The Sea of Trolls

Chapter Forty FREYA’S FEN

“If you’re going to be a skald, you must look the part,” said Rune, stepping back to observe Jack’s white robe. It was Rune’s own, shortened to fit the boy. A message had been sent to King Ivar the week before, but no welcome had been issued until today. Tonight was the full moon, and tomorrow was the day set forth for Freya’s sacrifice.

Jack was deeply worried by the delay, but he could do nothing about it. No one, apparently, entered Frith’s presence without permission. You’d think she’d be anxious to get her hair back, he thought. But she probably enjoys making me suffer.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he said, belting the robe to keep it on. It was still too large. He knew real bards were old, fierce, and scary. Jack didn’t feel scary. Scared was more like it.

“Shh. You have to start somewhere. Frith is going to be difficult, and you’ll need to impress her. Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“No,” Jack said miserably.

“It will come to you,” Rune said.

Thorgil sat by the door, tapping her foot with impatience. She was dressed in her wolverine coat from Jotunheim. Her boots had been brushed and her sword polished. She was even clean, having been dragged to the sauna that afternoon.

“I’m going with you,” said Heide.

“Is that a good idea?” said Rune.

“Perhaps not, but it will be interesting,” said the woman. “I make Frith nervousss, which may be worth a great deal.” Heide was dressed in a dark blue robe embroidered with birds and fish. Her hair was braided in two loops on either side of her head. They looked like the horns of some fantastic animal. She wore a necklace of silver charms—eyes, legs, and other body parts. She made Jack nervous too.

“Come on,” said Thorgil. Bold Heart had chosen to ride on her shoulder. Jack felt slightly jealous, but he had bigger worries than a faithless bird. He grasped his staff and followed Rune out the door.

Night wasn’t far off. The evening chorus of birds had begun, and long shafts of golden light crossed their path. The harvest moon had already risen. It was almost as large as a Jotunheim moon, Jack thought, as he glimpsed it between the trees. An owl hooted—wuh-huh-huh—but it was a small, brown bird, not something that could carry you off.

Skakki led the way as head of the house. Thorgil and Heide followed, chatting like the best of friends. Thorgil had calmed down since leaving Jotunheim, but she still exclaimed over marvels she had surely seen many times. Heide listened patiently. Now and then the wise woman explained how a flower could be used or what had made that form in the grass.

Jack was having trouble walking because he wasn’t used to robes. “Wait,” said Rune when they passed an oak tree.

The old warrior cut off a long, thin branch. This he twisted into a kind of crown and set it on Jack’s head. “Dragon Tongue used to wear oak leaves when he was about to work magic. I don’t know why.”

I don’t either, thought Jack. Work magic? Half of what he did was an accident. The other half went out of control. I’m not a bard. I’m a twelve-year-old farm brat. The most important job I ever had at home was mucking out the barn.

“You’re quite remarkable,” said Rune quietly, as though he could see into Jack’s mind. They’d fallen behind the others. Jack could hear Thorgil warbling about a speckled toadstool and Heide’s low voice explaining how poisonous it was. “First you impressed Dragon Tongue, then Olaf—and Olaf wasn’t the most perceptive of men,” Rune said. “You went on a quest through Jotunheim and came out the other end alive. You survived a troll-bear and a dragon. You made friends with the Mountain Queen. You drank from Mimir’s Well, and you outwitted a giant spider. Many warriors would give their sword arm for such a record.”

“Please,” said Jack, blushing. “I’m nothing special. I’m just a farm brat dressed up in fancy clothes.”

“Listen to me and listen well: One of the first things you learn when you become a skald is that you must not lie.”

“But I’m not lying.” Jack was startled by Rune’s sudden anger.

“Your power depends on knowing what you are, both bad and good. Now, everything I’ve said about you is true. Deny it and—well, you might as well spit into Mimir’s Well.” The old warrior strode ahead and joined the others.

Jack followed, bewildered by what had just happened. He was a farm brat. But he was also everything Rune had said. To deny his achievements did seem to be a form of lying. I guess… I guess I’m kind of heroic. Jack walked along, deep in thought.

