“I couldn’t agree more,” said Jack as he led the Bard down the path to the village.

Jack’s original plan was to go through the village to the forest. But the Bard moved so slowly, he began to despair of getting there before dark. They passed below Jack’s farm. The boy looked up with longing. What a fine, well-built place it was! Every building, every fence and field of it had been shaped by Father’s hands. It looked so terribly deserted now. Jack wiped his eyes with a sleeve and grimly yanked on the rope tied around the Bard’s waist.

No response. Jack turned and saw that the old man had taken it into his head to sit down. “Not now,” the boy said. “I know you’re tired, sir, but we simply can’t stop until we’ve reached shelter.”

“Gaaw,” said the Bard, staring up at the house.

Jack followed his gaze. There was a wisp of white coming out of the smoke hole. Was the place on fire? Jack dropped the rope and sprinted up the hill. It was definitely fire. He could smell it. He threw himself at the door, found it bolted, and pounded on it with his fists.

“Don’t move, Lucy,” whispered a voice Jack recognized.

“It’s me, Mother! It’s Jack! What’s wrong? Why are you here?”

There was a pause and then the sound of an iron latch being drawn back. Father peered out. Jack saw he had a pitchfork ready to jab whoever stood outside. Behind him Mother held a pot of boiling water.

Lucy shrieked and pushed by her father. “Oh, darling,” said Mother, putting down the pot.

“Welcome home,” said Father mildly, as though it were perfectly normal to aim a pitchfork at a visitor.

“Now everything’s perfect,” Lucy cried, dancing around. She pulled Jack inside. The house was bare, with most of the belongings buried or hidden in the forest, but beds of heather lay close to the hearth and a bag of provisions leaned against a wall.

Jack felt dazed. “Has everyone moved back to the village?” he asked.

“Only us,” said Father.

“We’re the smart ones,” said Lucy.

Jack looked at Mother, who was the only one who seemed uneasy. “It was Lucy,” she began.

“The forest was nasty! It was all wet and cold,” Lucy cried. “The ground was covered with rocks. It was no place for a lost princess.”

“It was a safeplace for a lost princess,” said Jack. He knew at once what had happened. Lucy, faced for the first time with discomfort, had demanded to return. He knew how persistent she could be. She would go on and on until you wanted to slap her, only you didn’t, of course, because she was so small and beautiful. “I think it’s a really bad idea to stay here,” Jack said.

“I know, but—” Mother gestured at Father. Giles Crookleg had clearly caved in to Lucy’s pleas. He had never denied her anything.

“I’m notgoing back!” yelled Lucy. “Not after last night!”

“Well, there was something awful,” Mother said.

“It was like the End of Days,” said Father in a hollow voice. “It came screaming out of the sky. Ice fell like daggers. The stars were blotted out. People ran around, banging into trees. The blacksmith’s son knocked himself out, and the horses broke their tethers and ran off. They were still looking for them this morning.”

“The Nightmare,” murmured Jack. And then he remembered. “Oh, my stars, I forgot. The Bard was attacked last night—something magic, I don’t really understand it—but his wits have fled. I was taking him to the forest.”

They went down to the road. The old man had planted himself in the middle like a tree stump. “The wolf-headed men will get you if you don’t move,” said Jack. He grabbed the Bard’s arms and pulled.

“Wow-wow-wow- wow!” the man screamed.

“Shush. Don’t make a noise.” Jack tried to cover the Bard’s mouth, and the man’s teeth came down hard.

“Wud- duh!”

“I’ll wudduh you right back,” Jack shouted, nursing his hand. “No, I won’t. I didn’t mean that. But you’re driving me crazy. I know you’re under a spell, sir, so I won’t take offense. But couldn’t you help out just a bit?”

“No point reasoning with him. He’s like a sheep.” Giles Crookleg lifted the old man right off the ground. He staggered back to the house as the Bard bellowed and tried to kick him. Father might have been lame, but years of hard work had toughened his muscles. “Whew!” he said, dumping the old man, none too gently, on the floor. “You’re right about his wits, son. They’re clean gone. Did you say the Nightmare got them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a spell.”

“Or maybe it’s just age,” Mother said gently. She wiped the Bard’s face with a damp cloth and put a rolled-up cloak under his head for a pillow. “With rest and care, it may come right.”

Jack sat on the floor, trying to think. It wasn’t easy with Lucy climbing over him and telling him of her woes in the forest. “The fog was awful! It got into everything, and the chief wouldn’t let us light a fire. He’s so mean!”

“The Bard called up fog to protect you,” Jack said.

“Pooh!” Lucy sneered. “Anything can walk through that. Monsters! Trolls!”

“Don’t talk about trolls.”

“I will if I want. Trolls and trolls and trolls and trolls!”

Jack’s hand itched to slap her.

“Leave him alone, dearest,” said Mother. She distracted Lucy with a handful of hazelnuts. The little girl applied herself to smashing them with a rock and picking out the kernels.

“You mean the Bardcalled up the fog?” said Father. “That’s not the act of a God-fearing man. That’s wizardry.”

Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?Jack thought. Anything to do with magic set Giles Crookleg off. It was evil. It reeked of fire and brimstone. Demons with long claws would drag you off.

“I hope he hasn’t been leading you down the paths of wickedness,” Father said. “Hellfire awaits those who transgress the laws of God.”

“It was a normal fog,” Jack said wearily. “I was only trying to explain things to Lucy.” He felt overwhelmed by the situation. His family had walked back into danger. The Bard was out of his head. And the wolf-headed men might be moving along the Roman road at this very moment. He felt very, very tired.

“Perhaps you’d like to sit in the garden and eat something,” Mother said. Jack realized she knew far more than she was letting on. He suddenly understood the unspoken sympathy that existed between the Bard and his mother. She was a wise woman herself with magic to charm bees and wild beasts. Why had he never understood this before? But perhaps working with the life force had sharpened his wits. Now he recognized the gentle spells that had been woven around his childhood, the songs that cooled fevers, the touch that made even the plainest food taste good.

“Thank you, Mother,” Jack said. Soon he was in the herb garden with a cup of hot cider and bread spread with honey. Mother looked north to the Roman road. She said nothing, but she knew. It was from there the danger would come.

As soon as Mother left, Jack got to his feet. He was tired and achy. More than anything he wanted to be a small child again, with no worries and no responsibilities. But it was not to be. That time was gone. Only he stood between the village and the wolf-headed men, and it was his duty to see the job through.

Jack sat in a hollow near the Roman road. He was surrounded by bracken like a rabbit hiding from a fox. No one would be able to see him, but Jack intended to be even more invisible. He breathed in the green odors of earth and fern. He felt with his mind the damp roots of trees. Come forth,he called. Come forth to me. Cloak the air with your gray presences. Bring sea and sky together.

He felt, rather than saw, the curling mist. Sunlight muted to pearl white, to dove feather and dusk. Dampness flowed into his lungs. Water gathered on ferns. Round drops paused on the tips of leaves and fell, sending pale threads over moss. The air sighed and rustled with it.