The Islands of the Blessed sot-3 Read online

  “The Tanners will be far better off in Bebba’s Town,” the old man went on, “where their troublemaking won’t be so noticeable. There are many places they can find work. Really, lad, you’ve done them a favor.”

  “So… how will they get to Bebba’s Town?” the boy asked, guessing he wouldn’t like the answer.

  “On Skakki’s ship, of course. Will you look at that road! Straight as an arrow and hardly a rock out of place. The Romans were amazing builders. Unfortunately, they didn’t have a speck of sympathy for nature. A road had to go from here to there by the shortest way possible, and if a tree was in the way, they cut it down. If there was a hillock, they leveled it. That’s why the Romans aren’t here anymore. Nature doesn’t take kindly to being pushed around.”

  They continued walking, with the Bard stepping sure-footedly on the slippery moss with hardly any help from his staff. The air changed as they neared the inlet, becoming cooler and mixed with the smell of seaweed. In the distance Jack heard surf. “Perhaps there won’t be room for the Tanners,” he said hopefully.

  “I sailed on this ship with Olaf,” the old man said. “He could ferry a herd of horses with it—well, to be accurate, he could steal a herd of horses with it. Our cargo isn’t large, and we’ll only have you, me, Thorgil, and Seafarer for passengers. There’s plenty of room for the Tanners.”

  Wonderful, thought Jack. Ymma, Ythla, and Thorgil crammed in together like a box full of spiders. Not to mention Sven the Vengeful, Eric Pretty-Face, and that new fellow, Schlaup. Thorgil said Schlaup could lift an ox over his head with one hand.

  Northmen loved picking fights better than swilling ale, and they were extremely fond of ale. Jack remembered how Olaf had kept order with blows and threats, and wondered whether Skakki was tough enough. “Isn’t Brother Aiden going?” the boy asked. By now they had reached the path that led from the road to the sea.

  “Aiden would die rather than set foot on a Northman ship,” said the Bard. “He saw his friends murdered by some of the very people we’re going to travel with.”

  Jack, too, had seen Northmen run berserk, and the memory still haunted his dreams.

  A tongue of land formed a shallow bay and made an ideal place to anchor. It was well hidden from view, and on either side was a beach of clean white sand. The Bard found a rock to sit on. “Swallows have reported seeing Skakki’s ship a week to the south. You can stop furrowing your brow, Jack. He’s trading amber and sea ivory this time, not slaves.”

  “This time,” Jack said bitterly.

  “I’ve told the villagers we’re taking an Irish merchant vessel and have been vague about where it’s to be anchored,” the old man said. “You understand that we can’t let them catch sight of the crew. You and Thorgil will have to do all the loading.”

  “What about the Tanners?” said Jack.

  “I’d rather they didn’t know who we’re sailing with until it’s too late.”

  They sat for a while, watching the waves break beyond the tongue of land. Green sandpipers scurried along the beach, running for safety when the water foamed in. A flock of black-and-white eider ducks sailed overhead.

  Brother Aiden had told Jack that eider ducks had once befriended St. Cuthbert. They had attended his sermons, and the mother eiders trusted him so much, they had let him pick up their chicks. When St. Cuthbert became abbot of the Holy Isle, he forbade anyone to hunt the birds. But a wicked monastery servant had killed one and thrown the evidence into the sea. The very next day the sea had coughed up bones and feathers onto the chapel doorstep. For even the sea, Brother Aiden said, knew better than to lie to a saint.

  Jack had heard many stories about St. Cuthbert and animals. Otters kept him warm when he meditated, sea eagles dropped fish when he was hungry. Once, the saint scolded a pair of ravens for stealing thatch, and they brought him a lump of fat to oil his boots with, by way of apology. It was Christian magic and, as far as Jack could see, not that different from the Bard’s magic.

  The old man said the life force flowed in streams deep in the earth. If you understood its workings, you could call it forth—or rather it chose to listen to your call. This was where the power to do magic came from. Jack didn’t understand much of this explanation, but he knew the power was difficult to control. And sometimes things happened that weren’t supposed to happen.

  “I could see the paths in the hazel wood last night,” Jack said aloud.

  “That’s excellent,” said the Bard.

