The Islands of the Blessed

by Nancy Farmer

  “They’re only fit to pull dung carts,” Thorgil said carelessly. “The future belongs to the strong.”

  “That belief is why Northmen are going to disappear.”

  “Disappear!” Thorgil sprang to her feet. “My people will never be defeated! Our fame will never die!”

  For an instant the hearth flames blazed and the shadow behind the Bard loomed. Thorgil sank to the floor, her eyes wide and frightened. The albatross moaned, and Jack was suddenly clammy with sweat. Then the flames subsided. The Bard was a kindly old man again, normal-size and a bit frail.

  “Good fear-spell,” murmured Jack.

  “Thank you,” said the old man. “I learned that one from a sea hag in the Orkney Islands.”

  The shield maiden struggled to a sitting position with as much grace as she could manage. Her eyes shot daggers at the Bard.

  He continued, ignoring her. “Many strange things have been happening: the Wild Hunt, the loss of Gog and Magog, the arrival of Seafarer, that cry from the sea.”

  “You heard it too, sir?” Jack said.

  “I could hardly miss it. I was on the cliff watching waves,” the Bard said. “I was rather hoping to find another albatross. The cry came from directly below, and I was about to climb down to investigate when I saw a creature poke its head out of the water. It was as long as a Northman ship with a huge tail curled beneath it.”

  “A sea serpent?” cried Jack.

  “A much rarer being. It was a Pictish beast.”

  “Now I know we’re in for bad luck,” Jack said.

  “For shame,” the old man scolded. “Not everything Pictish is bad. At any rate, this beast seemed drawn to whatever screamed. It made straight for shore, and I ran for my staff. You can never be quite sure whether a monster is hungry or merely curious. It was gone by the time I returned.”

  “And the creature below?”

  “I couldn’t find it,” said the Bard. “You know, I’ve heard that cry before, but I can’t quite remember where.”

  “We should hunt for it,” said Thorgil. She drew her knife and held it up in the firelight. Her movements were much more polished after a year practicing with her left hand, but she would never regain her earlier skill. Her right hand looked completely normal, apart from a strange silvery hue, but it was as useless as a block of wood.

  Jack wasn’t sure whether Thorgil’s paralysis was of the mind or whether some dire ill had passed to her from the demon she had attacked. The Bard had tried to heal her. Even Brother Aiden (when she was asleep and couldn’t spit at him) had prayed over her. Nothing helped.

  “It’s as black as a lead mine out there,” the Bard said. “It’s far more likely something would find you before you stumbled over it. Besides, I have new magic for you to learn, Jack.”

  The boy was elated. At last! Months had passed with only a repetition of the spells he’d already studied. He’d called up fire, calmed winds, and practiced farseeing, which had shown him meaningless beaches and gloomy rocks. The only new spell he’d learned was to separate grain from grit by calling to the life force within the kernels.

  “What about me? Why can’t I learn magic?” demanded Thorgil.

  “I haven’t chosen you as my apprentice, but if it’s any consolation, you already have some powers. When you tasted dragon’s blood, you became part dragon. That’s why you can understand the languages of the air.”

  “Part dragon?” Thorgil said, interested. Jack could almost see the thought passing through her mind. If she were part dragon, she could fly over her enemies and blast them with fire.

  The Bard smiled grimly, showing that he, too, understood. “Don’t expect to sprout wings anytime soon. You’ve been given a useful skill, and through the sacrifice of your hand, I suspect you’ve gained even more. You might even turn into a healer.”

  Jack hooted with laughter before he could stop himself.

  “Your wits have turned,” Thorgil snarled. “I am no healer to mumble charms over weaklings. I’m a shield maiden and will fall in battle holding my sword, even if it’s in the wrong hand.”

  “That path is no longer open to you,” the Bard said. “I’ve seen how the horses come to you and follow your every command. I heard how you lifted that crow from the mud and breathed hope into his wings.”

  “What crow? Nobody saw me. I didn’t do it,” cried Thorgil.

  “He came by the house and told me about it,” the Bard said, amused.

  “He was a follower of Odin. It was the least I could do,” the shield maiden conceded.

