The Sea of Trolls

Chapter Six THE WOLF-HEADED MEN

Jack crept closer to the fire. The driftwood burned green and blue, as driftwood did when it had been at sea a long time. The Bard pulled a goatskin bag from a peg. He took a hearty drink and offered it to Jack. The apple cider was warm from being close to the fire. It reminded Jack of the sunlight that had ripened the apples.

“I didn’t know who Frothi was until later,” the Bard said. “I only knew that a foul monster lived at the bottom of the swamp. Beowulf blew his horn to call her forth to battle. ‘Coward!’ he shouted. But the water only quivered. Nothing stirred, not in the swamp, the trees, or the mountains. ‘If she will not come to me, I shall go to her,’ he announced.

“Beowulf was a fine man,” said the Bard, “but he wasn’t overly furnished with brains. That’s the way it is with great warriors. They’ll rush out to fight a dragon ten times their size. Sometimes they’ll even win, but most of the time the dragon winds up picking its teeth with the sword.

“‘Beowulf,’ I said, ‘you’re going to sink like a stone with all that armor. And what are you planning to use for air down there?’

“‘I care not! This battle will win me fame or death,’ he bellowed.

“‘Old friend,’ I said, ‘let’s not start thinking about death. I think I can help you.’ I sang him a charm for the swiftness of a trout, the suppleness of an eel. I made his sword shine, to light his way in the dark swamp. I gave him the ability to breathe under water.”

“You can do all that?” Jack cried.

“For a short while. I can only bend the laws of the world, not change them.”

Jack was wildly excited. Up till now the Bard had only hinted at the magic he could accomplish. If the old man could do such wonderful things, couldn’t he—wouldn’t he—teach his apprentice how?

“Beowulf plunged into the swamp. The darkness swallowed him, and with it came silence. The toads stopped croaking. The wind died. All seemed to be watching and waiting. ‘Hurry,’ I thought. Beowulf had only a short time to carry out his mission. If he took too long, the charm would wear off and he would drown.

“But the silence went on and on, broken only by small wavelets breaking on the shore of the swamp. Hrothgar and his men began to lament. ‘Poor Beowulf! He was like a son to me,’ wailed the king. ‘We shall honor his memory and sing his praises around the fire.’ Then they gathered their weapons, climbed onto their horses, and rode home.

“I couldn’t believe it. They were slinking off like hounds with their tails between their legs. I’d never seen such a pack of quitters. I vowed I would sing no more praise-songs about Hrothgar.”

“What happened to Beowulf, sir?” Jack said.

“Ah! I was forgetting. ‘What to do, what to do?’ I thought. I had no sword. I had nothing but my brain—no small weapon, I might add. I had to get down to the bottom of the swamp and find out what was keeping our hero. So I cast my spirit into the body of a pike.”

“You turned into a fish?” Jack said.

“No, no. I merely borrowed one. My spirit found a bad-tempered old pike and traded places with him. That’s a dangerous trick, lad. The longer you’re in an animal’s body, the more you forget about being human. Some apprentice bards never made it out of their animals during exam week.”

“What about Beowulf?” Jack asked patiently.

“I dived to the bottom of the swamp, and there I found a lofty hall with pillars and a roof so strong that it held up the water. Some magic kept the air inside. By then Beowulf’s charm had worn off, but he no longer needed to breathe under water. I, however, was stuck in the body of a fish.

“A fire blazed in a hearth. By its light I could see Beowulf standing as though he’d been turned to stone. His sword had fallen out of his hand. His mouth gaped open. Before him was the most beautiful woman I had even seen.”

“Frothi,” whispered Jack.

“She was watching him like a cat watching a tasty pigeon. Beowulf was enchanted by her beauty. It never occurred to him that finding a lady at the bottom of a swamp was, well, somewhat odd.”

“Couldn’t you warn him?” cried Jack.

“I was a pike, remember? I was in the water. Frothi stroked Beowulf’s face, as a cat might play with a helpless mouse. And then I knew what I was seeing. This was no woman. No human could have torn down Hrothgar’s door and burst the iron bars asunder. I was looking at a half-troll.

“Such creatures have a foot in each world. They can shift from one form to the other. At the moment Frothi was human. Soon she would change to her troll form and crush the life out of Beowulf.

“She reached toward him, and I knew what I had to do. I threw myself into the hall, wriggled across the floor to Frothi’s feet, and sank my teeth into her ankle.

“She screamed. Her concentration was broken. She turned into a giant troll with arms and legs like tree trunks. Beowulf sprang back with a shout. He grabbed his sword, and the battle began. I won’t bore you with the details. It went on as such battles do, with slashes and curses and bones crunching and blood everywhere. Beowulf eventually landed the fatal blow, but I was too busy wriggling back to the water before my host died.

“Up to the surface I sped and regained my body. Not long after, Beowulf climbed out, pleased as punch. I, of course, told him about my clever trick, and he, of course, thanked me. He had excellent manners. But I should have kept my mouth shut.” The Bard sighed.

The fire had burned down. Jack dragged over a log and settled it carefully so the sparks wouldn’t fly up and set the thatch on fire. He was so excited, he wanted to run around the house five times. The Bard really could do magic! In time Jack would do it too. What animal shall I be? he thought. A hawk so I can see the whole village? Or a seal so I can catch fish? Wait! Wouldn’t it be great to be a bear and scare the stuffing out of the blacksmith’s son?

