The Islands of the Blessed

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The Islands of the Blessed Page 28

by Nancy Farmer


  Jack didn’t dare look at the Bard. The Shoney was far too intelligent and might guess his thoughts.

  Thorgil held out the comb. Deer antler from a buck in his seventh year, said the Shoney. The carving is masterful and the dyes will not fade for a millennium. This was made by the librarian on the Holy Isle.

  “You know of him?” said Jack, astonished.

  I had reason to watch for a certain monk on the Holy Isle. I kept hoping he would go for a swim, but he never did.

  Jack felt cold. That had to have been Father Severus. Fortunately for him, he considered swimming a sinful waste of time and never did it.

  The little librarian swam often, said the Shoney.

  “His name is Aiden,” Jack said.

  Aiden. A good name. It means “yew tree” in Pictish. I could tell he had fin blood by the way he took to the water. Once he went out too far and was too tired to return to shore. I held him up so he wouldn’t drown. I don’t know why I did that.

  “It was kindness,” said the Bard.

  The Shoney glared at him. It was for my own pleasure. I liked to see Aiden paint pictures by the water. None of the other monks did that. His colors were as brilliant as the colors of my jewels.

  “He isn’t a half-bad ale-maker, either.” The Bard unwrapped the parcel he’d been carrying.

  That wouldn’t be—that can’t be—heather ale!

  “The same.” The old man placed the heavy bag into the Shoney’s hands.

  The creature stood up, and at once two merlads swam over. Call Shair Shair. Tell her we have a rare treat. Tell her to hurry. The Shoney seemed hardly able to wait. Soon Shair Shair came speeding across the courtyard and sprang with a great leap onto the dais. Her eyes were feral, like a wolf’s when interrupted at a kill. Her dress was flecked with bits of meat. A shudder passed through her body.

  This had better be good, she said.

  Heather ale, the Shoney said, holding up the bag. Immediately, she reached for it, crooning and wheedling, and he poured ale into her V-shaped mouth before taking some himself. The two of them entirely forgot they had company. They circled each other, uttering wild cries. They bounced around like capricorns, offering each other sips or teasingly holding the bag out of reach.

  Thorgil turned her back and sat with her legs dangling over the side of the dais. “I don’t know about you, but I find this somewhat embarrassing.”

  The Bard and Jack sat beside her. “It’s really good ale,” the Bard said. When they eventually turned back, the royal couple had gone and Whush was there.

  The Shoney says you are to have the best bedroom in the castle, he said. He asked me to bring you man food and anything else you might require. He will discuss your request in the morning.

  They gratefully followed the fin man through a door and down a winding hall to a large, round room with a domed ceiling as smooth and pink as the inside of a shell. It was lit by lamps made of a frail, transparent substance that cast a soothing light without adding heat. Whush brought them a platter of grilled eel, fried oysters, and clams. With it was a keg, surely salvaged from a ship, of fresh, sweet water.

  “It is possible to have a good meal in this place,” said Jack, tucking into the eel.

  “Yes, but the beds are still made out of kelp,” complained the Bard.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  THE DRAUGR’S TOMB

  In spite of the damp, rubbery kelp, they all slept extremely well and woke feeling refreshed. Whush staggered in with bowls of clam chowder and ship’s biscuits, a hard, dry bread carried on voyages. He looked decidedly hungover.

  They had to soak the bread in the chowder to render it soft enough to chew. “Where do you suppose they got this?” said Jack, gnawing on his chunk. “If it was from a sunken ship, wouldn’t it have fallen apart in the water?”

  “Adult fin folk can leave the sea, though they prefer not to and dare not go far,” said the Bard. “Sometimes they take revenge on humans fishing in what they consider their part of the ocean. They snap fishing lines and make holes in nets. They also steal food for the human children they are raising. A toddler can’t survive without land food.”

  When they were finished, Whush staggered back and led them through the halls to the Shoney’s audience chamber. On the way Jack distinctly heard the fin man muttering ow … ow ow … ow as he walked along. He seemed to have a thundering headache. Here and there in the hallways, fin folk were collapsed on the floor. “Kelp lager,” said the Bard, poking at one with his staff. “They never know when they’ve had enough.”

