03 - The Islands of the Blessed

by Nancy Farmer

  “Where is it?” Jack said.

  “In there.” The man gestured at the hovel. “I’ll fetch it—”

  “I’llfetch it.”

  The man crawled inside and Jack followed him, holding the torch away from anything flammable. “In there, sir. Under that heap of sheepskins.”

  Almost gagging from the smell, Jack removed the skins one by one. They hadn’t been cured yet, and the odor of rotten meat filled the air. The boy carefully pulled up the last pelt and there, shining in the leaping torchlight, was Fair Lamenting. It bore no stain, though the skins had been coated with blood. It was as pure as when it had been first smelted.

  Jack looked for something to wrap the bell in, but nothing was clean, so he used his robe. As he felt within, to still the clapper, his hand met only air. “Where’s the clapper?” he said.

  “Well, sir.” The man started to back away. “This morning I gave the bell a couple of shakes, just to check its quality you see, and Ymma screamed that it was magic. It would call up a monster—”

  “You did what?” Jack shouted. Schlaup was attracted by the noise and leaned over the ruined roof to see what was happening.

  “Don’t let him eat me, sir! I just dinged it a couple of times, and it made the prettiest sound. I felt like an innocent lad again with my whole life ahead of me. But Ymma, she grabbed the bell and yanked its clapper out. Used my pliers. I can get another one, sir. There’s metalworkers all over this town—”

  “Where’s the original?” Jack felt sick. There was no way to make a replacement. No mortal had the skill to craft the beautiful Salmon of Knowledge or open the way between this world and the others.

  “Ymma thought it was silver. She took it to a blacksmith, but he said it was only iron.”

  “Then what happened?” Jack was beside himself with fury. If it had been the old days when he still possessed his bard’s staff, he was sure he could have called up an earthquake.

  Ymma was hanging over the roof, clutched tightly in Schlaup’s arms. Her sister and mother were wedged beside her. “You’d better tell him,” Mrs. Tanner said.

  “Oh, be gone with you,” the girl said rudely. “You’re only trying to shift the blame.”

  “You pounded it,” her mother snarled.

  “You told me to,” Ymma retorted. “She said people would recognize the fish and we should beat it flat. So I did. The blacksmith traded me onions for it.”

  Jack felt dizzy with dismay. This was the worst thing that could possibly have happened. That marvelous work of art had been turned into an ugly lump of iron. Could it still call up the voice of Fair Lamenting? And could he tell it apart from all the other lumps of iron the blacksmith probably had?

  Suddenly, he realized this wasn’t his only problem.

  The bell had been rung.

  A couple of dings, Mrs. Tanner’s brother had said. It had been enough to make that scoundrel feel innocent. Had it been enough to call the draugr? Was she already on her way?

  Jack heard a crow call somewhere in the distance. He looked up to see that the rim of the eastern sky had turned blue. “It’s almost dawn,” the boy said with a groan. “Schlaup, can you carry all of us? We’ll leave the man behind.”

  “Sure,” said the giant.

  Jack crawled outside and threw the torch away. He felt desperately tired and discouraged. “Put me on your shoulders, my friend, and don’t drop any of the Tanners.”

  The giant easily balanced his captives while hoisting Jack up. The boy cradled the bell against his stomach and put his arms around Schlaup’s forehead.

  “What do you think you’re doing!” cried Mrs. Tanner. “You can’t send us back to those pillaging Northmen!” Jack ignored her.

  “I always said he was a nasty wizard,” Ymma said.

  “It’s not Christian to take revenge,” Ythla added, weeping.

  A breeze stirred, wafting away the noisome smell of the tannery. More birds called—sparrows, larks, wrens. “You’ll have to hurry, Schlaup,” Jack said wearily. “Find ship!”

  The giant bounded away with the Tanners wailing and the wind whipping through Jack’s hair. They passed a farmer checking his hens, and the man ran away, leaving the cage door open. Schlaup narrowly missed stepping on a drunk sleeping in an alley. Other than that, they encountered no one.

