The Islands of the Blessed

by Nancy Farmer

  The god’s single eye blazed like a star as he considered the boy. Wolves—Jack noticed them now for the first time— lounged at the god’s feet, and ravens perched on his shoulders to bring him news of the wide world. You are not one of mine, said a voice like distant thunder.

  I am not one of yours, Jack agreed, clutching St. Columba’s staff. I serve the life force. I do not believe in a world of endless killing. He was very afraid, but at the same time, he knew it was important to stand up to this being.

  The figure laughed. Both air and earth shook with it. You sound like a puny Christian, or perhaps one of those harp-strumming skalds always yowling about trees. One of the wolves stood up and yawned. Its tongue lolled out between its fangs.

  A single leaf unfurling in springtime is worth more than all your realm, said Jack, surprising himself. He hadn’t planned to say that. It was one thing to resist the awesome power before him and quite another to pick a fight.

  War is inevitable, Odin thundered. All exists to kill and be killed, and only courage in the face of death is beautiful.

  What good is this courage when you fear life itself? said Jack. If you are deaf to the laughter of your children or cannot understand why your wives rejoice when you return from a voyage, are you not already dead? What courage does it take to leave a world when you are blind to its wonders? Jack was pretty impressed with his poetry, but he was also afraid of how Odin might react. He didn’t seem able to stop arguing. The words simply rolled out.

  In the end night covers all, said the war god. The bonds of this world will break, and Garm, the hound of Hel, will be freed from his leash. The frost giants will make war upon light. The ship of death, made from the finger- and toenails of corpses, will set sail to bring destruction upon the living. Ragnarok is coming, the final battle. None can escape it.

  Jack gazed at the being looming up and up and up until it brushed the racing clouds. His blood sang in his ears as it had on the Northman ship with the waves foaming beneath the prow and a fine breeze following. Your world is only one leaf on the Great Tree, Jack said. It is already falling from the branch. I do not believe in Ragnarok. Warmth spread from St. Columba’s staff to his hand and on to the rest of his body. A light radiated and fell on the throne.

  It was empty.

  It wasn’t even a throne, but an outcropping of gray stone that had weathered until it was pitted and broken. Lumps of rock at the side had been the wolves.

  Olaf One-Brow was sitting on one of the lumps. He removed his helmet and squinted at the boy. “Jack!” he cried delightedly. “How did you get here? Don’t tell me you fell in battle.”

  Jack’s ears still sang with blood. It took him a moment to realize where he was. “I’m not dead, Olaf. At least I don’t think so. Thorgil’s with me, but she’s afraid you don’t want to see her.”

  Chapter Forty

  A JOYFUL REUNION

  They found her eating at one of the tables. She dropped the chicken leg she was holding and held out her arms.

  “What a treat, heart-daughter!” bellowed Olaf, swinging her into the air. “The very idea, thinking I wouldn’t welcome you! Nothing could cheer this battle-scarred old heart more. It’s too bad you didn’t see me earlier. I killed five warriors and maimed a dozen others.”

  “I heard the last part of it, when you cut off Bjorn Skull-Splitter’s head.” Thorgil was laughing and crying at the same time.

  “Between you and me, he got soft sitting around on Horse Island,” Olaf confided. “But he acquitted himself well at the end.” He put the shield maiden down.

  Her knees buckled and she had to hold on to him. “I’m sorry, heart-father. I’ve been on short rations for a while.”

  “That’s easily fixed,” her foster father said. He went to the fire pit and tore off a rib blackened with smoke. Jack was surprised to see that so much meat was left after the scores of warriors who had been feasting. Perhaps the boar, like Heidrun, was a never-ending supply of food.

  “Is it safe to eat?” Jack said, though the smell was driving him mad. “I mean, for the living.”

  “Who cares?” said Thorgil, tearing into the meat. Soon her face was smeared with grease and soot. Olaf fetched her another rib, as well as one for Jack. The boy ate carefully, mindful of St. Columba’s white cloak, and wiped his fingers on the grass. He was still somewhat dazed from his encounter with Odin. How could he have dared to challenge such a foe? It seemed that St. Columba’s staff had a will of its own.

