The Islands of the Blessed sot-3

by Nancy Farmer

  “Thorgil, don’t,” said Jack.

  “I’ll pour cider down her nostrils if I have to!”

  Jack grabbed the shield maiden’s arm. “You’ll drown her.”

  “Then you hold her jaws open. I can’t do everything.”

  “Thorgil,” said Ethne in that beautiful, musical voice only elves had. “I choose this path.” Jack was startled. He hadn’t known she was strong enough to speak, but apparently half-elves could endure starvation better than humans. “Thorgil,” repeated the elf lady, “remember how you used to tell me about Valhalla? You longed to fall in battle so you could go there. This is no different.”

  At the mention of Valhalla, the monks and nuns drew away from the shield maiden in horror. They hadn’t realized she was a Northman.

  “It is different.” Thorgil faltered. “Let me think why. It’s because we like fighting for Odin.” Jack saw uncertainty in her eyes and knew she was remembering Grim’s Island. “And so, naturally, we want to keep on doing it until Ragnarok is declared.” Except that she wouldn’t be fighting alongside the men, Jack thought. She’d be putting warriors back together and milking goats.

  “Dying, for me, is how I will achieve Heaven. Do you understand?” said Ethne gently.

  “No, I don’t! I was a berserker once. I wanted to die with a sword in my hand, but I lost that desire after I drank from Mimir’s Well.”

  At the word berserker, the monks and nuns scuttled on hands and knees to hide behind Brother Sylvus. He began praying.

  “No, that’s not quite right.” Thorgil was struggling to find the right words. “Things changed before I drank from Mimir’s Well. The well grants you knowledge, but only if you sacrifice something of great importance. I offered up my life, but the well rejected me. Apparently, my life wasn’t good enough because I didn’t value it. So in my grief I tried to stab myself anyway, and Jack—”

  Jack could see where her argument was going; he wanted to stop her, but he wasn’t fast enough. In a split second she had lifted the rune of protection from around her neck.

  It was only visible in that short time when it was passed from one wearer to the next. It was a beautiful, bright gold that gathered light from the air. It was surpassingly lovely and desirable, but it had nothing to do with the sick desire for wealth or power. The rune was life itself made visible. And in the middle of the pendant was the shape of the great tree Yggdrassil.

  Thorgil placed it around Ethne’s neck, and it glimmered briefly before it disappeared.

  “Oh!” said the elf lady, placing her white hand over it. Her skin deepened in color as blood flowed through her veins. Her breathing, scarcely audible before, became stronger. The fever faded from her cheeks. “What a nice chapel,” murmured Ethne, gazing up at the grim ceiling. “I never noticed how many colors gray comes in. And what a good idea it is to cover the floor with grass,” she said, looking at the filthy, discolored straw.

  Ethne had always been a featherbrain, and the rune of protection would do nothing about that. But she was at least recalled to life.

  Jack was more concerned about Thorgil, who looked devastated. It was how he’d felt after handing the rune to her. He’d never stopped longing for it, but no one could keep it forever. It had been passed from the Bard to Jack and on to Thorgil. Now it was with the Bard’s daughter. It seemed fitting.

  “Feed Ethne the rest of that stew,” growled Thorgil, shoving the pot at Brother Sylvus. “If you don’t, I will go berserk and tack everyone’s hide to the wall.” She stalked out of the chapel.

  Chapter Forty-five

  DEPARTURE

  Jack found Thorgil outside in the orchard. She was gathering apples into a pile. “The monastery will need these for the winter,” she said. “As soon as the monks and nuns regain their strength, they’ll have to make preparations for the cold weather. There’s food in the storehouse that will have to be moved to the monastery. The monastery should at least look sealed up until spring. We don’t want trouble with those guards from town. We’ll have to chop more firewood. And something has to be done about that filthy straw. I’ve already got flea bites.”

  She talked feverishly, laying out plans. Jack didn’t interrupt. He knew she was trying not to think about the rune.

  He helped her move the apples. Later she called up one of the horses and rode off by herself to go hunting. She had only one good hand, but that didn’t diminish her ability to use a spear. She returned with a deer slung over the horse’s back. Brother Sylvus skinned it.

