Jack sighed inwardly. It had been rather nice to be mourned, but Lucy never kept her mind on things long. Well, she was hardly more than a baby.

The Bard strode ahead with Jack trying to keep up. The boy was weighted down by sacks of provisions as well as his own stuff. On the way they met the blacksmith’s son. Obviously, he was the first boy sent to take over Giles Crookleg’s chores. When the Bard’s back was turned, the blacksmith’s son aimed a punch at Jack’s arm, and Jack neatly sidestepped it. “Enjoy the sheep,” he called, hurrying to catch up with the old man.

Jack toiled from dawn to dusk, but he found it interesting. Some nights he carried the Bard’s harp when the old man went visiting. This task was altogether delightful. Jack sat in a place of honor by the fire—a place that had been forbidden when he was merely Giles Crookleg’s brat. He was given a hot drink, and then he had nothing to do except bask in warmth and listen to the Bard’s stories.

On an average day Jack rose before dawn, built up the fire, and cooked porridge. He carried water and hauled driftwood. Then he was sent out into the wilds. “Look around you,” said the Bard. “Feel the wind, smell the air. Listen to the birds and watch the sky. Tell me what’s happening in the wide world.”

And Jack, without knowing exactly what he was supposed to see, climbed the long hills to their summits. He crouched in old sheep byres when the weather was foul. He stretched out in meadows when the weather was fair. He watched puffy white clouds hurry across the sky and hawks drop like arrows to catch unlucky mice.

Jack quickly learned that a simple answer wouldn’t do. If he was lazy or unobservant or—worst of all— made things up,the Bard rapped him on the head with his knuckles. He knew exactly when Jack was lying. “Open your eyes!” he would shout. “If this is the best you can do, I might as well throw you back like an undersized minnow!”

Jack found he saw more and more as the weeks went by, as though the wide world had opened up still wider. He learned that a hawk didn’t wander aimlessly in the air. It followed paths. It took its rest on certain crags and had its courtesies to other hawks. He saw that the creatures of the wild dealt with one another like the people in his village. There were timid ones and bullies, boastful ones and humble creatures who only wanted to get on with things and avoid trouble.

When Jack returned from his journeys, he went straight to the cauldron of soup over the fire. It hung there day and night, a rich pottage of peas, barley, parsnips, and onions. Now and then the Bard threw in a handful of herbs, so the character of the soup changed, but it was always good.

Jack let the heat of the fire soak into his bones as he munched a slab of bread. This, too, changed, depending on who was providing food that week. Most people made bread with a mixture of oats, wheat, barley, or beans—whatever they had on hand. The poorer families mixed acorns with their flour and produced loaves so tough, they had to be shredded and soaked before you could choke them down. But the baker used pure wheat. His bread was wonderfully soft and arrived wrapped in a blanket to keep it warm.

After lunch Jack tended the garden in the lea of the house. He gathered fleabane to smoke vermin from his and the Bard’s clothes. He peeled rushes and dipped the white centers into beeswax for candles on the long, dark evenings. He plaited marram grass from the dunes into waterproof mats. Finally, during the evening meal, Jack reported what he’d seen during the day.

“Good, good,” the old man would say. “You’ve seen something of how it works together. Not all, of course. That would take many lifetimes. But you are not entirelyignorant.” Then he would teach Jack a song and listen intently as the boy repeated it. “You have a good ear for music. Quite a remarkable ear,” he would murmur, and Jack would feel happy all the way down to his toes.

Last of all, Jack banked the fire and laid out the dried heather and sheepskins they used for beds. The Bard slept at the far end of the house in a truckle bed made of coiled straw. It reminded Jack of a large basket. Jack slept in a corner to one side of the door.

The last thing he saw at night was the glow of the hearth on the walls of the house. The old Romans had painted them with trees unlike any Jack had seen. They were hung with golden fruit, and strange birds roosted among the branches. Jack found them disturbing. Sometimes, when the light of the coals wavered, the birds seemed to move. Or the branches did, which was just as bad.

“No… no…”

Jack sat up abruptly. The wind was howling outside. The house held the deep chill that seeped into it before dawn.

“No… I won’t do it… it’s evil…”

Jack threw back the covers and stumbled to the other end of the house. The Bard’s bed was shaking. He saw the old man thrust up his hand as though warding something off. “Sir! Sir! Wake up! Everything’s all right.” He caught the Bard’s hand.

“You won’t bend me to your will! I defy you, foul troll!”

Something—some terrible force—flung the boy back. His head banged against the stone, and his ears rang as though a blacksmith were pounding on an anvil. He tasted blood.

“Oh, my stars, child! I didn’t know it was you.”

Jack tried to speak, choked on blood, and coughed instead.

“You’re alive, thank Freya! Stay here. I’ll build up the fire and make you a healing drink.”

The ringing in Jack’s ears died down, but he felt violently sick to his stomach. He heard the Bard move around, and presently, the hearth burst into light. In a very short time he was handed a cup of hot liquid. It hurt his mouth and he recoiled.

“You bit through your lip, child. It isn’t as bad as it looks. The drink will make it better.”

Jack managed to swallow, and the sickness went away. He found himself trembling. Perhaps he’d been trembling all along. He couldn’t remember. “Is that—is that how—you destroy your enemies?” he stammered.

The Bard sat back. “One of the ways,” he said.

“So that was… magic.”

“Some call it so,” said the Bard.

“Will you teach me how to do it?”

“By Thor’s bushy beard! I almost killed you, and the first thing you want to know is how to do it.”

“W-Well, sir, I am your a-apprentice.”

“And a right cheeky one too. Most boys would have run home to their mothers after what you just experienced. Still, curiosity is a great thing. We two might just get along.”

Jack felt a kind of warm sleepiness pass over him. The pain was still there, but it seemed unimportant. “What happened to you, sir?”

“That was a Nightmare, lad. Pray you never meet one.”

“You mean, a bad dream?”

“I mean a Nightmare. It’s far worse.”

Jack wanted to ask more, but he was too comfortable. He yawned broadly, stretched out on the floor, and fell asleep.

When he awoke, he was lying outside on a bed of heather. He struggled to get up. “Rest a while, lad,” said the Bard. He was sitting on a stool next to the door. His white beard and cloak shone against the weathered house. “Ah, sunlight,” the old man said with a contented sigh. “It heals the terrors of the night.”

“The Nightmare?” Jack said. His mouth hurt, and his speech was oddly slurred.

“Among other things,” said the Bard. Jack felt his lip and found, to his horror, that it was as swollen as a mushroom after rain. “You wouldn’t make a bad-looking troll at the moment,” the old man remarked.

Jack remembered the words the Bard had cried out in his sleep. “Have you truly seen one, sir?”

“Oh, yes. Dozens. Most are quite pleasant, although they take getting used to. The ones you have to watch out for are the half-trolls. There’s no describing how nasty they can be. Or deceitful. They’re shape-shifters, and when they appear human, they’re so beautiful that you can’t think of a single sensible thing around them.”