The Isles of the Blest

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Settled behind her again, he clutched her with all his might. He could feel his heart racing violently. “Where did you go? After I fell off I could not see you anywhere. I thought I would drown.”

  “But you did not.”

  “I did not,” he agreed, surprised to find himself still alive to say it. “But I do not understand what happened.”

  Blathine glanced over her shoulder and he saw that she was laughing. He felt a flare of anger; how dare she be amused when he was almost killed!

  “Before you came away with me, things happened every day of your life, which you did not understand.” she said. “The sun rose but you never knew why, or how, or where it came from, did you?”

  “I did not,” he admitted.

  “Your hair grew and your skin flaked off in tiny particles for no reason you could see,” she went on. “When you put enough heated stones into water, it bubbled and you could cook meat in it. Do you know exactly what was happening to make that process take place?”

  “I—I do not.”

  “Every day you saw birds fly in the air without falling, but you never thought that remarkable. Yet you have just had a little experience different from your usual adventures and you are upset; I feel fear in you because you do not understand. Were you ever afraid when you saw one of those birds fly above you, Connla?”

  She made him feel foolish. He bit his lip and said nothing.

  “Go through life with a merry heart,” Blathine advised, “and do not frighten yourself unnecessarily. You fell off the horse, you fell into the sea, and I came back and got you.”

  “But so much more happened!”

  He heard laughter again in her voice. “Did it?”

  The horse galloped on.

  Five

  AT USNA, CONN of the Hundred Battles was distraught over the disappearance of his son. He sent men to the far reaches of his territory and even into enemy lands, asking if anyone had seen Connla. As a reward to the man who found him, Hundred Battles promised to give ten tens of cattle or twelve healthy bondwomen, but his offer had no takers.

  Which was just as well, his druid pointed out, because he could not have afforded either reward.

  “You are a great trial to me,” the old chieftain told Coran. “A man who puts his faith in druids rather than the strength of his own arm is a fool. I listened to you and look what happened. The son on whom my hopes were fastened is gone, and my first wife is lost to me as well.”

  “She had turned waspish,” Coran reminded him.

  Now that she was gone, however, Hundred Battles did not remember her that way. When he thought of his first wife, he saw her as the laughing girl he had married, with auburn hair and eyes as blue as the deep summer sky. The more he thought about her, the more precious she seemed to him and the angrier he became with his druid.

  “I should never have let you talk me into sacrificing my wife!”

  “If her spirit had not been released, who would there be to protect your son now, wherever he is?”

  “He would be here with me, where he belongs—and his mother would be here too!” Conn roared, doubling his fists until the knuckles were white.

  Grief overcame him. He pushed his food aside and did not look at his other wives. He began pacing the perimeter of his fort and muttering darkly so that his people whispered about his sanity. Young Fiery Hair had gone mad and been seen talking to empty air, they reminded one another. Perhaps the same malady had overtaken his father. In that event, no matter how great the old man’s past accomplishments, his clan must face the inevitable and choose a new leader at once.

  But Conn of the Hundred Battles had not gone entirely to rust. For a long time, since the land failed, he had feared that very eventuality, and to prepare for it, he had made careful plans. He knew the tribe would not replace him during the height of a war season, so now, to save his office, he declared war against his neighbors to the west and drove out boldly in his chariot to attack them.

  “This is a battle my son should be fighting,” he said to his charioteer. “But I am still strong; we will prevail.”

  The charioteer had kissed his one wife goodbye that morning with a heavy heart, never expecting to see her again in this life. He turned a gloomy face toward Hundred Battles. “I hope you are right,” he said.

  Two lines of chariot warriors came together with a great clash on the Plain of the Stone Men. In the forefront, Conn of the Hundred Battles was dressed in all his chieftainly attire, his crimson battle apron, his heavy gold torc, his boiled leather tunic. Spears that were cast at him bounced harmlessly off that tunic. It would take a mighty sword slash to part such armor, and only a heavy stone could dent the polished bronze helmet protecting the chieftain’s skull. He looked every bit a warrior, and his yell was as defiant as if he had seen only two tens of winters.

