Nancy Farmer - The Islands of the Blessed

Bjorn grinned. “I see my fame has not died in Middle Earth. Tell me, little skald, am I sung about wherever brave men gather?”

“Your tale has certainly spread,” Jack said evasively. Einar Adder-Tooth had been wrong in one regard: Bjorn wasn’t roaming the icy halls of Hel. “Would you like to know what happened to your—” Jack had been about to say enemy when he saw a familiar figure emerge from the forest and snatch a horn of mead from a Valkyrie. “That can’t be Einar Adder-Tooth!”

“He arrived recently,” said Bjorn. “Said he’d been caught in a landslide. I killed him twice last week, and he only got me once.” The warrior showed not the slightest resentment toward the man who’d arranged for him to be devoured by a hogboon.

I’ll never understand Northmen, Jack thought.

Thorgil swayed and almost fell. “I want to see Olaf,” she repeated. But by now Bjorn had been distracted by the appearance of Adder-Tooth and went over to deliver a friendly punch to his head.

“Sit down,” Jack said. “I’ll find him.”

This proved difficult, for dozens of men were careening around, stuffing themselves, drinking, and bragging about their victories. One patted a Valkyrie on the behind, and she snarled, “Try that again and I’ll rip out your windpipe.”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” laughed the warriors all around. One voice sounded familiar.

Jack saw him seated at the foot of a throne. He was wearing his helmet, which was probably why Jack hadn’t recognized him before. It had a ridge across the top like a cock’s comb and two panels at the sides to cover his cheeks. The front was a metal mask like a hawk’s face and the beak came down over Olaf’s nose. His eyes peered out of holes and made him seem otherworldly. He is otherworldly, Jack thought.

But the figure that towered over Olaf, the one sitting on the throne, was so terrifying that Jack almost sank to his knees. He wore a helmet similar to Olaf’s, but only one eye glinted through the holes in the mask. The other was an empty socket. Jack knew who he was.

Odin’s missing eye lay at the bottom of Mimir’s Well. No one could drink from the well without sacrificing something of great importance. Jack had given up his rune of protection. Thorgil had given up her status as a berserker. In return they had gained the knowledge they needed most. Odin, in payment for his eye, had acquired the lore necessary to rule the nine worlds.

The god’s single eye blazed like a star as he considered the boy. Wolves—Jack noticed them now for the first time—lounged at the god’s feet, and ravens perched on his shoulders to bring him news of the wide world. You are not one of mine, said a voice like distant thunder.

I am not one of yours, Jack agreed, clutching St. Columba’s staff. I serve the life force. I do not believe in a world of endless killing. He was very afraid, but at the same time, he knew it was important to stand up to this being.

The figure laughed. Both air and earth shook with it. You sound like a puny Christian, or perhaps one of those harp-strumming skalds always yowling about trees. One of the wolves stood up and yawned. Its tongue lolled out between its fangs.

A single leaf unfurling in springtime is worth more than all your realm, said Jack, surprising himself. He hadn’t planned to say that. It was one thing to resist the awesome power before him and quite another to pick a fight.

War is inevitable, Odin thundered. All exists to kill and be killed, and only courage in the face of death is beautiful.

What good is this courage when you fear life itself? said Jack. If you are deaf to the laughter of your children or cannot understand why your wives rejoice when you return from a voyage, are you not already dead? What courage does it take to leave a world when you are blind to its wonders? Jack was pretty impressed with his poetry, but he was also afraid of how Odin might react. He didn’t seem able to stop arguing. The words simply rolled out.

In the end night covers all, said the war god. The bonds of this world will break, and Garm, the hound of Hel, will be freed from his leash. The frost giants will make war upon light. The ship of death, made from the finger- and toenails of corpses, will set sail to bring destruction upon the living. Ragnarok is coming, the final battle. None can escape it.

Jack gazed at the being looming up and up and up until it brushed the racing clouds. His blood sang in his ears as it had on the Northman ship with the waves foaming beneath the prow and a fine breeze following. Your world is only one leaf on the Great Tree, Jack said. It is already falling from the branch. I do not believe in Ragnarok. Warmth spread from St. Columba’s staff to his hand and on to the rest of his body. A light radiated and fell on the throne.

It was empty.

It wasn’t even a throne, but an outcropping of gray stone that had weathered until it was pitted and broken. Lumps of rock at the side had been the wolves.

Olaf One-Brow was sitting on one of the lumps. He removed his helmet and squinted at the boy. “Jack!” he cried delightedly. “How did you get here? Don’t tell me you fell in battle.”

Jack’s ears still sang with blood. It took him a moment to realize where he was. “I’m not dead, Olaf. At least I don’t think so. Thorgil’s with me, but she’s afraid you don’t want to see her.”

They found her eating at one of the tables. She dropped the chicken leg she was holding and held out her arms.

“What a treat, heart-daughter!” bellowed Olaf, swinging her into the air. “The very idea, thinking I wouldn’t welcome you! Nothing could cheer this battle-scarred old heart more. It’s too bad you didn’t see me earlier. I killed five warriors and maimed a dozen others.”

“I heard the last part of it, when you cut off Bjorn Skull-Splitter’s head.” Thorgil was laughing and crying at the same time.

“Between you and me, he got soft sitting around on Horse Island,” Olaf confided. “But he acquitted himself well at the end.” He put the shield maiden down.

Her knees buckled and she had to hold on to him. “I’m sorry, heart-father. I’ve been on short rations for a while.”

“That’s easily fixed,” her foster father said. He went to the fire pit and tore off a rib blackened with smoke. Jack was surprised to see that so much meat was left after the scores of warriors who had been feasting. Perhaps the boar, like Heidrun, was a never-ending supply of food.

“Is it safe to eat?” Jack said, though the smell was driving him mad. “I mean, for the living.”

“Who cares?” said Thorgil, tearing into the meat. Soon her face was smeared with grease and soot. Olaf fetched her another rib, as well as one for Jack. The boy ate carefully, mindful of St. Columba’s white cloak, and wiped his fingers on the grass. He was still somewhat dazed from his encounter with Odin. How could he have dared to challenge such a foe? It seemed that St. Columba’s staff had a will of its own.

They helped themselves to pickled herring, grouse, leeks in cream sauce, baked apples, and many other wonderful dishes from the tables. Olaf thrust a bowl of purplish lumps floating in a slimy gray liquid in front of Jack’s nose. “Graffisk. Have some,” he urged.

Jack almost threw up at the odor of rotten teeth and bilge water. “No, thanks.”

“HAVE SOME,” roared the Northman.

But Jack was no longer a frightened slave in fear for his life. “IT’S THE NASTIEST STUFF I’VE EVER SEEN. YOU EAT IT,” he roared back.