Jack opened his eyes. The fog was shredding before a sudden sea wind. Rifts of blue appeared overhead.
“What were you thinking?” the old man said.
“Why—why, only that the fog was so thick,” stammered Jack. “And that it might not go away.”
“Lad, listen to me. The life force is ever moving, altering its appearance. Only death is unchanging.”
“B-But if it
“Thor’s hammer and anvil! Preserve me from Giles’ ravings!” The Bard raised his arms as though asking the thunder god to witness such idiocy. The crows on the roof—how long had they been there?—cawed loudly. It sounded almost like laughter.
“But it’s possible—it’s just barely possible…” the Bard said.
“What?” cried Jack.
“Keep your voice down.
“Hey,” said Jack.
“But I’ll fix her. I’ll throw up a barrier to chip her rotten fangs if she tries it again. Here.” The Bard felt inside his shirt and drew out a pendant on a chain. He settled it around Jack’s neck.
The boy had never seen it before, though he’d been with the old man for months and months. He held it up, his mouth in an O at the wonder of it. It was a square of heavy gold. On it was a pattern that might have been a sunburst, except that each ray had branches like a budding tree. As Jack looked the pendant vanished. He gasped. This was real magic. He could still feel the heaviness of the gold on his neck.
“That’s a rune for protection,” said the Bard. “I wore it when I walked through the Valley of Lunatics in Ireland. It kept my wits about me when others were losing theirs. You may keep it.”
“But, sir.” Jack felt close to tears again. No one had ever thought him worthy of such a gift. The Roman coin Father had found was destined for Lucy. “What if Frith attacks you?”
Jack didn’t know whether it was the rune or simply the joy of being cared for, but he felt strong and happy. He called up the waters of the earth. He pulled down clouds from the sky. He felt the wet smack of mist on his face and the soak of it in his clothes. His hair was plastered down, his chin dripped, and water trickled into his shoes. But he was as happy as a frog in a sunny pond.
He heard a rasping cough. His eyes flew open and saw nothing. The world had gone black. For an instant he was swept with panic. Then he heard the cough again. It was the Bard.
Night had fallen while Jack had been absorbed in his magic—pure, simple, innocent night. The fog he had called was so thick, every scrap of starlight was hidden from the earth. Jack felt for the door of the house. The cough came from there.
Inside, only a tiny coal shone in the fire pit. “Sir? Are you all right?” he whispered. It seemed right to whisper.
“In bed,” the old man said.
The boy felt his way to the truckle bed. He touched the Bard’s face and found, to his shock, that it was burning with fever. “I’ll build up the fire, sir, and make you a healing drink.”
“You’re a good boy,” the Bard said faintly.
Working quickly, Jack blew the coal into flame. He heated water mixed with willow bark. He added coriander to take the curse off the bitterness. This was a remedy he’d learned from Mother. Father wasn’t pleased when Mother taught him such things. They were women’s secrets, Father said, not fit for men, perhaps not safe for good Christians. Mother had smiled and gone on teaching.
“Foo,” said the Bard when he tasted it.
“Mother swears it brings down fever.”
“I’m sure it does. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” The old man finished the drink. Presently, he doubled up with long, rattling coughs that frightened Jack.
“Take the pendant,” the boy cried. “You need protection worse than I.”
“Can’t,” said the Bard, struggling to talk. “Once given, can’t be returned. Anyhow, wanted you to have it.” He lay back, and Jack covered him with a sheepskin.
The boy rummaged through the stores at the far end of the house. He would have to set beans to soak. He would have to gather shellfish in the morning. How long could they go on like this without food from the village? How would they know when the wolf-headed men had gone?
Jack set the cauldron simmering with dried peas, onions, and turnips. He added a chunk of bacon that was only slightly green with age. The smell of food drove him mad with hunger, but it wouldn’t be ready for hours. Jack found a rock-hard chunk of bread and soaked it in cider. When he had a soft mush, he fed it to the Bard.
Jack was so tired, he kept tripping over things. His eyes blurred. His hands fumbled as he went about his chores. Yet he found time to light a bundle of coltsfoot and leave it smoldering on a stone shelf near the Bard’s bed. The smoke would ease the old man’s lungs.
Jack had no memory of lying down. He hadn’t meant to until he’d fetched more wood. But somehow his body sat down, and then it was only a short distance to the floor. At any rate, Jack was sound asleep with a sack of beans for a pillow when the Nightmare arrived.
Chapter Nine
THE RIDER ON THE NIGHTMARE
The first thing Jack heard was the wind. It drove out of the sea and howled past the house, making the roof shake. It burrowed under the door. Cold air spread along the floor, and the fire sprang to life. Behind this was a rattling like pebbles rolling on a beach, except that it grew louder and louder until it burst upon Jack’s sleep like thunder.
He jumped up. Coals were being blown out of the fire pit by the wind gusting under the door. He ran to sweep them back. The roof groaned, and a huge chunk of thatch lifted up and was torn away. Four or five crows that had been sheltering there tumbled into the room and fluttered to the safety of the Bard’s bed. From a distance came the hideous pounding of hooves coming closer until the whole sky rang with it.
Jack could see the sky. It stretched over the gaping roof, cold and black and filled with heartless winking stars where there had been protecting fog before. He had to do something, but what? He couldn’t think. The pounding drove everything out of his brain. He wanted only to flee. He stepped back, and his foot came down on a live coal. The pain cleared his wits enough for him to realize what was happening.
It was the Nightmare. She’d returned under cover of darkness. She’d discovered the Bard’s weakness and had come to destroy him. Jack grasped the rune of protection around his neck. It was strangely warm—no,
Jack heard the Bard give a long, terrified wail. It was a dreadful sound, like a rabbit caught in the talons of a hawk. The old man thrashed, and the crows clung to the sheepskin over him. “Move! You’re scaring him!” shouted the boy, but the crows only clacked their beaks and held on grimly.
