The Islands of the Blessed Page 8

  “Do not allow yourself to enter an animal’s body,” the Bard’s voice came from far away. “It’s a dangerous trick and one for which you are not ready.”

  Jack backed off. So that was what he’d been about to do! He’d always envied the Bard’s ability to fly with hawks or run with deer. He’d even tried to do it without success, but tonight the skill came naturally. Perhaps it was the hazel wood.

  Jack sensed a hedgehog snuffling among the roots of a tree. All at once it shrieked and rolled into a ball.

  “Did you hear that?” the Bard said softly. “The animals know something dangerous has come into their forest.”

  Jack found the mother hare again. She was cowering in a clump of grass in a meadow. She wanted to flee, but even more strongly she wanted to return to her young. She looked up and saw a pair of big, glowing, blue eyes.

  “Ha!” shouted Jack, pulling himself out of the hare’s body. He was standing next to the Bard with the bell clutched so tightly to his chest, it was certain to leave a bruise.

  “Remind me to leave you at home when I want to creep up on something,” the Bard said.

  “I—I saw eyes,” stammered Jack. “They w-were glowing.” Then he remembered Brother Aiden’s story. “Oh, crumbs, it was only a sheep.”

  “Aiden told you that tale, did he?” the Bard said. “It happens that you did see a sheep in the meadow, but what frightened the hare lay behind it.” All at once they heard frantic baaing and the sound of bushes being trampled. The noises faded away into the distance. “It appears the draugr isn’t interested in sheep,” remarked the Bard.

  “I’d l-like your permission, sir, to put down the bell and d-draw my knife,” said Jack, unable to stop the trembling in his voice.

  “In a moment. Your knife will make no impression on the draugr, by the way. You might as well try to cut stone.” The old man listened attentively. “Most intriguing.”

  “Wh-What?” said Jack.

  “A path has opened and some extremely interesting visitors have stepped through. We can’t have them meeting the sea hag. Take out the bell, lad, and ring it.”

  “What!”

  “Do it quickly. We need to draw the draugr to us.”

  Jack almost dropped the bell as he fumbled it out of its wrappings. He knew he had to obey before he thought about the consequences. He swung Fair Lamenting. The clapper struck the sides and a golden chime rolled out through the hazel wood, driving all fear before it and filling the boy with rapture. No music had ever been so sublime.

  It was like all the best moments of his life happening at once, like the time he watched Father build their house and when Mother sang to the bees. It was when the Bard asked him to be an apprentice and when Thorgil, Pega, and he hugged one another under the grim walls of Din Guardi. But it was also a memory of his grandfather sitting by Jack’s bed when he had a fever and of John the Fletcher’s sister making him an apple tart after he fell into a pond. Those people were dead. Now, in the glory of this music, they rose up before him.

  Jack dropped the bell to the ground. He found, to his amazement, that his face was wet with tears.

  “That’s why they call it Fair Lamenting,” the Bard said quietly. “Hark, now. You must be alert. She approaches.”

  They heard weeping. It sounded like a woman sobbing as though her heart would break. It drew nearer and the air became chill. A mist swirled along the ground, and the smell of unnameable rotting things surrounded them. Jack drew his knife.

  The Bard raised his staff in the moonlight at the edge of the wood. “I command you by root, by stone, by sea!” he cried.

  A darkness solidified under the trees. Who calls? said a voice filled with stones scoured clean of life.

  “I am the heir of Amergin,” said the Bard. Jack looked up, amazed. “I am here to listen to your plea for justice.”

  Deep was my love; bitter was my fate, said the draugr. My bones washed up on my father’s shore, and great was his grief as he laid me in a tomb. He did not seal it, for he knew I could not rest. Until justice is done, I may not be born anew into the world.

  “Fair enough,” said the Bard, “but you can’t go around killing things. That only ties you more firmly to this existence.”

  The mist on the ground thickened. Tendrils of it reached up to brush Jack’s legs, and he unconsciously felt for the rune of protection that no longer hung around his neck.

  I don’t believe you, said the draugr.

  “It’s the truth,” the old man said. “Each murder carries its own cry for justice against you. Already you have forfeited the right to Father Severus’s life—do not dispute it!” he shouted as the darkness swelled and branches snapped.

