The Islands of the Blessed sot-3

by Nancy Farmer

  Jack tried to get up, but the haar was pressing in on all sides. He struggled to breathe. Cold tendrils of fog reached into his mouth and filled his throat. He lay facedown on the stone. The rough granite pushed up against his chest and a weight pressed down on his back.

  A small creature crept over the stone. Jack could just make it out from the corner of his eye. It was the honeybee. It was no longer than a fingernail, yet with a bee’s yearning for sunlight it strove to escape the deadening cold. It moved slowly, laboriously, and when it reached Jack’s face, he smelled honey. It climbed upward until he couldn’t see it anymore. It reached his temple and stabbed down.

  Pain roared through his senses. He sprang up, all sleepiness gone, and saw that the mist directly above him had opened up. The sky was full of stars. Jack sucked in air until he thought his lungs would burst. He heard heavy footsteps pounding up the valley. In the next instant Schlaup grabbed him and sped away with the boy tucked under his arm.

  Jack saw only a blur of houses and streets before they were back at the wharves. Schlaup jumped aboard, making the ship tilt so violently that the sailors had to grab boxes to keep them from sliding off the deck. “I got him! I got him!” the giant cried, putting Jack down.

  Skakki shouted to cast off, and the Northmen pushed away with their oars. The Bard crouched beside Jack, feeling his head. “Thank Freya he found you before the tide turned,” the old man said. “We couldn’t possibly hide Schlaup for another day. Too many people kept looking at the ship and asking what we were carrying.”

  Jack found that his throat was sore, as though he’d been shouting for a long time. “How did you hide him?”

  “We threw a tarp over him,” said Thorgil. “Skakki told everyone he was a heap of grain bags.”

  “I’m cargo,” Schlaup said, pointing at his chest.

  “You’re much more than that,” said the Bard. “What possessed you, Jack, to go off without telling anyone?”

  Jack saw that the first streaks of dawn were appearing in the eastern sky. He realized he’d been gone most of the previous day and all of the night. “I went for a walk…. I’m not sure what happened next.”

  The Bard felt his head again. “That’s better. Warmth is coming back. Did you fall asleep in a field, or what?”

  Jack described the stone and the sudden appearance of haar. The sea and sky had by now lightened to that predawn color that makes it impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. It was like sailing through dark blue air. “I thought only an hour had passed,” he said.

  “When you didn’t appear, we began to worry,” the Bard said. “We searched everywhere, and at midnight I gave Schlaup a whiff of your old boots. He came back straightaway, saying he’d lost the scent near Din Eidyn. I sent him out again. It was an unusually clear night with no fog at all. Are you sure about the haar?”

  “Very sure.” Jack felt something small lodged in the neck of his tunic and felt with his fingers. He drew out a tiny, furry body. “The honeybee,” he remembered. “It stung me and I woke up.”

  The Bard cupped the insect between his hands and whispered to it in the Blessed Speech. “Now fly you safely home with the gods’ protection,” he said aloud. He opened his hands and the bee flew away, or perhaps it was only blown away by the wind. Jack wasn’t sure. It was such a little creature.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  BJORN SKULL-SPLITTER

  “The year grows late,” Skakki said, watching the distant shore that afternoon. The air was warm and the sky cloudless. Most people would have said the weather was ideal, but the Northmen were too experienced to be taken in by it. Ran, the goddess of the sea, and her nine daughters lay in wait for the careless. Her net was ever ready to take advantage of sudden storms. “There aren’t many weeks of good sailing left.”

  “All I ask for is seven days’ grace,” the Bard said. “If we return in that time, you can take us to the nearest port. We’ll make our own way south. If we don’t return, you and Egil must turn east and leave us to our fate.”

  “I’d never do that,” said the young sea captain.

  “But he will,” the Bard said privately to Jack later. “He’s no fool. People are lost at sea all the time, and the survivors have to abandon them.”

  There’s a thought to cheer oneself with on a dangerous journey, thought Jack. He’d inspected the little coracle they would take to Notland. As small as the ship felt on a vast, gray ocean, the coracle would be like a flyspeck compared to it. They might as well be floating in a bucket.