The sun had set by the time they emerged from the forest. King Ivar’s hall was lit from within and without, for they were expected. A crowd of curious people had gathered to see how Jack would restore Frith’s hair to her. They moved aside, respectfully, and Jack heard a woman say, “Doesn’t he look impressive? He’s a real skald from across the sea. Trained by Dragon Tongue. I wish we could get our Egil to pay attention to music.”

“Egil’s about as tuneful as Freya’s cats,” said her husband resignedly.

Jack straightened up. He was a skald from across the sea. He was Dragon Tongue’s heir. Giant spiders swooned when he played.

The inside of King Ivar’s hall was a shock. Filthy straw covered the floor. Bones from old feasts lay everywhere, and someone had vomited in a corner. No one had bothered to clean it up. Fleas pattered against Jack’s legs as he walked, and over all hung a dank, sour smell. Bold Heart gripped Thorgil’s shoulder a little tighter.

At the far end the king sat on his throne, looking bloated and sick. His beard was matted, and his clothes were speckled with grease. Next to him Queen Frith glowered at the visitors. She looked worse than last time—lumpier and less wholesome. She didn’t even have the honest ugliness of a troll.

Good heavens. Have they been sitting here the whole time? Jack thought. It seemed they’d been perched there for weeks, waiting for his return. The priests of Freya and Odin stood at their side. They looked as though they couldn’t wait to flee the room.

“The quest has been fulfilled,” said Rune.

Ivar looked up. His eyes were almost buried in puffy flesh. “Really? That’s nice. Did you hear that, my troll-flower? The boy has returned. Now you can have your pretty hair back.”

“About time,” said the queen in a nasty, whining voice. “Get up here and fix me!”

“Remember the conditions we agreed on,” said Rune.

“Yes, yes. The bribe. The boy and his sister go free.”

“And must be returned home,” said Rune.

“I know what we agreed on. You took your sweet time in Jotunheim. Now get off your backside and work magic.”

Jack stepped forward, staff in hand. He felt a faint warmth in the blackened wood. “Where’s Lucy?” he said.

“Who? I don’t know any Lucy.” The queen sagged over her chair like a steamed pudding in its bag.

“The thrall I gave you,” said Thorgil, moving to stand by Jack. She had her hand on her sword. Jack hoped she wouldn’t draw it, or at least not yet.

“Oh, that. She was such a disappointment. Wouldn’t talk or look at me. All she did was moan.”

“Where is she?” cried Jack. He felt the staff thrum with power. He knew he could draw fire from the earth without any effort now. Rage drew it forth.

Thorgil put her hand on his arm. “Great Queen, the child was part of the conditions. Without her, there will be no healing.” That was an exceedingly brave thing for Thorgil to do. You didn’t say no to a half-troll shape-shifter if you wanted to stay healthy. Frith loomed out of her chair with the shadows boiling up behind her.

“She’s in Freya’s cart,” Freya’s priest said quickly. “She’s been there a long time, waiting for the sacrifice.”

“Then I must go to her,” said Heide. For the first time Frith noticed the wise woman’s presence.

“You! Hel hag!” she spat out. “What are you doing in my fine hall with your nasty spells and witchcraft?”

“Trying to keep my skirts clean,” said Heide. The birds and fish on her robe glowed, and her eyes were dark and dangerous.

“Get out! And take that croaking spy of Odin’s with you!”

“Gladly,” said Heide, holding out her arm for Bold Heart. “You should pray the girl is well,” she added in her smoky voice. “I would not wishhh to be youuu if she isn’t.”

“Get out! Get out!” shrieked Frith. She began throwing things around—a goblet, plates, a footstool.

“Now, now, my little troll-flower,” said King Ivar.

“Where’s your old hair?” said Jack, feeling he should take charge of the situation. “I’ll need it if I’m going to undo the charm.”

“There!” screamed Frith. She kicked a basket at him. It rolled, and a disgusting sludge dribbled out the side.

