was not unlike a drowsy bee-hum itself. She told them of sunny days to come, of new flowers and warm breezes.
“How’s your supply of candles?” the Bard asked when he had handed the harp back to Jack.
“I know what’s in your mind,” she replied. “The crops are ruined, and if we are to survive this winter, we must barter for grain. Whatever I have is yours.”
“I can always count on you, Alditha,” said the old man warmly, clasping her hands.
From there the Bard and Jack made their way to the hazel wood that lay in the shadow of the oak forest. This woodland, though littered with debris, had been spared. A tangle of branches and gnarled roots was crossed by odd little paths carpeted with bluebells. You might meet anything in the hazel wood—long-eared hares, badgers, a wolf folding itself into the twilight, or even a bear. It was a secret, knowing place, and you didn’t enter it carelessly after dark. The leaves now shone with an eerie brightness, and the air was fresh and delightful.
“It’s as though the storm never happened,” Jack said with wonder.
“Hazel woods are protected,” said the Bard. “At the School of Bards—where I was an outstanding student, by the way—a newcomer was left in a hazel wood overnight. In the morning the teachers asked him what he’d seen. You have no idea how some of those lads twisted themselves into knots, trying to say what they thought the old bards wanted. If the boys lied, they were sent away and never allowed to return.”
“Just for that,” murmured Jack, thinking of the times he had lied to avoid a thrashing from Father.
“Serving the life force is a serious business,” the old man said.
“What did
The old man pushed aside a downed branch with the tip of his staff. “Right now I see ceps.” A cluster of fat mushrooms with white stems and brown caps crowded around the foot of a tree. “We’re in luck, lad. They’ll make an outstanding supper.”
Jack crouched down to gather the ceps, and their rich, earthy odor made his mouth water.
“Hazel woods are brimming with the life force,” the Bard continued, moving more branches out of the way. “They lie close to the boundaries between the nine worlds, and many a secret pathway lies hidden under their leaves. A true bard knows how to find them.”
Jack felt a tremor of fear, which he quickly tried to suppress. His experience with other worlds had mostly been bad. On the other hand, there were moments—such as when he and Thorgil had found the Valley of Yggdrassil—so wreathed in glory that tears came to his eyes when he remembered them. And then an awful thought struck him: Suppose the Bard were testing him right now? Perhaps it was time to discover whether he was a true bard or whether he should be sent back to weeding turnips and chasing black-faced sheep.
Jack looked around, willing the leaves to dissolve and show him a secret path. But nothing appeared. It was an ordinary woodland full of moss and lichens. The trees nearest the fields had been coppiced, cut close to the roots to allow for the growth of straight branches that might be used for fences. A red squirrel scolded him from a high perch, and he saw it flick its tail with rage.
“What do you see?” the Bard asked in a soft voice.
Jack’s throat constricted. Sunlight hovered over the sheltering leaves. A thrush opened its beak and sang. A spiderweb shivered delicately in a puff of air. “I see… oh, curse it! I don’t see
“And what could be more important than a squirrel, a beetle, a thrush, and a spiderweb?” insisted the old man.
“Why…” Jack looked up.
“Exactly. Ever since I took you on as my apprentice, I’ve been training you to see things as they are. Until you do that, you haven’t a hope of looking farther. One night very soon, I want you to sleep here.”
Jack swallowed nervously. The woodland appeared tranquil and safe by daylight, but he knew things could change after dark.
“You asked me what I saw when I was tested at the School of Bards,” the old man said. “The first time I encountered the same sort of creatures as you—a hedgehog, a bat, a doe with her fawn. But the
They followed one of the paths through the hazel wood.
Bluebells brushed against their ankles, and the sound of water rushing through an unseen brook came to them.
“Look there,” commanded the Bard. Jack’s breath caught in his throat. Where once there had been a dense mass of ancient oaks, a road had been torn out, as though someone had taken a giant sword and slashed right and left through the heart of the forest.
“Typical of Olaf and his thick-skulled bunch to leave a mess,” remarked the Bard, looking out over the destruction.
“Was Thorgil right?” Jack asked. “Did Odin really lead a Wild Hunt here?”
“Something laid waste to these oaks.”
The new road was littered with branches, and water pooled in the center where the ground had been plowed deeper. “If it was a Hunt,” Jack said carefully, “what was it hunting?”
“Not Gog and Magog, poor lads. They were merely unlucky to be in its path,” said the Bard. “The Wild Hunt drives misfortune before it. Plague, famine, and war follow behind. I believe we’re in for an interesting time.”
The sky was bright blue, as though nothing had ever disturbed it, and the air was warm with summer. Jack saw Brother Aiden picking his way through the branches like a small brown sparrow hopping from perch to perch. The monk held aloft a wooden cross and was chanting in Latin. Jack couldn’t understand him, but it was clear that the words were filled with Christian magic.
“Aiden, my friend,” called the Bard, “you’ll be up to your ears in mud if you don’t watch out.”
The little monk looked up and almost slid off a branch. “I must sanctify this place,” he said, bracing his feet. “Evil has been done here.”
“Aye, and evil has been done to the farms as well. We must trade for grain before winter comes.” The Bard strode onto the road—for an old man his step was amazingly sure—and helped Brother Aiden to firmer ground.
“I can mix ink. People always want to buy that,” offered the monk. Brother Aiden was renowned for his magnificent colors, which were used to illuminate holy manuscripts.
“Excellent! I’ll get Pega to help you. Jack and Thorgil can gather herbs for my elixirs. John the Fletcher has a stock of deerskins, and I’m sure I can pry a few coins out of the chief’s wealth-hoard. My stars! That new road is so straight, you could almost believe it was made by Romans.”
Jack looked through the opening to a distant meadow and the hills beyond. A lone bird fluttered from one side to the other of this opening. Its cries reached him from the shadows of a yew. “It sounds… so sad,” he murmured.
The Bard cast a sharp look at him. “Indeed. It is mourning the loss of its young. Have you been taking lessons in Bird from Thorgil?”
Jack grimaced ruefully. “No, sir. The last thing Thorgil wants is to admit she understands it.”
“Insufferable child. She’s made a career of pigheadedness. Stay and help Aiden, lad. I’ll expect you for dinner.” The old man collected the harp and the basket of mushrooms and strode away, leaving Jack uncertain of what he was supposed to do next.
“I’d like it very much if you would sing for me,” Brother Aiden said shyly. “My heart is heavy over the loss of those poor men.” The little monk’s eyes were filled with tears, and Jack knew he was remembering his own escape from the Forest Lord or Satan or whoever led the pack of hunters.
And so Jack sang of the earth when it was gentle and not wild, of the harp in the trees when wind played among the leaves. He sang of fair meadows where deer brought their young, knowing them to be safe, and of the cry of larks tumbling in High Heaven.
Gradually, Brother Aiden’s face cleared and he looked hopeful again. “Thank you,” he said. “Your voice is wonderfully healing, almost as fine as Pega’s.” He began once again to bless the raw wound in the forest.
Jack gazed down the passage, thinking,