  To save time, Skakki no longer followed the coast, for it was riven by a huge gulf. Instead, they went northwest out of sight of land, navigating by the star the Northmen called the Nail. By day Rune kept their direction with his memory of the sun’s position at that time of year. The Bard helped by calling on the wind. Thus, they were blown along steadily for two days with the great sail always filled and the waves neither too high nor too low.

  “I’ve been thinking about what happened in Edwin’s Town,” the Bard said as he and Jack rested in Schlaup’s shade. “To someone like Severus the world is idiotically simple. There’s only one way to do things, and it’s always his. My stars! You have no idea how much he and the other Christians squabble about when to celebrate Easter. The ninnies don’t realize Easter is one of the old goddesses, and she couldn’t care a fig about when anyone celebrates her.”

  Seafarer returned from one of his forays and settled on the deck next to the old man. The bird reported that he’d seen no islands or ships ahead. Jack gave him a dried herring as a reward.

  “Gods, if they’re neglected, tend to fall asleep, but they never really go away,” the Bard continued. “It is the Christians themselves who keep Easter’s memory green and who, unwittingly, disturb her slumbers. A long time ago the Forest Lord and the Man in the Moon ruled these lands. Then people arrived with new deities: Odin, Thor, Freya, Jupiter, Mars, Jesus. Each new layer covered the old, but the old is still there. When you lay on that sacrificial stone, lad, something woke up. I’d be willing to bet that if the bee hadn’t stung you, you’d be six feet under by now.”

  “Why would something want to kill me?” Jack asked.

  “Why does fire burn and water drown? It’s what happens when one falls into their power.”

  “And the bee?”

  “Ah! There’s the interesting part,” said the Bard. He stroked the head of the albatross, and the great bird purred deep in his throat. “That small creature sacrificed itself to save you. It was no more random than Pega happening to have a candle in the dungeons of Elfland, or Severus happening to be in the forest when Aiden needed rescuing. Think of the momentous events of the past three years. The Holy Isle was destroyed and the Northmen learned that easy plunder was to be found in monasteries. You’d think this would prove the end of Christianity, but it hasn’t.”

  “Northmen have been raiding more monasteries?” Jack said. He hadn’t heard about it.

  “Oh, yes. But at the same time, odd things have been occurring in the realms of the old gods. Elfland was laid bare to the light of truth, hobgoblins returned to Middle Earth, Unlife was driven from Din Guardi. It looks to me as though a profound shift has taken place in the life force. I’d guess that you have some purpose to fulfill and that is why you were saved. But don’t get a swelled head over it. A cabbage has a purpose when someone needs to make soup.”

  The next day Seafarer returned with news of islands. The albatross was only interested in certain things and so they learned a great deal about fish. Much food, Seafarer exulted. Many birds. They fear me. Feels good.

  Are there houses? Thorgil asked in Bird.

  Don’t know, Seafarer said. But when they came to the first island, they did find houses of a sort. Domes of turf bulged on the rocks, and the folk within hissed in a strange language and refused to come out.

  “I think they’re Picts,” said Skakki. “Olaf arrived at some sort of trading agreement with them, but he said it was more troub
le than it was worth. Farther on is Horse Island, ruled by Bjorn Skull-Splitter. He’s one of my father’s best friends. It’s an excellent place to camp while we’re waiting for you to return from Notland.”

  Of course he’s called Skull-Splitter, Jack thought moodily as he watched the greenish depths of the sea. No friend of Olaf’s could possibly be called Bjorn the Beloved. And he wondered what mayhem the man had committed to earn his name. The water was amazingly rich with life, from long, trailing forests of seaweed to teeming shoals of fish. Dolphins swam alongside the ship, diving in unison. Otters floated on their backs, munching crabs in their paws. They looked like humans eating chunks of bread.

  The ship passed many small islands, some no more than rocks jutting out of the sea. All of them seemed deserted, although Jack saw standing stones in odd patterns and, once, a windowless tower. Horse Island was large and treeless with a few rugged cliffs topped by wiry grass. Jack thought it dreary compared to the sea.

