03 - The Islands of the Blessed

by Nancy Farmer

  Schlaup sat down next to him and watched the clouds drift by as if they were the most interesting things in the world. “I was thinking,” the giant said.

  “Yes?” Jack was pleasantly diverted from his thoughts.

  “Dragon Tongue said the stream was full of life.”

  “The yarthkins have that effect on water,” explained Jack. “It has something to do with how things grow.”

  “Landvættir,” said Schlaup, showing that he not only knew the word, but that he might know a great deal about such beings. The boy reminded himself not to underestimate the giant. “Landvættir heal things,” said Schlaup after a moment. He paused to call up the words. “If we put Little Half into the water, he might get better.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” said Jack.

  They found the brothers next to the chicken house. Schlaup picked Little Half up and carried him off to the spring. “Please don’t hurt him,” begged Big Half. “Don’t drown him! Please! I beg you!” The giant plunged the dwarf into the channel and held him down. Big Half fought to loosen Schlaup’s hands to no avail.

  “That’s enough!” cried Jack.

  Little Half’s eyes flew open and he began to struggle. Schlaup hauled him out, coughing and spluttering, and patted him on the back gently—gently for a half-troll, that is. Little Half vomited up water, straw, and a few chicken feathers. “Better,” said the giant.

  “Brother,” Big Half said, weeping, “are you all right?”

  Little Half blinked and looked around. “Who are you?” he asked.

  Reason had returned to the dwarf’s mind, but his memory had entirely vanished. He spoke well enough and he remembered what was said to him, yet his behavior was that of a small child. A nice child, Jack decided. It was Little Half before all the plotting and scheming had happened.

  After a while villagers appeared with baskets of supplies, and one of them asked whether Jack would like to join them for the festivities. The man pointedly avoided asking the others. “No thanks,” Jack said. “I’m perfectly happy here.”

  And he was. They feasted on oysters, smoked haddock, bannock cakes, and buttered cabbage. For drink they had ale and cider, but all agreed that the water from the spring was better. “That’s an oyster,” Big Half said patiently. “You don’t eat the hard part.”

  “Oy-ster,” repeated Little Half.

  Afterward they napped under the sky, except for Schlaup, who found his way down to a beach. Unlike true trolls, he wasn’t afraid of water, and Jack saw him in the distance, floating and spouting water like a whale.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  VOYAGE TO NOTLAND

  “Spending the winter here is an excellent idea,” argued Skakki the following morning. “The weather is changing, and Egil and I might not have time to reach the Northland before the fall storms arrive.” The puffy clouds of the day before had changed into high, feathery wisps that spread out across the sky.

  “Are you sure you don’t simply like the idea of being a king?” the Bard said. “You already have an excellent hall and fields. You have horses, cattle, and thralls to care for them. You’re a king in everything except the title.”

  “I must bend the knee to Ivar the Boneless, an utter fool, and you know why we leave our fields to go pillaging, Dragon Tongue. The lands of the north are barren. This land is fertile and the seas abound with fish. My family will love it here. So will Egil.”

  Skakki stood in the doorway of Bjorn’s ruined hall, gazing out to sea. Jack thought he looked every inch a king with his broad chest and noble face. He was certainly better than any ruler Jack had seen. Skakki wasn’t prone to insane rages. He didn’t spend his days lying in bowers, ignorant of what went on in the outside world. Nor did he demand that praise-songs be sung about him day and night. He was a sensible, intelligent young man who would rule well, whatever land he found himself in.

  “Speaking of family, won’t they worry when you don’t show up?” said the Bard.

  “Olaf sometimes wintered elsewhere. He always left the family well supplied before sailing, and I have done the same. I’ll fetch them in spring.”

  The Bard accepted Skakki’s decision and, personally, Jack was delighted. Tomorrow they were supposed to sail north to Notland, or to where the Bard thought Notland lay. Then he, the Bard, and Thorgil would sail on in a coracle that was hardly bigger than a washtub to a place full of sea hags and Pictish beasts. Now Skakki could wait for them as long as necessary on Horse Island.