  It may not be Christian, Jack thought when he saw the harbor and Skakki’s men waiting to cast off, but it’s very, very satisfying.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE QUEST

  “You’re right,” the Bard said when they were safely out to sea. “Ringing the bell was the worst possible thing that could have happened.”

  “There wasn’t time to hunt for the clapper,” Jack said. Moodily, he watched Schlaup. Amidship, where he couldn’t capsize the vessel, the giant contentedly fiddled with Mrs. Tanner’s braid. Her daughters were draped over the side, as far away as they could go.

  “It might not have made a difference,” said the old man. “The artwork was part of the clapper’s magic.”

  “So what do we do?”

  The Bard gazed out at the gray-green sea. The sun had just risen, and the tops of the waves seemed lighted from within as they peeled away from the prow. “I’m not sure, lad. Those two ‘dings’ may have been enough to awaken the draugr, but not enough to provide direction. That’s very worrying. She may be prowling the village.”

  Thorgil brought them some of Pega’s special scones and a pot of butter. She spread the butter with her fingers and licked them. “It’s not all loss,” the shield maiden said. “My brother has found a wife.” Jack noticed that Mrs. Tanner had reestablished her control of the giant. She had pushed him away, and he was apologizing to her for being an oaf.

  “Do you honestly think that’s going to be any kind of a marriage?” Jack said.

  “It’s no worse than what most people have. They say it’s better to fight than to be lonely.”

  “And you believe that?” Jack asked.

  “I shall never marry,” Thorgil said scornfully. “Shield maidens have all the power and status of men. If they wed, they lose it. They can no longer go a-hunting or bring home fine plunder. They are bound to the house, cooking, cleaning, and chasing after smelly brats. There is no honor in such a life.”

  The Bard smiled for the first time since their humiliation at the monastery. “In a life as long as mine,” he said, “I’ve learned that ‘never’ is a dangerous word to use. We may yet see you blushing and giggling, Thorgil.”

  The shield maiden sprang to her feet as though she’d been stung and stalked off to the stern of the ship. She joined Eric Pretty-Face in a loud discussion about how to gut sheep.

  They spent the day resting in the hidden Northman harbor. Jack and Thorgil packed away the Lady of the Lake’s gift and wore their old clothes again. Skakki, Egil, Rune, and the Bard conferred, and when evening fell, they called everyone together around a fire. It was a beautiful night, with a clear, starry sky and a warm breeze from the mainland. Pine-wood burned fragrantly with many a pop from the pinecones Thorgil tossed in. They feasted on wild boar, goose, salmon, and the brambleberries that grew abundantly near the inlet. Seafarer ate half a salmon by himself, with Thorgil finishing the rest of it.

  As was usual with Northmen, they gave themselves wholly to the task at hand. All conversation ceased while they stuffed themselves, but Skakki had limited the number of beer kegs. He needed clear heads later. After a while he stood up and commanded their attention. “You’ve all heard about the draugr and Fair Lamenting,” he began. Everyone turned to look at Mrs. Tanner, and she sniffed contemptuously.

  “Dragon Tongue is certain the draugr will emerge again,” Skakki went on. “She may already be abroad.” The Northmen glanced nervously at the forest ringing the shore, and Eric the Rash, who was afraid of the dark, moved closer to the fire. “Now we must repay a debt to Dragon Tongue. Some years ago we Northmen set him adrift to die—”

  “It was Frith’s order. I hold no grud
ge,” the Bard interrupted, “yet I would not refuse aid from friends.”

  “Aid shall be gladly given,” Rune declared.

  “Quite right,” said Skakki, “but all should agree before we take this quest.”

  What quest? thought Jack. He hadn’t been present at the conference.

  “Egil and his crew will return to Bebba’s Town,” the young captain continued. “They will help Dragon Tongue sell his wares and buy grain. That should take about a week. Then they will drop him off here before going on to deliver the grain to the village. After which they’ll wait here for the rest of us to return from the north.”

  “What are we going to do?” said Thorgil.

  “Patience, little sister.” Skakki grinned. “You’re going to love this. We’re taking Dragon Tongue to Notland, to lure the draugr back to her tomb.”

