The Sea of Trolls

Chapter One GATHERING THE LAMBS

Jack woke before dawn and listened to the cold February wind lash the walls of the house. He sighed. It was going to be another rotten day. He stared up at the rafters, savoring the last minutes of warmth. He was bundled in a cocoon of wool blankets over a bed of dried heather. The floor was deep, below the level of the ground. The wind that found its way under the door passed over his head.

It was a good house, with oak pillars planted the root end up to keep damp from rising from the ground. Jack had watched Father build it when he was seven. Father had thought a child couldn’t understand such a complicated task, but Jack had. He’d paid close attention and thought he could build a house even now, four years later. Jack forgot very little of what he saw.

At the far end of the long room Jack could see Mother stir up the cooking fire. The light danced on the loft. It was warmer up there, but smoky. His parents and sister slept up there. Jack preferred the fresh air near the door.

Mother scattered oats into boiling water and stirred the porridge vigorously. She added honey—Jack could smell it. A poker glowed in the coals to heat the cups of cider Mother lined up on a shelf.

“It’s so cold,” complained Lucy from the loft. “Can’t I have breakfast in bed?”

“A princess isn’t afraid of a little thing like cold,” said Father.

“Princesses live in castles,” Lucy pointed out.

“Ah, but that isn’t true of lost princesses.”

“Don’t encourage her,” said Mother.

“Am I really lost, Father?” said Lucy. Jack knew she loved this story.

“Not for long. You were found by us,” Father said fondly.

“I was lying under a rose tree with a gold coin in my hand.”

“You were born in this house, not in some airy-fairy castle,” Mother snapped. She plunged the hot poker into the first mug of cider. Jack could smell the rich tang of apples. He knew Lucy wouldn’t listen to Mother. It was far more interesting to be a lost princess than a farmer’s brat. The gold coin was real, though. Father had found it while digging in the garden. It showed the head of a man, who Father said was a Roman king.

“Someday a troop of knights will come riding by,” Lucy said.

“They’ve been searching for you ever since the trolls carried you off,” said Father. “The trolls were going to eat you, dearest—but being trolls, they started fighting among themselves.”

“‘Shall we roast her with an apple in her mouth?’” said Lucy, repeating the often-told tale. “‘Or shall we make her into a pie?’”

“‘Pie! Pie!’ roared half the trolls,” said Father. “The other half shouted for roast baby. They began to fight, and soon they had knocked each other senseless. That’s when I came by and found you.”

“Someday the knights will knock at our door,” said Lucy. “They’ll bow to me and say, ‘Come and be our queen.’”

“Why do you fill her up with this nonsense?” Mother said.

“What’s the harm in it?” said Father.

Jack knew Mother had lost two babies before he was born and two afterward. She thought she would never have another, but to everyone’s surprise, she produced this last, perfect child.

Lucy had golden hair that made you think of sunlight. She had eyes the color of violets that grew in the deep forest. She was light as thistledown, merry as a lark. And because, at age five, she had always been loved, she loved everyone back. In spite of everything, Jack couldn’t dislike her.

Right now she was being carried down the ladder by Father. She was too big for it. Jack could see pain flit across his father’s face as he stepped clumsily from one rung to the next. But he also saw joy—joy that was rarely present when Giles Crookleg looked at his son Jack.

Jack threw back the covers and stood up, stretching to let the new day flow into his body. Like everyone else, he slept in his clothes so there was no problem getting dressed.

He pulled away the wool plugging the door crack and climbed outside. A gray light was creeping over the eastern sea. It seeped into the moors and died abruptly in the dark forest to the west. The sky was the color of black ice. It was going to be a miserable day.

Jack ran to the privy. He bounced up and down to keep the frozen ground from sticking to his shoes. The Bard said the frost giants lie in wait for unwary humans, stunning them with their misty breath. You could never lie down outside in the dark of winter, no matter how tempting it was. That was how the frost giants got you, whispering of warmth to be found in sleep.

Jack ran back to the house, sliding on a patch of ice he hadn’t seen. He banged through the door and stood, steaming and stamping, to get the feeling back into his feet.

“Cold, eh?” said Father. He was sitting next to the fire with Lucy on his lap.

“Cold as a troll’s—”

“We’ll have none of that language,” Mother said sharply.

Jack grinned and flopped down next to the fire. Mother gave him a mug of cider, and he warmed his hands on that.

“The ewes will be lambing,” Father observed.

“Oh, aye,” agreed Mother.

“I love little lambs,” Lucy burbled, cradling her cup of cider.

“You don’t have to go out and find the little beasts,” said Jack.

“It’s God’s way,” Father said. “Adam sinned, and so the rest of us must earn our bread by the sweat of our brows.”

“Amen,” said Mother.

Jack wondered why something that had happened at the beginning of the world still plagued them. How long did it take for the punishment to run out? Wouldn’t it make sense, after a thousand years or so, for God to say, All right, that’s enough. You can come back to Eden? But Jack didn’t say that aloud. Father had a very short temper where religion was concerned.

Father had wanted to be a priest, but his family had not been rich enough to pay the entrance fee to the abbey. It was a constant sorrow to the man, for his deformed leg made it hard to do the chores of a farmer.

Father’s finest memory was of having visited the Holy Isle as a youth. He’d been taken there in hopes of a cure, and the sight of the monks going about their peaceful lives had filled him with awe. They didn’t have to drag a plow through a stony field. They didn’t have to cut wood in a terrifying forest, listening for wolves or—worse—the goblins that devoured boys.

Alas, not even the kindly monks could heal Giles Crookleg’s injury. The best they could do was feed him soft, white bread and roast lamb flavored with rosemary. They prayed over him in a chapel with a stained-glass window that shone with the colors of the rainbow when the sun was behind it.