  “Will the Shoney also be—?” Jack began.

  “He doesn’t allow himself to get drunk. I wish he did, because he’d be easier to deal with. Let me do the talking. He’s going to be angry enough when I tell him why we’re here.”

  The Shoney’s audience chamber was filled to overflowing with chests of jewels and coins. Odd treasures stood everywhere—statues, furniture, goblets, Christian crosses, vases painted with flowers, and bolts of cloth that shimmered like pearls. Thorgil touched one of the bolts, and her fingers came away shining with gold dust.

  One statue was of a man with the head of a long-nosed dog. Another was of a dancer standing on one leg. He had four arms fanned out on either side of him. “Are there truly such people?” Jack whispered to the Bard.

  I’ve never been sure, said the Shoney. He was sitting in a chair so surrounded by treasures that the boy hadn’t seen him. I haven’t seen anything like them, but my knowledge ends at the edge of the sea.

  Jack thought each of the treasures was beautiful on its own, but when they were jumbled up together, it was hard to appreciate them. The chamber reminded him of the chief’s root cellar, with basket upon basket of apples, turnips, and onions, stacked with firewood and cider kegs.

  “I am here for a serious purpose,” the Bard said.

  You always are. What is it this time? The Shoney seemed unimpressed.

  “I wish to speak of your daughter.”

  The Shoney sat straight up as though he’d been stabbed. What right have you to ask about my child? It was your kind who slew her, your people who left her spirit to wander.

  “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

  I hunted for her murderer. I watched the Holy Isle, and he did not come within my reach. When the isle was destroyed, I rejoiced, but he was not among the bodies that fell into my realm. Long years have I searched for Father Severus. Have you come to deliver him into my hands?

  “I can’t do that—hear me out!” The Bard raised his staff as the Shoney loomed over him. For the first time Jack felt a breeze in Notland. It came through the door and blew a film of shimmering dust from the treasures stacked around the room. The dust flowed along the floor, piling up in a shining border against a wall. The breeze died.

  “Your daughter’s plea was brought before the councils of the nine worlds, and I gave my oath that I would free her spirit.” The Bard then described what had happened in the village. “In her rage and sorrow she slew innocent beings. For this she has lost the right to demand Father Severus’s death.”

  The Shoney bellowed like an enraged bull. The ground shook and the vases and goblets rattled. Several fin men rushed into the chamber.

  “Anger won’t save your daughter,” the Bard said in the shocking silence that followed. “If you truly care for her, you’ll listen to me.”

  Be gone, all of you, the Shoney ordered his men. But don’t go far. I may need you to throw these humans into the giant eel pit.

  “Threats won’t help either,” the Bard said calmly. “Really, Shoney, I expected more sense from you. You’re too old to throw tantrums.”

  Jack thought the Bard had gone too far this time, because the Shoney raised a jeweled goblet as if he intended to bring it down on someone’s head. But after a moment he lowered his arm.

  “Very good,” said the old man, as if he were lecturing an unruly child. “If your daughter starts killing again, her spirit will never find peace. She’l
l be trapped like a hogboon in an unending round of destruction. Eventually, like a hogboon, she will vanish utterly from the living stream.”

  The Shoney moaned softly.

  “The comb and mirror I have brought are for her tomb. I know these are the traditional grave gifts for mermaids and fin wives.”

  Shellia. Her name was Shellia. The creature hunched over with his face in his hands.

  “Take me to her tomb at nightfall,” the Bard commanded. “Let me lay the grave gifts inside. Then it will be time to summon Shellia and send her to the farther sea.”

  For a long while the Shoney sat. She was so beautiful the last time I saw her, he said at last. So young and happy. Her bones were carried by the dolphins to Notland. They had not seen her drown or they could have saved her, but they knew what had happened to her. And who was responsible. I will call Shair Shair to go with us, though it will break her heart.

