03 - The Islands of the Blessed

by Nancy Farmer

  But nothing further happened. After a while the doe rose to her feet and walked away. Jack rose too, perplexed about what he should do. Normally, he would return to the Bard’s house. The old man was waiting for his herbs, and Thorgil might be there too.

  Jack looked back at the forest. The shield maiden had been headed toward the fields when he last saw her. She would have put distance between herself and him, and that meant she would have gone to the sea. Thorgil always went there when she was upset. When she recovered, she would probably return to the Bard.

  The thought of the Roman house and the old man waiting inside was very attractive. That scream, though, had been aroused by Brother Aiden’s bell. Last night the creature had been on the beach. Tonight it was in the woodland, much closer to Brother Aiden’s hut. Its intent was most certainly evil. The cry from the woodland had been steeped in hatred. It wasn’t the hunger call of a predator, but the voice of something exiled from all earthly joy.

  Sighing, Jack turned toward the village. He ran through the darkening meadows, past outlying sheds and houses, until he saw the little monk kneeling by a fire outside his hut.

  Chapter Six

  FAIR LAMENTING

  Jack knelt too, not wishing to disturb Brother Aiden. He couldn’t understand the prayers, yet the words soothed him. Pega often said it felt like summer near the monk’s hut, no matter how cold the winds were elsewhere. There was something so angelic about Brother Aiden that even the frost giants walked carefully around his dwelling.

  Now Jack felt a calm descend on him, as though the creature in the hazel wood hadn’t been so terrible after all. It was merely a lost wolf howling for its companions or a seal that had wandered from the coast. He had smelled seaweed.

  “I should teach you Latin,” said Brother Aiden. “Then you might not fall asleep during prayers.”

  Jack sat up abruptly. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s the warmth and quiet. I’ve been working all day.”

  “No offense taken,” the monk said cheerfully. “I’d invite you in, but there’s no room.” He waved at the door of his beehive-shaped hut. Jack had been in there once or twice and knew it was hardly more than a man-made cave. There was space for a tiny altar, a storage area for parchment and ink, and a heap of dried heather for a bed. Anyone taller than the monk couldn’t even stand up.

  A table and stool sat outside where Brother Aiden illustrated his manuscripts. Dishware and food were stowed in a heavy wooden chest beneath. The bell was suspended from a wooden frame near the fire.

  “I can offer you some of Pega’s excellent eel-and-turnip stew,” the monk said, laying out bowls, spoons, and a knife for himself. Jack, like most villagers, carried his own knife. His was especially fine, for it had been a gift from the Mountain Queen in Jotunheim. “Let me ring that bell a last time—good heavens! What’s the matter?” Brother Aiden cried as Jack grabbed his arm.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” the boy said, “but you can’t do that. At least not tonight.”

  “Why ever not?” said the monk, rubbing his arm.

  “I—I’m not sure. Only, there’s a thing in the woods that screams when you toll it. Last night the thing was on the beach, and now it’s closer. We’d better ask the Bard what to do.”

  “Have something to eat, lad. You can explain more clearly on a full stomach.” Brother Aiden ladled stew from a pot on the fire and unwrapped a small loaf of bread. “I can’t imagine anyone screaming about that bell. It has such a lovely tone that it has been given its own name: Fair Lamenting.”

  “Fair Lamenting?” said Jack, his mouth muffled by bread. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “It depends on what you’re lamenting,” said Brother Aiden. He took less stew than Jack and only the thinnest slice of bread. “There’s a longing that comes over you when you see something so perfect, it must be divine—a lamb standing on its feet for the first time, for example, or a swallow diving out of a cloud. The moment is so beautiful that you want to hold on to it forever, but you can’t. And so you lament and feel joy at the same time.”

  Jack struggled to understand. It seemed yet another puzzle to do with happiness. He doubted whether Gog and Magog had done much “fair lamenting” when they mooed with the cows. For that matter, the cows seemed pretty happy too. There were no worries about whether the mooing was going to go on forever.