  “But I don’t know how I did it.”

  The Bard smiled. “Quite a lot of what we do is a mystery, even to us.” Jack’s heart warmed to the word us. “Learning magic is like knocking at the same door again and again. For a long time no one answers. You imagine that the tenant is at the other end of the garden pulling weeds, or perhaps he’s in bed. After a while you decide no one’s at home. You turn to go, but knock one last time and lo! The door opens.”

  “Does that mean I can see the paths whenever I want now?”

  “It means you won’t be kept waiting as long next time.” The old man reached into a sack tied to his belt and removed his silver flute. “I thought it was time you practiced this. Have you ever played a flute?”

  Jack’s mind went back to the years before the Bard had arrived. When John the Fletcher had shot a swan, he’d made whistles from the hollow wing bones. All the village children had received such gifts, but only Jack had shown talent. He’d been able to create a tune with the crude instrument while the others had been satisfied with blasting one another’s eardrums. When the huntsman had seen Jack’s ability, he’d made him a real flute out of apple wood.

  The boy had been transported by its music. He’d played and played until Father, who thought such activities were a waste of time and probably wicked, had cast the instrument into the fire.

  Jack was swept with anger as he remembered. He reminded himself that Father had changed since the trip to Bebba’s Town. There were fewer lectures on sin and more opportunities for fun. But still, the memory of that beautiful instrument burning—

  “An acorn for your thoughts,” the Bard remarked.

  “Oh! I’m sorry!” Jack was startled out his reverie. “I have played a flute, sir, but not one so fine.”

  “There are none finer. This was made for Amergin. We won’t call bats now because it’s unfair to drag them into the sunlight. Let’s start with field mice.”

  “Field mice?” echoed Jack.

  “You never know when you might need something chewed. Watch where my fingers go and listen to the sound.” The Bard put the flute to his lips and his fingers covered seven of the eight holes. Jack heard a faint squeaking, such as one might detect near a haystack on a summer day. The old man repeated it several times, with the boy watching intently, before handing the flute over.

  The first sound came out as an alarming buzz.

  “Stop!” cried the Bard, covering his ears. “You’re calling up hornets!” He demonstrated the method again, and gradually, Jack got the idea. It wasn’t the same as playing a harp. It was more like talking to one person in a crowded room. He or she could pick out your voice from all the others because only you were trying to communicate. In this case, the field mice were like a single, listening ear among a thousand ears in the forest.

  Jack looked down to see dozens of beady little eyes observing him from the leaf litter. Some mice had crept onto his feet and a few bold ones had climbed onto his lap. Jack kept playing, elated and a little frightened, until the Bard gently took the flute from his hands.

  “That’s enough, lad. We must let them go before a hawk discovers them.” The old man waved his hand and the tiny creatures pattered away. The sun had turned toward the west and the predicted thunderclouds had begun to build. They hurried home along the moss-covered Roman road.

  Chapter Fourteen

  SCHLAUP

  A week had passed and the inlet was wrapped in fog so thick, dawn barely penetrated it. Jack and Thorgil had traveled by the light o
f a horn lantern, and now they waited together on the chilly sand. Thorgil was barely able to sit still for excitement. “We’re going to take ship again. I’m going home. Isn’t it wonderful?” she said.

  Jack pulled his woolen cloak tighter. Water droplets beaded his hair. His backside was as wet as a frog’s bottom.

  “Well, isn’t it wonderful?”

  “I suppose so,” he grumbled. “What’s taking them so long?” Only a foot or two of water was visible and a pale ribbon of foam moved in and out of sight.

  “They have to be careful in fog,” said Thorgil. “Eric the Rash has to stand at the prow with a weighted line to call out the depth. Listen! I think I can hear him now.”

  Jack listened. All he could hear was surf muttering along the coast. Gradually, the sky paled and the sea turned a faint gray-green. The tongue of land appeared like a stain against the fog.

  “Four oars deep,” floated a voice over the water. Jack had to strain to understand the words. It had been almost two years since he’d spoken the Northman language. “Three oars deep… slowly, slowly, I can see land. Two oars deep. Slow down, you kindaskitur! It’s as shallow as a miser’s purse!”

