The Sea of Trolls

Chapter Two THE APPRENTICE

“Come in!” cried the Bard as Jack stood nervously in the doorway. The boy looked around for an empty bucket or depleted woodpile to justify his presence. Everything seemed in order.

“I didn’t ask you here to work,” said the Bard, making Jack flinch. Could the old man read minds, too?

Between the mouthfuls of cheese, bread, and cider that made up their lunch, the Bard quizzed Jack about things so ordinary, they hardly seemed worth mentioning. How did water sound when it rushed over grass? How did it sound oozing through a bog? How did the wind change its music as it passed from the river reeds to the foxtail grasses of the meadow? Could Jack tell the difference between a lark and a swallow high in the clouds?

Of course he could, Jack said. Everyone could, by the way the birds dipped their wings.

“Not so,” said the Bard. “Very few people see beyond the ends of their noses. Another piece of cheese?”

Jack ate more than his share and felt rather guilty about it. He rarely got enough to feel satisfied.

“In my opinion, you aren’t a total waste of time,” said the Bard. “Don’t let that go to your head, boy. You could easily be a partial waste of time. How’d you like to be my apprentice?”

Jack gaped at him. His brain couldn’t grasp the meaning of it. He’d never heard of a bard’s apprentice.

“That’s the first habit we’ll have to get rid of,” said the old man, sighing. “You should look intelligent, even when you aren’t. Get along with you now. I’ll talk to your father later.”

That night Jack huddled in his blankets, listening to Father and the Bard discuss his future. He hadn’t really expected the old man to come, but at nightfall the Bard had shown up, dressed in a thick, white cloak and leaning on a blackened ash wood staff. He looked extremely impressive with his white beard blowing in the wind. Father invited him in and turned Jack out of his seat by the fire.

But Giles Crookleg wasn’t pleased when he learned what the old man wanted. “I can’t let Jack go,” Father cried. “If I had more sons or if my leg were straight—you couldn’t fix it, by the way?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the Bard.

“No harm in asking. It’s the penance I bear for Adam’s sin.”

“Amen,” said Mother.

Father, Jack, and Lucy muttered “Amen” as well. Jack noticed the Bard said nothing.

“At any rate, I need help with the repairs and plowing. I need someone to herd sheep and gather wood in the forest,” said Father. “I’m honored you should consider my son, but there’s no proof he’s bright.”

“I have faith in him,” said the Bard.

Jack felt a rush of gratitude for the old man and an equal rush of annoyance at his father.

“Jack’s ability isn’t the question here,” argued Father. “I need him and that’s that.”

“It would be nice if he got an education,” Mother said hesitantly. “You always wanted to study with the monks—”

“Be still,” said Father in a voice that allowed no argument. “I wanted to devote myself to religion on the Holy Isle,” he told the Bard. “I wasn’t given the opportunity. Not that I fault my father for it. I honor him and would not commit the sin of anger against him. I offer up my pain to God every day.”

“Amen,” said Mother.

“Amen,” murmured Father, Jack, and Lucy.

Just what did God do with all the pain Father offered up to Him? Jack wondered. Did He put it in a box with the toothaches and headaches people sent Him?

“My son shouldn’t try to rise above his station,” finished Father. “In fact, it’s good for him to learn that life is full of disappointments. Pain, cheerfully endured, is the surest way to salvation.”

“Oh, Jack won’t have fun being my apprentice,” said the Bard, his eyes twinkling. Jack wondered what he found so amusing. “I assure you I’ll make him work like a donkey in a lead mine. He’ll suffer with the best of us. As for your farm, Giles, I’ve discussed that with the chief. I won’t be needing the other boys if I have Jack, and so the chief is sending them to you. I think you’ll have more help than you know what to do with.”

Jack saw how clever the Bard had been. He’d waited until Father presented his objections and then closed the deal like a trap closing on a fox.

“Oh! Very well. In that case,” sputtered Giles Crookleg. He cast a look of irritation at the Bard. “I suppose the other boys might do—though they’re a villainously lazy lot.”

And that, Jack realized, was as close as Father had ever got to saying he, Jack, was industrious.

“He’ll work hard, won’t he?” Giles Crookleg said.

“I guarantee he’ll fall into bed with exhaustion,” said the Bard.

“But he’ll come home sometimes?” Mother said softly.

The old man smiled at her. “He can come to you on Sundays and when I go to the forest. He can help you work the bees.”

Something seemed to pass between Mother and the Bard then, although Jack couldn’t tell what it was.

“That would be nice,” Mother said.

“Women’s work,” grunted Father, tossing a chunk of peat into the fire.

The next morning Jack packed up his possessions. He put his extra shirt and leg wrappings into a bag, along with a cup and a trencher. He added his collection of treasures—shells, feathers, a knot of wood that reminded him of a squirrel, a stone you could see through. He wore everything else, including a knife Father had given him at Yuletide.

Jack felt strange taking everything that belonged to him. It was as though, without evidence of his presence, his family might forget about him. He might be like one of those poor souls who were carried off to Elfland. They returned after what seemed a week, only to find they’d been gone a hundred years. Lucy clung to Jack, weeping, “Don’t go! Don’t go!”