  “What you really see is a glimpse of Heaven, for in Heaven such moments last forever,” explained the monk. “The sound of Fair Lamenting reminds us of the joy that lies beyond the sorrow of this world. Did you know that this is the very bell St. Columba brought from Ireland?” Brother Aiden reverently lifted the instrument from its hook and set it on the table. “It’s what drew the Picts from their hills.”

  “I heard that they swarmed out to kill St. Columba, and he scared the daylights out of them by threatening to send them all mad,” said Jack, who had been told this by hobgoblins.

  Brother Aiden frowned. “I’m sure that’s wrong. It doesn’t sound saintly at all.”

  “Perhaps it’s only a rumor,” said Jack, who didn’t want to upset the gentle monk. He explained about the monster in the hazel wood, but Brother Aiden didn’t seem concerned.

  “There are many poor beasts astray after that storm. I’ve been frightened myself by a cow bellowing for her calf. It’s all too easy to deceive oneself, especially when it’s dark and you’re alone. Once when I was walking at night, I saw a pair of big, glowing, blue eyes by the side of the road.”

  “Crumbs! What did you do?” said Jack.

  “There was precious little I could do. The moon had gone behind a cloud, and I could hardly see where to put my feet. I sent a silent prayer to St. Columba and edged forward, clutching the cross at my neck. Then—not five paces away—another pair of glowing eyes appeared on the other side of the road.” Brother Aiden took a mouthful of bread and chewed slowly. He was almost as good a storyteller as the Bard and knew when to pause, to hook his audience.

  Jack waited impatiently for the monk to swallow.

  “I took a few more steps,” Brother Aiden continued, “and what did I see but a third set of eyes squarely in the middle of the road. Would you like some cider? Your mother sent over a bag this morning.”

  “No! I mean no, thank you. Please tell me what happened,” said Jack. The monk smiled happily.

  “Well! I stood perfectly still, unable to go forward. If I turned away, the creatures might leap upon my back. I sent a prayer to St. Christopher, who protects travelers. Next, I commended my soul to Jesus, in case St. Christopher didn’t come through. Someone must have been listening, though, for all at once the moon came out from behind the clouds. The road was bathed in beautiful light. And behold! The eyes disappeared. In their place were sheep—perfectly ordinary sheep. I had wandered into the middle of a flock. So you see, the mind plays tricks on us when we’re frightened. I’m sure your creature is just as ordinary.”

  Jack stifled the urge to argue. He was unusually sensitive to the forces that lay beneath everyday life. Sometimes doing magic actually made him sick, and the Bard said that was because his defenses were too weak. It took years of training to endure some kinds of knowledge, and Jack had been exposed to it before he was ready. The malevolent hatred surrounding the strange beast had been very real. He didn’t have to see it to know it was an enemy.

  The boy tipped the bell on its side, being careful to muffle the clapper. It was a quadrangle with rounded corners, and it threw back the firelight with a reddish glow. In spite of its simple design, it had a richness that spoke of palaces and kings. “This is nice,” he said.

  “Bronze covered in gold,” Brother Aiden said proudly. “Gives it that deep, musical tone.”

  “The clapper looks like iron,” said Jack, moving it into the light.

  “Very observant. Bronze would be too hard and would damage the bell.”

  “Why is it shaped like a fish?” the boy asked. For indeed, the long pendant was a magnificent work of art, with f
ins and scales and a pair of round, fishy eyes staring down at the mouth of the bell. It was slightly battered from use.

  “Father Severus said it symbolized the church. Would you like more stew?”

  “No, thank you,” Jack said politely, though he could have cleaned out the pot. He knew the stew was meant for the monk’s breakfast. They tidied up, Jack polishing the bowls with sand and Brother Aiden storing leftover food in the chest.

  The moon, half full, washed the earth with enough pale light for Jack to make his way to the Bard’s house. He gathered his belongings and replaced his knife in the scabbard that hung from his belt. “Why don’t you come with me?” he suggested. “I know the Bard likes your company.”

  “I’ll come in the morning,” Brother Aiden said. “I’ve much to think about tonight. I must consider that scream you heard.”