  Who are you to stand in my way? I will take my revenge where I will. The trees groaned as they were forced apart. A portion of sky over the woodland turned black.

  “I am the emissary of the life force! I stand against Unlife! If you wish to return with the sun, you must listen to me!”

  The mist billowed up, pressing against Jack’s chest until he struggled to breathe.

  The Bard raised his staff. “Do not force me to subdue you!”

  A howl as terrifying as the one Jack had heard before filled the night. Deer crashed out of the hazel wood. Badgers, foxes, a wolf, and three figures that looked almost human bounded over the fields. Jack wanted to run as well, but he couldn’t desert the Bard.

  The old man lifted both arms and lightning flickered around his body. He towered up fully, as large as the darkness. Now it was impossible to tell which was more terrible. For a moment the two faced each other, and the ground trembled, and the air shook. Then the howling stopped. The mist evaporated, and the darkness shrank until it was no taller than a woman.

  Good fear-spell, thought Jack, dimly aware that he had fallen to his knees. The Bard was his normal size again, but a light still glimmered about his robes.

  “That’s better,” the old man said. “In a few weeks’ time I shall be traveling north to see Severus. Justice demands that he pay for what he did to you, but the form of his punishment is yet hidden from me. It will happen as it is meant to happen.”

  I have waited so long, said a voice no longer full of death, but like a young and sorrowful woman. I loved him deeply.

  “You must be patient, child. No more killing. Lie still under the wandering clouds until I summon you. I swear before the councils of the nine worlds that I will see you safely to your long rest.”

  A sigh like a wave gently withdrawing from a sandy beach flowed over the hazel wood. The darkness thinned until it became only an ordinary tangle of bushes and trees. A frog cheeped from a hidden stream. The Bard lowered his arms, groaning slightly with the effort. “What I wouldn’t give for a cup of hot cider right now,” he muttered, leaning heavily on his staff.

  “That was wonderful!” Jack cried, rushing to help him.

  “It was, wasn’t it? Haven’t lost the old touch, thank whatever gods and goddesses are listening,” said the Bard. “I’m able to walk on my own, lad. You carry the bell, and for Heaven’s sake, don’t let it ring. You can come out now, my friends,” he called over the dark fields.

  In the distance Jack saw two blobby shapes pop out of the ground.

  Chapter Ten

  THE HOBGOBLINS ARRIVE

  “Festering fungi!” yelled one of the shapes. “What kind of company do you keep, Dragon Tongue? I thought the Great Worm and her nine wormlets had come to devour me!” A creature with large eyes shining in the moonlight and a wide, lipless mouth bounded up to them.

  “The Nemesis?” said Jack, hardly daring to believe his eyes.

  “Who else would I be?” the hobgoblin snarled. “Certainly not his Royal Stupidity there. ‘Let’s visit Jack’s village,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if darling Pega has changed her mind about marriage.’ Idiot! Why would a winsome girl like that want an oaf like him?”

  Jack laughed in spite of himself. The Nemesis went on spouting insults as the Bugaboo appeared, filt
hy and dripping. “Any port in a storm, eh?” the hobgoblin king said cheerfully. “When I heard that howl, I ducked into the nearest hole. Too bad it was full of mud!”

  “You can bathe in a stream on the way home,” the Bard said.

  “Delighted to see you again, sir,” the Bugaboo told the old man. “And you, too, Jack. What a treat! Tell me, is Pega, um, her lovely self? Does she miss me?”

  Jack didn’t know what to say. Pega thanked God on her knees every day that she hadn’t married the hobgoblin king and gone to live in a musty cave full of mushrooms.

  “I’m sure she’ll faint dead away when she sees you,” sneered the Nemesis.

  “It might be a good idea to limit the number of people who do see you,” the Bard suggested. “Folks here might mistake you for demons, and we wouldn’t want them to take after you with rocks and rakes.”

  “It’s our traditional welcome,” the Bugaboo said, sighing. “What was that horrible cry we heard in the woodland?”

  “Such a tale is best left for daytime.” The Bard hunched over his staff, and Jack realized that the old man was completely exhausted.

  “We should go home now,” the boy said. “I’m sure we can find room for a pair of old friends.”

  “More than a pair, actually,” said the Bugaboo. “You can come out now, Blewit. It’s perfectly safe.”

