The fire had burned down. Jack dragged over a log and settled it carefully so the sparks wouldn’t fly up and set the thatch on fire. He was so excited, he wanted to run around the house five times. The Bard really could do magic! In time Jack would do it too. What animal shall I be?he thought. A hawk so I can see the whole village? Or a seal so I can catch fish? Wait! Wouldn’t it be great to be a bear and scare the stuffing out of the blacksmith’s son?

“If you’re quite finished wool-gathering, I’ll finish the story,” said the Bard.

“Sorry, sir.” Jack sat down.

“The tale of Beowulf’s victory went everywhere—helped, I might add, by the excellent poem I wrote about it. Eventually, it got to Jotunheim, the kingdom of the trolls.”

“Uh-oh,” said Jack.

“Frothi had a sister.”

“Frith?” Jack guessed.

“I’m afraid so. Many years had passed, but Frith had never given up her thirst for revenge for her sister’s death. She sent a fire-breathing dragon to destroy Beowulf’s land. Jotuns are long-lived, and Frith was hardly past her youth, but Beowulf was an old man. The battle was too much for him and he died.”

That’s the problem with stories going on too long,Jack thought. Sooner or later you get to a bad part.When he, Jack, became a bard, he’d stop talking while everyone was still happy.

“By then I was working at the court of Ivar the Boneless. Don’t scowl, lad,” said the old man. “Bards have to work like everyone else. Ivar wasn’t so bad in those days. He was your usual pea-brained bully, but he had a sense of honor. Not after Frith got hold of him, though. She was as beautiful as a ship under full sail. An illusion, of course. She got hold of him, sucked the marrow out of him, and turned him into the half-mad tyrant he is today. Probably the last decent thing he did was save my life.”

“That’s when you came to us,” Jack said.

“Indeed it was. Ivar took me out in his ship and put me adrift in a flimsy coracle. Perhaps he thought I would drown. I’m sure he told Frith that. But I like to think he gave me a chance to survive.”

“I’m so glad you came here,” Jack said in a burst of gratitude.

“I am too.” The Bard took down his harp and played a tune the villagers danced to at summer fairs. It made the firelight flicker on the walls of the Roman house. The painted birds spread their wings and swayed from side to side.

The harp was carved from the breastbone of a whale. After a while the old man played something grander and more sad. Jack wondered if the long-dead whale was remembering its life and whether the music came from the Bard or from the sea.

Jack ran along the shore, stopping once as a wave washed over his feet. The March sky was blue, the air filled with the cries of migrating birds. He was headed toward a line of rocks. With the tide out, he had an excellent chance to gather whelks. His collecting bag was slung over his shoulder. He had spent over a year as the Bard’s apprentice and now felt he had earned this chance to play.

He reached the rocks and flopped down to catch his breath. “What a beautiful day,” he said to no one in particular. The air was soft with spring, and sunlight polished the seaweed tossing at the edge of the waves. Jack lay back against a sand dune and watched a line of geese pass overhead. He could call them down. He could even—but wouldn’t dare—kill one for dinner. The Bard said using the life force in that way was evil.

The winter had been so cold, and the Bard had driven him for such long hours, even Father had been pleased. Today was the first time Jack had managed to get away. He was supposed to gather whelks and sea tangle. If there was time, he was to practice calling up fog.

“I… really…hate fog,” Jack said as he gazed up at the sky. After a while he felt guilty and got up. He shaded his eyes. There was something out at sea. It was small, almost hidden in the vastness. At first Jack thought it was a bird, but as the waves brought it closer he saw it was a box.

Perhaps it contained treasure. Perhaps it carried a ring that could grant three wishes or a cap that made you invisible.

Jack tore off his clothes and plunged into the water. He was a good swimmer. He raised his head between strokes to keep track of the box’s location, and soon he had it.

Back on shore he eagerly studied it. It was locked, although water sloshed when it was shaken. On five sides it was plain. On the sixth was a carving of a man.

Or at least Jack thought it was a man. The stocky creature had legs and shoes. It carried a sword. But its body was covered with hair and the head was that of a wolf.

The boy shivered. The box smelled—not rotten, exactly, but strange.Sweet and bitter at the same time. He had intended to bash it open with a rock. Now he thought it wiser to consult the Bard. Jack quickly gathered the whelks and hurried home.

The old man took one look at the box and rushed outside to the edge of the cliff. He gazed at the sea. “It has come,” he murmured.

“What has come? What’s the matter?” cried Jack.

“I can’t see them, but I know they’re out there. They’re smashing… and burning… and spreading death like a red tide.”

“Please, sir! Tell me what’s happening.”

The Bard turned over the box. Water dripped out of a small crack. “I hoped never to smell this again,” he said. He pressed the wood in various places until it made a small snap.The carving of the wolf/man slid out. Beneath was a mat of dark green leaves. The Bard drained off the seawater. “That, my lad, is bog myrtle.”

Jack was deeply disappointed. He had hoped for magic.

“And that”—the Bard tapped the lid—“is the fellow who owns it.”

“Is he a Jotun?” asked Jack.

“Jotuns aren’t our immediate problem. This fellow is a berserker, and from the condition of the box, I’d say he’s not far away.”

Jack followed the Bard into the house, wishing the old man would explain things more clearly. “Is a berserker a man or a wolf?”

“A very good question,” said the Bard. “Most of the time they’re men, but when they make a drink of this plant, they become as frenzied as mad dogs. They bite holes in their shields. They run barefooted over jagged rocks without feeling it. Neither fire nor steel can stop them. They believe themselves to be wolves or bears then. My observation is that they’re merely nasty, dim-witted thugs. They’re just as dangerous, though.

“Somewhere, not far from here, a pack of them has landed. Run and warn the village, lad. Tell the men I’m coming. Tell them to send their loved ones into the forest and to gather axes, hoes, whatever can be used for weapons. They will need them soon.”

But Jack didn’t have to tell the villagers anything. He met the blacksmith’s son, Colin, running up the path. “Jack! Jack! Call the Bard. Something awful has happened!” Colin stopped to catch his breath.

“He’s on his way,” said Jack.

“Good old Bard,” said the blacksmith’s son. “Dad said he’d know what to do. He’ll throw those pirates back in the sea and let the fishies eat them.”

“Pirates? Already?” cried Jack.

Colin wiped his nose on his sleeve and then put the same arm around Jack’s shoulder. “You knew about them? Oh, of course. You’re an apprentice bard.”

Colin didn’t seem worried by the appearance of pirates. Jack noted his new friendliness and warmed to it. Jack was no longer a farmer’s brat to be bullied. He was an apprentice bard, soon to be a real one with powers to drive people mad or make them come up in boils if they displeased him.

“They haven’t arrived yet,” said the blacksmith’s son, removing his arm and wiping his nose again. Jack moved out of reach. “Dad says there’s going to be an awful fight. Aren’t we lucky? Years go by without the least excitement, and now we’ll go to war like heroes of old. Maybe the king will knight us.”