The Sea of Trolls - Farmer Nancy - Страница 32

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Jack stuck his tongue out at her as she stumbled, weeping noisily, to the stern.

“You”—Olaf’s big hand yanked him up—“can stop baiting her. I’ll have order on this ship or you’ll both be picking your teeth off the deck.” He carried the boy to the mast and tied him by the neck next to Cloud Mane.

For the rest of that day Jack sat glumly with a rope around his neck. He wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve and felt his body for bruises. One of his teeth was loose. Lucy wasn’t allowed to talk to him.

Being punished was nothing new in Jack’s life. Being tethered like a horse was. He felt the shame of it deeply. “It’s all right for you,” Jack told Cloud Mane. “You aren’t smart enough to feel insulted. You think everything’s fine as long as you get your oats.”

Cloud Mane gazed at Jack with dark eyes. He twitched his nostrils as though he smelled something bad.

“None of us have had baths, so don’t take it out on me,” grumbled Jack as the ship sailed east along the coast.

The next morning they met the first evidence that they were close to King Ivar’s country. A fat, heavy-bodied ship hailed Olaf and Egil as it passed. Jack, who had been released from the mast, leaned over the side to watch. The ship was piled high with dried fish. The men who rowed it, while sturdy, did not have the lean, dangerous look of Olaf’s crew.

“That’s a knorr,” explained Olaf. “We call it that because the timbers creak the whole time it’s at sea— knorr, knorr, knorr.It takes getting used to, but the men who sail them say it’s music. There’s a tolfaeringr,or a twelve-oared craft. Ptoo!” Olaf spat over the side in the direction of a small but quite respectable ship. “Fit only for babies, in my opinion. That one’s probably looking for herring. See the nets?”

Jack nodded. “What’s our boat called?”

“A karfi,” said Olaf, pleased. He patted Jack on the back and woke up all the bruises Thorgil had inflicted. “It’s long, it’s lean, it’s fast. Best of all, it can go up a river and be pulled out on the sand. Perfect for raids.”

“And that?” Jack pointed at a huge craft making its way along the coast ahead of them. Its sail was blood red and its oars almost uncountable. They stroked the waves in unison, flashing a bright spray from the water. The sleek lines of the ship were almost unearthly in their perfection. Jack turned to see a look of hopeless longing on Olaf One-Brow’s face. He seemed almost sick.

“That’s a drekar,a dragon ship.”

And Jack saw that the prow was raised in a graceful curve to form a dragon’s head.

“It’s called Stricter.It belongs to King Ivar.” All the smiles were gone from Olaf’s face. Jack eased himself away, though he had little room to escape. He was confined to the prow of the ship as Thorgil was to the stern. “I’m notpulling into port behind that drekar!” Olaf shouted. “I will not be overshadowed by that joyriding weakling! I’mthe one who’s supposed to come home in glory! Ibraved the danger, not that—that—”

“Boneless one,” finished Sven, and got a blow for his effort.

“When was the last time he did anything dangerous except run his fingers through Frith’s hair!” The giant stormed down the ship, aiming blows in all directions. Everyone hunched down as far as possible. Finally—his rage somewhat eased—Olaf gave orders to pull into a small bay. Egil Long-Spear’s boat followed.

The giant brooded by a campfire all afternoon. At nightfall Jack, at Rune’s urging, sang the opening of his praise-song:

“Stop!” cried Olaf, blushing like a youth. “I don’t want to open my presents before the party.” He poked in the flames with his spear. “It’s a lovely beginning, though.”

Jack and Rune exchanged glances. Egil, who’d been tiptoeing around all afternoon, smiled at them.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” said the giant.

“Oh, yes,” said Jack.

“Lots more,” Rune wheezed.

“It wouldn’t hurt to hear a different poem,” Olaf said, so Jack sang the tale of Beowulf and his battle with Grendel. It was perhaps not the wisest choice, but it cheered up Olaf.

“I assume Dragon Tongue made that,” he said. “I can tell it wasn’t written in our language.”

“I translated it,” said Jack.

“And didn’t do too bad a job,” whispered Rune. “You used the wrong words for ‘melancholy’ and ‘croaking toads’.”

“Poor Dragon Tongue,” said Egil. “Frith would never have known who killed her sister if he hadn’t bragged about it. He never knew when to keep his mouth shut.”

“At least he had the courage to stand up to her,” growled Olaf.

Jack was surprised. These men seemed to have liked the Bard. They certainly weren’t fond of the queen. “If Frith—I mean, the queen—is a half-troll,” he began, working out the idea, “can she tell when people don’t like her?”

A chill seemed to descend over the campfire. “If you mean, can she read minds,” said Olaf, “the answer is no. Half-trolls are very different from either of their parents. They are—what would you say?”

“An abomination,” said Egil.

“Jotuns are honest folk. They’re stupid, crude, and ugly—”

“Veryugly,” said Egil.

“—but they’re decent in their way. Why, I’d live next to a troll if the ground rules were worked out,” said Olaf.

“A half-troll is a shape-shifter,” whispered Rune. “It has no hold on reality. It hates everything.”

“So… can Frith lie?” said Jack.

“Frith doesn’t know the meaning of truth or any other virtue,” Olaf said. “Now listen to me, boy, and listen well. We can speak of her here, but when we come to the palace, you must hold your tongue. And keep your pet crow out of sight. She hates crows. She thinks they carry tales about her to Odin.”

“We honor Ivar for the man he was, but he’s let the kingdom go to ruin,” said Egil.

Jack was asked for another tale to round out the evening. He hadn’t translated any more poems, so he gave them one of Father’s bedtime stories. The martyrdom of Saint Lawrence was a huge hit with the Northmen. “Saint Lawrence was roasted over a slow fire,” Jack told the ring of enthralled warriors. “The pagans stuck garlic cloves between his toes and basted him all over like a chicken.”

“Sounds like troll work to me,” said Olaf.

“What arepagans, anyhow?” said Sven the Vengeful.

When Jack got to the part where Saint Lawrence said, I think I’m done. You may eat me when you will,the listeners all cheered.

“Now that’sa warrior,” said Egil Long-Spear. “A man like that would go straight to Valhalla.”

“I think he went to the Christian Heaven,” said Jack.

“If there are people like that in Heaven, I might just become Christian,” declared Olaf.

All in all it was a successful evening.

The next day was spent in camp. Everyone bathed in the sea and combed his hair for the big homecoming. Jack took Lucy to a private beach. Her original dress, sewn with such care by Mother, was in rags. Olaf had given her a new and beautifully embroidered frock.

Jack felt strange when he picked it up. It was as though the original maker had left something of herself behind. It hung like faint music in the air. “Ooh! That’s nice!” cried Lucy, grabbing it. She discarded Mother’s dress without a second glance. Well, she wasvery young, thought Jack. He buried Mother’s dress high above the shore, where the tide would not reach it.

Thorgil bathed behind a rock, using a bar of soap she had looted from a Saxon village. She dried her hair in the sunlight, and Jack was surprised to see how golden it was. She was almost as pretty as Lucy. But then she yelled a string of curses at him and spoiled the effect.

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