  A skinny hobgoblin appeared from behind a bush, struggling with a bundle. Jack was amazed to see the long, gloomy face of Mr. Blewit. The bundle wriggled free and dropped to the ground.

  It was Hazel, Jack’s long-lost sister.

  The little girl bounded over the grass exactly like a sprogling, or young hobgoblin. “Oh, goody! Mud men! My favorite treat,” the child squealed.

  Jack lifted her into his arms, intending to swing her around, but she weighed twice as much as he’d expected. He put her down again.

  “I’m along to make sure you don’t steal my baby,” growled Mr. Blewit. “This is a visit, mind you. Don’t get too used to her.”

  Get used to her? Jack wasn’t sure he could ever do that. He loved her, of course. She was his sister. But she’d been stolen as an infant by hobgoblins. When he’d found her in the Land of the Silver Apples, Hazel didn’t even know she was human. She imitated the hobgoblins’ froggy ways, blinking her eyes one after the other as they did. She attempted to snag moths out of the air with her tongue. She even gleeped, making an ugly plopping sound that indicated joy.

  “Stop nitter-nattering, Blewit,” the Nemesis ordered. “Our feet will have put down roots by the time you finish moaning. I’ll carry Dragon Tongue.” The hobgoblin hoisted the Bard as easily as a man picking up a kitten. Jack was relieved that the surly Nemesis had realized the old man’s exhaustion. Being carried like a baby wasn’t the most dignified way to travel, but the Bard didn’t complain. With Jack leading the way, the group set off for the old Roman house.

  “I remember this place,” said the Bugaboo as they reached the top of the cliff. “It’s lasted well, but then, the man who built it was an excellent architect.”

  “You know who built it?” asked Jack, who recalled that until recently the hobgoblins had scarcely aged at all. The Bugaboo could be very old indeed.

  “I saw who built it,” the hobgoblin king said. “He was a poet exiled for writing rude poetry about his emperor. He painted the walls to resemble a Roman garden to cheer up his wife. There used to be a bathhouse over there before part of the cliff crumbled into the sea.”

  “He had a pair of brats who threw stones at me when I surprised them in the woods,” the Nemesis said, grinning wickedly.

  Jack felt a chill that was something like being in the presence of a draugr, but not as deep or dire. It was more of a passing sadness, a faint memory of a beloved dwelling, now lost in time.

  The Nemesis put the Bard down and steadied him as the old man found his feet. “Thanks, old friend,” the Bard said. “Magic tires me out more than it used to.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” the hobgoblin said gruffly. “Fighting monsters always takes it out of you, no matter how old you are.” Jack was surprised by how respectful the Nemesis was.

  Hazel darted past them. “Da! It’s the ugly mud woman,” she called. “Where’s the pretty one?”

  “If you touch those baskets, I’ll kill you,” came Thorgil’s voice from inside.

  Hazel laughed like a hobgoblin; the sound resembled someone choking on a piece of gristle. Dear God, thought Jack. What are Mother and Father going to think of her?

  Mr. Blewit hurried inside and snatched up the little girl before she could get into trouble.

  Jack saw to his consternation that Thorgil had gone hunting and made a stew with the results. She usually avoided such work, but her good mood must have impelled her to cook. She could no longer use a bow and arrow, but her skill with a spear or a sling was excellent. The shield maiden’s cooking methods were basic, however, and she tended to leave shreds of fur in the mix. Jack saw what looked like squirrels bobbing around.

  “Smells interesting,” said the Bugaboo, opening his nostrils very wide. “Perhaps it would benefit from a few mushrooms—”

  “There you go, criticizing the cook before you’ve properly greeted her,” the Nemesis complained. “I apologize for my rude companion, Thorgil, and for dropping in on you so unexpectedly—great toadstools!” The hobgoblin leaped out of the way as Seafarer made a stab at him. Jack had forgotten how very nimble hobgoblins could be. The Nemesis clung to the ceiling by his sticky toes and fingers.

  Thorgil laughed merrily. She said something in Bird to the albatross, and he slouched off to the alcove. “I, at least, welcome you,” she said. “Seafarer has never seen anything like you before.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like him either,” said the Nemesis, dropping down. “Is he a troll-seagull or what?”