The thundering was almost overhead. It was worse than the worst winter storm. It was more violent than the sea dashing against a cliff. Jack had never heard such a loud noise before, and it dazed him. He clung to the bed and stared up at the hole in the roof. He was no more capable of moving than the crows.
Suddenly, out of the deep sky came a figure so large and so terrifying that Jack shouted and the birds shrieked in fear. It was a horse draped in shrouds of icicles that broke off and clattered into the room. Its body was gray, its mane was ragged and cobwebby, and it had too many legs!Jack didn’t count them, but he knew there were far more than there should have been.
On the horse’s back was a rider even darker than the sky, so black that it sucked the light out of the stars. Its thorny legs clasped the belly of the horse, drawing blood—white, oozing blood that was more like pus than anything. The horse screamed. Jack fell to the floor, all thought gone, all consciousness of anything gone but the pulsing warmth of the pendant nestled over his heart.
He woke in darkness. The fire was out. The hole in the roof showed stars but no Nightmare, thank goodness. The air was still, as though the storm had never happened.
Jack felt his way to the truckle bed. The Bard was breathing peacefully, and he appeared to be asleep. Jack’s heart turned over with relief. He reached for the sheepskin cover, touched one of the crows, and got a nip.
“Go away!” he yelled, slapping at the bird. He heard several low grumbles in the dark. “Nobody asked you to come,” Jack cried. He thought about sweeping the creatures out with a broom, but it occurred to him that it was nice to have company, even bad-tempered crows. He wasn’t sure he could have stood solitude after seeing whatever that was on the Nightmare’s back.
Jack searched until he found flint and iron. He gathered the dead coals and relit them. The pot of soup was ice-cold. Either he’d been out longer than he thought or the Nightmare’s rider had sucked the warmth out of it.
We’ll see.
“I know we should make fog, sir,” Jack said in the Bard’s direction as he rubbed the stiffness out of his arms and legs. “But you need to rest, and I need to find food. I’ll go down to the beach after breakfast.” He stirred the cauldron. The peas had melted into a satisfying mush. The smell of onions and bacon made his stomach rumble. One crow, bolder than the rest, hopped closer.
“Go away,” Jack said, waving the spoon. A dollop of stew flew off and was pounced on. “Shoo! This food’s for people, not you. You can gather whelks if you’re hungry.” Jack filled a bowl and placed a heavy iron lid on the cauldron. He kicked at the birds as he walked to the truckle bed. He’d never seen such bold creatures.
The Bard lay with his eyes open. “Would you mind sitting up?” the boy said politely. “It’ll make it a lot easier to feed you.” The Bard blinked and sniffed. A line of drool appeared at the edge of his beard.
“Let me help you,” Jack said. He wedged the bowl between his knees to keep the birds away from it. He reached for the Bard’s arms.
“Wud-
soul
Jack tried to spoon food into the Bard’s mouth. The old man turned his head and sprayed stew all over the truckle bed. “Gaaw!” he screamed.
“It’s good, it’s really good. See, I’ll taste it first,” said Jack frantically. The stew
“Laugh at me, will you?” Jack shouted, beside himself with frustration. He hurled the bowl at the birds, which of course gave them the opportunity they were waiting for. They landed on the spilled stew and gobbled it up in a trice.
“How could I be so dumb?” Jack felt close to tears. The food was almost gone, and he’d thrown part of it away in a fit of rage. He was no closer to rousing the Bard from his strange enchantment. “At least drink something,” Jack said. He soaked a scrap of woolen cloth in water and dribbled it into the old man’s mouth, the way Mother had fed Lucy when she was a baby. The Bard fastened on to the wool and began sucking for all he was worth.
“At last we’re getting somewhere,” muttered Jack. He continued pouring water on the cloth until the Bard had had enough. Then the boy refilled the bowl and this time dipped the wool in the stew and gave it to the old man to chew.
It seemed to take hours, dipping and feeding, each time prying the Bard’s jaws apart. Finally, the man spat out the wool and belched. A sleepy, contented look came into his eyes. Jack sat down by the cauldron and—at long last—satisfied the hunger that had been gnawing at him.
What was he to do now? Call up fog by himself? Go to the forest to seek help? He wasn’t sure it was safe to leave the Bard alone.
All but one of the crows had departed through the hole in the roof. This one waited just out of reach of Jack’s foot and watched him with sharp eyes. It was a fine creature with black feathers groomed to perfection. Its only defect was a missing claw on its left foot. Jack thought it must have come too close to a fox.
“All right. You can have a spoonful.
“I wish you could tell me what to do,” the boy went on. “I’ve got to protect the village, but I also have to protect the Bard. And I can’t go long without food. Magic makes you really hungry.” The crow bobbed up and down as though to say,
“I ought to take the Bard to the forest,” Jack mused aloud. “That way he’ll be safe and I can protect the villagers.” Something stirred deep inside the boy’s heart, like hearing a hawk scream on a frosty morning or seeing a dolphin leap out of a wave. It was unexpected—and scary—and yet wonderfully exciting.
The crow hopped to the door and tapped on the wood with its beak. “You’re right,” Jack said. “The sooner we get going, the better.” He threw open the door. The sky was clear, and the sun had risen almost to noon.
Jack tugged at the Bard until he had the old man standing. Then it was merely a matter of keeping him going. To do this, Jack tied a rope around the Bard’s waist and pulled. Slowly, steadily, the old man put one foot in front of the other, apparently quite willing to go for a walk. “Wud- duh,” he said with great authority.