  When night fell, Whush led a troop of fin men carrying flaming torches, and the Shoney and Shair Shair walked behind. In the middle were Thorgil with the mirror and comb, Jack with Fair Lamenting, and the Bard. As they went, though no one had spread word of this expedition, fin men and wives, mermaids and merlads came out of their houses to pay homage. They seemed to know it was a solemn occasion, for they were entirely silent.

  The procession came to the dark stream, now only a shadowy gash dividing the realm of the dead from the rest of Notland. Somehow Jack knew the water rushing by was very cold. He didn’t have any desire to touch it. They crossed a bridge to a path that wound through the barrows until they came to the outer edge of Notland.

  The fog came down like a wall, with only a small gray circle lit by the torches. And before it Jack saw a tomb unlike any of the others. It wasn’t made of earth, but of stones so cleverly fitted together that it resembled a wave frozen in the instant before it breaks. In the middle was a door. On either side were slabs of rock to seal the opening.

  Shellia’s tomb, said the Shoney. His wife moaned and collapsed on the ground. Several fin men ran to help her. The Shoney didn’t move.

  The Bard took the mirror and comb from Thorgil. “I remind you, Shoney, of the promise your men made before we entered Notland,” he said. “We must be allowed to leave once Shellia is laid to rest.”

  You may go if you are successful, the Shoney said.

  Jack didn’t like the implied threat in this reply, but the Bard accepted it. He carried the grave gifts inside, lighting his way with the pale glow from his staff. Jack could see shadows moving as the old man walked around. “The tomb is beautifully done,” he said when he had emerged. “You have carved her history into the walls and filled it with her toys, but the mirror you left her was broken.”

  I know. She would not rest until she was given a life for a life.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said the Bard. “Jack, hand me Fair Lamenting.”

  The boy quickly unwrapped it. The old man removed a lump of iron from his carrying bag and fastened it to a string inside.

  So that is Fair Lamenting, the Shoney said. It has long called to my kind under the sea. I should hate it, but it is too beautiful. I should desire it for my wealth-hoard, yet greed dies when I gaze upon it. I must be getting sick.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” said the Bard. “Fair Lamenting is beyond earthly concerns.”

  “Where did the clapper come from?” asked Jack.

  “I found it,” Thorgil bragged. “I went to every blacksmith in Bebba’s Town until I found the one Ythla had traded with. He had six or seven similar lumps, but this one still had a pattern of scales on one side.”

  Jack felt depressed. It had been such a marvelous work of art.

  “You should look after your wife, Shoney,” the Bard advised. “The sight of a draugr can be upsetting.”

  Jack waited in fear and anticipation as the old man swung the bell. He remembered the golden chime rolling through the hazel wood and the rapture that swept over him. It was the most sublime sound he had ever heard, yet it was frightening as well—too intense, too alive and overwhelming.

  The bell rang.

  It was … nice. More than nice, Jack told himself, wanting to believe. The Bard frowned and rang it again.

  The Shoney bent down to inspect it. Is this the music that called my daughter from the sea? I expected more.

  The Bard impatiently rang it again, and now Jack heard a tinny note, not unlike a rock rolling around in a brass cauldron.

  “I’m sure I found the right blacksmith,” protested Thorgil. “It was the only lump with a pattern of scales.”

  The old man laid Fair Lamenting on the ground and leaned heavily on his staff as though he were exhausted. “I don’t doubt you, child. It isn’t your fault. It’s simply that the magic of the clapper lay in its art, and now that’s gone. I had hoped there was enough magic left to summon the draugr, but I dared not try until we got here.”

  You mean you can’t call back my daughter? demanded the Shoney. I’ve suffered and Shair Shair has suffered for nothing?

  “Believe me, I would do anything in my power to save your child. I have vowed to do it. I will do it, but I don’t know how.” The old man tottered to a rock and sat down. “Where do I go first? Return to the village? Do I wait until Shellia emerges of her own accord and starts killing? It will be too late then.”

