The Sea of Trolls

Chapter Twenty-one GOLDEN BRISTLES

The next day Jack learned that no matter how well treated he’d been at the feast, he was a thrall, would always be a thrall, and would always look like a thrall to anyone he met. At daybreak he was pulled roughly from his bed by Dirty Pants and marched over to the farm’s forge. There Dirty Pants hammered a slave collar into shape. The man forced the open ring around Jack’s neck and wrenched it shut with a pair of tongs. “I made it big so you’d have room to grow,” he commented. “You’re to muck out the pig barn. It’s that building near the apple trees.”

Jack stumbled from the forge, numb with despair. His throat hurt where Dirty Pants had bruised it. The collar was cold against his skin and too large to hide beneath his tunic.

He walked in a dark dream toward the distant building Dirty Pants had indicated. The life force seemed far away, and even the rune, nestled invisibly on his chest, took on a chill from the iron collar. A flock of crows rose from the pigsty. They circled, complaining loudly, before settling down. They had nothing to fear. It was only a thrall coming to muck out the barn.

One of the birds, finer and glossier than the rest, pranced along the edge of the roof. “Bold Heart!” called Jack. “Don’t you remember me? It’s Jack.” But the bird gazed at him coldly and made no move to come nearer.

Surely it was the same crow. He was missing a claw on his left foot. “I know it’s you, Bold Heart,” said the boy. “I called you out of the sky and saved your life. I told Lucy you came from the Islands of the Blessed, and maybe you do. You’re awfully clever.”

Jack stood on a bucket and tried to reach the edge of the roof. His fingers brushed the bird’s feathers. He flew away. Jack lost his balance and fell off. He saw the crow disappear into a tree, and though it was a small thing, the bird’s desertion was the last in a long line of terrible events. Jack curled up on the ground, sobbing wildly. “It’s true! It’s true! I’m only a thrall. Even the birds know it. I’m like Dirty Pants and Pig Face! Oh, I wish I’d drowned in the sea! At least then I could have walked to the Islands of the Blessed and found the Bard.” He was speaking in Saxon, which was unusual now. He used Northman all the time, except with Lucy.

Jack felt something pull his hair. He looked up and saw the crow bobbing and weaving. Bold Heart talked and talked in crow language, now keening, now warbling, dipping down to pull on Jack’s hair or tunic. He ruffled his feathers. He swayed back and forth. If Bold Heart had been a dog, Jack thought, he’d be rolling on his back in abject apology.

“It’s all right,” said Jack, sitting up to smooth the crow’s feathers. “I understand. You were off with your crow friends and forgot about me. It’s natural you like them better.”

The bird hopped onto Jack’s lap and leaned against his chest. His warbling dropped down to a murmur. He shivered.

“I wasn’t angry, you know. I was sad,” said the boy. “There’s a big difference. Who wouldn’t be sad with a horrible slave collar? But I can put up with it as long as I have a friend.” Bold Heart clacked his beak to show what he thought of slave collars. “Now I have to work,” said Jack. “I don’t know what they do to lazy thralls around here, but I’m sure it’s nasty. You can watch me if you like.” He found a rake leaning against the barn and went inside. Bold Heart followed, gliding to a roof beam. Three sows looked up expectantly.

As in Jack’s village, most of the animals foraged outside during summer. Pigs roamed wild in the forest to be brought down as game, but a few piglets were captured and tamed every spring. They were intelligent beings. They’d follow you everywhere and oink contentedly when you scratched them behind the ears. This is what made things difficult when fall arrived, for in fall all the pigs were slaughtered, except for a pregnant sow that would provide piglets for the Yuletide feast.

The sows crowded up to the railing. They were pale, athletic creatures with long legs, unlike the squat black-and-white pigs Jack was used to. Their ears stuck up alertly and their eyes sparkled with interest as they thrust their long snouts at him. They looked like they’d bowl him over in a second if he let his guard down.

“Look at all that muck.” Jack sighed. The sows were knee-deep in it. The stench made his eyes water and must have bothered the animals, for Jack knew swine were basically tidy creatures. They kept themselves neat and clean if at all possible. He saw a small, clean pen at the side and understood this was where the animals should go while he worked on their sty.

