The Islands of the Blessed

Very soon they saw the striped red and white sail and the oars flashing as they dipped into the sea. Jack could see Schlaup looming amidships. When the craft came near to shore, the giant jumped overboard and towed it onto the sand.

“At last!” cried Skakki, hugging Thorgil. “I thought we’d never find you. We couldn’t find a trace of the coracle after we dropped you off, so I went back to Horse Island to fetch Schlaup. He kept sniffing for you, but he couldn’t find a trail until today. Where’s Dragon Tongue?”

Jack had to repeat the story of Notland and the draugr. “I knew something bad would come of trusting the fin folk,” said Skakki. “Can you find the location of their kingdom? Perhaps I can deal with them.”

“We could always invade,” Sven the Vengeful suggested. “My hands are itching to put a spear through one of those bog worms.”

“No one can find them if they don’t want to be found,” said Jack. All the anger and regret came flooding back as he remembered the swiftness with which the fin folk had turned on them. “The only comfort is that the Bard chose his fate willingly.”

“Aye, he would,” said Rune, with tears trickling down his withered face. “If I had a tenth of his courage, I’d count myself lucky. The oddest thing happened, though. When we were still far off this island, I thought I saw him standing on the shore. But it was you, Jack, in that new white cloak. Where on earth did you get it and that staff?”

“It’s a long story,” the boy said wearily.

They made camp on Grim’s Island that night, using rations from the ship because little else was available. Jack unfolded the saga of St. Columba’s cave and the tunnel leading up through the heart of the mountain. When he got to the part about Olaf, everyone cried out in disbelief.

Thorgil shouted them down. “He was there! I saw him!”

“If you could see the dead,” Eric the Rash said, his eyes rounded with fear, “then you must be dead too—ow!”

Thorgil had poked him viciously with a branch from the fire. “Does that feel like a ghost?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” The warrior rubbed the burn on his arm.

“My little sister is not a draugr!” roared Schlaup. His body got larger and lumpier, and everyone got ready to flee.

“Of course she’s not a draugr,” Rune said quickly. “Dragon Tongue used to say there were paths between the nine worlds for those with the eyes to see them. You don’t have to be dead to use them.”

Schlaup’s shape settled back to normal.

Jack told them of Bjorn Skull-Splitter and Einar Adder-Tooth, and no one was surprised to find bitter enemies in the same afterlife. “IT’S MORE FUN TO SLICE UP ENEMIES THAN FRIENDS,” Eric Pretty-Face explained.

Everyone listened rapturously as the boy described Heidrun, whose udders gave never-ending mead, and Sæhr�mnir, who was devoured each night and sprang to life again in the morning. “Mead and roast pork forever,” Sven the Vengeful said with a sigh. “You can’t beat it.”

Jack spoke of Valkyries and—with a glance at Thorgil to see how she was taking it—of how they cared for heroes after a day of fighting. Most of all, he spoke of Olaf, but he kept secret the encounter with Odin.

“I wish I could have seen Father,” said Skakki wistfully as they sat around a driftwood fire rippling with blue and green flames. “It’s so like him not to be satisfied with Valhalla. He never stayed in one place long and used to spend one winter out of three with the Mountain Queen. Speaking of which, I’m giving Father’s hall to Schlaup once I’ve moved the family to Horse Island. I think he’ll be happier there.”

Jack thought so too. Both he and Thorgil congratulated Schlaup.

“You can visit. Everyone can visit,” the giant said. “When winter comes”—he paused to organize the words—“my sisters, Fonn and Forath, will stay. They like snow.”

And a jolly time they’ll have too, thought Jack. He could see Mrs. Tanner roasting elks in the fireplace and the troll-maidens smiling, or at least baring their fangs, at Ymma and Ythla.

In the morning, before they set sail, Skakki and Schlaup looked for a way onto the mountain. Even the half-troll couldn’t haul himself up the sheer cliffs, nor were they able to find St. Columba’s cave. When Jack wriggled into the small cave where Father Severus had spent a winter and reached through the hole at the end, his hand met rock only a few inches away.

It’s like the hazel wood, Jack thought. The paths open only when it’s time for them to open.

* * *

Summer was over and the wheel of the year had turned toward fall. They sailed back along the coast to Bebba’s Town. There was need to hurry, for trees were changing color and the few fields they passed were yellow. They reminded Jack of the barrows in Notland, and he felt a sadness that would not lift. For the first time in his life he had no direction.