Nancy - The Islands of the Blessed
Jack unwrapped one of the venison pies, and they took turns nibbling it. Darkness fell with no letup in the storm. The ground where they lay was full of stones and a tree root meandered through the middle, but eventually exhaustion brought them sleep.
It was still raining in the morning. “We have to return,” Jack said.
“Never,” said Thorgil flatly.
“I’ve seen these storms go on for a week. Besides, what’s the harm in staying at the monastery until spring? You can stuff wool in your ears if you don’t want to hear Christian prayers.”
“I won’t go back!” cried Thorgil, with more than a little hysteria in her voice.
Jack decided it was better to eat breakfast before pushing the argument further. He unpacked a round of cheese and cut her a chunk with his knife.
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
“You need to eat.” He made the mistake of trying to put the cheese into her mouth, and she struck him. The whole round went spinning into the mud. “What’s the matter with you?” Jack shouted, retrieving the food and holding it out in the rain to clean it.
“I said I wasn’t hungry and I meant it! I want to get moving! I’ll go mad if I sit here and do nothing!”
“Go mad, then.” Jack turned his back on her. He ate slowly while staring at the teeming rain. Even on the high ground where they were, the water sat in pools. It seemed likely that the road ahead was flooded. He heard a slight noise over the relentless storm and turned to see Thorgil crying.
She was trying not to make a sound, but her body shook with sobs and a few gasps escaped her. “Thorgil, I’m so sorry,” cried Jack. He was used to her rages. Crying was much more alarming. He slid over to put his arm around her and found that her skin was hot. “Oh, Thorgil. Oh, no,” he murmured. She had caught flying venom. It had simply taken a while to surface.
When they had arrived at the monastery, the monks and nuns no longer had it, but Ethne was still ill. Thorgil had bent over her when she transferred the rune of protection. The elf lady had breathed on her.
Jack held Thorgil closely. He was aware that she could infect him, but he didn’t care. “You know you’re very sick, don’t you?” he said. There was no point avoiding the truth. Northmen preferred to face a problem head-on.
“I don’t feel good,” Thorgil admitted. “My head aches horribly, and I keep having chills. My eyes are blurry.”
“It might be flying venom.”
“It might. Wulfie said she felt like this.”
They sat for a while longer. “You know that we can’t go to my village now,” said Jack. “We’d carry the disease to them.”
“I know,” she said.
“The only place in the world where we’ll be welcome is the monastery. They’ve already had the disease. They won’t catch it again.” Jack smoothed her wet hair. Even that was too hot.
He helped Thorgil to her feet, and she called the ponies in the way that only the heirs of Hengist knew. They came readily, but he had to help her climb up. “Put your arms around its neck,” Jack advised. “That way you won’t fall off.”
Far too slowly, they began to retrace their journey. The road was cut by streams and sometimes disappeared altogether. Jack had to keep checking landmarks to be sure they were going the right way. Without the sun, he had no sense of direction. Thorgil slipped into a kind of trance as they plodded on. She no longer raised her head and depended on Jack to find the way. Unfortunately, his pony wasn’t at all cooperative. It balked at going down the road and turned around frequently to be sure its companion was following.
Jack had to fight the animal constantly, and it soon became clear that they wouldn’t reach St. Filian’s before dark. He was looking for a place to camp when suddenly the way before them was blocked by a tangle of bare branches. He halted. “Where are we?” said Thorgil in a drowsy voice.
“Almost there,” Jack lied, his heart thudding with fear.
Somehow, while fighting the pony, he’d gotten off the road. He looked back and found the trees completely unfamiliar. He couldn’t remember which way they’d come, and now they were surrounded by the confusing jumble of a hazel wood.
Paths led off in all directions, most of them roofed by branches so low, a horse and rider couldn’t get through. The light was dim and getting dimmer. Jack looked around desperately for some kind of shelter. “Must lie down,” said Thorgil in a muffled voice.
“No!” cried Jack, but she had already slipped to the ground. She landed in a mush of dead leaves, and he dismounted quickly and ran to her. His pony, freed of its burden, wheeled and galloped off through the trees. Thorgil’s pony followed. “No! No!” shouted Jack, waving his arms, but they paid not the slightest attention to him.
“Call them back, Thorgil,” he begged.
“Throat sore,” she whispered. Jack didn’t dare try to track the ponies. He’d get lost, and anyhow, they would obey only the shield maiden. Perhaps in the morning she would have recovered enough to speak. Right now, though, they were in a terrible situation, because the ponies had gone off with the food and supplies. All they had left was what they were wearing and, of course, St. Columba’s robe and staff. Jack never let go of these.
Now is the time for a lorica, implored Jack to whatever powers were listening. But apparently, it wasn’t. “Curse this staff!” he cried, flinging it away. He wrapped himself and Thorgil in the robe, and it not only became large enough for both of them, it insulated them from the ground. Inside, it was warm and dry, so apparently some of the magic was working.
