Lucy slept till afternoon and came down in a rotten mood. Mother gave her breakfast and Father told her a story, but her sulks didn’t lift for hours. No one talked about what had happened the night before.
Chapter Three
WASSAIL
“Fine weather,” said Giles Crookleg, gazing up at the bright blue sky. The sun blazed along the icicles on the roof.
“Perfect,” agreed Jack. He picked up a birch rod and a skin bag full of cider. Father already had his. Their feet crackled the icy covering of the road as they set out for the village. Jack saw crows sliding down a small, snowy hill, exactly like boys on sleds. They landed with a
Apple tree, apple tree,
Bear good fruit!
Or down with your top
And up with your root!
“It’s not wise to threaten powers you don’t understand,” the Bard remarked, placing cider-soaked bread in the branches. The blacksmith belched thunderously and staggered off. “I’m glad this is the last of it,” the old man said to Jack. “You’d think I’d be used to drunks, living with Northmen so long, but they still irritate me. And speaking of irritation, we have yet to discuss what happened during the need-fire ceremony.”
“Yes, I see you understand what I’m talking about. You knew as well as Giles that Lucy had that necklace.”
“I did try to stop her, sir, but Father—”
“You’re thirteen years old,” the Bard said sternly. “In the Northman lands you’d be considered an adult.”
“Father doesn’t think so.”
“Well, I do. You’ve fought by the side of Olaf One-Brow. You’ve been to the hall of the Mountain Queen, seen Norns, and drunk from Mimir’s Well. You vanquished Frith Half-Troll, something even I was unable to do. How much more growing up do you need?”
Jack wanted to say,
“The Northmen won’t be back, will they?” Jack hoped he didn’t sound as appalled as he felt inside.
“Nothing so trivial as that,” said the old man. “I’m speaking of something that will topple gods and spread its influence throughout the nine worlds for centuries to come.”
Jack stared goggle-eyed at him. All
“But, sir, who could topple a god?” asked Jack. He knew, of course, that his own God was the enemy of Odin and Thor, and a good thing, too! Who needed bullies who told their worshippers to burn down villages? Less comfortably, Jack realized that Christians were opposed to his mother’s beliefs in the powers that ruled the fields and beasts. And some of them even denounced bards.
It was all mixed up in Jack’s mind. He was a good Christian—or tried to be—but he had been at the foot of Yggdrassil and had seen how everything belonged on it. What was wrong with the Christians having one branch and the Northmen another?
“I spoke too rashly. No one actually topples gods,” the Bard said softly. “They are simply forgotten and fall asleep.”
“That’s what happened during the need-fire ceremony?”
“Not exactly.” The Bard drew a pattern in the snow with the tip of his staff. It might have been a sunburst except that each ray had branches like a budding tree. It was the symbol on the rune of protection. “At the right time a very minor event—a hawk taking one chick and not another, a seed sprouting where it should not have grown—can have consequences that even the Wise cannot see. When Lucy failed the ceremony and Pega took her place, a profound shift happened in the life force. What this means has something to do with you three, but I don’t understand it yet. All I ask is that you take your duties seriously.”
“I won’t fail you, sir,” Jack said fervently.
“I hope that’s true.”
The old man frowned at the blacksmith, who had collapsed in the snow. Father knelt beside him in a fit of drunken remorse. “I should have been a monk,” Giles Crookleg moaned, rocking back and forth on his knees. “No farmwork, no worries. I would have been happy as a monk.”
“There, there,” said the blacksmith sympathetically.
“Throw a sheepskin over those idiots before they freeze to death,” said the Bard. He strode off, his white robe merging with the white snow so quickly, it seemed he’d vanished.
Chapter Four
THE SLAVE GIRL
Mother and Jack had been cooking all day. He’d cleaned the fire pit outside, filled it with coals, and covered them with stones and wet straw. On top he’d placed a clay pot containing two plucked geese. With a covering of more straw and more coals, the geese had been stewing for a long time.
Father tied branches of holly around the door. As a Christian, he didn’t believe in the old religion, but it didn’t hurt to hang holly and repel unwanted gods, elves, demons, and other beasties that came out during the Great Yule. Some of the villagers also hung mistletoe, but Father said that was dangerous. Mistletoe was sacred to Freya, the goddess of love.
“I’m
“Do some work. Wash those turnips,” Mother said.
Lucy made a halfhearted effort, but she left so much dirt, Jack had to wash them again. “Tell me a story,” she wheedled Father, tugging at his sleeve.