  Jack tipped the bell on its side and removed the clapper. It did have a faint fretwork of scales in one section, but this was battered until it was almost unrecognizable. A memory hovered just out of reach in his mind, something important, but he couldn’t bring it into focus. Each time he tried to capture it, it slipped away like a fish diving into deep water.

  Fish. Why that image? But of course the original clapper had looked like a fish, the Salmon of Knowledge that knew the pathways between this world and the next. And then he understood. “Your flute, sir,” Jack said. “The flute of Amergin is the right shape.”

  “You’re right,” murmured the Bard. “It was made by the same hand.” The old man quickly found the instrument and attached it to the bell. One chime and everyone knew instantly that this was the real Fair Lamenting. The fin men sank to their knees. Shair Shair collapsed into the Shoney’s arms. Thorgil grabbed Jack as though they were on the deck of a ship in a stormy sea. The chime went on and on, fading slowly and sweetly until it seemed impossible that one note could endure so long. Then it was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  A LIFE FOR A LIFE

  I did not understand my daughter’s longing before, said the Shoney. I want something and do not know what it is. The gold, the jewels, the wealth I have accumulated are as nothing, and my life has been wasted in useless pleasures. It is a cruel thing, this bell, yet fair beyond reckoning.

  The Bard rang Fair Lamenting again and waited. The silence grew. Jack listened for the sounds that were always present, even on the darkest night, on land—the crickets and frogs, dogs barking at a passing fox, leaves sighing in the breeze. There was nothing except the rustle of the torches. What a melancholy place Notland was, Jack thought, without the bustle of life. Even the mermaids, and he had heard they could lure sailors with their beautiful singing, were voiceless here. Everything was silent except—

  Jack heard a woman sobbing in the distance. It went on and on, as though there could be no end to such sorrow. It came gradually closer, and a foul stench arose. The air turned cold. A darkness among the barrows grew thicker, taller, more terrible, and a mist rose from the ground.

  Who calls? said a voice full of death.

  Shellia, groaned Shair Shair. Oh, Shellia, what has happened to you?

  Deep was my love. Bitter was my fate. I was left to perish and may not rest until life has been given for life.

  “Now, that’s something we have to discuss,” said the Bard. “I agree that Severus deserves punishment, but he’s stupid rather than evil. And you haven’t been exactly innocent either. You can’t ask for his life.”

 
I disagree, the Shoney said. Lure him to the water’s edge and we’ll see what’s what.

  “No, no, no!” said the Bard impatiently. “You can’t keep heaping up revenge, or we’ll never see the end of souls asking for justice. Severus doesn’t deserve death.”

  Deep was my love. Bitter was my fate. I followed his ship until the waves overcame me. I may not rest until life has been given for life.

  “See, that’s what happens with unquiet spirits,” said the Bard. “They get locked into an idea and it’s hard to shake them loose. Shellia, believe me, Severus will pay for what he did to you, but you can’t afford to wait for it. The longer you spend in this world, the more you will be tempted to kill. Soon you will be unable to stop.”

  I am owed his death. I will take him in my arms, and together we will swim to the sea where winter never comes.

  He’s not worth it, interrupted the Shoney. He’s a dried-up old stick and will make you as miserable in the next life as this one.

  Father, the draugr said with a sigh. The voice was no longer cruel and full of jagged rocks.

  Shellia, cried Shair Shair. There is a new mirror in your tomb, the finest that has been seen in this land, for your long journey. There is a comb for your beautiful hair.

  The draugr turned to her mother, and the darkness shrank until it was no larger than a young woman. I may not go until life has been given for life. Deep was my love. Bitter was my—

  “You’re getting into a rut,” the Bard said. “If you do any more killing, you won’t be able to leave this world. You’ll be stuck like a wretched hogboon.”

  I have already killed.

  “What?” shouted the old man. “Are you an idiot as well as a spoiled, self-centered mermaid? Don’t give me that ‘deep was my love’ garbage. You saw something you wanted and didn’t get it. Well, boo hoo! We don’t always get what we want.”

 

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