  “You needn’t be ashamed of kindness, Thorgil. Even the great Olaf One-Brow once stretched out his hand to a girl-child nobody wanted. Now, I need to teach Jack a sleep-spell. We must put Seafarer’s wing right before it sets permanently in that position.”

  “I could learn that,” Thorgil said eagerly.

  “No, you couldn’t, but you can haul Seafarer out of his nest for me.”

  Seafarer was in no mood to let anyone touch his wing. He snapped and screamed when Thorgil tried to move him. In the end she had to lure him out with a trail of dried fish. He gulped down the treats, keeping one beady eye on the humans, and kept up a burble of hisses and grunts. Even Jack, who knew no Bird, recognized them as insults.

  “Now comes the hard part,” the old man said when the bird had settled far from its lair. “I must pull Seafarer’s dislocated wing back into line, and it’s going to hurt like the very blazes. I don’t dare give him poppy. The infusion is too strong and might kill him.”

  “Should I hold him down?” said Jack, looking doubtfully at the sharp beak.

  “Too dangerous. Birds, even intelligent ones, panic when you try to restrain them. Thorgil, you must distract Seafarer. We need him relaxed while the spell works its power. Ask him about the land he came from. You can tell him about the Northland too.”

  Thorgil grinned, and Jack knew she had every intention of learning the new spell. She began speaking in Bird. It was a strange language full of groans and clicks, and Seafarer answered her with croaks and sighs. Sometimes his voice seemed to come from a great distance, like something you might hear on a night wind. Sometimes it boomed close to your ear. Whatever they were talking about, the great bird was entranced by it.

  “Now, lad. Observe my hands,” the Bard said quietly. “I’m going to weave a spell in the air as well as with words. Seafarer can’t understand human speech, but with animals, music is far more important. Listen to the tone of my voice.”

  The Bard settled in front of Seafarer and began to move his hands like seaweed undulating in a gentle sea. It was a beautiful motion, so fluid and peaceful that you wanted to watch it for hours. Jack thought it was like music made visible. The Bard began to speak in a drowsy voice that made the boy feel warm and safe inside. The words didn’t matter. The Bard could have been saying “tra-la-la” for all the difference it made, but in fact he was actually making sense:

  You are floating on a still pond … floating… floating. … It’s the softest bed you have ever known … floating … floating … softer than your mother’s wings … safer than your father’s shadow. … Nothing can harm you. … All is peaceful… floating. … You are getting very sleeeeepy. …

  Jack’s head jerked up. His vision had blurred and he had to force himself to focus. For an instant the Bard’s hands looked exactly like seaweed, and Jack knew the magic was overwhelming him. He pinched himself viciously.

  Seafarer sat with his beak half open. He slowly blinked that double blink of seabirds when a milky skin slides sideways before the eyelids come down. His legs gradually collapsed until he was sitting on the floor. Jack pinched himself again. Warm … safe … floating …

  Thorgil fell over with a thump. She was going to have another bruise, Jack thought distantly, trying to keep his wits about him. Then Seafarer fell over.

  “Quick, before he wakes,” murmured the Bard. “Hold his good wing close to his body.” Jack obeyed, and all the while the slow music of the old
man’s voice wove itself around them like a vast, shining coil. The Bard grasped the other wing and flexed it with a quick movement. There was an audible click. Seafarer shrieked, but his eyes stayed closed. He lay on the floor, sound asleep.

  “That went well,” the Bard said briskly, dusting off his hands. “I’ll let him rest awhile. You might turn Thorgil on her side, lad. She’s facedown, and if I’m not mistaken, she’s got a straw up her nose.”

  Chapter Five

  A SCREAM IN THE DARK

  Thorgil did have a nasty bruise in the morning, but what annoyed her more was not remembering the sleep-spell.

  “Some people can do it and others are unable to resist the magic,” the Bard explained.

  “I can resist anything,” the shield maiden protested.

  “We’re all aware of that, but the sleep-spell is out of your control. It’s just how things are. You couldn’t fly, no matter how hard you flapped your arms.”

