The Islands of the Blessed

After each exploit, the Shoney sighed with pleasure. He sounds like a man well worth knowing. I hope to meet him in the halls of Ran and Aegir someday.

“He has already been taken into Valhalla,” Thorgil said.

Jack was fairly certain she was stretching the truth about Olaf, but you never knew. Olaf had been willing to pillage anything, though brute force rather than cunning had been his specialty. And Thorgil was an excellent storyteller.

After a while the Shoney ordered a bucket of kelp lager brought to him and drank deeply from it. You please me, shield maiden. Ask for a boon and I shall grant it.

“Actually, the Bard has a request,” she said. “My wish is that you grant it.”

Oh, bother! More tiresome morality, grumbled the Shoney. Very well, Dragon Tongue, but if you want the four human children, the answer is no.

“I have something more serious to discuss,” said the Bard. “First, I would like to show you the gifts we have brought. Thorgil, unwrap the mirror and comb.”

I have heard of them, the Shoney said, and his eyes glinted with desire. The shield maiden first presented the magnificent mirror, and the creature looked into it with undisguised delight. At last he wrenched his eyes away and covered it with the cloth. Enough! If I continue gazing, I shall find myself swimming to the other world. I wish my daughter had been granted such a portal.

Jack didn’t dare look at the Bard. The Shoney was far too intelligent and might guess his thoughts.

Thorgil held out the comb. Deer antler from a buck in his seventh year, said the Shoney. The carving is masterful and the dyes will not fade for a millennium. This was made by the librarian on the Holy Isle.

“You know of him?” said Jack, astonished.

I had reason to watch for a certain monk on the Holy Isle. I kept hoping he would go for a swim, but he never did.

Jack felt cold. That had to have been Father Severus. Fortunately for him, he considered swimming a sinful waste of time and never did it.

The little librarian swam often, said the Shoney.

“His name is Aiden,” Jack said.

Aiden. A good name. It means “yew tree” in Pictish. I could tell he had fin blood by the way he took to the water. Once he went out too far and was too tired to return to shore. I held him up so he wouldn’t drown. I don’t know why I did that.

“It was kindness,” said the Bard.

The Shoney glared at him. It was for my own pleasure. I liked to see Aiden paint pictures by the water. None of the other monks did that. His colors were as brilliant as the colors of my jewels.

“He isn’t a half-bad ale-maker, either.” The Bard unwrapped the parcel he’d been carrying.

That wouldn’t be—that can’t be—heather ale!

“The same.” The old man placed the heavy bag into the Shoney’s hands.

The creature stood up, and at once two merlads swam over. Call Shair Shair. Tell her we have a rare treat. Tell her to hurry. The Shoney seemed hardly able to wait. Soon Shair Shair came speeding across the courtyard and sprang with a great leap onto the dais. Her eyes were feral, like a wolf’s when interrupted at a kill. Her dress was flecked with bits of meat. A shudder passed through her body.

This had better be good, she said.

Heather ale, the Shoney said, holding up the bag. Immediately, she reached for it, crooning and wheedling, and he poured ale into her V-shaped mouth before taking some himself. The two of them entirely forgot they had company. They circled each other, uttering wild cries. They bounced around like capricorns, offering each other sips or teasingly holding the bag out of reach.

Thorgil turned her back and sat with her legs dangling over the side of the dais. “I don’t know about you, but I find this somewhat embarrassing.”