  Rune steered the ship to a bay with a beach and a village beyond the coarse sand. A crowd began to gather at their approach, and Skakki blew his father’s horn in welcome. The crowd didn’t react.

  “They’re too quiet,” said Thorgil.

  “They don’t recognize the ship,” Skakki said.

  “That shouldn’t make a difference. We sent them a traditional greeting and they didn’t answer it,” said the Bard. “Let’s stay out of arrow range for a while.” Skakki ordered the oarsmen to halt their forward movement.

  Jack observed houses made of turf that blended so well with the ground, at first he thought he was looking at tiny hills. The Northmen inhabitants wore turf-colored clothes and turf-colored boots. With their hair the color of dry grass, they could have been fragments of island that had awakened and decided to walk around. Even the smaller, darker Picts among them faded into the background like noonday shadows.

  Jack found their continued silence oppressive. He had little experience of Northman settlements, but his memory of Olaf’s village was of wild celebration when anyone showed up. They welcomed visitors with trade goods and fresh gossip.

  “Blow your horn again,” suggested the Bard.

  “I’ll call them,” said Schlaup. He stood up before anyone could stop him and roared, “HEY, YOU! WE’RE OLAF ONE-BROW’S PEOPLE! TALK TO US!” His voice boomed like a clap of thunder, and to all appearances he was a villager’s worst nightmare: a huge, dangerous troll. Everyone fled and in a moment the beach was deserted. The Bard was laughing so hard, he had to wipe his eyes with his sleeve.

  “You got their attention all right, Schlaup,” he said, wheezing. “Oh, my! They’re probably swimming to the next island by now.”

  “At least they know who we are,” said Skakki with a rueful smile. “I’m sure Bjorn won’t be so skittish.” He gave the order to land, and when everyone had disembarked, Schlaup dragged the ship onto the sand. “I came here when I was twelve and we were treated like kings,” Skakki remembered. “Olaf saved Bjorn’s life during a sea battle, you see. There’s nothing Bjorn wouldn’t do for him, or any of us, either.”

  “Sea battle?” said Jack. It hadn’t occurred to him that you could fight on water.

  “Einar Adder-Tooth sank Bjorn’s ship, and Olaf jumped in to save him because he couldn’t swim. Poor Bjorn has always been scared spitless of water. He panicked and fought when Olaf tried to rescue him, and Olaf had to knock him out. By the time they got to safety, Adder-Tooth had disappeared into the fog.”

  Close up, Jack could see many more houses clustered together like giant molehills. They formed a barrier to the rest of the island, and he thought they could provide a good place for an ambush.

  “Bjorn’s hall is that way,” Skakki said.

  “Wait a moment,” cautioned the Bard. “He may be a dear friend, but you haven’t been here for six years. We look like a band of berserkers—excuse me, most of you are berserkers. It wouldn’t be the first time someone raided an island.”

  Sven the Vengeful, Eric the Rash, and Eric Pretty-Face looked uncomfortable. Jack knew they were thinking of the Holy Isle.

  “I suggest that the crew be left here to guard the ship,” the old man said. “Skakki, Jack, Thorgil, and I will make contact with Bjorn. He won’t be alarmed by a small group, and it will give him time to recognize Skakki. You’re twice the size you were last time,” he told the young sea captain. “They won’t be afraid of an old man leaning on a staff, although they should be, and Jack doesn’t look at all alarming.”

  I beg your pardon, Jack thought. Are we forgetting I overthrew Frith Half-Troll and broke the spell of Unlife on Din Guardi? But he realized that his victories came about through magic, not brute force, which was what the islanders would be looking for.

  “As for Thorgil, who would suspect a young lady dressed in the finest Din Guardi has to offer?”

  “What?” cried Thorgil.

  “Brutus sent along the dress you wore to the monastery,”

  the Bard said. “I can’t think of a better disguise for a dangerous warrior.”

  The shield maiden blushed. “You think I’m dangerous? Truly?”

  “Like a coiled dragon.”

  And so Thorgil hid behind the ship to change clothes while the others waited. They set out with the Bard going first. Jack had been correct. The village was like a maze with paths going everywhere and each dwelling exactly like the others. Once inside, it was impossible to see landmarks, and they soon found themselves back on the beach. Thorgil called to Seafarer for help.