  For the next few days Thorgil snapped out orders as crisply as Father Severus himself. Jack noticed that the monks and nuns crossed themselves and avoided her eyes, but they obeyed her. They burned the straw and washed the floors with vinegar, a known remedy against flying venom. Ethne wrinkled her pretty nose and went outside to sit in the orchard. She did little except look beautiful, but no one seemed to mind.

  Sometimes Sister Wulfhilda sat with her, telling stories about her life before the terrible trial by ordeal. Ethne was fascinated. She knew almost nothing about Middle Earth beyond the monastery. Sewing, weaving, and milking cows were as fantastic to her as the jeweled wonders of Elfland were to the nun. As for husbands, Sister Wulfhilda had a struggle getting the concept across. “You can only have one? Truly?” said Ethne with her tinkling elvish laugh.

  “Truly,” swore Sister Wulfhilda.

  When they got on the subject of children, Ethne knew all about how they were made, except that elves almost never had any. It had something to do with not having souls. Or perhaps it was because they were so careless with the ones they did have. Many an elvish infant was left behind at a picnic or placed on a high shelf and forgotten. “I would like to have a baby,” said Ethne.

  “For that you must be married,” Sister Wulfhilda said firmly. “To only one man.”

  Jack saw that the nun, who had never had children of her own, had adopted the Elf Queen’s daughter.

  Thorgil ordered everyone to kill rats. The monks had grown up on farms, so they knew all about hunting with slings. The nuns merely hit the creatures with clubs. They set about the task with a relish that wasn’t altogether holy, but Sister Brecca swore she’d seen an imp turn into a rat and Brother Sylvus declared the slaughter a Christian duty. Pangur Ban helped.

  Three nuns, four monks, and Ethne. That was all who were left out of a hundred. The enormity of the disaster kept preying on Jack’s mind as he helped the monastery recover. If they had been allowed to flee, most would probably have survived. They weren’t all sick in the beginning. Yet if they had run, the flying venom would have gone with some of them like sparks blown from a forest fire in a high wind.

  Was Father Severus a saint, as the survivors insisted, or a monster? Jack’s opinion was weighted on the side of monster, but the same scales held Olaf One-Brow, who was certainly no one’s idea of a good neighbor. Yet he towered above ordinary men with his openheartedness. Olaf would never have rejected a lonely mermaid on a beach.

  Jack didn’t take part in the killing of the rats. He felt their death screams in the air and the cries of their young left to starve. Instead, he called life into the apple trees, so that they would survive the winter to come. He blessed the monastery fields with the ancient call to earth that his mother had used.

  And he thought he saw bodies as brown as freshly turned soil nestled together. The silky strands of autumn grass above them bent before the wind.

  Thou art a good lad, Jack, to bless the fields, whispered the yarthkins. We will not forget thee.

  “Brother Aiden will have to come here,” Thorgil said one chilly morning.

  Jack looked up from the oatcakes he was toasting on a griddle. “Why?” he asked. It surprised him how much Thorgil cared about the monastery, for someone who had helped destroy the Holy Isle.

  “The monks and nuns need a leader. They’re like children on their own. Father Severus gave them tasks for every hour of the day, and without him, they don’t know what to do.”

&
nbsp; Jack nodded. He remembered how Father Severus had organized things in the dungeons of Elfland. You must always have an hourglass, he had said. It tells you when to go about your chores, when to meditate, and when to pray. Without direction, men fall into sloth. And from there they degenerate into other sins. But perhaps such unrelenting control wasn’t good for people either.

  “Brother Aiden won’t like it,” Jack said. “He had a rotten time when he tried to run St. Filian’s before.”

  “All the troublemakers are dead,” Thorgil said bluntly. “In my opinion, Sister Wulfhilda would make the best leader, but they won’t accept her. She’s a female.”

  “You’re female.”

  “I’m an ex-berserker,” Thorgil said with a wolfish smile.

  “I told them I’d tell my brothers, one of whom is a half-troll, where the monastery was if they didn’t obey. At any rate, I’m sick of telling Christians when to pray and when to go to the privy. I want to start for the village before the winter storms.”

