More Bones (12 page)

For nothing else? This seemed strange to the carpenter. But he was even more surprised when the magician said, “Treat the wood gently. Take care not to make it cry.”

The carpenter couldn't imagine a tree crying, but he wanted to make the coffin, so he agreed to do exactly what the magician asked. He listened hard when he felled the tree and cut it into boards, but he heard nothing unusual. No crying—unless the wood's voice was muffled by the sound of his saw.

When the old magician died, the carpenter sanded boards for the coffin. He saw that the wood was magnificent, dark and straight grained. It was much too lovely to bury under the dirt.

The carpenter couldn't decide what to do. Should he use the wood as he pleased? Or should he honor the magician's wish? In the end he reluctantly used the wood for the coffin and delivered it in time for the magician's burial.

When he returned to his workshop, the carpenter stared at the few boards that were left over.
Surely the magician wouldn't want them to go to waste,
he thought.
They would make an excellent violin. I'll start working on it tomorrow.

That night, however, the old magician burst into his dreams.
“Don't you dare use my wood for a violin,”
he said.
“Don't do it!”
The carpenter awoke. He lay there thinking for a moment, but he never paid attention to dreams. Besides, he was tired, so he turned over and went back to sleep.

The very next day, he began carving the wood. He labored over it for weeks until he had made an elegant violin—handsomely shaped and beautifully polished. He could hardly wait to hear how it sounded. But, in order to play it, he had to make a bow.
I'll begin first thing in the morning,
he told himself.

That night the dead magician returned.
“Now you have
done it!”
he told the carpenter
. “And it will be much worse if you make a bow.”
The carpenter was feeling a bit uneasy when he awoke, but again he dismissed his dream. He worked hard all day, shaping and varnishing the bow. But he couldn't try it out until morning, when the varnish had dried.

He went to bed, and again he dreamed about the magician. The dead man was very angry.
“This is your last chance,”
he said.
“Do
not
play that violin!”

The next morning, the carpenter felt a twinge of fear. But he knew that nothing had happened when he had finished making the violin. Why should he worry about playing it? He hurried to his workshop, strung the bow, took down the violin, and began to play. He was not a skilled violinist, so he was astounded by the haunting melody that arose. It seemed to spring forth on its own, crying like a dirge sung at a funeral.

But no sooner had he finished playing than the room turned dark. He rushed to the window and leaned out to see if the sun had been eclipsed, but all he saw was more darkness.

Suddenly invisible hands picked him up and thrust him out the window. The carpenter tumbled down and sank into something soft. He realized with horror that it was quicksand, sucking him into the earth. He thrashed about wildly, but it was too late. The quicksand dragged him under as he drew his last breath.

When the carpenter's son entered the workshop later that morning, he found his father's body lying on the floor
with the violin clutched in his hands. The son was distraught. He didn't know what had happened. But that night, the same magician visited the son's dreams to tell him what had taken place.

The son awoke, confused. What sort of magic was in that tree? One thing the son knew for sure—that violin was dangerous. He arose at dawn and burned it. As it went up in flames, he thought he heard a voice crying out from afar. Was the soul of the carpenter being tortured somewhere? Or was that the voice of the magician, crying out from his grave?

The Evil Sea Ghost

NORWAY

 
 
“Beware of draugs,” an old fisherman warned Jack, “or you'll sink beneath the waves.”

Jack barely listened. He'd heard that draugs were ghosts of men lost at sea—men who were not buried in the church-yard. But Jack had never seen one.

“Some have no heads at all,” said the old fisherman. His voice dropped to a whisper. “But the worst have heads of seaweed, with slimy green teeth as sharp as nails. Beware if you hear them at night, barging around the boathouse.”

Jack looked hard at the old man. Did he know that Jack had heard strange noises the evening before? Wasn't it rats? Of course it was rats, Jack told himself.

The old fisherman moved closer. “If a draug gets into the boathouse,” he whispered, “expect foul weather. If it comes aboard, you'll be shipwrecked. But that's not the worst. If it sails alongside you in a halfboat, prepare to die.”

The old man's tales might have frightened Jack when he was a boy. But now he was twenty. He had no time for such talk. He needed to earn money for his widowed mother and his younger sister and brothers. So he went fishing each morning—and today he was late.

Jack nodded politely to the old man and set sail. Sunlight sparkled on the waves. Jack headed for one of his favorite spots, close to craggy rocks jutting out of the sea. But before he had a chance to bait his hooks, clouds rolled in—dark, menacing clouds. Soon gentle waves turned into huge swells, and the wind began to howl. Jack knew he must sail home.

How could a storm rise so quickly? Towering waves threatened to swamp Jack's boat. He held the rudder with one hand and frantically bailed with the other. Sails whipped in the wind, and rain poured down his face.

Oh for a better boat, Jack thought, one that would ride high and light, skimming across the sea.

That's when a rogue wave—bigger than all the rest—flipped the boat and flung Jack overboard. He struggled to the surface and clawed his way onto the upturned hull. He grasped the keel with his hands and held tight with his knees.

The billowing waves drenched him. Chills shook his body. He thrust his sheaf knife into the wooden hull and clung to it. His hands were numb. Would his fingers slip? Would he ever see his family again?

The words of the old fisherman rang in his head.
“If a draug gets into the boathouse, expect foul weather.”

Suddenly Jack realized it
was
a draug he had heard in the boathouse the evening before. Not rats! That evil ghost was just waiting to brew up a storm. Jack wished he'd heeded the old fisherman's warning. He would never doubt him again.

