes, parsnips and carrots grew in orderly rows. It had been a wonderful year, aside from getting raided by bloodthirsty berserkers from across the sea.

“You look very bardlike with that staff and that crow on your shoulder,” Mother said. “Is he tame?”

“Sometimes he snaps at people,” Jack said. But Mother fearlessly stroked the bird’s feathers, and Bold Heart warbled deep in his throat.

“You’d almost think he was talking.”

“Actually, he is. A girl I knew could understand what he said.”

“My! You have had adventures. I can’t wait to hear about them.” Jack heard screams in the distance. His hand went automatically to his knife. “It’s only the Bard,” said Mother. “Sometimes he keeps it up for hours. We don’t know what he wants, and he can’t tell us.”

Jack approached the shed with a feeling of dread. Those cries! They were scarcely human. “Is he violent?”

“No, only very frightened. Everything we do frightens him.”

The door was secured with an iron bolt. Jack pulled it back. The inside of the shed smelled bad. The Bard scuttled to the far wall. His hair was wild and his fingernails as long as claws. His clothes—a rough tunic belted with a rope—were smeared with excrement.

“We try to keep him clean, but he gets so agitated when we attempt to bathe him that we’re afraid he’ll die of fright,” Mother said.

“Sir, it’s me, Jack. I’ve returned. Your enemy Frith is gone. You don’t have to be afraid.” But the old man only cowered in the deep straw that covered the floor. “I’ve brought you something that might heal you,” said Jack. “It’s song-mead from Mimir’s Well. There’s only a few drops, so you can’t waste them.”

“Wud-duh. Gaaw,” said the Bard. He raised his clawlike fingers to defend himself.

How am I ever going to get anything into his mouth? thought Jack. He took a step forward, and Bold Heart suddenly swooped from his shoulder and flew straight at the old man.

“Wud-duh!” shrieked the Bard.

Caw, caw, caw! screamed Bold Heart. The two collided and fell to the floor as though struck by lightning.

“No!” cried Jack. He rushed to the old man and lifted him up. The Bard’s eyes were staring, and he wasn’t breathing! “Mother! What should I do?”

She knelt on the other side and felt the old man’s pulse. “His heart has stopped!”

“No, no, no,” moaned Jack. He’d been so close.

“Pour that song-mead or whatever it is down his throat!” said Mother. She pulled open the Bard’s jaws, and Jack upended the bottle. A spoonful of bright liquid fell into the old man’s mouth. Jack shook the bottle, and one more drop formed.

“That’s all there is,” he whispered.

Suddenly, as though he were waking from a deep sleep, the Bard quivered and opened his eyes. “Jack, my lad,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“You’re back! You’re back!” Behind him Jack heard a fluttering. Bold Heart was struggling to rise. “Frith’s power is broken, sir. You’re safe.”

“I know,” said the Bard. “My stars, I’m a mess! Hasn’t anyone given me a bath?”

“We tried,” said Mother, laughing and crying at the same time.

Bold Heart staggered through the straw. His wings hung down as though he’d forgotten how to use them. “What’s wrong?” Jack said, alarmed. He reached for the bird, and it slashed at him viciously.

Bold Heart shrieked, backing against the wall.

“Has he gone mad?” Jack said.

“No, he’s only a poor, frightened bird,” said the Bard, rising with Mother’s help. “These past few months have not been kind to him.”

“But—but he was my friend.”

“I was your friend, Jack,” the Bard said. “Don’t you remember the story of Beowulf? How I threw myself into the body of a pike? When Frith hunted me down, the only way I could escape was into the body of a crow. I traded places with him. It was touch and go getting back, though. If you hadn’t roused me with that song-mead, both of us would have died.”

“You fought the troll-bear? You talked the dragon out of eating me? You brought back Lucy’s spirit?”

“I have some skills, even in the body of a bird,” the Bard said with understandable pride. “Brains, you know. But don’t discount your own contributions. You’ve shown remarkable ability. Remarkable.”

Jack glowed under the praise.

“All this time I’ve been trying to reason with a bird,” said Mother.

“You can’t reason with a bird. It isn’t bright enough,” said the Bard. The old man stretched his fingers and toes as though getting used to them again.

“Bold Heart,” murmured Jack. In spite of what the Bard said, he missed the cheeky crow. Surely something of its character had remained when the man had taken over its body.

“He’ll have to learn to fly again,” said the Bard. “I’ll keep him with me until it’s safe for him to be on his own.”

“And I’ll heat water for a bath,” said Mother.