  They helped themselves to pickled herring, grouse, leeks in cream sauce, baked apples, and many other wonderful dishes from the tables. Olaf thrust a bowl of purplish lumps floating in a slimy gray liquid in front of Jack’s nose. “Graffisk. Have some,” he urged.

  Jack almost threw up at the odor of rotten teeth and bilge water. “No, thanks.”

  “HAVE SOME,” roared the Northman.

  But Jack was no longer a frightened slave in fear for his life. “IT’S THE NASTIEST STUFF I’VE EVER SEEN. YOU EAT IT,” he roared back.

  And to his very great surprise Olaf did. “I don’t understand why people don’t enjoy this,” the giant said as he mopped up nauseating gobbets of graffisk with bread. “I had to sit on Dotti and Lotti to force it down their throats. They never did get the hang of it.” He shook his head over the perversity of wives.

  By the time they were finished, most of the men had passed out. Valkyries were dragging them into orderly rows near the fire pit. The warrior women settled around Heidrun and dipped their drinking horns into the tub of mead. “Do you remember that battle where I picked up the wrong hero by mistake?” one of them remembered.

  “Oh, yes!” another said. “You had to drop him and go back. It was someone who’d converted to Christianity, and they had a claim on him.”

  “It’s getting harder and harder to sort them out,” the first one said.

  Jack and Thorgil found a stream near the clearing and washed their faces and hands. “I’m confused,” Thorgil said to Olaf when they had returned to the table. “Is Grim’s Island a corner of Valhalla?”

  “No, Valhalla is much more glorious than this,” said Olaf, leaning back and gazing at the storm clouds rushing past. “Its walls are made of thousands of spears, and its ceiling is covered in shields as thick as shells on a beach. It has hundreds of doors, enough for all the berserkers in the world to rush out at once, when Ragnarok is declared.”

  Ragnarok, thought Jack. What an evil destiny, for warriors to slaughter one another endlessly until the final battle, where they each got slaughtered for the last time.

  “You have no idea how magnificent everything is, and yet …” A look of regret crossed Olaf’s face. “I mean, I’m honored to be there with the gods, but sometimes it’s just a little too grand for me. I miss honest dirt. And trees. And rolling in a meadow. That’s why some of us get together for a Wild Hunt.”

  “So this is a Wild Hunt,” said Jack.

  “Grim’s Island is where we rest up afterward,” the giant explained. “It’s a fine place. Good forest, plenty of kindling, no nosy neighbors.”

  The boy suddenly remembered the blacksmith’s slaves, Gog and Magog. “Exactly what do you hunt?”

  “Our old piggy. Sæhrímnir is his name.” Olaf pointed at the fire pit where the boar was still roasting.

  “But he’s … dead.”

  “So are most of us at the end of the day,” said the giant. “We pull ourselves together and go on. Tomorrow morning Sæhrímnir’s bones will cover themselves with flesh and he’ll be pawing the ground, ready for another run.”

  It didn’t sound like fun, getting roasted every night, but maybe the boar liked it. He was probably as dim-witted as the berserkers. What bothered Jack most was that Thorgil valued this afterlife. “When you came through our village,” he said, “there was a pair of brothers called Gog and Magog. They liked to sit outside during storms and watch the sky. After you left, they were gone.”

  “Gog and Magog. I didn’t know they had
names,” said Olaf. He went over to the mead bucket, shoved a Valkyrie aside, and filled his horn. “They’re around here somewhere. They were so pleased to see us that we brought them along. They’ve been as happy as a pair of ticks on a fat dog ever since. They stay on this mountain all the time, keeping the campsite tidy, gathering kindling, and so on. Very restful companions, Gog and Magog. Never bother you with conversation.”

  Jack was aware that Thorgil had said nothing for some time. He glanced at her and saw that one of her gloomy moods was building up inside, not unlike the storm clouds boiling overhead. He knew the reason for it, of course. Olaf had chosen Gog and Magog over her. “Why did you leave Thorgil behind?” Jack said.

  She looked up, her face pale with emotion.

  “Leave her where?” Olaf belched richly and wiped his mouth on his arm.