  “Notland!” exclaimed half a dozen voices.

  “Nobody goes there,” said Eric the Rash, fear evident in his voice. “It’s all dark and spooky.”

  “IT’S FULL OF SEA HAGS,” bellowed Eric Pretty-Face.

  “As well as sea ivory, pearls, and gold,” added Rune. A thoughtful silence fell over the gathering.

  The Bard rose. “I would not lure you to your deaths, dear friends. I ask only that you set me adrift in a coracle as you did before. Jack and I will enter the realm of the fin folk alone.”

  “You’re not leaving me behind!” yelled Thorgil. “I’m not cowering on the ship while you risk your lives.”

  “Your presence would be most welcome,” the Bard said warmly. “But I must warn you that the fin folk are as trustworthy as moving mist. They’re bad friends and worse enemies. I won’t think less of you if you choose to remain with your brothers.”

  “I would think less of me,” the shield maiden said proudly, her face flushed with emotion.

  “Very well, my child. Skakki and the others will wait in the open sea for us. If we don’t return within seven days, they may take it that we haven’t survived and leave.”

  There was an uproar as Northmen shouted that they never abandoned comrades, that Odin would spit in their faces if they did such a deed. Even Schlaup, who was feeding slivers of roast goose to Mrs. Tanner, added his mighty voice to the turmoil.

  “I’m touched,” said the Bard, holding his hand up for silence. “You are most noble companions, but you have duties at home. Even Olaf didn’t wait for ships that had been taken into the halls of Aegir and Ran. It is the way of the whale-road,” he said, using the Northman expression for sea.

  Skakki opened a keg of mead to toast the adventure, and the Northmen gathered around, eagerly holding out their drinking horns. Jack wandered off down the beach. He always felt uncomfortable around such parties, for the tempers of berserkers were uncertain. He could hear their drunken revels in the distance.

  The men had begun a flyting, a recreational insult session. Someone accused Egil of using seagull poop on his beard and someone else roared that Eric the Rash spread it on bread. Each Northman strove to top the others, inventing practices that Jack found difficult to picture, let alone understand.

  Eventually, as all such contests did, the insults degenerated into a free-for-all, until Skakki shouted, “Calm them!” to Schlaup. Afterward things became very quiet indeed.

  Jack sat on the sand and listened to the waves. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried, something always messed up his plans. Now he couldn’t go home. He’d have to sail north to some dark, spooky place inhabited by sea hags. It might take months. Pega would think he was dead. Father would think he’d deserted them. The hobgoblins would take Hazel away. And there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. The more Jack thought, the more depressed he became. Why couldn’t he lead a safe life like John the Fletcher or the blacksmith?

  “No one’s life is safe,” said the Bard, appearing out of the darkness. Jack shivered. It was eerie the way the old man always knew what he was thinking. “The world is ever dying and being reborn, like the great tree Yggdrassil. Most people hide from such knowledge, but even they have moments of revelation. When John the Fletcher’s sister died, he was shaken out of his daydreams for an entire afternoon.”

  They sat together. The old man wedged his staff in the sand and said words Jack didn’t recognize. A gentle light radiated from the staff and turned the foam on the waves pearly white. “Was that the language of the Islands of the Blessed?” the boy said.

  “Indeed, it was the Blessed Speech. Someday I’ll teach it to you.”

  A fox trotted out of the woods. It waded into the water and snapped up something that looked like a small crayfish. It caught a few more before returning to the trees. On the way back, it nodded politely to the Bard.

  “Why was Father Severus so unfriendly?” Jack asked. “Thorgil and I helped him escape the dungeons of Elfland. We camped on the beach for weeks until he was well enough to travel. He acted as though he’d never seen us before.”

  “Severus is an able and courageous man, but he has a fatal weakness,” said the Bard. “He loves power. He can’t resist forcing his will on others, whether they be mermaids, monks, or kings. He has made himself the real ruler of Bebba’s Town. Brutus is too lazy to resist him—which is a great shame, for Brutus has a generous heart. The abbot didn’t want to recognize you, lad, because you reminded him of when he was unimportant.”

