“You must curl your hands, Jack, to make what we call a ‘seeing tube’.” The Bard demonstrated, curling his fingers around each of his eyes. “This helps you concentrate your vision. You walk sunwise around the fire and say to yourself:
“Say it over and over until you have traveled around the fire three times three. Then stand with your vision concentrated on the fire. Breathe deeply and begin again.” The Bard put down his hands.
“That’s it?” Jack asked.
“It’s harder than you think.”
“How many times should I do it?”
“I don’t know,” the old man said. “You won’t succeed today or perhaps ever. If you’re patient and have the gift, the way will open for you.”
Jack would have liked more information, but that was how the Bard taught. He’d sent Jack out over the hills for months to observe birds and clouds without explaining why. All the while the boy had been learning about the life force.
The Bard repeated the charm until Jack had it right, for it was perilous to make a mistake. Jack understood this very well. He remembered what had happened when he tried to sing a praise-song for Queen Frith. All her hair had fallen out.
Pega sat solemnly on her clump of weeds. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, and her ears seemed to stick out more than usual. Half her face was covered by the birthmark, making her appear to be half in shadow. She didn’t make a sound.
“What should I look for, sir?” Jack asked.
“The sight will come to you, depending on what you most need. Later you can learn to bend it to your will.” The Bard went to his truckle bed and lay down with his back to the fire.
What do I most need? Jack asked himself. To see Mother. She had been forbidden by Father from visiting him. The boy missed her terribly, and he felt deeply wronged. Father should never have tried to buy a slave, not after what Jack had told him about being carried off by Northmen. It was as though nothing Jack said made the least impression while Lucy’s slightest wish was of overwhelming importance.
The boy made the seeing tubes with his hands, one for each eye. By some magic they came together to make one view that was somehow clearer and deeper. Jack gazed at the old pictures on the wall of the Roman house. A painted bird perched on a reed cane to which was tied a rosebush. Odd how he’d never noticed it was a rose before. He could see delicate thorns and a long sliver of light reflected on the cane. Where was the light coming from?
He turned and walked around the hearth, staring straight ahead and keeping the warmth of the fire on his right. The scene shifted from the bird to a shelf with bundles of dried herbs and on to the far end of the room, which was in shadow. Even that was interesting. He could see, just over the Bard’s bed, a line of little holes where something had been attached. He’d never noticed them before.
Must repeat the charm, Jack scolded himself. He began chanting silently. It was difficult to keep track of the number of times he circled because he was only used to counting things he could see. The ever-changing scene made him slightly dizzy. Once, he blundered into the coals and burned his foot. When he had gone round three times three—hopefully—he turned to stare at the hearth.
Most of the green and blue flames had gone. It was a normal yellow fire, dipping and waving with an occasional snap of sparks. That was all.
Jack breathed deeply and began again. He performed the ritual until he got so sleepy, he lost track of how many times he had circled. He also thought he’d chanted untying of a sheep instead of untying of a knot the last time round. He banked the fire and went to bed.
Pega still watched the coals of the hearth with her bright little eyes and her ears sticking out, as though she could hear something far away. Probably listening to bats, Jack thought as he drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Six
THE LIGHT FROM FAR AWAY
It was lambing time, but this year Jack was not sent to hunt for newborns. Father had help from other village boys. Jack occasionally saw them dodging headbutts from the vicious black-faced ewes. He didn’t miss the job—not one bit!—but he did miss coming home to Mother’s cockle soup and bannock cakes. Lucy would run to hug him. He would sit down in his favorite place, and Mother would talk in her quiet way of something the hens had done or of a plant that had opened its leaves.
Jack wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He would not care. He was an adult now with important duties as a bard’s apprentice. He had poetry to memorize, charms to learn, and fog to call up.
Pega did most of the household chores. She hauled logs from the beach, scampered over rocks in search of whelks, and picked weevils out of oats.
Whenever possible, Jack practiced his farseeing charm. Sometimes he thought he saw the fire dim. Sometimes the air dimpled like a pond with the first drops of rain. But always the vision cleared and Jack found himself back where he started. He continued to wonder about the source of the light shining on the painted cane. The Bard didn’t ask about his progress, and Jack didn’t volunteer any information.
Winter slipped away. A haze of green covered the hills, and the clouds turned from gray to white. Crickets began to chirp, and a warm wind blew from the south, bringing the first bees to the flowers. The bees reminded Jack of Mother and made him sad.
A group of Pictish peddlers arrived from Bebba’s Town, leading their donkeys and blowing a horn to announce their presence. “They’ve got everything!” Colin, the blacksmith’s son, cried as he delivered the daily shipment of bread. “They’ve got pots and knives and three-pronged eel spears and sewing needles! I’m to spy and find out how the needles are made. They won’t tell Father.”
“What else?” the Bard said.
“Boring stuff like parchment.” Anything that wasn’t made of iron didn’t interest Colin.
“Parchment?” said the Bard.
“Heaps of it. Brother Aiden was bargaining for a piece.” Colin handed the basket of bread to Pega and took his leave.
“I could use a bit of parchment,” said the old man, considering. “Brother Aiden knows a secret formula for ink that never fades. I tell you what, let’s pack a lunch and make a holiday of it.”
But Jack didn’t want to go. Father would be there, and the confrontation was more than he could bear.
“You’ll have to face him sometime. You can’t spend the rest of your life here,” the Bard said.
“I’m not afraid of Giles Crookleg,” declared Pega, dancing around. “I’m free, and he can’t lay a hand on me.”
“Oh, dry up,” said Jack.
The Bard put on his white cloak. Pega decorated herself with a garland of flowers (which didn’t improve her looks at all, Jack thought privately). She packed a basket with bread and cheese. “Sure you won’t go?” the old man said at the door. “You could scare up a game of Bull in the Barn. It would do you a world of good.”
Jack liked playing Bull in the Barn. A group of boys formed a ring around whoever was chosen to be the bull. The bull would ask each in turn, “Where’s the key to the barn?” and each child would reply, “I don’t know. Ask my neighbor.” Until one of them suddenly shouted, “Get out the way you got in!” which was the signal for the bull to try to break through the encircling arms. It was a rough game that usually ended with someone running home, bawling at the top of his lungs. Jack enjoyed it, but he dreaded meeting Father.