Later Lucy wanted to hear her own story of how she had lived in a palace.
“This will come to grief,” said Mother. “She can’t tell the difference between fact and fancy.”
Father ignored her. Jack knew he looked forward to the tales as much as Lucy did. The boy understood—how had he changed so much in a few weeks?—that these, too, were a comfort to his father. Giles Crookleg might grumble like a crow, but he lost himself like a bird in the clouds of his own imaginings. He no longer had to set foot on the earth or know that he was doomed to creep upon it.
“Once upon a time,” said Father, “the queen dropped a honey cake on the ground.”
“My other mother,” prompted Lucy.
Mother sniffed. She had long since stopped explaining that Lucy couldn’t have two sets of parents.
“It put down roots and grew,” said Father.
“Until it was as tall as the oak by the blacksmith’s shed,” Lucy said.
“Every branch was covered with honey cakes. Invisible servants flew through the air to fetch them.”
“Invisible servants! I’d like that,” said Mother.
“You had a little dog with a green collar with silver bells sewn on it. You could hear it running through the house.”
“Castle,” Lucy corrected.
“Yes, of course. Castle. And it could talk. It told you everything that went on in the kingdom, but alas, it was very naughty. The dog ran away, and the nurse ran after it.”
“With me in her arms,” said Lucy.
“Yes. She got lost in the woods. She sat down to weep and tear her hair.”
“She laid me under a rosebush first,” said Lucy.
“A bear came out of the woods and gobbled her up, but he didn’t find you, dearest.”
“And that was how I got lost,” crowed Lucy, not at all concerned about the fate of the nurse.
Jack fell asleep listening to the north wind fussing with the thatch over his head.
Chapter Four
THE VALLEY OF LUNATICS
The Bard’s face was tanned, as though he’d been out in the sun a long time. Jack wondered about it, but he hesitated to ask.
“You look well enough,” the old man said. “Everyone in the family is fine?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jack.
“I’ve been casting about for information. It seems that things are stirring across the water. Ships are being built, swords are being forged.”
“Is that bad?”
“Of course. People don’t make ships and swords unless they intend to use them.” The Bard strode ahead, leading Jack along a path above the sea. The green cliffs broke off to their right, and Jack could hear waves foaming at the rocks far below. Seagulls coasted the breeze, sliding back and forth in the updraft with a lazy flap of their wings.
“You see, the land across the water isn’t as rich as it is here. Farms are carved out of the mountains. Snow and ice cover them most of the year. Only a few people can survive there, and the rest have to go somewhere else.” The Bard climbed the steep path without slowing or even getting out of breath. Jack had to struggle to keep up with him. “The Northmen who live there are looking east to the land of the Rus and south to the land of the Franks. They don’t look north because that’s where the Jotuns live.”
Jotuns. Jack shivered.
“I’m afraid some of them are looking west. Toward us.”
“Is that the shadow you felt, sir?”
“That… and something else.” The Bard halted and looked out toward the sea and the gulls sliding back and forth on the air. “These particular Northmen—the ones who are looking west—are led by a king called Ivar the Boneless.”
Ivar the Boneless! Jack felt as though a cloud had come between himself and the sun. The sound of the waves was muted, and the cries of the gulls came to him from a great distance.
“Jack, are you all right?” said the Bard.
“What a terrible name,” murmured the boy.
“No more terrible than he is. His eyes are pale blue, like sea ice. His skin is as white as the belly of a fish. He can break a man’s leg with his bare hands, and he wears a cloak made from the beards of his defeated enemies.”
Jack felt almost dizzy with terror. What was happening to him? He’d heard plenty of frightening tales from both the Bard and Father. He liked them—the scarier the better. Now he felt as weak as a newborn lamb.
“But Ivar the Boneless is nothing compared to his wife.” The Bard continued to peer out over the sea. He seemed to be searching for something. After a moment he shook his head and went on. “Queen Frith is a half-troll,” he said in a lower tone.
“Did she send the Nightmare?” Jack’s chest felt as though it was being squeezed in a giant hand.
“Aye, lad. Her spirit rode it like the venomous monster she is behind her lying, beautiful face. Did you know Nightmares have eight legs?”
But Jack heard no more. He’d fainted dead away on the grassy cliff above the foaming waters of the North Sea.
When he awoke, he saw the old man sitting on a gray stone next to the path. A crow left the Bard’s shoulder and flapped off over the dense stands of gorse and heather that lay between them and the western hills. Jack rubbed his forehead. He felt as if he’d been trampled by a dozen black-faced ewes.
“Tell me,” said the Bard, turning his attention from the crow. “Have you felt anything unusual since I knocked you down?”
Jack told him about wanting to cry all the time. He said he’d noticed a lot more things—colors and smells, for example. He said his father seemed like a child one moment but turned back into an adult the next. “I’m putting it badly,” he said.
“You’re putting it very well,” said the Bard. “I must say this is an unexpected development.”
“Am I going mad?”
The Bard chuckled. “Oh, no. You’ve merely spread your wings.” The old man felt around in the bag he carried on hikes and fished out a pair of biffins—whole, dried apples. He tossed one to Jack. “You see, lad, most people live like birds inside a cage. It makes them feel safe. The world’s a frightening place, full of glory and wonder and danger. It’s better—so most people think—to pretend it isn’t there. Ow!”
The Bard ran his finger around his mouth and extracted a seed. “I wish the baker would take out the cores before he dries apples.” Jack was struggling to understand what the old man was saying.
“A few people realize the door isn’t locked,” the Bard continued. “They keep pushing and pushing until—presto!—the door swings open and they fly away. The world looks completely different outside. Suddenly, there’s hawks and crows and snakes and rats—”
“Stop,” cried Jack, flinging up his hands.
The Bard looked at him sharply but said nothing. He fished in his bag and found a scrap of oatcake, which he held up. Presently, a seagull swooped down and took it. “Is that magic?” said Jack, greatly impressed.
“It’s patience. If you sit quietly, most things will come to you. That’s what I’ve been trying to teach you these past few weeks. Sit quietly. Look at things. It’s how I was trained. It’s a long, slow process because real magic is dangerous. Now you’ve opened the door too soon. When you touched me, while I was battling the Nightmare, the life force I was gathering flowed out of my hand and into you. It cast you down. It very nearly killed you.”
Jack climbed to his feet. His legs felt suspiciously wobbly.
“Your defenses have been torn away,” said the Bard. “Everything, from the plight of a chick fallen from its nest to the terrible beauty of the hawk swooping down to kill it, will shake your very soul. It’s a pity. You aren’t ready to face so much reality, but there it is. Can you walk?”