When Jack had almost lost hope, he heard the surf hitting the rocky shore. He glimpsed his own dock through sheets of rain and realized that the tide was slowly carrying him home. He willed himself to hang on a little longer, pressing his numbed knees hard against the wood.

It seemed like an eternity to Jack, but finally the sea flung him onto land. He crawled up to his boathouse, too weak to reach his own bed, and burrowed beneath a pile of old sails. He went to sleep wondering if draugs were lurking nearby.

By the next morning he was sick with a high fever and bone-rattling chills. His mind began to wander. He imagined hearing draugs—under the floor, in the attic, everywhere. He howled and shouted, but he refused to leave the boathouse.

Only his little sister, Malfri, wasn't afraid of him. She skipped down to the boathouse each day with a pail of food their mother had prepared—loaves of bread, cheese, and fish liver covered with molasses. When he began to recover, he made toys for Malfri. But if others came near, he still howled. He wanted to be left alone so he could work—for he had vowed never to go to sea again until he had a safer boat. And how would he get it? He would have to build it himself.

Jack drew plans for the sleekest boat in all of Norway. Wood shavings and sawdust piled up around his feet. But no matter how many times he shaped each plank, nothing fit. He redrew his plans and redid his work, but still it didn't please him. He labored endlessly, barely sleeping.

One night he took a catnap, curled up on a pile of shavings. He dreamed that he had finished his boat and was out sailing when a draug clambered aboard. Planks began to splinter, water rushed in, and the boat sank to the bottom of the sea.

Jack awoke drenched with sweat, his eyes wild. He lit a lantern and looked once more at his unfinished boat. It seemed hopelessly twisted and misshapen. He grabbed a cowbell and threw it at the boat. It rang violently.

“Did you call me?” asked an unearthly voice. A cold wind from the sea blew in the window.

Jack saw an awful draug slip out of the shadows and sit down on his boat. The ghost was dripping water and grinning, revealing its pointed green teeth.

Jack flung a pail at it. The pail went right through the draug, hit the wall, and bounced back. Jack ducked, terrified. Why had the draug come to the boathouse? What did it want? Was it about to unleash another storm?

“No storms,” the draug hissed, reading his mind, “only a proposition. You can build the finest boats in all of Norway, if . . .” And it lingered for a moment, looking incredibly evil. “If you will let me set the keel in place, with all its flaws, in every seventh boat. If you want a sea boat, you must accept a death boat.”

Before Jack could utter a word, the draug beckoned to him. “Come see,” it said, leading Jack out to the water's edge. An unbelievably sleek new boat was moored there. Jack had never seen the likes of it, nor had anyone else.

“If you want to build such boats,” the draug said, “knock three times on the keel before the sun rises. But I must tell you that you cannot stop building them once you start.”

Jack tested the boat, rocking it with his foot, amazed to see how lightly it rode upon the water. He knocked twice, then stopped before the fateful third knock. How could he accept such an evil proposition?

“Why not take the chance?” asked the draug, and it disappeared into the water without a splash.

Jack ran his hand along the smooth planks, admiring the perfect workmanship and the seaworthy design. Again he knocked twice, and again he stopped.

He headed back to the boathouse, arguing with himself. But then he saw his own ungainly, unfinished boat. With an anguished howl, he raced back to the water's edge—and he knocked on the keel . . . once . . . twice . . . three times.

Instantly the draug rose out of the water. “Remember,” it hissed. “In every seventh boat,
I
will set the keel.” Then the draug vanished, and so did the boat.

Most of that night Jack lay awake. But just before the sun rose, he told himself,
What's done is done,
and he fell into a fitful sleep.

The next morning, Jack tore apart the boat he was building and began again. This time his hands took over. His saws cut cleanly, and every plank molded itself into place.

Before long, Jack was ready to launch his beautiful boat. It sailed like a seabird, wondrous to watch. But how could he enjoy it? No sooner had he set sail than he was anxious to return to the boathouse. He
must
build more boats.

Luckily many fishermen wanted boats like Jack's, so he no longer needed to fish for his family. He became a boat builder, and the money rolled in.

It seemed to Jack that each new boat he built was more beautiful than the last. And the seventh boat? That was the loveliest of all.

In those days there was a bailiff who imposed harsh taxes on fishermen and farmers alike. When he heard about Jack's success, he headed straight to the boathouse.

“You haven't been paying your taxes,” he shouted at Jack. “I'll throw you in prison for the rest of your life. You'll rot in a dark cell. You'll never see your family again . . . unless . . .” and he eyed Jack's seventh boat . . . “unless you give me that boat.”

Little Malfri cried when the bailiff took Jack's lovely boat. But Jack laughed so hard he could barely speak. “No one,” he gasped, “deserves it more.”

That fall he heard the news. The boat had taken the bailiff to the bottom of the sea.

Jack built so many boats that he stopped counting. He no longer knew which was a seventh boat. He told himself not to worry—he was saving far more lives than he was losing.

One Sunday, Jack's family sailed across the bay to church. It was faster to go by boat than to take the long road that curved around the shore. Jack stayed home. He wanted to finish the new hull he was building. He heard the wind rise. Soon it was whistling through the cracks in the old boathouse. All day the storm grew stronger.

Night fell. Why hadn't his family returned? He swept some wood shavings aside, telling himself that his boats could ride out any weather.

The wind turned even wilder, shaking the boathouse. Jack listened to it howl. But then he heard something else. It sounded like voices moaning outside the boathouse door—and fingernails clawing at the latch.