  Jack looked out at the lake. It was pale under the autumn sky and some mornings there was a crust of ice around the edges. He wouldn’t mind leaving either, although he dreaded seeing the Roman house empty. “Brother Aiden won’t be able to come before spring. Can the monastery survive until then?”

  “With Sister Wulfhilda’s help. You’ll have to bring him back without me, though. I won’t return.”

  Jack knew she didn’t want to see Ethne with the rune of protection. She couldn’t actually see it, of course, but a brightness around the elf lady told her it was there. “Fair enough,” he said.

  They found Father Severus’ hourglass and showed Sister Wulfhilda how to use it. She would tell Brother Sylvus what to do each day—humbly, of course. The nun knew very well how to make others think they were making the decisions. And Brother Sylvus would pass the orders on to everyone else. The monastery was stocked with food meant for a hundred. They had ample firewood.

  “I’m leaving this with you, Wulfie,” Thorgil said, handing over the small chest of jewels from Notland. Jack was astounded. Nothing separated Northmen from their wealth-hoards except death. Even Beowulf, as he lay dying, had asked to feast his eyes on the gold he had wrested from the dragon.

  “Are you sure?” he murmured.

  “It was bought with Dragon Tongue’s life,” she said simply. Jack saw that a profound change had come over the shield maiden.

  Sister Wulfhilda admired the dark wood inlaid with ivory. “I’ve never seen anything this fine, not even in the treasure room of the monastery. Is it a saint’s relic?”

  Thorgil laughed. “I’ll never understand why Christians keep bones in boxes. No, Wulfie. It’s not a relic. You’ll have fun looking at the contents, but for Freya’s sake, don’t let Brother Sylvus or anyone else see it. Keep it hidden until Brother Aiden arrives. He’ll know what to do.”

  They left very early the next morning while the ground was covered with frost. Only Sister Wulfhilda saw them off, for they wanted to slip away without long good-byes. “If I don’t return by spring,” Jack said, “send a message to Brother Aiden. Send it in my name. You and he can decide whether to introduce Ethne to King Brutus. The Bard thought she’d make a good queen, but I’m not sure he’d make a decent husband.”

  They kissed good-bye and rode off on a path that Sister Wulfhilda said would skirt the town and join up with the road to the village. The horses blew mist from their nostrils, and the morning star blazed in the eastern sky. “Why did you say that?” said Thorgil. “I mean, about not returning by spring.”

  “I don’t know,” Jack admitted. The air was cold, but St. Columba’s robe was proof against any weather. The staff was slung on his back, and the horse’s saddlebags contained provisions for the long journey.

  They rode west for a while and then south. The town was barely visible, even in the pearly light of dawn, and they met no one until they came to a stream. A creature sped out of the bushes and sat down on the road ahead of them.

  Well met, Pangur Ban, said Jack.

  You sneaky wizard. You tried to go off without saying good-bye, accused the cat.

  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.

  “What language are you speaking?” said Thorgil. “And why is Pangur Ban yowling?”

  She doesn’t understand the Blessed Speech, said the cat. You should use Saxon.

  “All right, I will,” Jack said, surprised that he’d been using anything else.

  “Will what?” the shield maiden said crossly. “It’s cold as a troll’s backside out here. If we’re going to be entertaining cats, we should build a fire.”

  They dismounted and gathered firewood. Jack set it alight with the staff without any trouble, although the wood was damp. “Nothing like a fire on a cold morning,” he said, warming his hands.

  “Sister Wulfhilda packed venison pies,” said Thorgil. “I can heat one up if you’re hungry.”

  “Do you want one, Pangur?” Jack gave a friendly scratch behind the cat’s ears. The creature was stretched out to get maximum warmth on his stomach.

  Save them for the trip, he advised. It might be longer than you think.

  “He says we should wait,” Jack translated. By now the sun had risen over the eastern sea, but it was still veiled in mist. It shone like a pale gold moon.

  “You can understand him. That’s new,” said Thorgil.