“Later, princess,” he promised. “I’ve got to get holly around the smoke holes. You never know what might come down a smoke hole this time of year.”
“I’ll do it,” offered Jack. It hurt Father to climb a ladder, and even though he liked offering up his suffering to God, there were times when he was relieved to hand a chore to Jack.
“Ah, well. You might as well make yourself useful.” Father sat down and put Lucy on his lap.
The boy climbed up to the smoke hole at one end of the roof. He could look along the spine of the ceiling to the hole on the other end. A mouse squeaked indignantly and burrowed into the thatch. Jack attached the holly and climbed down.
Below, Mother was baking her special Yule bannocks in the ashes of the hearth. They were made of her best oatmeal, softened with honey and delicious goose fat. The edges were pinched out into points like the rays of the sun, and in the middle of each bannock was a hole. This was a charm to keep away trolls, who were common this time of year. Only the Bard and Jack had actually seen trolls, far away across the sea, but Mother said it didn’t hurt to be careful.
By the time the sun dipped toward the western hills, the family was ready for the Great Yule feast. Father loaded Bluebell with baskets of roast goose, bannocks, and turnips. Lucy skipped ahead and Jack followed behind with a load of cider bags. Their shadows stretched long and blue across the fields of snow. The smoke of a dozen cooking fires blew across the road and made Jack’s stomach rumble. He’d hardly eaten anything all day to keep room for the treats in store.
And he wasn’t disappointed. The chief’s hall was filled with trestle tables covered with food. There were rabbit pies and partridge pies and pigeon tarts and larks-in-a-blanket. There was smoked haddock and brined pork. Several kinds of cheese were displayed with barley cakes slathered in lard. For dessert they had baskets of slightly withered, but still good, apples. Families brought whatever they could afford, and those who had nothing, like the tanner’s widow and her children, were welcome to take whatever they liked.
Every household had brought its special kind of cake: birlins made of barley-meal and mixed with caraway seeds, meldars coated with salt and snoddles that tasted of the ashes in which they were baked. But Mother’s bannocks were rated the best because of the honey.
The most impressive dish was provided by the chief—a sheep’s head split open so you could pick out bits of brain or tongue. It was served on a large wooden trencher with slices of mutton all around. At the outer edge was a festive border of boiled eggs, turnips, and onions, and a sheep’s trotter at each corner for decoration. All together it was a wonderful display!
The villagers feasted until their faces were shiny with grease. One by one the smaller children fell asleep and were carried to an adjoining house. Pega stood guard over them and tended the small hearth fire there. Jack was glad to see she had not been forgotten. The chief’s wife had given her a new dress. It was a hand-me-down, of course, but of decent wool and not too stained.
Early on, Pega had been allowed to take a trencher of food for herself. She hunched over and ate rapidly, as though she feared someone would take it from her. Jack felt again the pang he’d experienced at the Little Yule ceremony. What must it be like to be a slave forever? He’d been one a few short months and found it terrible.
Nor was Pega the only slave in the village. The blacksmith had two large and silent men to keep his fires going. All day they chopped wood, and at night they slept in a barn with the cattle. They had been sold by their father in Bebba’s Town to the north, because they were of limited intelligence.
What did they think about? Jack wondered as he watched them feed in a darkened corner of the hall. They didn’t talk, not even to each other. Perhaps they couldn’t talk.
Then the monk led them in singing “Angels We Have Heard on High” in Latin. None of the villagers spoke Latin, however. They could only hum along, but they made up for it later with
The Bard sat in the shadows and listened. He hadn’t brought his harp. The Little Yule and
When he’d staggered into the village after the destruction of the Holy Isle, he’d gone mad with grief. At the time, everyone believed the Bard was mad too, but the old man’s spirit was actually traveling in the shape of a bird. When the Bard’s spirit returned, he took in the monk. “It’s the least I can do after the trouble I caused,” he explained.
Jack didn’t feel as generous because Brother Aiden’s care fell on him. It was his job to make sure the monk ate and exercised. He had to walk the man up and down the beach, all the while listening to his moans. Well, it
Every night the Bard played the harp and Jack sang while Brother Aiden sat by the hearth with a glazed look in his eyes. “Music is the very air of healing,” the old man explained. “Aiden may not seem to be listening, but he is. His spirit is trapped in the burning library of the Holy Isle. With our help, it will escape.” Gradually, the little monk’s nightmares left him, and he was able to care for himself. The villagers built him a little beehive-shaped hut to live in.
Brother Aiden was touchingly grateful to the Bard and never once said a word about wicked pagans.