  “Olaf used to say that when I tried to make poetry,” Thorgil said. “But after I drank from Mimir’s Well, I could do it as well as Jack.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Jack. He was delighted by Thorgil’s failure. He remembered the music of the spell perfectly and was itching to try it out on a black-faced sheep.

  “Well, I’m not giving up,” she said. “Think how useful it would be to send your enemies to sleep—though it lacks honor to slay a sleeping man.”

  The Bard shook his head. “Your motives, as usual, are appalling. Kindly tell Seafarer that he isn’t allowed to fly for a few days.” The bird had retreated to the alcove after being awoken, and they could hear him grumbling inside.

  Thorgil knelt and spoke to the creature. “He isn’t happy about staying here. He says he must go in search of a mate.”

  “Where’s he going to do that?” inquired the Bard.

  Thorgil translated. “He says he saw lady birds south of here that were almost the right shape. They were a little small, though.”

  ”Almost? Wolves are almost the same shape as lambs. Did he have any success?”

  “No, but he’s hopeful.”

  “Well, explain that his wing is extremely weak and he’ll have to wait. Now, I need you two to gather plants in the meadows. I want comfrey, feverfew, mint, and valerian. If you run across henbane, I can use that, too. Mind, you keep it separate from the rest. Mugwort is always welcome. Look for it on sandy soil.”

  Jack fetched collecting bags, and soon they were walking through fields to the wild lands that lay beyond the village. The air was warm, and villagers were already planting stands of peas and beans for winter. Thorgil found a patch of wild lettuce and Jack gathered comfrey. By now they were at the edge of the hazel wood.

  “Phew! It’s hot,” exclaimed Thorgil, throwing her bags down among the bluebells. She lay flat on her stomach by a stream and splashed water into her mouth. “Mmm! This tastes as good as mead!”

  Jack shared out oatcakes left over from breakfast. “The Bard says we’re going to Bebba’s Town in a few weeks.”

  “I know. We have to buy grain. Isn’t the light through those leaves marvelous? And those butterflies are like white flowers fluttering in the air.”

  Jack braced himself for one of Thorgil’s good moods. “I wonder how we’ll get the grain back. The road is so full of potholes, you couldn’t possibly drive a cart over it.”

  “The Bard says we’ll hire a ship,” the shield maiden said, sitting up. “Just think of having a deck beneath our feet again, the waves crashing against the prow, the wind howling about our ears! Do you remember the color of the sea in a storm, all gray and green with the foam blowing off the crests of the waves? You could almost see into the halls of Ran and Aegir,” she said, naming the Northman sea gods. “Do you remember?”

  “Yes,” said Jack.

  “Well, you don’t seem happy about it.”

  “Who could be happy about drowning? It’s the only way you can visit Ran and Aegir.”

  “That’s not the point!” the shield maiden cried. “It’s the beauty of those colors! And the cold spray in your face. And the slosh of water around your boots. And the feel of the ship keeling over in a sharp wind. Olaf used to hand out coins when we were in danger of sinking, so we’d have a gift for Ran when we came to her halls. The sea kingdom isn’t as glorious as Valhalla, but it isn’t bad, either—”

  “Thorgil,” said Jack.

  “Yes?”

  “Stop babbling.”

  “I’m not babbling,” she said, too happy to take offense. “Perhaps we’ll hire a knorr in Bebba’s Town. They’re not handsome, but they hold a ton of supplies and they make the loveliest sound all night— knorr, knorr, knorr. A drekar would be even better.”

  “If the villagers saw a drekar, they’d run for the hills,” Jack said.

  “And so they should! A dragon ship full of berserkers— what could be prettier?” Thorgil smiled up at the sunlight, shining green through the leaves.

  “In my opinion, a barge loaded with grain.”

  “You’re as dull as a slug. Tell me, Jack. I’ve been puzzling about something that happened during the storm. I remember climbing out of the sheep byre and the hailstones striking me. Then I was lying in the field with the dead ewe at my side. You lifted me up—”

  “The mind can plays tricks in an emergency,” said Jack, hoping she didn’t remember what he’d said.

  “I know, but it seemed I heard the words—clear as clear— ‘Oh, my dear. My love.’ Isn’t that funny? I must have imagined it.”

