Nancy - The Islands of the Blessed

Jack had heard many stories about St. Cuthbert and animals. Otters kept him warm when he meditated, sea eagles dropped fish when he was hungry. Once, the saint scolded a pair of ravens for stealing thatch, and they brought him a lump of fat to oil his boots with, by way of apology. It was Christian magic and, as far as Jack could see, not that different from the Bard’s magic.

The old man said the life force flowed in streams deep in the earth. If you understood its workings, you could call it forth—or rather it chose to listen to your call. This was where the power to do magic came from. Jack didn’t understand much of this explanation, but he knew the power was difficult to control. And sometimes things happened that weren’t supposed to happen.

“I could see the paths in the hazel wood last night,” Jack said aloud.

“That’s excellent,” said the Bard.

“But I don’t know how I did it.”

The Bard smiled. “Quite a lot of what we do is a mystery, even to us.” Jack’s heart warmed to the word us. “Learning magic is like knocking at the same door again and again. For a long time no one answers. You imagine that the tenant is at the other end of the garden pulling weeds, or perhaps he’s in bed. After a while you decide no one’s at home. You turn to go, but knock one last time and lo! The door opens.”

“Does that mean I can see the paths whenever I want now?”

“It means you won’t be kept waiting as long next time.” The old man reached into a sack tied to his belt and removed his silver flute. “I thought it was time you practiced this. Have you ever played a flute?”

Jack’s mind went back to the years before the Bard had arrived. When John the Fletcher had shot a swan, he’d made whistles from the hollow wing bones. All the village children had received such gifts, but only Jack had shown talent. He’d been able to create a tune with the crude instrument while the others had been satisfied with blasting one another’s eardrums. When the huntsman had seen Jack’s ability, he’d made him a real flute out of apple wood.

The boy had been transported by its music. He’d played and played until Father, who thought such activities were a waste of time and probably wicked, had cast the instrument into the fire.

Jack was swept with anger as he remembered. He reminded himself that Father had changed since the trip to Bebba’s Town. There were fewer lectures on sin and more opportunities for fun. But still, the memory of that beautiful instrument burning—

“An acorn for your thoughts,” the Bard remarked.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” Jack was startled out his reverie. “I have played a flute, sir, but not one so fine.”

“There are none finer. This was made for Amergin. We won’t call bats now because it’s unfair to drag them into the sunlight. Let’s start with field mice.”

“Field mice?” echoed Jack.

“You never know when you might need something chewed. Watch where my fingers go and listen to the sound.” The Bard put the flute to his lips and his fingers covered seven of the eight holes. Jack heard a faint squeaking, such as one might detect near a haystack on a summer day. The old man repeated it several times, with the boy watching intently, before handing the flute over.

The first sound came out as an alarming buzz.

“Stop!” cried the Bard, covering his ears. “You’re calling up hornets!” He demonstrated the method again, and gradually, Jack got the idea. It wasn’t the same as playing a harp. It was more like talking to one person in a crowded room. He or she could pick out your voice from all the others because only you were trying to communicate. In this case, the field mice were like a single, listening ear among a thousand ears in the forest.

Jack looked down to see dozens of beady little eyes observing him from the leaf litter. Some mice had crept onto his feet and a few bold ones had climbed onto his lap. Jack kept playing, elated and a little frightened, until the Bard gently took the flute from his hands.

“That’s enough, lad. We must let them go before a hawk discovers them.” The old man waved his hand and the tiny creatures pattered away. The sun had turned toward the west and the predicted thunderclouds had begun to build. They hurried home along the moss-covered Roman road.

A week had passed and the inlet was wrapped in fog so thick, dawn barely penetrated it. Jack and Thorgil had traveled by the light of a horn lantern, and now they waited together on the chilly sand. Thorgil was barely able to sit still for excitement. “We’re going to take ship again. I’m going home. Isn’t it wonderful?” she said.

Jack pulled his woolen cloak tighter. Water droplets beaded his hair. His backside was as wet as a frog’s bottom.

“Well, isn’t it wonderful?”

“I suppose so,” he grumbled. “What’s taking them so long?” Only a foot or two of water was visible and a pale ribbon of foam moved in and out of sight.

“They have to be careful in fog,” said Thorgil. “Eric the Rash has to stand at the prow with a weighted line to call out the depth. Listen! I think I can hear him now.”

Jack listened. All he could hear was surf muttering along the coast. Gradually, the sky paled and the sea turned a faint gray-green. The tongue of land appeared like a stain against the fog.

“Four oars deep,” floated a voice over the water. Jack had to strain to understand the words. It had been almost two years since he’d spoken the Northman language. “Three oars deep… slowly, slowly, I can see land. Two oars deep. Slow down, you kindaskitur ! It’s as shallow as a miser’s purse!”

Kindaskiturs: sheep droppings, translated Jack. And then he saw it: the long graceful outline, the sail reefed against the mast, the shaggy shapes leaning on the oars. The prow was oddly shortened, and he remembered that the great dragon head, carved by Olaf One-Brow, had to be removed when they came to shore. Otherwise, it would anger the land spirits.

“Drop anchor!” roared a new voice Jack recognized as Skakki’s.

“We’re here! We’re here!” screamed Thorgil, jumping up and down.

Jack heard splashing and thrashing as oars were unshipped and heavy shapes dropped into the water. Jack found that his heart was thudding. It was hard not to feel fear at the arrival of Northmen. The first shape waded to shore, taller than any man had a right to be, and swung Thorgil around in a bear hug.

“Little sister!” cried Skakki. “You’re as welcome as sun after storm! Scrawny as ever, I see.”

“I am not!” protested Thorgil, laughing.

“It’s that feeble Saxon food. I’ll put you on the outside of a couple of roast oxen to fatten you up. Who’s this runt?”

Jack looked up, appalled. Skakki had grown more than a foot since he’d last seen him, and the man’s shoulders and chest had broadened out. He was a true son of Olaf One-Brow now, except for the eyes. Where Olaf had peered out at the world with cheerful brutishness, Skakki had his mother’s depth of mind.

“I am Dragon Tongue’s assistant,” Jack said, drawing himself up as tall as possible.

“Ah! The skald,” Skakki said, using the Northman word for bard.

“He’s really only an apprentice,” said Thorgil.

Jack let it pass. He was more interested in the other shapes that appeared from the fog: Sven the Vengeful, Eric the Rash, Eric Pretty-Face, and other men he didn’t know that well, but who were as villainous-looking as the rest. Eric Pretty-Face had horrific scars and ears that were almost chewed off. “IT’S JACK!” he roared, and the boy remembered that the man was nearly deaf and always shouted. “GOOD TO SEE YOU, SKALD. DO YOU HAVE A CHARM AGAINST HANGNAILS? I’VE GOT ONE THAT’S DRIVING ME CRAZY.”