  His opponent was Daire of the Swift Horses, a man not without his own fame as a fighter. Daire’s chariot was gaudy with dyed plumes and he had a sizable force of fighting men with him, each anxious to claim the hand that brought down the fabled Conn of the Hundred Battles.

  The first rank of men hurled their casting spears, then trotted forward, pulling their iron swords from leather scabbards. As they came together, the chariots wheeled onto a separate battle area and the charioteers began handing their lords’ weapons to them—spears and javelins and killing-balls made of great round stones. Scythes were fitted to the spokes of the chariot wheels. This was a battle for blood.

  The war trumpets sounded; the warriors roared in an effort to intimidate each other with their ferocity. A bland sun shone down from a cloudless sky, and somewhere in the tall grass small shrews and field creatures went about their own business as on any other day.

  Besides all his polished battle skills, Old Hundred Battles had another weapon to bring to the fray. His anger at the loss of his son translated itself into strength for his arm, and when he attacked Daire in one-on-one combat he fought as he had in the old days. Daire, surprised, was forced to fall back.

  Conn pursued him with as much righteous rage as if Daire himself were guilty of Connla’s abduction. He whirled his chariot in tight to Daire’s and heard the satisfying sound of his blades cutting through his enemy’s wooden spokes. One side of Daire’s chariot dropped suddenly, and the rival chieftain grabbed for the rim, occupying both hands in his instinctive clutch for safety.

  At that moment, Conn of the Hundred Battles leaned from his own chariot and delivered the killing blow.

  He drove back to Usna in victory, with the head of Daire tied to his chariot. It had been a great victory. His people turned out to line the chariotway and cheer him, to throw flowers and sweet grass at him, to run out with olive wood cups for his men to drink from and wreaths to put around their necks.

  “This was like old times,” announced Conn’s charioteer, surprised and pleased to find himself still alive at the end of the day.

  There was no more talk of electing a new chieftain to replace Hundred Battles. And, as if the killing of Daire had offered some undreamt sacrifice to the gods, things began to get better at Usna. The land started producing again. Cows fattened on the grass. The sun shone, birders filled their nets, the streams boiled with fish. A thin layer of fat crept over the people, making their skins glossy and their eyes bright.

  The credit, of course, went to Conn of the Hundred Battles.

  He sat in his fort, luxuriating in the restoration of his reputation. But in the dark of night, after the candles were extinguished and everyone else was snoring, he lay on his bed and thought of his oldest son.

  And sometimes in the darkness, he wept.

  He did not know that his beloved son was still in some timeless place, wrapped in enchantment, galloping through corridors of cloud and color on a magical horse. At Usna, existence was neatly divided by light and dark, day and night. In the realm Connla had now entered, all divisions were amorphous and nothing was certain. He and Blathine might have been traveling for a day or a year o
r a decade; he had no way of knowing.

  Yet he never felt hunger, for when his stomach reminded him of his mortality all he had to do was take a bite of the apple Blathine had given him.

  When he needed sleep he took it with his head resting on her shoulder. The fairy woman did not seem to sleep at all, nor did Connla ever notice her eating. Yet her eye was ever bright and her energy undiminished.

  At last she did say, however, that they should pause long enough to refresh the horse. “When next we stop, we will have reached the Isles of the Blest,” she promised. “I would not want to arrive on an ill-treated mount.”

  Connla had begun to be wary of the earth below. Each time they descended, something upsetting seemed to happen. So he clutched Blathine’s waist tightly as they galloped lower, and it was with a distinct feeling of relief that he saw a placid little island appear beneath them, possessing nothing more ominous than a grassy meadow and a clear pool of water.