  Jack thought this over as the waves hurried along the shore and the night wind brought them the odor of pine trees. After a while the Bard took up his staff and they made their way back to the inlet. Northmen were sprawled in untidy heaps here and there on the sand. Eric Pretty-Face lay with his legs half submerged in water. It looked as though nothing short of Ragnarok could awaken these warriors, but Jack knew this was a illusion. He’d seen Northmen go from a drunken stupor to full battle readiness in seconds. Whether their brains were awake was another matter. Berserkers didn’t need brains to fight.

  “So many duties, so little time,” murmured the Bard, gazing at the collapsed warriors. “The draugr must be laid to rest and grain delivered to the village—two tasks that pull us in opposite directions. In the middle lies Ethne. My heart cries out to rescue her, and yet the greater good demands that I wait. It’s only for a while, of course. I’m sure she’ll be all right if we provide her with supplies before we leave Bebba’s Town. Pangur Ban can keep an eye on her….”

  Jack had never heard the old man sound so uncertain, and it worried him.

  “Promise me this, lad,” the Bard said. “If things don’t work out in Notland, you must return and rescue my daughter.”

  “Of course I will,” said Jack, deeply moved. “You don’t need to ask.”

  “I know,” the old man said, looking off into the darkness over the sea.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ETHNE’S CELL

  The Bard, Jack, and Thorgil returned to Din Guardi. King Brutus sulked charmingly because they had missed his party, but he soon forgot and planned another one. Each day the Bard and Jack went to the market square to sell their goods, while Thorgil was hired to train the king’s horses. “They’re shockingly behaved,” she complained. “All they do is roll on the grass and eat daisies.”

  “Somewhat like their master,” the Bard remarked. With the money they made, Egil’s men bought grain and loaded it onto the ship.

  Beelzebub’s Remedy Against Flies sold out because everyone was plagued by flies in the heat. The potions for locking and unlocking bowels were also popular, along with salves for rash, pinkeye, and the traveling itch. The Bard sat under a tree and people whispered their ailments to him. He would tell Jack which medicine to fetch.

  Some folk whispered that they needed curses, and the Bard sent them packing. “Be off with you! I don’t deal in curses,” he shouted. “Go ask at the monastery. I’m told they have curses to spare.” He was still smarting over his reception by Father Severus.

  They rode out to meet Pangur Ban in the evenings. Ethne was slightly more cheerful, the cat reported. S
he liked the flowers the Bard sent her. She had begun to sing again. She could almost, but not quite, touch a ray of sunlight that came through the chapel door and landed beneath her narrow window. Jack’s heart burned with indignation at her imprisonment even though it had been her choice.

  When everything else had been sold, the Bard thrust aside his pride, and he and Jack approached Father Severus again. “I don’t have time for your foolishness,” the abbot said angrily. “I’ve got someone who’s come down with flying venom in my infirmary. We had to burn his house to keep it from spreading.”

  “This won’t take long,” the Bard said. “I have a selection of Brother Aiden’s inks to sell.” He placed a basket on the floor.

  The abbot had signaled a hefty monk to remove the intruders, but at the mention of Brother Aiden he sent the man away. “Is that the ink they used on the Holy Isle?”

  “The same,” said the Bard. “Rose red, heavenly blue, leaf green, the yellow of morning sun. It is as though you looked through a stained-glass window.”

  Jack smiled, remembering the window in the monastery storeroom. It had been small, made up of fragments of the original on the Holy Isle, but even those shone with a glory not altogether of this world.

  “No one ever made finer colors than Brother Aiden,” said Father Severus. “I’d pay handsomely if he were willing to part with the formula.”

  “Let me tell you a story,” the Bard said. “Aiden, like all Picts, holds the secret to making heather ale.”

  “I’ve tasted it,” the abbot said. “If you were burning in Hell, one drop would soothe your entire body.”

  “A Scottish king captured one of Aiden’s ancestors and threatened to kill him. But he promised a hoard of gold and the hand of his daughter if the man would reveal the recipe for heather ale. The man preferred to die. That’s the resistance you’re up against if you want to learn how Aiden mixes ink.”