Jack felt sick. Magic sometimes did that to him. The power roiled in the pit of his stomach, and he thought he was going to throw up. He opened his eyes to see a thread of smoke curling up from the straw.
“Don’t give up now,” said the Bard. “Keep calling it. Keep calling.” But the nausea won out. Jack stumbled to the door, and when he returned, the spark had died.
“Don’t worry,” the Bard said cheerfully. “What’s done once can be done again. We have all day.”
So we do,thought Jack as the north wind buffeted the walls of the house.
“If you feel sleepy, walk around,” said the Bard.
I’m not sleepy, I’m cold,thought Jack. But he found he was sleepy after all. It would feel so nice to give himself up to the sensation. He could almost see the frost giants calling to him. Lie down, boy,they said. It’s a fine old bed, ice is. Nothing like snow for a cover either.
He felt himself being shaken. “I said, walk around!” the Bard shouted. “You’ve got to recognize the danger.” He forced the boy to put first one foot, then the other before him. Jack almost fell over before he got the hang of walking again.
“Life and death are in constant battle,” said the Bard. “In winter death is strongest. The frost giants lie in wait for the careless. When you work magic in winter, you have to be especially careful.”
“Y-Y-You d-don’t stare out o-over the sea any-ah-anymore,” stammered Jack, his teeth chattering. “A-Aren’t you w-worried about Q-Queen Frith?”
“Very observant of you.” The Bard briskly marched Jack up and down the house. “I’m not worried because the servants of Queen Frith can’t travel now. No Northman would take his beloved boat out in winter. And those ox-brained oafs do love their boats. They sing to them and buy them jewels as though they were women. When a chieftain dies, he is sent out with all his worldly goods in a blazing ship. He even has a slave woman to wait on him.”
“A woman?” Jack gasped. “Is she—? Do they—?”
“Do they kill her? Yes. An old hag called the Angel of Death strangles her. Then she is laid next to her lord and they are both burned.”
Jack shivered again, this time not entirely from cold. The more he heard about these Northmen, the worse they sounded.
“Try the fire-making again,” said the Bard. “I’ll watch to make sure you don’t go too far.”
Jack’s second attempt went more smoothly, and the third, fourth, and fifth almost succeeded. Finally, on the sixth try, hours later, he got the plume of smoke to burst into flame.
“I did it!” he cried. He danced around the room, feelings of cold and defeat gone. “I’m a bard! I’m a wonder! I’m the cleverest boy in the world!” The heat was pouring out of the earth now. The rime on the walls melted. The frozen thatch softened and dripped. It began to smolder.
“Begone!”
The room suddenly darkened and the air filled with ashes and smoke. Jack stopped and stared.
In the dim light of the doorway the Bard stood with folded arms. “I’ve told you before. Know when to quit.”
Jack felt as though he’d been struck. “How dare you put out my fire!” he screamed. “How dare you spoil my work!” Jack felt the power rise through his feet and heat his whole body. He was filled with a savage joy. He could do anything— anything—better than this old fool who didn’t appreciate what a great magician Jack was.
The Bard raised his staff. “Stop now,” he said quietly. “If I can repel a Nightmare from across the sea, you don’t want to know what I can do to a fledgling apprentice.”
The power vanished. Jack sank to the floor. He felt like he was alone on a dark sea with devouring waves all around. He was a mere insect crawling on a fragment of driftwood. How could he have imagined hurting the one person who had tried to help him? How could he have been so stupid? He began to cry.
“Oh, my, my, my,” said the Bard. “You really are a child. I’ve pushed you too hard.” He knelt down and put his hands on Jack’s head. Presently, the boy felt something drop over him like a soft blanket. It felt safe and warm. He wanted to wrap himself up and never come out.
“Listen, child,” came the old man’s soft voice. “You must respect the limits of your power. You can cause a great deal of harm if you don’t. I’ve cast a spell of protection over you. Let all wandering spirits see my mark and keep away.”
Jack heard no more words, though he did register the sound of the wind. It was like many voices calling to one another. And he heard the crackling of fire and felt its warmth—true warmth and not the false heat of anger.
On the long evenings Jack went back and forth to the heap of driftwood he had gathered during summer. It was then that the Bard told stories, and he wanted a cheerful fire in the background. “They are cruel tales,” he said. “They should be told in the light, with good friends and a merry heart.”
How you could tell a cruel tale with a merry heart was a mystery to Jack, but it wasn’t his place to argue. “If you were trained in Ireland, sir,” he dared to ask one night, “how did you meet up with… um… that northern king?”
“Ivar the Boneless?”
“Yes.” Jack hated to say the name. It sounded so horrible. It was like a long, green worm slithering through a swamp.
“I was young and foolish, like you,” said the Bard. “I had earned my harp from the College of Bards and had been awarded the Golden Mistletoe for outstanding spell-casting. Have I told you about that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was ready for adventure, and thus it came to me, as adventure always does to the foolish. A northern warrior arrived at the college. He asked for a bard to accompany him to his lord’s castle. It sounded wonderful! Hrothgar was a mighty lord who lived in a golden hall. There was none like it in the world.
“It was as large as a hundred houses and filled with brave warriors and shield women. The fire pit alone could hold an entire oak tree. Hrothgar was generous as well. He gave gold rings to his followers and lavish feasts to all who sought shelter under his roof. But the one thing Hrothgar didn’t have was a first-rate bard. Have I told you I was awarded the Golden Mistletoe for outstanding spell-casting?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jack.
“So you see I was the natural choice for this honor. And the thought of traveling didn’t bother me. It’s what we bards do. I sailed to Hrothgar’s kingdom, and it was even better than described. His hall was like a great light in the midst of a wilderness.”
Jack listened breathlessly. The walls of the Roman house trembled in a winter storm, and the stones on the beach far below rattled like an army clashing its shields. No matter how carefully Jack stuffed heather and wool into crevices, the wind still found its way inside. The coals of the fire brightened and light danced on the walls.
But Hrothgar’s hall had allowed no winter. It was as sound as a nut and as warm and friendly as a summer afternoon. Its walls rang with laughter, even more so after the arrival of the Bard.
“I should have known,” mourned the Bard. “I should have guessed.”
“Guessed what?” said Jack, unable to contain himself.
“It’s as I have told you. Life and death are in constant battle. There’s no way in this world for happiness to exist alone. The golden hall was too beautiful, and so, like all bright things, it attracted destruction. In the deeps, in the depths of a murky swamp, lived Grendel, who was a monster.”
“Was he a troll?” gasped Jack.
“Partly,” said the Bard. “His father was an ogre. Anyhow, monsters hate light,” said the Bard. “They cannot bear laughter, and the smell of feasting enrages them. Grendel waited until everyone was asleep. Then he crept into the hall and bit off the heads of ten warriors sleeping near the door. Don’t wince like that, Jack,” said the Bard. “When you retell this story, you’ll have to look confident.”