Nancy Farmer - The Sea of Trolls

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.”