  “You must have. The storm was too loud to hear anything.”

  “The words were really distinct.”

  “We should start collecting again,” said Jack.

  Thorgil made a face at him. “Oh, very well! But I want a bath in that stream first.” She disappeared behind a clump of bushes, and soon Jack heard her splashing around.

  He turned his back and occupied himself with whittling a Y-shaped stick. Thorgil emerged a few minutes later, having donned her clothes again.

  “This is a dowsing rod,” Jack explained, handing it to her. “It has to be made from hazel wood because hazels have their roots in the life force. You hold the dowser by its arms, see, and when you’re near an underground stream, it dips down.”

  “You can’t go five steps without finding a stream here,” said Thorgil, laughing, “but thanks. I’ll keep it for later.” She tucked it into her belt. “Would you like to learn Bird?”

  “Why—yes,” said Jack, astounded. Thorgil had actually thanked him! She’d also offered to share her lore. And taken a bath without being threatened. She was in a rare mood.

  “Very well: This is how you say hello to Seafarer. First, you have to compliment his wings.” Thorgil cawed—something between a groan and a shriek.

  Jack attempted to copy it and was corrected until he got it right. “Why do you have to compliment him?” he asked.

  “Albatrosses are proud of their wings, and if you don’t praise them, they’ll attack you. These are the words for getting him into the alcove. You offer to preen his feathers, but you don’t have to follow through. It’s a catchall phrase for ‘please settle down.’” She produced a low burble, followed by a sigh.

  Jack learned this one easily, for it was close to music. “How do you know this? Even the Bard had never seen an albatross before.”

  “It’s simply … part of me,” Thorgil tried to explain. “Since tasting dragon blood, I’ve had a fellowship with the creatures of the air. When we first returned to Middle Earth, I had to concentrate very hard to understand birds, but with the passage of time, their voices have become clearer.”

  “That’s a wonderful gift,” said Jack enviously.

  “No, it isn’t.” Thorgil plumped down on the grass. A pair of thrushes caroled to each other from the trees, and Jack wondered what they were saying. All at once he became aware of the complex lives threading in and out of the hazel wood—the moles blindly pushing dirt, the fish with their
mouths pointed upstream, the dragonflies darting through dappled sunlight. The wood was like one creature whose mind was bent to—what?

  Thorgil interrupted his thoughts. “At first it was fun, knowing something others didn’t. Then it became a curse. Birds never shut up, you know. You can’t imagine how horrible it is, waking up every morning to yammering about earthworms and itchy feathers.”

  Her head drooped. She looked so woebegone that Jack forgot her dislike of sympathy and impulsively put his arm around her.

  “Don’t pity me!” Thorgil snarled, shoving him away so roughly, he banged his head into a tree.

  “What’s wrong with you! I’m only trying to be nice!” Jack said.

  “You’re treating me like a stupid girl.”

  “You are a girl,” Jack said.

  “I’m a shield maiden, not a sniveling Saxon cow.”

  “Why don’t you stop yowling about how awful my people are and look at yourself,” cried Jack, stung. “You have no more gratitude than a bog rat. You insult everyone six ways to Sunday.”

  “I don’t lower my standards just because I live in a pigsty,” said Thorgil haughtily.

  ”Pigsty? How dare you say that about my parents’ house! I remember when you slept with dogs in the Northland because they were the only ones who’d have you.”

  “Even a Northland dog has more honor than a cringing Saxon.”

  “Really? Well, even a cringing Saxon dog has more honor than a half-Northman thrall!” shouted Jack.

  “I’m not a thrall!” shrieked Thorgil, grabbing her collecting bags. “And I’m never entering your parents’ house again!” She stormed off before he could reply.

  So much for Thorgil’s good mood, thought Jack, rubbing his bruised head. He went off in a different direction. After a while Jack’s temper cooled and he began to regret his hasty words. But Thorgil was so infuriating! Even Olaf One-Brow used to knock her flat when she got into a snit. Of course, Olaf had knocked everyone flat, including Jack, at one time or another. It was the Northman way.