Nancy Farmer - The Islands of the Blessed

“I heard that they swarmed out to kill St. Columba, and he scared the daylights out of them by threatening to send them all mad,” said Jack, who had been told this by hobgoblins.

Brother Aiden frowned. “I’m sure that’s wrong. It doesn’t sound saintly at all.”

“Perhaps it’s only a rumor,” said Jack, who didn’t want to upset the gentle monk. He explained about the monster in the hazel wood, but Brother Aiden didn’t seem concerned.

“There are many poor beasts astray after that storm. I’ve been frightened myself by a cow bellowing for her calf. It’s all too easy to deceive oneself, especially when it’s dark and you’re alone. Once when I was walking at night, I saw a pair of big, glowing, blue eyes by the side of the road.”

“Crumbs! What did you do?” said Jack.

“There was precious little I could do. The moon had gone behind a cloud, and I could hardly see where to put my feet. I sent a silent prayer to St. Columba and edged forward, clutching the cross at my neck. Then—not five paces away—another pair of glowing eyes appeared on the other side of the road.” Brother Aiden took a mouthful of bread and chewed slowly. He was almost as good a storyteller as the Bard and knew when to pause, to hook his audience.

Jack waited impatiently for the monk to swallow.

“I took a few more steps,” Brother Aiden continued, “and what did I see but a third set of eyes squarely in the middle of the road. Would you like some cider? Your mother sent over a bag this morning.”

“No! I mean no, thank you. Please tell me what happened,” said Jack. The monk smiled happily.

“Well! I stood perfectly still, unable to go forward. If I turned away, the creatures might leap upon my back. I sent a prayer to St. Christopher, who protects travelers. Next, I commended my soul to Jesus, in case St. Christopher didn’t come through. Someone must have been listening, though, for all at once the moon came out from behind the clouds. The road was bathed in beautiful light. And behold! The eyes disappeared. In their place were sheep—perfectly ordinary sheep. I had wandered into the middle of a flock. So you see, the mind plays tricks on us when we’re frightened. I’m sure your creature is just as ordinary.”

Jack stifled the urge to argue. He was unusually sensitive to the forces that lay beneath everyday life. Sometimes doing magic actually made him sick, and the Bard said that was because his defenses were too weak. It took years of training to endure some kinds of knowledge, and Jack had been exposed to it before he was ready. The malevolent hatred surrounding the strange beast had been very real. He didn’t have to see it to know it was an enemy.

The boy tipped the bell on its side, being careful to muffle the clapper. It was a quadrangle with rounded corners, and it threw back the firelight with a reddish glow. In spite of its simple design, it had a richness that spoke of palaces and kings. “This is nice,” he said.

“Bronze covered in gold,” Brother Aiden said proudly. “Gives it that deep, musical tone.”

“The clapper looks like iron,” said Jack, moving it into the light.

“Very observant. Bronze would be too hard and would damage the bell.”

“Why is it shaped like a fish?” the boy asked. For indeed, the long pendant was a magnificent work of art, with fins and scales and a pair of round, fishy eyes staring down at the mouth of the bell. It was slightly battered from use.

“Father Severus said it symbolized the church. Would you like more stew?”

“No, thank you,” Jack said politely, though he could have cleaned out the pot. He knew the stew was meant for the monk’s breakfast. They tidied up, Jack polishing the bowls with sand and Brother Aiden storing leftover food in the chest.

The moon, half full, washed the earth with enough pale light for Jack to make his way to the Bard’s house. He gathered his belongings and replaced his knife in the scabbard that hung from his belt. “Why don’t you come with me?” he suggested. “I know the Bard likes your company.”

“I’ll come in the morning,” Brother Aiden said. “I’ve much to think about tonight. I must consider that scream you heard.”

Jack looked up, startled. So the monk did suspect something he wasn’t telling. “Are you safe here?” he said, suddenly aware of shadows all around and the distance to the nearest house.

“No one is entirely safe in this world,” Brother Aiden said. “If God chooses to call me in the night, I hope I may answer bravely. I will stay. However, there’s no point leading whatever-it-is into temptation. I’ll take the bell inside with me, though the Lord knows where I’ll find space for my head.”

Jack looked back frequently as he made his way through the fields, to see whether the monk was still outside. He thought he saw the door of the hut close and the fire dim as though something had flitted in front of it. Huge, glowing, blue eyes, he thought, searching the darkness. Why blue? For some reason the color was the creepiest part of the story.

To the right of the path Jack saw long, gray breakers advance to the shore and withdraw. To the left was the black, meandering path of a stream. He smelled seaweed and meadowsweet and felt a fine salt mist. The sea was hidden on the last part of the trip, though he could hear it hissing and rattling over pebbles. At last he came to the Bard’s house and entered its warmth gratefully.

“It’s about time,” complained the Bard, sitting by the fire with Seafarer at his feet. “I was about to send a bat to look for you. Where’s Thorgil? Don’t tell me she’s off gathering moonbeams too.”

“I warned you about picking fights,” said the old man, fastening lengths of twine across the room. “She’s like a ship without ballast, always at the mercy of the wind.”

“I didn’t pick the fight,” Jack said sullenly, hanging herbs to dry on the lines. He’d described the events of the day, ending with the scream and the visit to Brother Aiden.

“No, but you kept it going. Only Freya knows where she’s hiding out.” The Bard opened the bag with the atterswam and sniffed. “Excellent! I meant to ask you to look for these.” He threaded the mushrooms on a string.

“You aren’t… planning to eat them?” Jack asked hesitantly. He remembered how the Northmen took them to go berserk.

“My stars, lad, I’m not insane. Once these are dried and powdered, they’re going into one of my best potions: Beelzebub’s Remedy Against Flies. I discovered the recipe while fumigating King Hrothgar’s hall. You have no idea how nasty a place can get after a monster’s been rampaging through it. Did I ever tell you how I saved Beowulf’s life?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jack. He liked the story, but he was more interested in atterswam now.

“Hrothgar nailed the monster’s arm to the wall as a kind of trophy. Foolish man! It attracted flies like you wouldn’t believe. I went out to the forest for fresh air, and what did I come across but a patch of atterswam ? As I watched, a fly settled on one of the caps. One minute later it keeled over dead. That was all the hint I needed. I mashed up the mushrooms in milk, soaked balls of wool in the mixture, and hung them from the ceiling of Hrothgar’s hall. You know how flies like to circle around the center of a room. When they get tired, it’s natural for them to land on the nearest resting place, but they only land once on Beelzebub’s Remedy.”

“That’s brilliant,” said Jack.

“Yes, it is. I used to sell the potion as Dragon Tongue’s Revenge, but Brother Aiden suggested the other name. He thought Beelzebub would appeal more to Christians.”

Jack helped himself to a bowl of stew from the Bard’s constantly replenished pot. After a second (and larger) dinner, he swept the floor and laid out a bed by the door. He fluffed up the straw in the Bard’s truckle bed at the far end of the house. This resembled an oval coil of rope, and the old man fitted himself inside as snugly as a cat in a basket.