“That doesn’t look like hair,” Thorgil said.

“It isn’t! It went bad after you left! My mother made it, and it’s turned to slime. Typical of her stupid enchantments!” Frith was so beside herself, she could hardly breathe.

“Then I’ll—I’ll have to find a substitute,” Jack said. He’d had some idea of singing her old hair back, but that was clearly impossible now. What to do? What to do? he thought. Panic threatened to swamp his mind. Tonight was the harvest moon and tomorrow was the sacrifice to Freya.

Lucy would be drawn to Freya’s Meadow, the site of the sacrificial ceremony, by the cats. There she would be garlanded and presented with a little image of the goddess. Then her hands would be tied to the cart. The priest would push it into the mist-shrouded fen to float, but ultimately to sink beneath its dark waters.

Jack took a deep breath. In his mind’s eye he saw the sacred meadow with the full moon overhead. And then he knew what to say.

“This is how your beauty will be restored,” he cried. Rune, Skakki, and Thorgil flinched. They turned to him in amazement. Jack knew he sounded different. His voice filled the hall, and he could see fear in the eyes of his friends and King Ivar. He was no longer a mere boy, but an agent of the Norns. They spoke through him from their haunt by Mimir’s Well.

“You will cut hair from Freya’s cats—not too much. Take a third and leave the rest for the cats to keep themselves warm. Go to Freya’s Meadow and lay out a white cloth to catch the moonlight. Over this you must place the hair and lie down upon it. When the moon is at zenith, your beauty will be restored.”

Jack gazed at Frith in the smoky light of the fish-oil lamps. He felt no fear. He felt no hate, only a calm assurance of the truth of what he had said. Frith had turned pale.

“You look like—” She stopped, seeming to gather her thoughts. “My mother used to host a chess game with someone like you.” She shook her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll try your little trick. If it doesn’t work, I can still sacrifice your sister.” She strode over to King Ivar, who was watching Jack with his mouth open. “Wake up, you weakling!” Frith screamed. “Call your warriors! Tell them to bring me my cats!”

Moments later Ivar’s warriors dragged in the cats on leashes. They had bound their feet and mouths, but the cats managed to get free. They bit and scratched and yowled and hissed. The men yelled and swore and shaved. Under Frith’s orders, they shaved off every bit of the beautiful red-gold hair from the beasts until they had a bag bulging with fur and nine absolutely maddened and naked cats.

“Now I know where those things come from,” Jack remarked to Thorgil, who was relishing every minute of the animals’ humiliation. “Jotunheim. They’re troll-cats.”

“Troll-rats, from the look of them,” said Thorgil.

“Oh, my, my, my,” groaned Freya’s priest. “She’s taken all their fur. They’ll never forgive me.”

“I want him and her with me at the meadow,” commanded Frith, pointing at Jack and Thorgil. “And bring Freya’s cart. If anything goes wrong, I want the boy to see his sister die!”

“No wonder the Mountain Queen threw her out,” muttered Thorgil as she and Jack were herded through the forest by Ivar’s warriors. Skakki and Rune had been forced to stay behind.

“I wish she’d married Frith to an ogre,” Jack said.

“Even ogres are picky.”

Behind them the cart rumbled along the forest road. Jack badly wanted to see how Lucy was, but the warriors stopped him. He caught only a glimpse of her in Heide’s arms. The cats pulling the cart were pale in the moonlight. They were in a towering rage and raked their claws at anyone who got near.

Behind them came Frith with a group of house-thralls and King Ivar. He was so infirm, he could barely walk and had to lean on two of his men.

Wuh-huh-huh went the little brown owls in the trees. A lynx screamed in the distance. The cool, green smells of the forest filled the night, and the road was brilliant with the full moon.

They came to a clearing covered in white flowers—Freya’s Meadow. It was like a mass of stars fallen to earth, and beyond, where the meadow ended, stunted trees rose over peat bog and black water. That was Freya’s Fen.