  Jack went outside. Rune was standing on the cliff, shading his eyes as he studied the sky. “What do you see?” the boy said. He didn’t really expect an answer, but the old warrior had as complete a memory of the sky as he had of the sea.

  “Rain is coming,” Rune said. “It will last three days.”

  “It doesn’t look so bad to me,” said Jack, peering up at the bright, feathery clouds.

  “Those are called ‘sky silk’. They are spun in the hall of mists by Odin’s wife. Stand here with your back to the wind,” ordered Rune. “Now tell me what direction those clouds are moving.”

  Jack watched carefully. He had often observed storms approaching or retreating. It had never occurred to him that the filmy sky silk had any importance. “They’re going that way.” He thrust out his right arm.

  “Very good. When you have the wind at your back and sky silk moves to the right, it means a storm is coming. It isn’t going to be a big one because the air doesn’t smell like metal and the gulls aren’t agitated. I’ll tell Skakki to delay the voyage for three days.”

  That pleased Jack even more. He was in no hurry to leave. He wandered around the cliff, trying to imagine all of Skakki’s relatives living here. It was clearly a better place to farm, and they would have Thorgil’s horses to ride. The animals had become much tamer. They allowed Skakki to command them, though of course they were too small to carry the tall sea captain. Olaf had had the same problem.

  Egil would find good pastures for his merini sheep. He’d never been an enthusiastic warrior, much preferring to farm and trade. Schlaup could build a separate hall for Mrs. Tanner—but here Jack’s imagination failed. The half-troll was never going to be accepted by the villagers. In the Northland, where people were used to trolls, he would be tolerated. Perhaps Schlaup could find another island.

  By afternoon the sky was covered with a flat, gray layer of clouds that gradually lowered until it was almost on the ground. Then the rain began in earnest, and they had to shelter in the largest house in the village. It had originally belonged to Bjorn, then to Adder-Tooth, and now King Skakki was its owner. It was a dark, musty place, hardly more cheerful than a cave, but it had a hearth. With food and song, Skakki and his followers passed a reasonably pleasant time.

  On the third day Jack woke to find the sky covered with high clouds that resembled the scales of a fish. He thought Rune had been wrong about the three-day rain, but soon the fish scales turned into more storm clouds. This time the showers were brief, with fierce winds that blew up suddenly and disappeared just as rapidly. By afternoon they had been replaced by another layer of wispy sky silk.

  “Does that mean we’ve got another three days of rain coming?” Jack asked hopefully.

  “Not at all,” said Rune. “Stand with your back to the wind. See? The sky silk is moving left. We shall soon have outstanding weather for a voyage.”

  But where will we go? thought Jack. So far no one seemed to know, and that was because Notland wasn’t always there. It came and went at the will of the fin folk.

  They went north at dawn. The Bard said Pictish beasts were more common there and that autumn was their mating season. “If we find a swarm, the fin folk are sure to be nearby,” he said. They left Schlaup behind, in the interests of speed, for he weighed the ship down and was useless as an oarsman. He, Big Half, and Little Half made camp on the cliff, and Schlaup was given the task of cutting turf for the new hall.

  They passed several bodies of land, all smaller than Horse Is
land. They camped on deserted beaches, and once Jack thought he heard strange cries in the night. On the third day, when it seemed they had run out of islands, Seafarer returned with news of a fog bank to the west. Or as he put it, Big cloud. Sits on sea. Place where sun dies.

  “Go west,” said the Bard.

  “Are you sure?” said Skakki. “Rune says there’s nothing out there.”

  “Perhaps not when he was there. Notland is always surrounded by fog, and it may mean the fin folk have encountered a swarm of Pictish beasts. Battles will be fought and blood spilled. The fin folk harvest the losers.”

  The ship changed direction, but by late afternoon they still hadn’t found the fog bank. The sun burned like a fire on the western horizon, and on either side of it were pillars of light. They were rainbow-colored and very bright, making it seem almost like there were three suns in a row. “That’s what I’ve been looking for,” said the Bard. “Those lights are the gateway to Notland. Sail toward them, and with luck, we will reach its borders at dawn.”