After a while Jack crawled out and retrieved the staff. “I smell flowers,” murmured Thorgil. He sniffed. Incredibly, so did he. Outside, the winter storm raged and water poured past them on either side, but inside it was spring. “If I die…” the shield maiden said. Her voice was so low, Jack could barely hear it.
“Hush. You’re going to recover,” he said.
Thorgil swallowed. It was evidently very painful to talk. “I’ll go to Hel.”
Jack was shocked. He knew that Northmen who died of illness were supposed to be condemned to the same afterlife as oath-breakers. It was dismaying that Thorgil still believed it after learning the truth about Valhalla. “You are absolutely not going to Hel,” he said. “The Bard said we get to choose our afterlife. If it were up to me, I’d choose the Islands of the Blessed. That’s where your mother went.”
“Mother,” whispered Thorgil.
Jack racked his brain to think of something that would comfort her. “You know, I never told you the poem I wrote about your battle with Garm, the hound of Hel,” he said. “It’s called ‘Thorgil Silver-Hand’.”
She stirred in his arms. “Truly?”
“It’s the best thing I ever did and will be sung in halls forever after. It goes like this….” Jack hadn’t the slightest idea what words would come out of his mouth, but he needn’t have worried. The same marvelous feeling came over him as when he’d recited the lorica in Bebba’s Town. In fact, the poem was a lorica, only a very long one. And it was the best thing he’d ever done, right up there with the Bard’s “Beowulf”.
There wasn’t a single word that was not beautiful and inspiring. It told of Thorgil Silver-Hand, who was put out for wolves to devour when she was born, but the royal dog Maeve rescued her. Many were the battles and adventures of Thorgil Silver-Hand. She fought a dragon even as it was carrying her to its nest to feed its young. She slew a giant eagle when it attacked her on the ice bridge to the Mountain Queen’s palace. She fought the hound of Hel to save her comrades and sacrificed her hand, just as the god Tyr had when he confronted Fenris.
Tyr became the star that never moved, the one they called the Nail, that guided ships to their safe harbor. Thorgil, too, would shine in the night sky, and her fame would never die.
By the time Jack had finished, Thorgil was asleep. He felt shaky, as though he’d run for miles, and his head throbbed. His throat hurt so much that he was amazed he’d been able to speak at all. Very soon he fell into the same stupor as Thorgil and gradually drifted into unconsciousness. The winter storm raged on around them, and water poured through the hazel wood like a river.
Chapter Forty-seven
THE ISLANDS OF THE BLESSED
The sun was shining when he awoke. More than that, the sky was a glorious blue and the air was fresh and sweet. Jack sat up. He was on an island in the middle of a great river with the hazel wood lining its banks. The storm must have been mighty indeed to carve out such a channel. St. Columba’s robe lay on the ground, and he picked it up hastily, but there was no mud on it.
He picked up the staff, too, and then realized Thorgil wasn’t with him. “Thorgil!” he cried, terrified. She must have fallen into the water and been swept away.
“I’m here, silly,” she answered. “We’ve been waiting for hours.” She was in a little coracle tied to a branch overhanging the water. And with her was—
Jack was so overcome with emotion, he couldn’t speak.
“Come on,” the Bard said briskly. “We have a long journey, and you’ve made us late.” As if in a dream, Jack stepped into the coracle. It was unsteady and damp, as such boats always were. Thorgil untied the rope, and they sailed away down the river, going west.
“Are we dead, sir?” Jack asked as the hazel wood moved past.
“Of course not,” the old man said. “You’ve passed the qualifying exam for the School of Bards. You don’t think it’s easy getting in, do you? Not just any farm brat can knock on its doors and expect to be made welcome.”
“But you’re…” Jack wanted to say you’re dead, but it seemed impolite.
“Learn to ask questions when you want answers,” the Bard snapped. “Self-imposed ignorance does no one any good. I was shut into a tomb with Shellia for a while—and believe me, listening to her complaints made one want to be dead. I had to chase her all the way to the farther sea. But when Severus died, I was released from my oath.”
“You know about Father Severus?” said Jack, astounded.
“I know everything. Pangur Ban is the world’s biggest gossip.” The old man smiled at something he didn’t choose to share. “It took me a while to find the path back to Middle Earth. I just missed finding you at St. Filian’s, but no harm done. Ethne is positively blooming, for which I am most grateful to you and Thorgil.”
“It was Thorgil’s doing,” Jack said honestly. “Will Ethne marry King Brutus?”
“Perhaps. If Brutus is very lucky. Now admire the view a while, lad, because I want to think.” The old man sat in the stern of the coracle and turned his thoughts inward. Jack went to sit with Thorgil in the prow.
The hazel wood had given way to oaks, and blue mountains rose to the north and slowly passed. “Do you want an apple?” said Thorgil, reaching into a basket. “The horses ran off with the venison pies, but the Bard brought these from the monastery.” She expertly cut one of the fruits in two with her knife.