The cart was pulled to the edge of the meadow. Four of Frith’s house-thralls laid a white cloth over the flowers. Two more scattered the red-gold fur on top, but it looked black in the moonlight. The cats hissed and spat when they saw it.

“They’ll never forgive me,” mourned the priest of Freya.

“Shut up or I’ll have your tongue!” shouted Frith.

A murmur rose from among the warriors. “She’d attack a priest?” one of them whispered.

“Shut up or I’ll have all your tongues! All of you get back into the trees—not too far. The boy and Thorgil are to stay here.” The Northmen withdrew, half carrying King Ivar, whose feet were swollen from the walk.

The house-thralls then disrobed Frith. Jack closed his eyes, but Thorgil nudged him. “You want to see this. It’s interesting,” she said.

And it was. Horrible, but interesting. Frith’s body was white under the harvest moon, and her skin looked soft, like a fungus growing on spoiled meat. It kept reshaping itself with bulges and puckers and seams, never quite human and never quite troll. Scales formed on her arms and flaked off. Her toes splayed out, six or seven on each foot, before shrinking to normal human size. Altogether it was disturbing to watch.

The house-thralls folded her clothes at the edge of the meadow. On top glinted the necklace of silver leaves that Thorgil had so coveted and that she had been forced to give up. Jack saw Thorgil’s hand tighten on her sword.

“Don’t even think of attacking me, shield maiden,” came Frith’s cold voice. “You’re ringed with warriors. One move and I’ll have your sword hand cut off. How would you like that? Forever disabled and never to fight in battle again.”

Jack heard the girl’s teeth grind. In the old days she would have attacked and to Hel with the consequences. Mimir’s Well had taught her patience.

Frith sent her thralls away, and now there was only her, Jack, and Thorgil in the center of the meadow. The moon was almost at zenith. Frith lay down on the fur, and it rustled softly under her weight. There was so much of it from nine, huge, long-haired troll-cats. Frith would surely have hair that would be the wonder of Middle Earth.

Slowly, the moon crept up until it was overhead. A loon called from the fen, and something splashed. Wavelets lapped against the far edge of the meadow. “Look,” whispered Thorgil.

Here, there, all over the white cloth the fur began to move. Strands joined together, making long tresses. They writhed and rustled up to Frith’s head and attached themselves. Soon she was lying in a bed of long, beautiful hair, and now she herself began to change. Her body lengthened and thinned. Her face became heart-shaped, the kind of face that made kings throw away their crowns. Jack understood why Ivar had fallen in love with her. Even Freya could not be more fair.

But the fur kept on rustling. Frith had been told to take a third, and she had taken all. The rest crept over her body and then her face. Frith seemed hypnotized or else unaware of what was happening. She stared up at the moon as more and more and more fur covered her until she was as hairy as a wild beast. Her body changed again to something large and shaggy that had never been seen before.

She put her hand to her face and screamed. It was a savage cry with nothing human in it, and nothing troll, either. Frith sprang to her feet and tore the white cloth as easily as you might tear a gossamer web in early-morning dew. She ripped it to shreds, all the while screaming and shrieking. There were no words in her speech. Perhaps she was incapable of them in her new form. Then she reared up and bellowed her rage at the moon.

Jack dashed to the cart to free Lucy and Heide. The warriors had come back, but seeing Frith’s new shape, they halted under the trees. The cats had gone berserk. They bared their teeth and yowled ferociously. The hair would have stood straight up on their backs, if they’d had any. Thorgil drew her sword and slashed their leashes.

They sprang into the meadow. Frith immediately saw her danger and fled. She bounded into the fen, still screaming, with the nine cats in pursuit. Jack heard their feet splashing and their cries disappearing in the distance.

There were safe places to walk through the fen, Rune said, if you knew where. Perhaps Frith and her pursuers knew. Perhaps not.

“Oh, Jack,” Thorgil said, collapsing against the cart with a sigh. “That was the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done!”

And the priest of Freya walked up and down the edge of the fen, calling, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”