  The horse landed lightfooted beside the pool and lowered its head to drink. “We might as well dismount and move around ourselves,” Blathine remarked, putting action to word.

  Connla joined her. The horse was drinking in great noisy gulps, and suddenly he found himself wondering how long it had been since he tasted water. He was not thirsty, but the horse’s obvious enjoyment tempted him. He bent down beside the pool and cupped his hands to scoop some water into his mouth—and in that moment the apple rolled from his tunic and fell into the water.

  He grabbed for it, but too late. It disappeared at once. He reached the full length of his arm into the water and felt around, but could not find the apple. Somewhat alarmed at having lost Blathine’s wonderful gift, he waded into the water and crouched down to search the muddy bottom, but still he could not find it.

  When at last he was forced to admit defeat and come out of the pool, Blathine was standing on the bank waiting for him. “What will you eat now?” she asked.

  At that exact moment his belly cramped with a sudden, furious hunger.

  “Have you no food with you?” he asked the fairy woman.

  She smiled. “I do not require it as you do.”

  “But I’m hungry!”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “You are.” Yet she made no effort to help him. All she said was, “It is still a good gallop to the Isles of the Blest and you may die of starvation before we arrive if you don’t eat something.”

  For the first time he noticed that her eyes were not always as clear and limpid as a spring fed pool. Now they seemed opaque; almost cruel. He understood. This was a test she was giving him, like the other incidents.

  What might happen if he failed any of the tests, he could not imagine.

  He began casting about the tiny island in search of something to eat. There were no trees, and therefore no fruit, no nuts. He crouched and dug in the earth with his fingers but could find no edible roots. No mushrooms hid in the grass. The horse had begun cropping the grass with the same pleasure it had shown on drinking the water, but Connla was not yet hungry enough to imagine eating grass himself.

  Then he saw the hare.

  It was wiry and brown, just a quick shape leaping at the edge of his vision. At first he could not be certain he had seen it at all, but then it jumped up again and he recognized the animal as real, flesh and blood, edible.

  But he had no weapons for hunting a hare.

  And in truth, he did not relish the idea of hunting. It was another form of killing, and during the time he had fed on Blathine’s apple he had lost some of his taste for meat, for taking nourishment from other warmblooded creatures like himself.

  His belly cramped furiously, demanding.

  Blathine watched him with an impassive face.

  Connla began searching the island until he found a bit of vine twining up a rock formation, and this he pulled free of the earth, to use for fashioning a snare. There were of course no trees, but he found a few clumps of shrubbery to aid in his construction, and he weighted the whole thing with a stone.

  When all was in readiness he hesitated. He did not want to kill. Yet he was growing hungrier all the time. His head began to swim; there was a low roaring in his ears. When he walked, he felt as if his knees might collapse beneath him. He knew for a certainty that whenever Blathine was ready to go, she would leave, and if he were too weak to mount the horse and hang on...

  In desperation he began hunting the hare.

  It took a while to sight it again, but at last he flushed it from the tall grass where it was crouched. Holding his arms wide he tried to scare it toward the snare. The animal ran first one way, then another, sometimes doubling back until Connla was certain it had eluded him. He felt himself growing weaker with almost every heartbeat, but he did not dare give up. He staggered, almost fell, recovered and went on.

  And the hare leaped just in front of him.

  With a mighty effort he shooed it toward the concealed snare. He heard the weighted branch sing free at the moment the trapped animal shrieked with a tiny, heartrending cry.

  The hare was still alive when he reached it. It hung head down, forepaws trembling against its breast, and as Connla came up it rolled its eyes toward him.

  In his youth Connla had gone on boar hunts, hurling a heavy javelin into savage wild pigs who would kill him if they could. But this, he realized, was different. Now he had at his mercy a small helpless creature much like himself in its vulnerability; much like the baby the granitic giant had wanted to eat.

  He stood frozen, staring at the hare. The animal looked back at him.

  Connla had never been so hungry in his life, nor so incapable of action.