  No one spoke. The gateway was too otherworldly. The Northmen, who would cheerfully have waded into battle with bears or trolls, were utterly spooked by the strangeness of the vision. They clutched the talismans they wore around their necks—amber beads for Freya; boar’s teeth for Frey, the god of plenty; and Thor’s hammer. As the ship approached, the sun set and the gateway faded, but a single red ray shot upward to mark where it had been. “Strike the sail,” ordered Skakki. “I enter no gateway I cannot see.”

  The air was breathlessly calm. The surface of the water was as still as a lake, and this worried the Northmen even more. “I’d give anything to weigh anchor,” Sven the Vengeful said. “I saw a sea like this once. It rose like the back of a dragon, and Ran and her nine daughters nearly dragged us down.”

  “There’s nothing to anchor to. The water is too deep,” said Rune. When the last streaks of light faded, the cries began—long, mournful howls that turned everyone’s blood to water. From below the sea came low rumbles that rattled the timbers of the ship and made Jack’s ribs vibrate with their power.

  “The howls are made by male Pictish beasts,” the Bard explained. “Remember my description of the huushayuu, Jack? Imagine a hundred Pictish war trumpets making that noise. It’s no wonder Roman soldiers deserted and ran into the woods. Of course, that wasn’t a good idea either, with the Forest Lord waiting inside.”

  “It sounds like there’s at least a hundred of them out there now,” said Thorgil.

  “The rumbles are the females coming up from the depths,” the old man said. “When they reach the surface, they’ll attack one another. There are always more females than males, so they have to fight to get a mate. The victorious sink down to the bottom again.”

  “And the fin folk?” said Jack.

  “Oh, they won’t come out until dawn. No one in his right mind would sail into a mating swarm of Pictish beasts.”

  “Now he tells us,” groaned Skakki.

  They heard vast splashes, like whales surfacing, and the sound of water being expelled from vast mouths. A roar exploded from not far away, followed by a heavy whump as two creatures came together. Soon the whole sea was seething with cries, roars, gnashing of teeth, and the screams of the losers. A half-moon rose, making the great bodies dimly visible. They curved up and over in the dark water like obese snakes. The females were a ghostly white with long, fleshy horns and pointed muzzles that opened to show rows of teeth. Their flippers battered at their rivals and their tails lashed as they propelled themselves into battle.

  The males were much smaller. It was difficult to see what color they were in the moonlight, though Jack guessed they were a delicate green. Their heads were horselike and their bodies were slim and graceful. When a female vanquished a foe, she grabbed the chosen male in her flippers and gave a terrifying bellow before plunging into the depths.

  As time passed, the battles became less frequent, until finally the sea was calm except for the thrashing of dying beasts. A heavy smell like the odor of butchered fish hung in the air.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  THE FIN FOLK

  Not surprisingly, no one on the ship got any sleep. When the gray light of dawn seeped over the water, Skakki and his crew discovered the bodies of a dozen whale-size creatures. They floated belly-up, with their long tails uncurled in death.

  “Are they… edible?” said Skakki. Like all Northmen, he was always on the lookout for supplies.

  “No! I mean, yes, they are edible. But no, you mustn’t come between the fin folk and their prey,” said the Bard.

  “There’s surely enough to go around,” Eric the Rash said.

  Eric Pretty-Face offered his opinion. “I ATE SEA SERPENT ONCE. IT DIDN’T KILL ME.”

  “I said no and I meant it,” the Bard said crossly. “The fin folk can make a ship-destroying rock appear to be an open patch of sea and send you to the bottom. They are masters of illusion.” The old man sent Seafarer out to explore. He warned the bird to ignore the dead beasts in the water, but Seafarer needed no warning. They aroused an instinctive terror in the albatross. He soared upward to get away from them until he was only a tiny dot against the sky. He returned with the news that the fog bank was close.

  The Bard unwrapped the mysterious parcel Brother Aiden had given him weeks before. Jack was amazed to see the polished bronze mirror belonging to the chief. It was the most valuable item in the village and something the chief wouldn’t have given up willingly. “How did you get it?” the boy asked.