“If you’re quite finished wool-gathering, I’ll finish the story,” said the Bard.

“Sorry, sir.” Jack sat down.

“The tale of Beowulf’s victory went everywhere—helped, I might add, by the excellent poem I wrote about it. Eventually, it got to Jotunheim, the kingdom of the trolls.”

“Uh-oh,” said Jack.

“Frothi had a sister.”

“Frith?” Jack guessed.

“I’m afraid so. Many years had passed, but Frith had never given up her thirst for revenge for her sister’s death. She sent a fire-breathing dragon to destroy Beowulf’s land. Jotuns are long-lived, and Frith was hardly past her youth, but Beowulf was an old man. The battle was too much for him and he died.”

That’s the problem with stories going on too long, Jack thought. Sooner or later you get to a bad part. When he, Jack, became a bard, he’d stop talking while everyone was still happy.

“By then I was working at the court of Ivar the Boneless. Don’t scowl, lad,” said the old man. “Bards have to work like everyone else. Ivar wasn’t so bad in those days. He was your usual pea-brained bully, but he had a sense of honor. Not after Frith got hold of him, though. She was as beautiful as a ship under full sail. An illusion, of course. She got hold of him, sucked the marrow out of him, and turned him into the half-mad tyrant he is today. Probably the last decent thing he did was save my life.”

“That’s when you came to us,” Jack said.

“Indeed it was. Ivar took me out in his ship and put me adrift in a flimsy coracle. Perhaps he thought I would drown. I’m sure he told Frith that. But I like to think he gave me a chance to survive.”

“I’m so glad you came here,” Jack said in a burst of gratitude.

“I am too.” The Bard took down his harp and played a tune the villagers danced to at summer fairs. It made the firelight flicker on the walls of the Roman house. The painted birds spread their wings and swayed from side to side.

The harp was carved from the breastbone of a whale. After a while the old man played something grander and more sad. Jack wondered if the long-dead whale was remembering its life and whether the music came from the Bard or from the sea.

Jack ran along the shore, stopping once as a wave washed over his feet. The March sky was blue, the air filled with the cries of migrating birds. He was headed toward a line of rocks. With the tide out, he had an excellent chance to gather whelks. His collecting bag was slung over his shoulder. He had spent over a year as the Bard’s apprentice and now felt he had earned this chance to play.

He reached the rocks and flopped down to catch his breath. “What a beautiful day,” he said to no one in particular. The air was soft with spring, and sunlight polished the seaweed tossing at the edge of the waves. Jack lay back against a sand dune and watched a line of geese pass overhead. He could call them down. He could even—but wouldn’t dare—kill one for dinner. The Bard said using the life force in that way was evil.

The winter had been so cold, and the Bard had driven him for such long hours, even Father had been pleased. Today was the first time Jack had managed to get away. He was supposed to gather whelks and sea tangle. If there was time, he was to practice calling up fog.

“I… really… hate fog,” Jack said as he gazed up at the sky. After a while he felt guilty and got up. He shaded his eyes. There was something out at sea. It was small, almost hidden in the vastness. At first Jack thought it was a bird, but as the waves brought it closer he saw it was a box.

Perhaps it contained treasure. Perhaps it carried a ring that could grant three wishes or a cap that made you invisible.

Jack tore off his clothes and plunged into the water. He was a good swimmer. He raised his head between strokes to keep track of the box’s location, and soon he had it.

Back on shore he eagerly studied it. It was locked, although water sloshed when it was shaken. On five sides it was plain. On the sixth was a carving of a man.

Or at least Jack thought it was a man. The stocky creature had legs and shoes. It carried a sword. But its body was covered with hair and the head was that of a wolf.

The boy shivered. The box smelled—not rotten, exactly, but strange. Sweet and bitter at the same time. He had intended to bash it open with a rock. Now he thought it wiser to consult the Bard. Jack quickly gathered the whelks and hurried home.

The old man took one look at the box and rushed outside to the edge of the cliff. He gazed at the sea. “It has come,” he murmured.

“What has come? What’s the matter?” cried Jack.

“I can’t see them, but I know they’re out there. They’re smashing… and burning… and spreading death like a red tide.”

“Please, sir! Tell me what’s happening.”

The Bard turned over the box. Water dripped out of a small crack. “I hoped never to smell this again,” he said. He pressed the wood in various places until it made a small snap. The carving of the wolf/man slid out. Beneath was a mat of dark green leaves. The Bard drained off the seawater. “That, my lad, is bog myrtle.”

Jack was deeply disappointed. He had hoped for magic.

“And that”—the Bard tapped the lid—“is the fellow who owns it.”

“Is he a Jotun?” asked Jack.

“Jotuns aren’t our immediate problem. This fellow is a berserker, and from the condition of the box, I’d say he’s not far away.”

Jack followed the Bard into the house, wishing the old man would explain things more clearly. “Is a berserker a man or a wolf?”

“A very good question,” said the Bard. “Most of the time they’re men, but when they make a drink of this plant, they become as frenzied as mad dogs. They bite holes in their shields. They run barefooted over jagged rocks without feeling it. Neither fire nor steel can stop them. They believe themselves to be wolves or bears then. My observation is that they’re merely nasty, dim-witted thugs. They’re just as dangerous, though.

“Somewhere, not far from here, a pack of them has landed. Run and warn the village, lad. Tell the men I’m coming. Tell them to send their loved ones into the forest and to gather axes, hoes, whatever can be used for weapons. They will need them soon.”