The Islands of the Blessed

Jack looked back frequently as he made his way through the fields, to see whether the monk was still outside. He thought he saw the door of the hut close and the fire dim as though something had flitted in front of it. Huge, glowing, blue eyes, he thought, searching the darkness. Why blue? For some reason the color was the creepiest part of the story.

To the right of the path Jack saw long, gray breakers advance to the shore and withdraw. To the left was the black, meandering path of a stream. He smelled seaweed and meadowsweet and felt a fine salt mist. The sea was hidden on the last part of the trip, though he could hear it hissing and rattling over pebbles. At last he came to the Bard’s house and entered its warmth gratefully.

“It’s about time,” complained the Bard, sitting by the fire with Seafarer at his feet. “I was about to send a bat to look for you. Where’s Thorgil? Don’t tell me she’s off gathering moonbeams too.”

“I warned you about picking fights,” said the old man, fastening lengths of twine across the room. “She’s like a ship without ballast, always at the mercy of the wind.”

“I didn’t pick the fight,” Jack said sullenly, hanging herbs to dry on the lines. He’d described the events of the day, ending with the scream and the visit to Brother Aiden.

“No, but you kept it going. Only Freya knows where she’s hiding out.” The Bard opened the bag with the atterswam and sniffed. “Excellent! I meant to ask you to look for these.” He threaded the mushrooms on a string.

“You aren’t… planning to eat them?” Jack asked hesitantly. He remembered how the Northmen took them to go berserk.

“My stars, lad, I’m not insane. Once these are dried and powdered, they’re going into one of my best potions: Beelzebub’s Remedy Against Flies. I discovered the recipe while fumigating King Hrothgar’s hall. You have no idea how nasty a place can get after a monster’s been rampaging through it. Did I ever tell you how I saved Beowulf’s life?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jack. He liked the story, but he was more interested in atterswam now.

“Hrothgar nailed the monster’s arm to the wall as a kind of trophy. Foolish man! It attracted flies like you wouldn’t believe. I went out to the forest for fresh air, and what did I come across but a patch of atterswam? As I watched, a fly settled on one of the caps. One minute later it keeled over dead. That was all the hint I needed. I mashed up the mushrooms in milk, soaked balls of wool in the mixture, and hung them from the ceiling of Hrothgar’s hall. You know how flies like to circle around the center of a room. When they get tired, it’s natural for them to land on the nearest resting place, but they only land once on Beelzebub’s Remedy.”

“That’s brilliant,” said Jack.

“Yes, it is. I used to sell the potion as Dragon Tongue’s Revenge, but Brother Aiden suggested the other name. He thought Beelzebub would appeal more to Christians.”

Jack helped himself to a bowl of stew from the Bard’s constantly replenished pot. After a second (and larger) dinner, he swept the floor and laid out a bed by the door. He fluffed up the straw in the Bard’s truckle bed at the far end of the house. This resembled an oval coil of rope, and the old man fitted himself inside as snugly as a cat in a basket.

But the Bard wasn’t ready to sleep yet. “Shoo Seafarer into his alcove. We have one last chore to perform.”

Jack reproduced the burble/hiss Thorgil had taught him. It must have been correct, because the great seabird warbled pleasantly before ambling off to bed.

“It seems you didn’t spend the entire day fighting with Thorgil,” the Bard observed.

“That’s probably the last thing she’ll ever teach me,” Jack said.

“Don’t count your dragons before they’re hatched. She may be less angry than you expect.” The Bard unpacked a metal flute from a chest. Jack had seen ones made of wood, but this was crafted with far more artistry.

“It looks like the clapper in Brother Aiden’s bell,” the boy said, wondering. The same fins and scales decorated the sides, and the same round eyes gazed at the world from behind a wide, fishy mouth.

“Ah! So you had a look at that,” said the Bard. “I suppose Aiden told you it’s a symbol of the church. He’s wrong. It’s the salmon that spends half the year in the Islands of the Blessed and returns to the pools of its youth in the fall. Some call it the Salmon of Knowledge, for it knows the pathways between this world and the next.”

“Brother Aiden says the bell is called ‘Fair Lamenting’. When people hear it they are reminded of Heaven,” Jack said.

“It reminds them of what lies beyond the setting sun. Call it Heaven if you like.” The Bard polished the flute with the hem of his robe. “The bell was named Fair Lamenting long before any monk set foot in Ireland. It was made for Amergin, the founder of my order. Through time, it came to St. Columba, who was top of his class for that year.”

“St. Columba was a bard?” said Jack.