  He heard Blathine’s soft step before he saw her, since he stood with his head bowed, unable to look at the trapped hare. The woman put her hand on his arm and he tingled from her touch.

  “You must eat,” Blathine told him.

  “I know it.”

  “Everything that lives must take nourishment. Eat the hare, Connla; it will make you strong.”

  Still he hesitated, looking at her. “Surely you are alive, even if you are not like me, Blathine. And you just said that everything which lives must take nourishment. But you also said you do not require food. How can that be?”

  Her laugh floated on the air. “Did I say that? Are you so certain? I tell you now, Fiery Hair: I am famished! Kill the hare quickly and build a fire of driftwood from the edge of the island, so we may have a meal before we go on our way.”

  If the woman was hungry he had to feed her; he was a warrior, a man, a provider. Connla knew he could not delay any longer while he wrestled with sensitive feelings. So he hit the animal in the head with a stone and skinned it with a knife that Blathine provided from a tiny scabbard affixed to her girdle.

  At no point in the operation did he let himself look at the eyes of the hare.

  When it was ready for cooking and the firewood gathered, the fairy woman merely clapped her hands and a spark leaped from them to the dry twigs. A blaze leaped up in a bright twist of flame.

  “How do you strike fire without flint?” Connla wanted to know.

  “The sun has no flints,” Blathine replied. “Yet each day it brings fire to warm the earth.”

  Shaking his head ruefully, Connla said, “I see I will get no simple answers from you.”

  “There are no simple answers!” she chortled. “How quickly you are learning!”

  Roasting above the flames, the hare began to smell delicious. Connla’s mouth flooded with saliva. He could hardly wait until the meat was half-cooked before ripping it from the improvised spit he had made out of a green shrubbery-shoot. With both hands he crammed the smoking meat into his eager mouth.

  Nothing had ever tasted so good. Beside it, his fading memory of Blathine’s apple was bland and boring.

  But though he had torn the meat into two portions, the fairy woman was not eating hers. When his own hunger was somewhat abated, he realized she was sitting quietly on the ground with her hands folded in her lap.
The meal lay in front of her, untouched and growing cold.

  “Aren’t you going to eat? I thought you said you were hungry.”

  Blathine shrugged. “Not for hare.”

  He did not wait, but seized her portion and wolfed it down as well. Only as he was eating the last few bites, gnawing the sweet red meat from the bone and cutting the tendons with his teeth, did he look up and see her watching him.

  Her expression was so peculiar it almost froze his throat in the act of swallowing.

  Lovely Blathine, delicate, airy Blathine, was mimicking every gesture Connla made. She chewed when he chewed, swallowed when he swallowed, just as if she were eating what he was eating. Yet she ate nothing.

  Connla stared at her. She smiled back at him, and her tiny pink tongue emerged to lick her red lips in genuine satisfaction.

  “Delicious,” she said.

  What remained of Connla’s appetite mysteriously evaporated.

  They left the remains of the hare to feed the insects of the island. The horse, having refreshed itself, came trotting up to them and lowered its neck obediently for Blathine’s caress. She swung up onto the animal and held her hand down for Connla, but for just one moment the young man hesitated.

  He could not have said why; there are no simple answers.

  Then her hand closed on his wrist and she gave the slightest tug and lifted him up behind her. The horse flung itself onto the wind and they were off again, galloping west.

  To pass the time as they rode, Connla tried to understand what had been happening. The giant, the dolphin ... and, most of all, Blathine’s expression as she watched him eat. It was almost as if she had fed off his feeding. The memory made him wary and he drew back from her a little. But then the perfume of her hair curled into his nostrils and the warmth of her body spoke to him, and he leaned forward again, surrendering.

  In that way they went on until the horse changed the angle of its body and Connla felt it descending.

  This time, when he looked below, he saw the land of incomparable beauty spread out beneath him which could only be the Isles of the Blest.