Nancy - The Islands of the Blessed

By now the villagers and warriors had arrived and were amazed at the utter destruction. They had seen the torn-off gate, the glassy walls, and the absence of their enemies. They treated Skakki with extreme respect, considering him to be the man responsible for it.

“We are your subjects now, King Skakki,” one of the men said, bowing low. “Please accompany us to the village for a celebration.”

“King Skakki! I like that,” said the young sea captain.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” said the Bard.

Thorgil called up the wild horses and rode the stallion, which she had named Skull-Splitter in honor of Bjorn. She persuaded a mare to carry the Bard. This greatly impressed the villagers, especially when the Bard informed them that she was a descendant of King Hengist. But when Seafarer arrived and Thorgil spoke to him in Bird, their admiration knew no bounds. “It’s like living in a saga,” a woman gushed. And the third-rate skald, who had shown up when it was clear the fighting was over, said he would write a poem about it.

The excited voices died away in the distance. Jack had chosen to stay behind with Schlaup and the two brothers. Schlaup was too frightening to invite to a feast and Little Half too despised. Some of the villagers had wanted to throw him off the cliff, but when they saw his vacant eyes, they left him alone.

Jack found the silence soothing. There was something to be said for people who spoke seldom and had uncomplicated thoughts. He was tired of dealing with things that wanted to kill him. It was enough to listen to the wind and watch the seabirds coasting the air above the cliff. He could understand why St. Columba and St. Cuthbert had had a fondness for lonely islands.

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 Island. 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.”