  Kindaskiturs: sheep droppings, translated Jack. And then he saw it: the long graceful outline, the sail reefed against the mast, the shaggy shapes leaning on the oars. The prow was oddly shortened, and he remembered that the great dragon head, carved by Olaf One-Brow, had to be removed when they came to shore. Otherwise, it would anger the land spirits.

  “Drop anchor!” roared a new voice Jack recognized as Skakki’s.

  “We’re here! We’re here!” screamed Thorgil, jumping up and down.

  Jack heard splashing and thrashing as oars were unshipped and heavy shapes dropped into the water. Jack found that his heart was thudding. It was hard not to feel fear at the arrival of Northmen. The first shape waded to shore, taller than any man had a right to be, and swung Thorgil around in a bear hug.

  “Little sister!” cried Skakki. “You’re as welcome as sun after storm! Scrawny as ever, I see.”

  “I am not!” protested Thorgil, laughing.

  “It’s that feeble Saxon food. I’ll put you on the outside of a couple of roast oxen to fatten you up. Who’s this runt?”

  Jack looked up, appalled. Skakki had grown more than a foot since he’d last seen him, and the man’s shoulders and chest had broadened out. He was a true son of Olaf One-Brow now, except for the eyes. Where Olaf had peered out at the world with cheerful brutishness, Skakki had his mother’s depth of mind.

  “I am Dragon Tongue’s assistant,” Jack said, drawing himself up as tall as possible.

  “Ah! The skald,” Skakki said, using the Northman word for bard.

  “He’s really only an apprentice,” said Thorgil.

  Jack let it pass. He was more interested in the other shapes that appeared from the fog: Sven the Vengeful, Eric the Rash, Eric Pretty-Face, and other men he didn’t know that well, but who were as villainous-looking as the rest. Eric Pretty-Face had horrific scars and ears that were almost chewed off. “IT’S JACK!” he roared, and the boy remembered that the man was nearly deaf and always shouted. “GOOD TO SEE YOU, SKALD. DO YOU HAVE A CHARM AGAINST HANGNAILS? I’VE GOT ONE THAT’S DRIVING ME CRAZY.”

  How can you be bothered by a hangnail after being chewed on by trolls? thought Jack, but he said he would ask the Bard for help. The Northmen welcomed him with playful punches and insults, and the boy was moved in spite of himself. He knew they were murderous thugs. They had destroyed the Holy Isle and driven Brother Aiden mad. They’d sold slaves and burned down villages. They’d almost sacrificed Lucy to the goddess Freya. And yet… he couldn’t bring himself to hate them.

  “Where’s Rune?” Jack asked.

  “These days he needs help getting to shore,” Skakki said. “Hey, Schlaup!” A sound somewhat like the grunt of a wild boar came from the ship. “Bring Rune.”

  Something large dropped into the sea. A shape loomed in the dove gray fog. If Jack had thought Skakki was enormous, he was nothing compared to what was approaching. Fully seven feet in height, the creature was made taller by bristly hair sprouting from his head. His brow jutted forward in a way Jack had seen before, and two fangs lifted his upper lip into a permanent snarl.

  He’s a troll, he thought, amazed because Jotuns and Northmen were bitter enemies. As Schlaup came forward, Jack saw that he was actually smaller than a troll. He seemed, in an odd way, more refined. He had a troll’s clawlike fingernails, flat teeth, and eyes the color of rotten walnuts, but these features were softened by something vaguely familiar.

  “Good Schlaup. Put Rune down,” said Skakki. And then Jack noticed the emaciated Northman the creature carried in his arms. Time had not been good to the old skald, and constant exposure to icy winds couldn’t have been healthy either. But Jack knew Rune would have it no other way. He would not die in bed like a cowardly thrall. When his time came, if the gods were kind, he would hold a sword in his hand and fall in battle.

  “Oh, Rune,” said Jack, feeling an ache in the back of his throat. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed this voyage for the world,” said the skald, standing carefully. “We found Thorgil alive, and now Dragon Tongue will take ship with us. By Thor, I’m looking forward to seeing the old rascal!”