Jack went outside to find something to tempt them. To his surprise, he saw Pig Face, Dirty Pants, and Lump sitting on a fence. No doubt they were delighted to have a newcomer to boss around. They certainly hadn’t been doing their jobs lately. “Looking for fodder?” called Lump. Jack nodded. The man pointed at a stand of wild mustard.

“You’ll have to close the door to keep them from running when you switch pens,” said Pig Face. Jack gathered an armful of mustard and went back. The stench was enough to make a bird drop out of the sky. Jack saw that Bold Heart had sensibly positioned himself near a hole in the roof.

The only light came from that hole when the door was closed. The darkness made the barn somehow sinister. Indistinct shapes of farm equipment hung from the rafters and reminded Jack of the imps Father said lie in wait for wicked souls.

“I’m letting my imagination run away with me,” he scolded himself. “That’s a rope and that’s a scythe—I think—anyhow, something sharp. That’s a saw.” Jack climbed into the clean pen and dropped the mustard on the floor. The sows whuffled eagerly.

He found the gate between the two pens and opened it. The sows raced through, knocking him over in their eagerness. This part of the job was certainly easy. “Enjoy yourselves, ladies,” he said, laughing at their greed.

Bold Heart exploded off his perch, and Jack scrambled to his feet in alarm. He saw an enormous creature rise out of the muck in the farther pen. Filth streamed off its flanks as it sprang forward, mouth open, monster tusks aimed at his face. Jack tried to slam the gate, but the creature was too powerful. It barreled through, turned, and came for him.

Jack climbed the fence. He had only a second to make up his mind. He could leap into the muck on the other side—but the creature would only rush back—or he could jump for a roof beam. He jumped. Splinters pierced his hands as he struggled to pull himself up. He swung his leg over and balanced precariously with his arms and legs around the narrow beam.

What was that down below? Jack squinted into the gloom, and the creature raised its massive head and squealed. It was a giant boar! Even for a boar, he was bigger than any pig Jack had ever seen, and beneath the filth Jack saw a patch of golden hair. The animal would have been magnificent if he hadn’t been covered in muck. The creature screamed again, and Jack almost fell off the beam. He couldn’t hold this position for long. Slowly, carefully, he wriggled his body around until he was able to sit. He had to brace his hands against the roof to keep from tipping off. Now his backside hurt as well as his hands.

The boar squealed murderously as he paraded below. He reared up and gnashed his teeth. Where were the thralls? Jack thought. Didn’t they know he was in danger? Jack opened his mouth to yell when he heard another sound from outside.

Laughter. The thralls were laughing! They’d known about the boar and hadn’t warned him! In fact—Jack saw it now—there’d been no real reason to close the door. The two pens would have contained the pigs. But the darkness had been the point. The thralls knew the boar would be hiding in the muck and that he would be nearly invisible with the door closed.

“I’m such a fool,” moaned Jack. Yet how could he have imagined such malice? He’d never done anything to those men. They were all thralls together, and their enemy should be the one who’d enslaved them.

“Is he getting chomped?” said Dirty Pants.

“I hope so, the little weasel, sitting up there at the high table with his lordship,” said Pig Face.

“Maybe we should rescue him,” said Lump. “Him being a kid and all.”

“Naw, once Golden Bristles starts something, you have to let him finish,” said Dirty Pants. “Besides, we don’t want witnesses.”

“Suppose you’re right,” said Lump.

Golden Bristles must be the name of the boar, thought Jack. It was a glorious name, but there was nothing glorious about the beast in his current condition. He was so covered with black filth, his body seemed cased in a suit of armor.

Bold Heart warbled from his position by the hole in the roof.

“I can’t fit through there,” said Jack. “And I can’t fly to it like you can, old friend. I’ll have to wait till someone comes looking for me.” Even as he said it, Jack’s heart sank. His arms ached from the effort of keeping his position. How could he endure it for hours? And would anyone think to look for him?

Bold Heart warbled again. It was an unusually sweet sound for a crow, and Jack had never heard the like of it. “What are you telling me? What are you telling him?” For Jack now saw that Golden Bristles had raised his muzzle and was watching the bird closely. “You like that,” the boy said, wondering.

And then it came to him. Mother sang to calm the ewes and rams. She sang to the bees before taking their honey. She’d taught Jack this small magic, but it hadn’t seemed important to him. It was trivial compared with the knowledge the Bard had to impart.