  Jack looked up, startled. So the monk did suspect something he wasn’t telling. “Are you safe here?” he said, suddenly aware of shadows all around and the distance to the nearest house.

  “No one is entirely safe in this world,” Brother Aiden said. “If God chooses to call me in the night, I hope I may answer bravely. I will stay. However, there’s no point leading whatever-it-is into temptation. I’ll take the bell inside with me, though the Lord knows where I’ll find space for my head.”

  Jack looked back frequently as he made his way through the fields, to see whether the monk was still outside. He thought he saw the door of the hut close and the fire dim as though something had flitted in front of it. Huge, glowing, blue eyes, he thought, searching the darkness. Why blue? For some reason the color was the creepiest part of the story.

  To the right of the path Jack saw long, gray breakers advance to the shore and withdraw. To the left was the black, meandering path of a stream. He smelled seaweed and meadowsweet and felt a fine salt mist. The sea was hidden on the last part of the trip, though he could hear it hissing and rattling over pebbles. At last he came to the Bard’s house and entered its warmth gratefully.

  “It’s about time,” complained the Bard, sitting by the fire with Seafarer at his feet. “I was about to send a bat to look for you. Where’s Thorgil? Don’t tell me she’s off gathering moonbeams too.”

  “I warned you about picking fights,” said the old man, fastening lengths of twine across the room. “She’s like a ship without ballast, always at the mercy of the wind.”

  “I didn’t pick the fight,” Jack said sullenly, hanging herbs to dry on the lines. He’d described the events of the day, ending with the scream and the visit to Brother Aiden.

  “No, but you kept it going. Only Freya knows where she’s hiding out.” The Bard opened the bag with the atterswam and sniffed. “Excellent! I meant to ask you to look for these.” He threaded the mushrooms on a string.

  “You aren’t… planning to eat them?” Jack asked hesitantly. He remembered how the Northmen took them to go berserk.

  “My stars, lad, I’m not insane. Once these are dried and powdered, they’re going into one of my best potions: Beelzebub’s Remedy Against Flies. I discovered the recipe while fumigating King Hrothgar’s hall. You have no idea how nasty a place can get after a monster’s been rampaging through it. Did I ever tell you how I saved Beowulf’s life?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jack. He liked the story, but he was more interested in atterswam now.

  “Hrothgar nailed the monster’s arm to the wall as a kind of trophy. Foolish man! It attracted flies like you wouldn’t believe. I went out to the forest for fresh air, and what did I come across but a patch of atterswam? As I watched, a fly settled on one of the caps. One minute later it keeled over dead. That was all the hint I needed. I mashed up the mushrooms in milk, soaked balls of wool in the mixture, and hung them from the ceiling of Hrothgar’s hall. You know how flies like to circle around the center of a room. When they get tired, it’s natural for them to land on the nearest resting place, but they only land once on Beelzebub’s Remedy.”

  “That’s brilliant,” said Jack.

  “Yes, it is. I used to sell the potion as Dragon Tongue’s Revenge, but Brother Aiden suggested the other name. He thought Beelzebub would appeal more to Christians.”

  Jack helped himself to a bowl of stew from the Bard’s constantly replenished pot. After a second (and larger) dinner, he swept the floor and laid out a bed by the door. He fluffed up the straw in the Bard’s truckle bed at the far end of the house. This resembled an oval coil of rope, and the old man fitted himself inside as snugly as a cat in a basket.

  But the Bard wasn’t ready to sleep yet. “Shoo Seafarer into his alcove. We have one last chore to perform.”

  Jack reproduced the burble/hiss Thorgil had taught him. It must have been correct, because the great seabird warbled pleasantly before ambling off to bed.

  “It seems you didn’t spend the entire day fighting with Thorgil,” the Bard observed.

  “That’s probably the last thing she’ll ever teach me,” Jack said.

  “Don’t count your dragons before they’re hatched. She may be less angry than you expect.” The Bard unpacked a metal flute from a chest. Jack had seen ones made of wood, but this was crafted with far more artistry.