  The great albatross floated lazily overhead. Many two-legged beasts, he called out. Hide like crabs.

  “I thought so,” muttered the Bard. But the hidden villagers didn’t attack, and with Seafarer as beacon, the group easily found its way through.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  PRINCESS THORGIL

  Beyond lay a sweep of uninhabited land covered with grass, heather, and a few marshes. It was beautiful in a desolate way and a relief after the closely packed houses. The wind blew unhindered across this open space, bringing with it the smell of the sea, and a well-trodden path told them the direction of Bjorn’s hall. “It’s made of stone.” Skakki raised his voice to be heard over the wind. “He built it with the remains of old ruins he found lying around. Very impressive.”

  “And very foolish,” said the Bard so that only Jack could hear. “Some old ruins have an evil past. He’ll be lucky to wind up with only a ghost or two.”

  Seafarer flew above, diving occasionally to terrify gulls.

  After he scattered them, he would loudly proclaim his superiority and insult the gulls’ ancestry. Seafarer, Jack decided, was ideally suited to living with Northmen.

  “Horses!” Thorgil cried suddenly. A herd of small but powerfully built beasts had suddenly appeared—or perhaps they had been there all along. They were earth-colored, the brown of turf and gray of chalk. Their skins were mottled like rocks flecked with lichen. Standing still, they could have faded into a hillside, but they weren’t still now. A stallion screamed and pawed the ground as the mares gathered into a tight knot with the foals at the center.

  “By Thor, they’ve gone completely wild,” exclaimed Skakki. “I’m sure they’re part of Bjorn Skull-Splitter’s herd, because there were no horses on the island before he got here.”

  “Be careful!” called Jack, for Thorgil was advancing on the stallion. Jack started forward, but the Bard put his hand on the boy’s arm.

  “They won’t harm her,” he said.

  Jack wasn’t sure. The stallion snorted and stamped. He backed up slightly as if unsure how to deal with this human who didn’t understand her danger.

  The shield maiden halted. She held out her hands, palms up, and chanted:

  Man by� on myrg�e his magan leof:

  sceal �eah anra gehwylc o�rum swican…

  Horse is a joy to princes in the presence of warriors,

  a steed in the pride of its hoofs…

  Jack was astounded. It wa
s a charm his mother had used to calm one of John the Fletcher’s horses after a thunderstorm. Thorgil continued to speak softly and earnestly to the stallion. Jack couldn’t hear everything because of the wind, but he could see the horse calm down and the knot of mares relax their protective circle around the foals. Finally, the stallion came up to the shield maiden, and she breathed into his nostrils. He lowered his head.

  “There’s something I haven’t seen for many a long year,” said the Bard.

  Thorgil swung herself onto the stallion’s back. Jack braced himself for a battle between the two, but the horse accepted her weight as though he’d known her all his life. “Now I look like a proper lady going on a visit,” she announced.

  “Pull your skirts down. You’ll make a better impression,” said Skakki.

  They went on, leaving the herd of mares behind, and when Jack looked back, he could see nothing but heather and mottled rocks. He tried to touch the stallion, and the beast snapped viciously at him. “He’s not tame,” Thorgil warned.

  “Where did you learn that charm?” Jack asked.

  A shadow of pain crossed the shield maiden’s face, and she paused before speaking. “My mother taught it to me. She said she was taken captive while clearing weeds from an outline of a horse carved into a hill. It was a holy place, she said, but I never bothered to ask her about it. My father carried her off… not Olaf—the one before.” Thorgil fell silent. Jack knew it was difficult for her to remember her real father, the terrible Thorgrim, who had killed her brother in a berserker rage. When Thorgrim fell in battle, he demanded that Allyson, Thorgil’s mother, be sacrificed on his funeral pyre.

  “You carry the blood of the horse lords,” the Bard said. “I suspected it after seeing how readily the steeds of Din Guardi obeyed you. Your mother must have been a descendant of King Hengist, who was said to take the form of a horse when he went into battle. Tell me, why did you blow into the stallion’s nostrils?”