  “Yes, it is,” Jack said uneasily.

  “Ask him what he ate all that time Ethne was starving herself.”

  So Jack asked, and Pangur Ban said he’d been eating rats. He preferred lamb chops and roast goose, of course, but one made do with what one could get. He’d slain any rats that tried to get into Ethne’s cell and taken them outside to devour because she was so tenderhearted. She’s turned into a decent human, he said. Dragon Tongue would be pleased.

  “You do know what happened to him?” the boy said sadly.

  I know everything, replied the cat. They spoke of this and that, and Jack invited him to come along, but Pangur Ban preferred to stay in the monastery. They spoil me rotten, he said, purring loudly. Besides, I want to keep an eye on Ethne. Now you should go, for the way is difficult.

  They put out the fire and called the horses, and Thorgil gave a last stroke to Pangur Ban’s fur. He sniffed her hand and made an excited chattering sound. Forgive me. She smells like Bird and I always lose control.

  “What’s he saying?” Thorgil said suspiciously.

  “Nothing you need to know. Farewell, old friend,” Jack said to the cat. “May the life force hold you in the hollow of its hand.”

  And you as well. Pangur Ban stretched luxuriously and then trotted off. After a moment he turned aside and vanished into the bushes.

  Chapter Forty-six

  THORGIL SILVER-HAND

  Up until then the weather had been cold but dry. Now storm clouds blew in from the northeast, and by afternoon the first raindrops began to fall. “Balder’s backside,” grumbled Thorgil, wrapping herself in a heavy, woolen cloak treated with oil. The rain increased until they could hardly see the way forward. The road became awash with streams pouring out of the forests on either side. The ponies’ hooves slipped in hidden holes, and finally Jack said they would have to camp.

  They had only gotten as far as a small beech wood, a half-day’s journey from town. In the teeming rain they saw a well with a copper cup attached to a chain. “We won’t be needing that for water,” said Thorgil. “All we have to do is look up and open our mouths.”

  The beech trees were completely leafless and offered no shelter from the storm. Jack and Thorgil had to huddle next to the well, where an ancient wall, half tumbled down, gave some protection. The ponies stood together with their backs to the wind.

  “Maybe we should return to the monastery tomorrow,” said Jack.

  “Never! I shall never go back,” Thorgil said. Jack knew there was no point arguing with her yet. By morning she might be miserable enough to change her mind. He put St. Columba�
�s robe over both of them, and as before, it gave them ample cover. It not only made them feel warmer, but drier. The wool didn’t smell of wet sheep either, but of green leaves and summer.

  “I wonder whether I could magic up some kind of shelter,” Jack said, looking at St. Columba’s staff.

  “That would be very welcome,” said Thorgil. She might be warmer, but she was still shivering.

  Jack held the staff out, trying various commands such as “Walls, arise!” and “House, appear!” but nothing happened. Even to him the words sounded lame. He needed a lorica, and that only came when needed.

  I really, really need one now, Jack thought, hoping that someone was listening. The water kept thundering down. Next, he tried to stop the rain, but he had only ever been good at calling it up. “The staff has a mind of its own,” he conceded at last.

  “We’ll get through this,” said Thorgil. “I remember once, when I was very small, being stuck on a cliff with Olaf while he was hunting wild sheep. A storm came up and we couldn’t move. The wind was so strong, I thought it was going to blow us over the edge, but Olaf said, ‘Hang on by your fingernails, child. That’s why Northmen never cut them. They’re as good as eagle talons.’ He was so cheerful about it, I lost all fear.”

  Jack unwrapped one of the venison pies, and they took turns nibbling it. Darkness fell with no letup in the storm. The ground where they lay was full of stones and a tree root meandered through the middle, but eventually exhaustion brought them sleep.

  It was still raining in the morning. “We have to return,” Jack said.

  “Never,” said Thorgil flatly.

  “I’ve seen these storms go on for a week. Besides, what’s the harm in staying at the monastery until spring? You can stuff wool in your ears if you don’t want to hear Christian prayers.”

  “I won’t go back!” cried Thorgil, with more than a little hysteria in her voice.