  “It looks like the clapper in Brother Aiden’s bell,” the boy said, wondering. The same fins and scales decorated the sides, and the same round eyes gazed at the world from behind a wide, fishy mouth.

  “Ah! So you had a look at that,” said the Bard. “I suppose Aiden told you it’s a symbol of the church. He’s wrong. It’s the salmon that spends half the year in the Islands of the Blessed and returns to the pools of its youth in the fall. Some call it the Salmon of Knowledge, for it knows the pathways between this world and the next.”

  “Brother Aiden says the bell is called ‘Fair Lamenting’. When people hear it they are reminded of Heaven,” Jack said.

  “It reminds them of what lies beyond the setting sun. Call it Heaven if you like.” The Bard polished the flute with the hem of his robe. “The bell was named Fair Lamenting long before any monk set foot in Ireland. It was made for Amergin, the founder of my order. Through time, it came to St. Columba, who was top of his class for that year.”

  “St. Columba was a bard?” said Jack.

  “One of the best. It was he who moved my school to the Vale of Song to protect it from Christians. He himself became a Christian, yet he did not entirely forget the ancient lore. He could call up winds and calm storms, draw water from the earth, and speak to animals. When he was old, a white horse came to him and laid its head against his breast. Then he knew that the wind blew to the west and that it was time to go. It is said that St. Brendan the Navigator took him to the Islands of the Blessed.”

  For a moment Jack could find nothing to say. The vision of the horse saluting the old bard moved him in a way he couldn’t explain. In his mind he saw the ship waiting to bear St. Columba away. It would be a humble vessel, as befitted a Christian saint, but its place in the sea would be assured.

  “I thought… saints went to Heaven,” he said at last.

  “Perhaps they do. Eventually. But the Islands are a way station for those who are not yet finished with the affairs of this world. The old gods live there, as do the great heroes and heroines. Amergin is there, unless he sought rebirth. Now, it’s getting late and we have work to do.”

  They went outside. “Cast your mind into the wind,” commanded the old man. “Feel the lives in the air.”

  The boy had often followed birds in their flight, sensing the steady beat of their wings. He had amused himself by making them swoop and turn. He could even, though this was forbidden, have called a fat duck down to its death. Now he searched the black sky for whatever might dwell within. High above he detected a skein of geese. Lower down an owl coasted the breeze, its eyes scanning for mice. And lower still—

  Jack heard a thin, peeping call, and his attention wavered enough to see the Bard blowing on the flute.

  Eee eee eee, it went. A simple call and yet not s
imple. It had layers and layers of meaning, the same way a leaf-stained pond reveals first the surface and then more depths as one continues to gaze. Eee eee eee went the air from a hundred different places.

  And suddenly the sky was full of bats swirling and dipping around the old man. The Bard played his flute, and the bats answered. Jack could detect variations of pitch and intensity in the cries, but he had no idea what they meant.

  The Bard put down the flute. With a dry rustle the bats dispersed, and in an instant they had disappeared. “They’ve gone in search of Thorgil,” the old man explained. “I’ll leave the door ajar in case one of them comes back.”

  “Is that what the flute is for? To call bats?” whispered Jack. He wasn’t sure why he was whispering.

  “You can call many things with it, some of which you would not care to meet. On the way to Bebba’s Town I’ll show you some of its uses.” The old man said nothing more, but Jack was elated. He was going to learn new magic. He’d already learned a few words in Bird and how to cast a sleep-spell. Things were looking up.

  He shifted his bed to the other end of the house. He didn’t care to spend the night next to an open door with bats coming and going and a monster wandering in the hazel wood. He kept his knife ready and had his eye on a hefty branch smoldering in the fire in case of an emergency.

  But the Bard slept peacefully all night and woke refreshed, just as Jack finally managed to close his eyes.

  Chapter Seven

  THE MERMAID

  It was Brother Aiden who roused Jack some time later. The little monk banged the door open with his foot because his hands were holding the bell. “There is a monster,” he said, panting as he placed the bell on the floor. “Something killed John the Fletcher’s fighting cock and all the hens. The chief found a dead lamb outside his door.”