  “When you went over our village, she begged you to take her with you.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes, I did,” cried Thorgil. The paleness was being replaced with a rosy flush of irritation. “Only, I didn’t beg. I asked, and you looked down and pretended you couldn’t see me. And then you rode off. It’s because I have a paralyzed hand, isn’t it?” Jack was almost relieved. Anger had replaced sorrow, and with Thorgil, this was a much easier thing to deal with.

  Olaf looked puzzled. “Believe me, daughter, I didn’t know you were there. We’d just picked up Gog and Magog, and Sæhrímnir was running for all he was worth. I had my eye on that pig and my spear was ready to bring him down. Are you sure you saw me?”

  “Of course!” shouted Thorgil.

  “Put it down to the heat of battle, then. There’s a blindness that comes over you when you’re really involved. At any rate, an injury doesn’t disqualify you from entering Valhalla. Tyr had his hand chomped off by Fenris. Hoder is blind and still leads men into battle. He sometimes hits the wrong target, though,” Olaf said thoughtfully. “They have special privileges because they’re gods, but I’ve seen a number of men missing body parts. What keeps you out of Valhalla is being alive.”

  Olaf drained his mead-horn, oblivious to Thorgil’s simmering emotions.

  “I suppose I could throw myself off this mountain,” the shield maiden said sarcastically.

  “There you go. You’d find yourself in Valhalla in no time. Hey, Brynhilda! Stir your stumps and fetch us another horn of mead.” A Valkyrie stood up from the group clustered around Heidrun and obeyed.

  “But I’ve sworn an oath to save Dragon Tongue’s daughter. I can’t die until I fulfill it,” Thorgil said sulkily.

  “Oh, well. I guess you’ll have to wait,” said Olaf, who didn’t sound particularly disappointed. “How is old Dragon Tongue? Is he still making Northman kings run for cover?”

  Jack stepped in before Thorgil could completely lose her temper. He described the visit to Notland, and sorrow weighed heavily upon him as he recalled how the Bard had walked into the tomb with the draugr following. But Olaf listened with only half an ear. Perhaps that was how it was with the dead. Being shut into a tomb wasn’t the devastating thing it was to the living.

  It was clear something else was on Olaf’s mind, and after Jack was finished, the giant said shyly, “You wouldn’t mind … I mean, it would please me very much …” He blushed deeply. “I’d really like to hear that praise-poem you wrote for me again.”

  And so Jack recounted the poem he’d sung in the court of King Ivar the Boneless, and again on Olaf’s funeral pyre:

  Listen, ring-bearers, while I speak

  Of the glories of battle, of Olaf, most brave.

  Generous is he, that striker of terror. …

  When he was finished, Olaf sighed with pleasure. Jack saw, to his delight, that Gog and Magog had crept out of whatever shadows they’d been hiding in. He was never sure how much they understood, but the joy on their faces showed they had liked the music.

  Thorgil was nodding with exhaustion, and Jack longed to lie down and sleep. Olaf told the silent brothers to carry them to the beach. “Isn’t it too stormy?” said Thorgil, stifling a yawn.

  “The storm is over,” Olaf said. “We ride for Valhalla in the morning.”

  She was so tired, she didn’t have the strength to grieve at their final parting. She fetched the pack with her wealth-hoard and kissed her heart-father on the cheek. He ruffled her hair. Then Gog and Magog picked up Jack and Thorgil, and climbed down the sheer rocks of the mountain as easily as a pair of spiders coming down a wall. They laid them in front of the snail house and were gone.

  Jack and Thorgil fell asleep on the sand. They didn’t awaken until the sun was high in the sky and the storm clouds had been gathered away into the utter north.

  Chapter Forty-one

  RESCUE

  “Did it really happen? Was it a dream?” said Thorgil, staring out to sea the next morning. A mild sunlight had brought warmth to the beach and gray-green waves lapped gently against the shore.

  “I still have St. Columba’s cloak and staff,” said Jack.

  Thorgil shivered. “Then it’s true we ate the food of the dead. What will it do to us?”

  “Keep us from being hungry for a while.” Jack thought longingly of roast salmon, grouse, and leeks with cream sauce. Certain parts of the previous night still seemed unbelievable to him. Had he really stood toe-to-toe with Odin? Other parts—the warriors slashing at each other—were depressingly familiar.