  “An albatross from the far south. Seafarer says there are thousands of his kind there.”

  “Let’s hope they stay there,” muttered the Nemesis.

  “Greetings, noble shield maiden,” the Bugaboo said, bowing deeply. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

  They sat around the fire with bowls of stew, which wasn’t as bad as Jack had feared. Fortunately, there was a good supply of bread, for the hobgoblins ate ravenously. Hazel licked out her bowl and clamored for more. After they had finished, the Bard explained about the trading journey to Bebba’s Town.

  “You’re low on food! You should have told us,” exclaimed the Bugaboo. “The Nemesis and I will go fishing. There’s nothing like hobgoblin toes to attract a fat fish.” He held out his foot, wriggling the long toes temptingly in different directions. Hazel clapped her hands with glee.

  The Bard jerked himself awake. “My stars, I’m about to fall off my perch. If you’ll forgive me, dear friends, I’ll go to bed.” The hobgoblins apologized for keeping him up late, and Jack helped him to the truckle bed at the far end of the house. “See to the bedding, lad,” the Bard said. “There should be enough straw in the storeroom.”

  Jack moved baskets and chests next to the wall to make space. The Nemesis and Mr. Blewit helped him make up beds, and by the time they were finished, the floor was wall to wall hobgoblins and humans. If anyone else visited, Jack thought, they would have to hang him from the ceiling.

  Mr. Blewit covered Hazel with his cloak. It was made of motley wool, and when it was in place, all you could see was the top of her round little head. The rest of her seemed to vanish. The melancholy hobgoblin stroked her hair, and she gleeped faintly.

  Jack had a hollow feeling in the middle of his heart. The Blewits loved Hazel deeply. They would never give her up. But Mother and Father wanted her too, and they certainly deserved to keep her. It was a problem for which there was no good solution.

  Jack packed Fair Lamenting in one of the Bard’s chests. By the time he’d finished, he was almost falling off the perch himself. He settled gratefully into a heap of bracken and straw.

  “Tell me what happened with the
draugr,” whispered Thorgil, crouching beside him on the floor.

  Jack listened to the night wind fiddling with the thatch overhead and watched the shadows flicker at the far end of the house. “Not tonight,” he said, remembering the chill mist pressing in against his chest. “The Bard says such tales are best kept for daytime,” he said. “I think he has a good reason.”

  The Nemesis sprang from his bed with a roar. “That monster tried to eat my toes!” he shrieked, quivering with rage. Seafarer looked up, thoughtfully clicking his beak.

  “Is it morning yet?” said Thorgil, burrowing deeper into her straw.

  “Your pet tried to kill me and that’s all you can say?” screamed the Nemesis.

  Jack got up swiftly and opened the door. The sun was just below the margin of the sea and wisps of clouds had turned pink in the dawn. Come, he said in Bird. The albatross ignored him.

  “You have to compliment his wings first,” Thorgil muttered. When Jack had repeated the correct formula, the great bird reluctantly turned away from the hobgoblin’s toes and followed the boy outside.

  “They are like fishing worms, aren’t they?” Jack said, leading Seafarer down to the water. He sat on the sand, enjoying the fresh air after the musty atmosphere in the house. Hobgoblins always did smell of mushrooms, he remembered. “What are we going to do with you when we go north?” Jack said.

  Seafarer spread his wings and tested the breeze. One of them drooped. He did a practice run along the sand and fell over in an ungraceful heap.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Jack said to encourage him. “It’s early days still. If worse comes to worst, I suppose we could take you with us. I wouldn’t trust the Northmen too far, though. They’ll think you’re a seagoing chicken.”

  Seafarer had discovered a tide pool full of crabs and proceeded to clean it out. By then Jack could smell food, and he rose and ambled up the path. He heard the sound of pattering. Seafarer was running after him as fast as he could.

  “I wouldn’t desert you,” the boy said, touched. He stroked the bird’s feathers and was rewarded with a soft whistle that meant contentment. “I wish I knew more Bird. It comes naturally to Thorgil, but I have to work at it. Never mind. I once learned to communicate with giant spiders, and nothing could be harder than that.” He kept up the one-sided conversation, not knowing whether Seafarer understood a single word. But the Bard said animals responded more to music than speech. Seafarer certainly seemed interested in Jack’s voice.