  “Aiden borrowed it,” said the Bard, “though I fear it will not be returned. It’s a small price to pay for the safety of the village. Aiden and I made a plan in case things didn’t turn out well in Bebba’s Town, and as you know, they didn’t.” Next, the old man unwrapped a beautifully made comb. A row of teeth was set into a bone handle carved with designs stained purple, green, and vermilion. Jack recognized Brother Aiden’s famous inks.

  “That’s deer antler. Aiden carved it himself,” the Bard said.

  Jack had an eerie feeling he’d seen a comb like that recently, and then he remembered. When he was trapped by the haar outside Edwin’s Town, the stone on which he lay had been etched with designs. He’d seen a crescent crossed by a broken arrow, symbols of sacrifice to the old gods. There’d been male and female Pictish beasts, and next to them had been a comb and mirror. At the time Jack had wondered why anyone would carve such odd things.

  “Aiden knows quite a bit about mermaids,” said the Bard. “He’s a Pict—don’t wrinkle up your nose, lad. Picts are no worse than the rest of us. They merely have an unfortunate history. Do you know the story of how they lost their women?”

  “The hobgoblins told me,” Jack said. “When the Picts first came to this land, they angered the old gods by cutting down forests. The Forest Lord took a terrible revenge against them. He asked his brother, the Man in the Moon, to drive their women mad, and the women threw themselves off cliffs or drowned themselves.”

  “The Picts never quite recovered from that tragedy,” said the Bard. “Later they found wives among the Irish, but first they married fin wives.”

  “Mermaids?” said Jack, surprised. Perhaps that was why they preferred mist and shadows.

  “Exactly. Fin blood runs through the veins of most Picts. Now we must gain permission to enter Notland, and for that we need a gift for their king. He’s called the Shoney. Aiden says there are two things he absolutely won’t be able to resist: mirrors and combs. Fin folk love gazing into mirrors, which they call ‘endless water’. They believe they are portals into another world.”

  “What about the comb?” said Thorgil, turning the lovely artifact over in her hand. She ran it through her hair. “This certainly beats fingers,” she declared.

  “Mermaids have long, beautiful hair of which they are justly proud,” the Bard said. “Unfortunately, they are plagued by barnacles that find their heads an ideal place to grow. If a mermaid doesn’t comb her hair regularly, she bec
omes so encrusted with barnacles, she can’t swim.”

  By now sunlight had flooded the sea, and in the distance they saw what appeared to be a gray mountain range. Long, slim boats were moving away from this in their direction. Each one bore a tall figure plying a pole.

  “How can they pole?” Skakki said. “The seabed is beyond their reach.” Yet the figures continued to push themselves along as easily as if the boats were on a shallow pond. Several surrounded a dead Pictish beast, and then the poles were shown to have hooks at the end. The beings snagged the beast and began towing it back with them at the same measured pace.

  They were manlike and yet otherworldly. Taller and thinner than any human, their skin gleamed with silver scales. Their arms and legs were skinny like the legs of herons, and their faces were shadowed by broad-brimmed hats. They wore gray robes that drifted about them like shreds of mist. The fin men went about the business of gathering dead beasts with not a glance at the ship. They made no sound at all, not even a splash.

  “SHOULD I CALL THEM?” said Eric Pretty-Face. Everyone jumped, yet not even Eric’s bellow caused a disruption in the methodical harvesting.

  “I have a better plan,” the Bard said. He lifted the bronze mirror and directed a beam of sunlight straight into the middle of a group of boats. The reaction was instantaneous. The boats swung sideways, vanishing as fish do when they turn to avoid sunlight shining on their scales. Jack couldn’t make them out at all, but he knew, somehow, that they were coming nearer. The Northmen reached for their weapons.

  “Draw no sword. Fire no arrow,” said the Bard. “They come to barter.”

  When it seemed impossible that boats could still be out there, one suddenly appeared directly beneath the prow. The tall figure within pointed at the mirror.

  “This is a gift for the Shoney,” said the Bard. “I request safe passage into Notland for myself and two companions.”