Nancy - The Islands of the Blessed

The air was breathlessly calm. The surface of the water was as still as a lake, and this worried the Northmen even more. “I’d give anything to weigh anchor,” Sven the Vengeful said. “I saw a sea like this once. It rose like the back of a dragon, and Ran and her nine daughters nearly dragged us down.”

“There’s nothing to anchor to. The water is too deep,” said Rune. When the last streaks of light faded, the cries began—long, mournful howls that turned everyone’s blood to water. From below the sea came low rumbles that rattled the timbers of the ship and made Jack’s ribs vibrate with their power.

“The howls are made by male Pictish beasts,” the Bard explained. “Remember my description of the huushayuu, Jack? Imagine a hundred Pictish war trumpets making that noise. It’s no wonder Roman soldiers deserted and ran into the woods. Of course, that wasn’t a good idea either, with the Forest Lord waiting inside.”

“It sounds like there’s at least a hundred of them out there now,” said Thorgil.

“The rumbles are the females coming up from the depths,” the old man said. “When they reach the surface, they’ll attack one another. There are always more females than males, so they have to fight to get a mate. The victorious sink down to the bottom again.”

“And the fin folk?” said Jack.

“Oh, they won’t come out until dawn. No one in his right mind would sail into a mating swarm of Pictish beasts.”

“Now he tells us,” groaned Skakki.

They heard vast splashes, like whales surfacing, and the sound of water being expelled from vast mouths. A roar exploded from not far away, followed by a heavy whump as two creatures came together. Soon the whole sea was seething with cries, roars, gnashing of teeth, and the screams of the losers. A half-moon rose, making the great bodies dimly visible. They curved up and over in the dark water like obese snakes. The females were a ghostly white with long, fleshy horns and pointed muzzles that opened to show rows of teeth. Their flippers battered at their rivals and their tails lashed as they propelled themselves into battle.

The males were much smaller. It was difficult to see what color they were in the moonlight, though Jack guessed they were a delicate green. Their heads were horselike and their bodies were slim and graceful. When a female vanquished a foe, she grabbed the chosen male in her flippers and gave a terrifying bellow before plunging into the depths.

As time passed, the battles became less frequent, until finally the sea was calm except for the thrashing of dying beasts. A heavy smell like the odor of butchered fish hung in the air.

Not surprisingly, no one on the ship got any sleep. When the gray light of dawn seeped over the water, Skakki and his crew discovered the bodies of a dozen whale-size creatures. They floated belly-up, with their long tails uncurled in death.

“Are they… edible?” said Skakki. Like all Northmen, he was always on the lookout for supplies.

“No! I mean, yes, they are edible. But no, you mustn’t come between the fin folk and their prey,” said the Bard.

“There’s surely enough to go around,” Eric the Rash said.

Eric Pretty-Face offered his opinion. “I ATE SEA SERPENT ONCE. IT DIDN’T KILL ME.”

“I said no and I meant it,” the Bard said crossly. “The fin folk can make a ship-destroying rock appear to be an open patch of sea and send you to the bottom. They are masters of illusion.” The old man sent Seafarer out to explore. He warned the bird to ignore the dead beasts in the water, but Seafarer needed no warning. They aroused an instinctive terror in the albatross. He soared upward to get away from them until he was only a tiny dot against the sky. He returned with the news that the fog bank was close.

The Bard unwrapped the mysterious parcel Brother Aiden had given him weeks before. Jack was amazed to see the polished bronze mirror belonging to the chief. It was the most valuable item in the village and something the chief wouldn’t have given up willingly. “How did you get it?” the boy asked.

“Aiden borrowed it,” said the Bard, “though I fear it will not be returned. It’s a small price to pay for the safety of the village. Aiden and I made a plan in case things didn’t turn out well in Bebba’s Town, and as you know, they didn’t.” Next, the old man unwrapped a beautifully made comb. A row of teeth was set into a bone handle carved with designs stained purple, green, and vermilion. Jack recognized Brother Aiden’s famous inks.

“That’s deer antler. Aiden carved it himself,” the Bard said.

Jack had an eerie feeling he’d seen a comb like that recently, and then he remembered. When he was trapped by the haar outside Edwin’s Town, the stone on which he lay had been etched with designs. He’d seen a crescent crossed by a broken arrow, symbols of sacrifice to the old gods. There’d been male and female Pictish beasts, and next to them had been a comb and mirror. At the time Jack had wondered why anyone would carve such odd things.

“Aiden knows quite a bit about mermaids,” said the Bard. “He’s a Pict—don’t wrinkle up your nose, lad. Picts are no worse than the rest of us. They merely have an unfortunate history. Do you know the story of how they lost their women?”

“The hobgoblins told me,” Jack said. “When the Picts first came to this land, they angered the old gods by cutting down forests. The Forest Lord took a terrible revenge against them. He asked his brother, the Man in the Moon, to drive their women mad, and the women threw themselves off cliffs or drowned themselves.”

“The Picts never quite recovered from that tragedy,” said the Bard. “Later they found wives among the Irish, but first they married fin wives.”

“Mermaids?” said Jack, surprised. Perhaps that was why they preferred mist and shadows.

“Exactly. Fin blood runs through the veins of most Picts. Now we must gain permission to enter Notland, and for that we need a gift for their king. He’s called the Shoney. Aiden says there are two things he absolutely won’t be able to resist: mirrors and combs. Fin folk love gazing into mirrors, which they call ‘endless water’. They believe they are portals into another world.”

“What about the comb?” said Thorgil, turning the lovely artifact over in her hand. She ran it through her hair. “This certainly beats fingers,” she declared.

“Mermaids have long, beautiful hair of which they are justly proud,” the Bard said. “Unfortunately, they are plagued by barnacles that find their heads an ideal place to grow. If a mermaid doesn’t comb her hair regularly, she becomes so encrusted with barnacles, she can’t swim.”

By now sunlight had flooded the sea, and in the distance they saw what appeared to be a gray mountain range. Long, slim boats were moving away from this in their direction. Each one bore a tall figure plying a pole.

“How can they pole?” Skakki said. “The seabed is beyond their reach.” Yet the figures continued to push themselves along as easily as if the boats were on a shallow pond. Several surrounded a dead Pictish beast, and then the poles were shown to have hooks at the end. The beings snagged the beast and began towing it back with them at the same measured pace.

They were manlike and yet otherworldly. Taller and thinner than any human, their skin gleamed with silver scales. Their arms and legs were skinny like the legs of herons, and their faces were shadowed by broad-brimmed hats. They wore gray robes that drifted about them like shreds of mist. The fin men went about the business of gathering dead beasts with not a glance at the ship. They made no sound at all, not even a splash.