Jack began with a charm to calm angry bees:

He went on with a lullaby to soothe newborn lambs and then, from somewhere, came a new song full of joy and life. He sang of the deep forest, of drifts of acorns under oaks, of dappled sunlight and wild leeks to unearth and savor. When he was finished, he felt light and happy, as though he himself had been running through the woods.

He looked down to see Golden Bristles grunting softly and gazing up at him with adoring eyes. The change in the brute was astounding. The sows, meanwhile, had finished their mustard and were snuffling about for more. They were soulless creatures, Jack decided. Not so Golden Bristles, who whuffled seductively. Plain as plain, the giant pig was saying, More.

So Jack sang another song, and all the while he edged along the rafter (thereby getting splinters in his backside) until he’d gone as far as possible. He wasn’t out of range yet, but he had a chance to run to the outer fence before Golden Bristles caught him.

Jack dropped to the floor. He fell wrong, and his feet slid out from under him. Instantly, he was back up, but Golden Bristles was faster. The boar bounded to the fence and stood between Jack and freedom.

The boy and the pig stared at each other. Then Golden Bristles came forward, panting and whuffling, his chin in the air, for all the world like a dog begging for attention. Carefully, Jack reached out and scratched the boar under the chin. Golden Bristles grunted.

“You’re an old softie,” Jack crooned as he did with the pigs back home. “You’d melt like butter if I did this.” He rubbed behind Golden Bristles’ ears. The boar’s eyes closed in ecstasy. “Well, well,” said Jack. “I think the thralls are in for a surprise.” He penned the sows and the boar into the clean sty and climbed out to open the barn door.

Pig Face, Dirty Pants, and Lump leaped back.

“You were singing,” said Dirty Pants. “What was that about?”

“You ain’t chomped,” said Pig Face disappointedly.

“No, I’m not.” Jack stood before them proudly, his hands on his hips.

“But I heard Golden Bristles scream,” muttered Pig Face.

Jack was seething with rage, but he didn’t intend to show it. He had other plans.

The thralls galumphed inside. “Hoo! It’s foul,” commented Lump.

“Not my fault,” said Pig Face. “The boar’s too fond of human meat by half. He’s a troll-boar. I’m not getting close to him.”

“You will if Olaf tells you,” said Dirty Pants.

“That’s what the new boy’s for. Hey, boy! Come in here. You haven’t done your job.”

Jack went in and deliberately leaned over the fence. Golden Bristles trotted to him and lifted his chin to be scratched. “Gooood piggy,” Jack crooned. The thralls’ eyes almost dropped out of their heads.

“Seiðer,” murmured Dirty Pants. “That’s what the singing was about.”

“So that’s why Heide was interested in him,” Lump whispered.

“This is skald’s magic, not seiðer,” announced Jack, who wasn’t entirely sure about it. “I’m a skald. I do not clean out pigsties.” He handed the rake to Lump, who took it automatically. “If you annoy me, I’ll make you come up in boils. If you try to hurt me, I’ll drive you insane—or worse!”

The thralls looked stunned. It was clear they were trying to figure out what “worse” could mean. “If I tell Olaf what you’ve just done, he’ll chop you into little bits.” The thralls’ white faces told Jack that this threat, at least, was entirely believable. “Now I’m going to the great hall for breakfast. I expect you to have the barn cleaned out by nightfall. And throw a few buckets of water over Golden Bristles. He’s not happy about being covered with muck.”

Jack strode out as if he were the captain of a drekar. He didn’t look back. He had little enough going for him in this horrible land. If he could bully the thralls into fearing him, so much the better. He owed them nothing.

Once out of sight, Jack collapsed under a hedge, and the terror of his near destruction came over him. He trembled and tears leaked down his face. Why were so many people out to get him? How could he possibly survive so many enemies? He looked up to see Bold Heart chuckling to himself nearby. “I have at least one true friend,” Jack said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “And maybe I have two, if you can count Golden Bristles.”

Jack dug the splinters out of his hands while he calmed his nerves. He heard curses and shouts from the pig barn, so perhaps Golden Bristles wasn’t being such a good piggy anymore. This cheered Jack up considerably, and he sauntered to the great hall in a happier mood. Bold Heart followed him the whole way, not going off with the other crows as he had done before.