  “Did you see how those Valkyries were treated?” said Thorgil. “I would never, ever let anyone order me around like that. ‘Get me a horn of mead. Fetch me some bread.’”

  “‘Put my head back on for me,’” Jack said, stifling a laugh.

  “That too,” the shield maiden said, completely without humor. “All my life I’ve wanted to go to Valhalla. Now …”

  “The Bard said people get to choose their afterlife. He’s probably on the Islands of the Blessed right now.” Jack blinked back tears. The wonderful calm he’d felt in St. Columba’s cave didn’t extend to the beach. “I’m a Christian, so I guess I’ll wind up in Heaven eventually.”

  “What do people do there?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jack admitted. He felt listless after the turmoil of the past weeks—the battle with the hogboon, the trip to Notland, the loss of the Bard. It was enough to sit here on the pale sand and listen to the lapping of the waves. But of course he couldn’t do it forever. Today was only a brief pause between storms. They’d have to find food and they had to build a boat. Out of what? Jack thought. Driftwood? Seaweed? Perhaps Gog and Magog could fell trees, if he could get to the top of the mountain and ask them.

  Thorgil had opened her treasure chest. She ran her fingers through the gems, letting them fall back into the box with a soft patter. “I must be coming down with a cold,” she said. “I don’t find any pleasure in this.”

  “Perhaps like the Shoney, you need someone to covet a wealth-hoard before you can enjoy it,” Jack said.

  After a while they explored the foot of the mountain, hunting for the way into St. Columba’s cave, but they didn’t find it. Later the weather turned cold, and it rained for three days. They scoured the rocks for shellfish. Jack was able to call up fire in the fragments of driftwood they found, so they had cooked food. They were never warm enough. They huddled together under St. Columba’s robe in the snail house. As before, it was large enough for both of them at night, and small enough to fit Jack perfectly in the morning.

  A dullness crept over them, an unwillingness to do anything unnecessary. Jack stared at the water for hours without actually seeing it. Thorgil sorted her gems into different-colored piles and mixed them up again. Neither spoke.

  But on the fourth day things changed. A flock of seagulls fled screaming over the island, and Jack shaded his eyes to look for signs of a storm. Thorgil dropped an armload of sea kale she had gathered and yelled, “It’s Seafarer! It’s Seafarer!” She jumped up and down, shrieking in Bird. The distant dot changed direction and came toward them.

  Seaf
arer! Lord of the sky! Widest of wing! Thorgil screamed.

  Pecks-from-Afar! Great happiness! Long searching! the albatross screamed in answer. He landed on the sand, and the two of them danced around each other in ecstasy. When the excitement died down, Seafarer told them Skakki had been hunting for them. Sea-nest coming, he said, giving his word for ship. I bring. He was off again.

  Very soon they saw the striped red and white sail and the oars flashing as they dipped into the sea. Jack could see Schlaup looming amidships. When the craft came near to shore, the giant jumped overboard and towed it onto the sand.

  “At last!” cried Skakki, hugging Thorgil. “I thought we’d never find you. We couldn’t find a trace of the coracle after we dropped you off, so I went back to Horse Island to fetch Schlaup. He kept sniffing for you, but he couldn’t find a trail until today. Where’s Dragon Tongue?”

  Jack had to repeat the story of Notland and the draugr. ”I knew something bad would come of trusting the fin folk,” said Skakki. “Can you find the location of their kingdom? Perhaps I can deal with them.”

  “We could always invade,” Sven the Vengeful suggested. “My hands are itching to put a spear through one of those bog worms.”

  “No one can find them if they don’t want to be found,” said Jack. All the anger and regret came flooding back as he remembered the swiftness with which the fin folk had turned on them. “The only comfort is that the Bard chose his fate willingly.”

  “Aye, he would,” said Rune, with tears trickling down his withered face. “If I had a tenth of his courage, I’d count myself lucky. The oddest thing happened, though. When we were still far off this island, I thought I saw him standing on the shore. But it was you, Jack, in that new white cloak. Where on earth did you get it and that staff?”