The Land of the Silver Apples - Farmer Nancy - Страница 35

“This wouldn’t be a bad place to camp,” Jack said.

“Too cold,” said Pega. “Imagine how exposed we’d be.”

“It’s better than sleeping in the forest.” Since that morning Jack had developed a dislike for trees. Roots snaked to the very edge of the rock as though trying to climb it. Moss humped up in patterns suggestive of buried bodies, though Jack guessed it was only more roots underneath. Suddenly, he saw a patch of white. “Look!” he cried.

“What is it?” Pega squinted against the dark shadow of the forest.

“It’s a hare or a cat, curled up. No, it isn’t! It’s a face!” Jack began sliding down the steep sides of the rock.

“Wait for me,” gasped Pega, sliding and tumbling after him. “It’s a person! Someone sleeping in the forest, only he’s covered with moss. Oh, it’s terrible!”

Jack saw signs of a struggle, slash marks and turf pried up. Whoever it was had not gone down peacefully. He got to the site, pulled back a tangle of vines that were stealthily covering the moss, and shouted, so great was his shock.

“Thorgil! Oh, my dear! Thorgil! Wake up! I’ll save you!” Her body was completely engulfed, but her face and throat were still clear. Jack tried to pull the moss up with his hands. It was thicker and stronger than any such plant he’d ever encountered. His fingers made no more impression on it than if he’d been trying to claw up stone.

“I can’t find anything to dig with,” moaned Pega, pulling at roots and yanking at the branches of a tree. “These are like iron! I can’t break them!”

“I can try magic,” Jack said, “but it might be dangerous. Stand back, Pega. I’m not sure what will happen.” Pega retreated to the edge of the rock. Jack rested his staff on the moss and tried to calm his mind.

What do I ask for? What do I say?he thought desperately. He was afraid to call fire. It might burst out and incinerate all of them. Even as he considered, he saw the moss creep softly up Thorgil’s throat— and recoil.

It curled back, and flakes of ash drifted off in the slight breeze. The shield maiden’s eyes were closed and her face was very pale, but the moss stirred gently over her chest. She was still breathing. Some power lay between her and the forest.

The rune of protection,thought Jack. He couldn’t see it—it was invisible except for that brief time when it was passed from one person to another—but he felt its presence. The Bard had worn it when he passed through the Valley of Lunatics. Jack had carried it in Jotunheim and had given it up only to keep Thorgil from killing herself. It was pure life force.

Jack yearned to touch it. He didn’t dare. The rune could only be given freely. It burned whoever tried to take it by force, as it was burning the moss now and keeping it from covering Thorgil’s face.

He racked his brains for a solution. He knew how to call up fog and wind, find water, kindle fire, and (once) cause an earthquake. None of these would do him any good now. If only I could wake her,thought Jack. She could will new strength from the rune.He stroked her forehead and called her name, but she slept on.

“Can I help?” said Pega from the rock.

“You don’t know magic,” Jack said impatiently. He didn’t want to be interrupted.

“I could sing.”

Jack’s head snapped up. Sing! Of course! What was the one thing most likely to rouse Thorgil to action? Without bothering to explain, he began:

“That’s an odd thing to tell someone who might be dying,” Pega said.

“Be quiet,” said Jack. He went on:

As he sang, the memory of the Northmen came back to him. They were in Olaf One-Brow’s ship with a wind filling the red-and-cream-striped sail. Their lives were violent, they were thugs of the worst kind, foul, half crazy, and stupid, and yet… they were noble as well.

Jack began the song again, and Pega joined in—she was a quick study for music. “Fame never dies! Fame never dies! Fame never dies!”Thorgil’s face lost its deathly pallor, and her lips trembled as though she was trying to join in. Her eyes flew open.

“Jack?” she whispered.

“You’ve got to live,” Jack said, so delighted that he could hardly contain himself. Her eyes lost their brightness and began to close. “What kind of oath-breaking coward are you!” he shouted. “Is this an honorable death? Sleeping on a soft bed like the lowest thrall? Faugh! You deserve to go to Hel!”

“Jack!” cried Pega, shocked.

“Be still. I know what I’m doing. Thorgil Chicken-Heart is what they’ll call you,” he told the shield maiden. “Thorgil Brj’stabarn! Suckling baby!”

“I am nota brj’stabarn,” snarled Thorgil, her face flushing red and her body quivering under the moss.

“Then live, you sorry excuse for carrion!”

The shield maiden’s mouth contorted as though she had so many vile curses to utter, she couldn’t get them out fast enough. The moss on her chest began to turn brown and flake away. The line of destruction moved down her arms and legs. She wrenched herself up and felt for her knife. Then weakness overtook her, and she collapsed to her knees, shaking violently.

“That’s better,” Jack said.

“Let me help you,” Pega cried, bounding to Thorgil’s side.

“No one…”—the shield maiden stopped and panted, so great was her exhaustion—“needs… to help me.”

“Look at you. You can’t even talk straight. ’Course you need help.” Pega attempted to lift her, but Thorgil gave her a feeble slap.

“Leave her alone,” Jack said. “Thorgil Brj’stabarncan crawl if she can’t walk.”

“Hate… you,” said Thorgil, breathing heavily.

Jack went back to sit on the rocks. He felt as light as a sunbeam. “I’d get off that moss if I were you. Your choice, of course.” Pega looked up at him in consternation. “I know you think I’m horrible, Pega, but I learned my manners from Northmen. They can hardly get through the day without ten insults and at least one death threat.” Pega, after getting slapped—weakly—a few times, retreated to the rocks to sit by Jack.

Together they watched the shield maiden drag herself forward on hands and knees. Jack’s heart, in spite of his harsh words, ached to see her struggle, but he also knew it was useless to interfere. Thorgil would have to rescue herself. Otherwise, she would feel humiliated and be even harder to deal with. Finally, she crept onto the lowest layer of stone, beyond the reach of questing tree roots.

“I… did it…” she wheezed. “No… thanks to you.”

Now Jack did scoot down to sit by her side. “You need water,” he observed. “Wait here.” He ran to a small rivulet trickling from the mountain nearby and filled his hands. Some of the water leaked out on the way back, but he managed to get a little into Thorgil’s mouth. Back and forth he went, with Pega helping, until the shield maiden sighed and shook her head.

“Enough,” she said.

Jack produced one of the rounds of cheese, and Thorgil almost bit him in her eagerness to get it. “Take little bites,” he advised. “It’s not safe to bolt your food after starving.” But Thorgil paid no attention. When she was finished, she leaned back against the rock and closed her eyes.

“Is she going to faint again?” whispered Pega.