“I thought I’d mend the barn roof today,” Father said.

Jack frowned. That meant the nasty chore of hunting for lambs fell on him. He shoved last night’s bread into his porridge. If it wasn’t soaked, it was too hard to eat. Jack’s teeth grated on the sand that was always a part of the dark, dense loaves Mother baked.

“Can I watch, Father?” asked Lucy.

“Of course, darling. Just don’t sit under the ladder. It’s bad luck.”

It’s bad luck because Father might drop a hammer on her head, Jack thought. He didn’t say this aloud either.

“It’s our turn to feed the Bard this week,” Mother said.

“I’ll do it,” Jack said quickly.

“Of course you will,” said Father. “Don’t think you’re going to weasel out because of lambing.”

Isn’t that just typical? Jack thought. Here he was, offering to help, and Father had to put the worst face on it. But Jack was too pleased by his new task to stay irritated.

Very soon he finished his bread and porridge, swigged the hot cider, and prepared himself for the long day. He stuffed wool into his thin shoes to keep his toes from freezing. He wrapped an extra layer of cloth around his legs, put on an extra shirt, and covered it with a cloak. The cloak was oiled with tallow to keep out rain. It was heavy, but the warmth was worth it. Last of all, Jack shouldered a pack of food.

“Mind, you’re not to hang around the Bard making a nuisance of yourself,” Father said as Jack went out the door.

The wind whipped the cloak over Jack’s head. He pulled it back down and wrapped it close. Frost crackled under his feet as he walked. Everything was crystal bright, and Jack could see mountains to the west beyond the forest and the cold sea to the east. On a cliff overlooking the shore was the old Roman house where the Bard lived. Jack saw a tendril of smoke being shredded by the wind.

He wondered why the old man chose to live there. The house was in such bad repair, no amount of wood could quell its chilly dampness. Perhaps the Bard liked being near the sea. He had come to them from there, in a little coracle bobbing up and down like a child’s toy. It was a wonder he’d survived, but perhaps the Bard had kept his boat safe with magic.

Jack’s heart beat faster. He knew, of course, about the small magic his mother practiced. He had learned from her how to talk to bees and how to soothe frightened animals with song. But the Bard knew important things. It was rumored he could drive enemies mad by blowing on a wisp of straw. And he could call up the north wind and talk to crows.

The old man had come to the village two years ago and had immediately set about giving orders. In no time, he was settled in the Roman house with a bed, a table, a pile of blankets, and a store of food. No one questioned his right to these things.

“Sir, I’ve brought supplies,” Jack called at the door of the ancient house. He listened for the old man’s step. Presently, he heard a sigh and the thump of a staff. The Bard pulled the door open, and his face lit with pleasure.

“Jack! What a treat!”

That was one of the reasons Jack liked him. He didn’t say, What, you again? He actually seemed pleased.

“Do you want me to heat the cider?” Jack said.

“Ah! Your mother’s wonderful work,” said the Bard. “She has wisdom in her fingers, boy. Mark my words.”

Jack placed a poker in the fire and poured out a cup.

“I suppose you’ll be hunting lambs this morning,” said the Bard, sitting and stretching his bony feet to the fire. “If you want to know, six ewes have dropped their young. They’re in the westfold.”

Jack didn’t question it. Everyone knew the Bard had far sight. Whether the old man changed his shape into that of a bird and soared over the fields or whether he talked to passing foxes, no one was sure. But the Bard knew what was going on around him and a good deal else as well.

Jack watched the poker until it glowed and plunged it into the cup with a hissing sound. “Shall I gather driftwood, sir?” he asked. He wanted to stay as long as possible.

“It will take you half a day to round up those lambs,” the Bard said as he savored the steam from the hot cider. “You can come here when you’re finished.”

Jack wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. No one wanted him around unless they had a job for him. “Do you need help, sir?” he inquired politely.

“Help? Help, you unsprouted acorn? By Odin’s eyebrows, I’m asking you to lunch. Do I have to write out an invitation? No, no,” the old man said with a sigh. “You couldn’t read it if I did. No one’s taken the trouble to teach you. I excuse your mother. She’s done the best she could, with that monk-struck husband of hers….”

The Bard went on arguing with himself as he warmed his hands on the cider cup. He seemed to have forgotten Jack’s presence.

“I’d like to come,” the boy said.

“What? Oh, very good,” said the Bard as he waved him out the door.

Jack was so amazed, he found himself climbing the hills to the westfold without remembering how he got there. The wind tore at his cloak and the ice dug into his shoes. What could the Bard possibly want with him? A dozen boys carried driftwood and buckets of water to the Roman house, but none of them, as far as Jack knew, had been invited to lunch.

Why had he been singled out? The chief’s son was taller and better educated. The blacksmith’s son was stronger. The miller’s son provided fine white loaves for the Bard. Jack—to be honest—had nothing special to recommend him.

He found the first of the lambs huddled by a hedge. The mother attacked him, but Jack kicked her away. The black-faced sheep were as wild as mountain goats. He cradled the shivering newborn under his cloak as he hurried down the hill, all the while fending off its mother. He thrust the lamb into a heap of straw in the barn and dodged the ewe’s horns on the way out.

Back and forth he went until he’d found all six. By then he was muddy and sore from head-butts. I hate sheep, he thought as he slammed the barn door.

“Don’t forget to feed them,” called Father from the roof.

“I’ve already done it,” said Jack. Why couldn’t Father say, Six lambs? Well done! Why wasn’t he ever pleased?

Lucy sat under the ladder in spite of Father’s warnings. She was nestled in a sheepskin and looked, more than anything, like a fat bunny. She waved cheerfully, and Jack, in spite of his irritation, waved back. It was hard to get mad at Lucy.