  Sven the Vengeful and Eric the Rash had chopped open logs to get at the dry wood inside, and soon a merry fire was blazing on the beach. “You warm up,” said Schlaup, urging Rune toward the fire. Jack was startled, for he hadn’t expected the creature to speak. Trolls had trouble forming words and usually communicated with one another by thought. Those who did make the effort had harsh, unmusical voices. Schlaup’s voice was completely human.

  They sat around the fire, exchanging news and making plans on how to load the ship. Thorgil and Jack would move the trade goods halfway and crew members would meet them. No one wanted the Northmen—especially Schlaup—spotted near the village. Jack kept glancing at him.

  “Go on, ask,” Thorgil said. “I did, the first time I saw him.”

  “Ah, but I didn’t tell you the whole story, little sister,” said Skakki, who was lounging on a log with his long legs stretched out before him. “I told you he was a half-troll, but I didn’t say where we got him.”

  “Did you say ‘half-troll’?” said Jack. The offspring of troll/human marriages were almost always doomed. They were forever torn between two worlds and either went mad or turned vicious. Frothi had devastated King Hrothgar’s hall and tried to murder Beowulf. Her sister, Frith, had sent a Nightmare to kill the Bard. When Frith fell into a snit, even berserkers climbed the walls to escape.

  Skakki grimaced. “Not all such beings are evil. Much depends on the parents. Frothi and Frith’s father had been rescued from an avalanche by the Mountain Queen and imprisoned in her harem. He spent the rest of his life bitterly regretting his captivity. He hated the sight of his daughters. Schlaup had a different father.”

  “I can see that he is a handsome lout,” said Thorgil, using the troll word for male. “I look forward to taking ship with him.” Schlaup turned a bright orange, the troll equivalent of blushing, and ducked his massive head.

  “Go on,” said Jack, but Skakki, to his annoyance, insisted on having breakfast first. Bread and cheese was brought from the ship and toasted before the fire. It was excellent bread, and the cheese was strong enough to bring tears to your eyes. Jack, who’d had nothing to eat that morning, was grateful, although he wished Skakki would tell the story and eat.

  But the Northmen weren’t like that. They preferred to do only one thing at a time. If pillaging, they gave their whole attention to it. If feeding, all conversation stopped until their bellies were stuffed.

  Skakki produced a large pot of salty black berries that had come from across the sea. He called them “olives”, and Jack thought they were delicious. So did the Northmen, who were besotted with anything salty and jostled one another aside to get at the
treat.

  The sounds of chomping and slurping filled the air. Sven the Vengeful passed around bags of cider, with a large one reserved for Schlaup. A quarrel broke out over who had eaten the most olives, and Skakki clouted the crewmen nearest him. That was how his father had kept order, Jack remembered, except that when Olaf smacked someone, he stayed smacked for at least ten minutes.

  When the food was gone, Skakki suggested a burping contest. Thorgil eagerly joined in, and Jack drummed his fingers with impatience. He knew what the young sea captain was up to. Northmen loved to drag out a story until you were ready to scream and half the fun was making the listeners beg for the conclusion.

  When the burping contest was over—Schlaup won with a sulfurous belch that was pure troll—Skakki insisted that Rune produce a poem to celebrate their arrival. “Stop fooling around!” exclaimed Jack. “I want to know Schlaup’s history.”

  Everyone guffawed, with Schlaup producing a deep wuh-huh-huh, and Jack knew they had only been waiting for him to lose his temper. “Do you really, really, really want to know?” cooed Skakki.

  Jack sighed. “I really, really, really want to know.”

  Skakki paused for effect, and everyone leaned forward, though all of them, except Thorgil, must have known the tale.

  “One dark, snowy night,” began the young captain, “we heard a knock on the door of our hall. Everyone stopped what he was doing, for we knew few beings ventured out in the dead of winter. The ships were drawn up onto land, the sheep were locked into their pens. Honest folk, and even the dishonest ones, were sheltering inside their houses.

  “We listened. One knock meant a draugr was lurking outside. You definitely don’t want to open the door to a draugr, because—”

  “Don’t change the subject,” said Jack.

  Skakki smiled evilly. “I thought you were interested in draugrs. Thorgil says you’ve got one in the village.”

  Jack restrained himself with the greatest difficulty. Nothing entertained Northmen more than making you lose control.