“I’ll be back Sunday,” Jack said.

“Come, now. Princesses don’t cry,” said Father.

“I don’t want to be a princess if it means losing Jack,” wailed Lucy.

“What? You don’t want to live in a palace? Or eat sweetmeats from a golden plate?”

Lucy looked up. “What kind of sweetmeats?” she said.

“Rowanberry pudding and greengage tart,” Father said. “Apple dumplings and flummery.”

“Flummery?” Lucy let go of Jack’s cloak.

“The best kind, with nutmeg and cream.”

Jack knew Father was describing food he’d eaten on the Holy Isle. Neither Lucy nor Jack had ever tasted flummery, but Jack’s mouth watered all the same. It sounded so good.

Lucy ran to Father and he scooped her up. “Bannock cakes and strawberry jam, cherry pies and custard,” he crooned.

“And flummery,” said Lucy, now entirely distracted from Jack’s departure.

Jack sighed inwardly. It had been rather nice to be mourned, but Lucy never kept her mind on things long. Well, she was hardly more than a baby.

The Bard strode ahead with Jack trying to keep up. The boy was weighted down by sacks of provisions as well as his own stuff. On the way they met the blacksmith’s son. Obviously, he was the first boy sent to take over Giles Crookleg’s chores. When the Bard’s back was turned, the blacksmith’s son aimed a punch at Jack’s arm, and Jack neatly sidestepped it. “Enjoy the sheep,” he called, hurrying to catch up with the old man.

Jack toiled from dawn to dusk, but he found it interesting. Some nights he carried the Bard’s harp when the old man went visiting. This task was altogether delightful. Jack sat in a place of honor by the fire—a place that had been forbidden when he was merely Giles Crookleg’s brat. He was given a hot drink, and then he had nothing to do except bask in warmth and listen to the Bard’s stories.

On an average day Jack rose before dawn, built up the fire, and cooked porridge. He carried water and hauled driftwood. Then he was sent out into the wilds. “Look around you,” said the Bard. “Feel the wind, smell the air. Listen to the birds and watch the sky. Tell me what’s happening in the wide world.”

And Jack, without knowing exactly what he was supposed to see, climbed the long hills to their summits. He crouched in old sheep byres when the weather was foul. He stretched out in meadows when the weather was fair. He watched puffy white clouds hurry across the sky and hawks drop like arrows to catch unlucky mice.

Jack quickly learned that a simple answer wouldn’t do. If he was lazy or unobservant or—worst of all—made things up, the Bard rapped him on the head with his knuckles. He knew exactly when Jack was lying. “Open your eyes!” he would shout. “If this is the best you can do, I might as well throw you back like an undersized minnow!”

Jack found he saw more and more as the weeks went by, as though the wide world had opened up still wider. He learned that a hawk didn’t wander aimlessly in the air. It followed paths. It took its rest on certain crags and had its courtesies to other hawks. He saw that the creatures of the wild dealt with one another like the people in his village. There were timid ones and bullies, boastful ones and humble creatures who only wanted to get on with things and avoid trouble.

When Jack returned from his journeys, he went straight to the cauldron of soup over the fire. It hung there day and night, a rich pottage of peas, barley, parsnips, and onions. Now and then the Bard threw in a handful of herbs, so the character of the soup changed, but it was always good.

Jack let the heat of the fire soak into his bones as he munched a slab of bread. This, too, changed, depending on who was providing food that week. Most people made bread with a mixture of oats, wheat, barley, or beans—whatever they had on hand. The poorer families mixed acorns with their flour and produced loaves so tough, they had to be shredded and soaked before you could choke them down. But the baker used pure wheat. His bread was wonderfully soft and arrived wrapped in a blanket to keep it warm.

After lunch Jack tended the garden in the lea of the house. He gathered fleabane to smoke vermin from his and the Bard’s clothes. He peeled rushes and dipped the white centers into beeswax for candles on the long, dark evenings. He plaited marram grass from the dunes into waterproof mats. Finally, during the evening meal, Jack reported what he’d seen during the day.

“Good, good,” the old man would say. “You’ve seen something of how it works together. Not all, of course. That would take many lifetimes. But you are not entirely ignorant.” Then he would teach Jack a song and listen intently as the boy repeated it. “You have a good ear for music. Quite a remarkable ear,” he would murmur, and Jack would feel happy all the way down to his toes.

Last of all, Jack banked the fire and laid out the dried heather and sheepskins they used for beds. The Bard slept at the far end of the house in a truckle bed made of coiled straw. It reminded Jack of a large basket. Jack slept in a corner to one side of the door.

The last thing he saw at night was the glow of the hearth on the walls of the house. The old Romans had painted them with trees unlike any Jack had seen. They were hung with golden fruit, and strange birds roosted among the branches. Jack found them disturbing. Sometimes, when the light of the coals wavered, the birds seemed to move. Or the branches did, which was just as bad.