The Land of the Silver Apples

“Can I help?” said Pega from the rock.

“You don’t know magic,” Jack said impatiently. He didn’t want to be interrupted.

“I could sing.”

Jack’s head snapped up. Sing! Of course! What was the one thing most likely to rouse Thorgil to action? Without bothering to explain, he began:

Cattle die and kin die.
Houses burn to the ground.
But one thing never perishes:
The fame of a brave warrior.

“That’s an odd thing to tell someone who might be dying,” Pega said.

“Be quiet,” said Jack. He went on:

Ships go down in the sea.
Kingdoms turn into dust.
One thing outlasts them all:
The fame of a brave warrior.

Fame never dies!
Fame never dies!
Fame never dies!

As he sang, the memory of the Northmen came back to him. They were in Olaf One-Brow’s ship with a wind filling the red-and-cream-striped sail. Their lives were violent, they were thugs of the worst kind, foul, half crazy, and stupid, and yet… they were noble as well.

Jack began the song again, and Pega joined in—she was a quick study for music. “Fame never dies! Fame never dies! Fame never dies!” Thorgil’s face lost its deathly pallor, and her lips trembled as though she was trying to join in. Her eyes flew open.

“Jack?” she whispered.

“You’ve got to live,” Jack said, so delighted that he could hardly contain himself. Her eyes lost their brightness and began to close. “What kind of oath-breaking coward are you!” he shouted. “Is this an honorable death? Sleeping on a soft bed like the lowest thrall? Faugh! You deserve to go to Hel!”

“Jack!” cried Pega, shocked.

“Be still. I know what I’m doing. Thorgil Chicken-Heart is what they’ll call you,” he told the shield maiden. “Thorgil Brj’stabarn! Suckling baby!”

“I am not a brj’stabarn,” snarled Thorgil, her face flushing red and her body quivering under the moss.

“Then live, you sorry excuse for carrion!”

The shield maiden’s mouth contorted as though she had so many vile curses to utter, she couldn’t get them out fast enough. The moss on her chest began to turn brown and flake away. The line of destruction moved down her arms and legs. She wrenched herself up and felt for her knife. Then weakness overtook her, and she collapsed to her knees, shaking violently.

“That’s better,” Jack said.

“Let me help you,” Pega cried, bounding to Thorgil’s side.

“No one…”—the shield maiden stopped and panted, so great was her exhaustion—“needs… to help me.”

“Look at you. You can’t even talk straight. ’Course you need help.” Pega attempted to lift her, but Thorgil gave her a feeble slap.

“Leave her alone,” Jack said. “Thorgil Brj’stabarn can crawl if she can’t walk.”

“Hate… you,” said Thorgil, breathing heavily.

Jack went back to sit on the rocks. He felt as light as a sunbeam. “I’d get off that moss if I were you. Your choice, of course.” Pega looked up at him in consternation. “I know you think I’m horrible, Pega, but I learned my manners from Northmen. They can hardly get through the day without ten insults and at least one death threat.” Pega, after getting slapped—weakly—a few times, retreated to the rocks to sit by Jack.

Together they watched the shield maiden drag herself forward on hands and knees. Jack’s heart, in spite of his harsh words, ached to see her struggle, but he also knew it was useless to interfere. Thorgil would have to rescue herself. Otherwise, she would feel humiliated and be even harder to deal with. Finally, she crept onto the lowest layer of stone, beyond the reach of questing tree roots.

“I… did it…” she wheezed. “No… thanks to you.”

Now Jack did scoot down to sit by her side. “You need water,” he observed. “Wait here.” He ran to a small rivulet trickling from the mountain nearby and filled his hands. Some of the water leaked out on the way back, but he managed to get a little into Thorgil’s mouth. Back and forth he went, with Pega helping, until the shield maiden sighed and shook her head.

“Enough,” she said.

Jack produced one of the rounds of cheese, and Thorgil almost bit him in her eagerness to get it. “Take little bites,” he advised. “It’s not safe to bolt your food after starving.” But Thorgil paid no attention. When she was finished, she leaned back against the rock and closed her eyes.

“Is she going to faint again?” whispered Pega.

“I imagine she needs time to recover,” said Jack. “I don’t know how long she’s been here.” He noted that Thorgil’s clothes were stained dark green and her boots were the color of tree bark. It was as though she’d been turning into part of the forest. Perhaps she had been.

“One of my owners refused to feed me for three weeks for spoiling one of his shirts,” Pega remarked. She was huddled in a fold of the rock with her arms hugging her knees for warmth. The sun had gone behind the mountain, and the air had turned chill. “All I had was what I could find in the rubbish heap. You can’t believe how good fish heads taste after three weeks.”

Thorgil opened her eyes and looked straight at the girl. “You’re a thrall,” she said.

“What’s a thrall?” asked Pega.

Jack swore under his breath. “Pay no attention. Northmen like picking fights more than bears like honey. Even their gods insult one another.”

“‘Thrall’ means ‘slave’,” Thorgil said in perfectly clear Saxon.

“I am not! Jack freed me!”

“I was a slave once,” Jack said. “I’m not ashamed of it.”

“You should be,” Thorgil said with a wolfish smile.

You were too, thought Jack, but he bit back the words before they slipped out. Taunting Thorgil was a sport that had to be conducted very carefully. “Perhaps we should look for a place to sleep,” he said. “Anyone want a bed of moss?”

“No!” Thorgil cried, which showed Jack how terrified she’d been. It wasn’t like her to admit fear.

“I don’t understand. We’ve spent two nights in the forest, and nothing happened to us until this morning,” said Pega. “It’s like the trees suddenly woke up.”

“Or we ran into the wrong trees,” said Jack. “I suppose some are good and some are bad, like people. Anyhow, we need shelter before it gets completely dark. I saw a cleft in the rocks earlier.”