The Islands of the Blessed

Jack heard Mother and Pega discussing how to protect the livestock from the coming storm. Cows and horses would have to crowd together in the barn. The more aggressive sheep would have to fend for themselves outside.

“Even Olaf One-Brow wished people a good morning,” remarked Jack, naming Thorgil’s dead foster father.

“Only if it was a good morning. He never lied.” Thorgil shadowed her eyes with her hand.

“Are you crying?”

“Of course not. It’s the filthy smoke in this filthy hovel.” The shield maiden continued to shadow her eyes.

“Do you want some of my bread?”

“Why would I want your weevil-infested leavings?” Thorgil said, though from the way she was eating, it was clear she was ravenous.

There was no point trying to be sympathetic, Jack thought. She only looked upon it as weakness. Her moods built up like summer storms, forking lightning in all directions, but if you were patient—and closed your ears to her insults—the clouds would eventually blow away. He wasn’t sure which he preferred, Thorgil’s glooms or her periodic episodes of joy. Sometimes she was seized by a kind of wild rapture in which colors, smells, and sounds overwhelmed her with ecstasy. Then she would grab him by the arm and force him to pay attention to whatever it was.

The Bard said this happened because Thorgil had been raised as a berserker, dedicated to death. Now she was controlled by the life force because of the rune of protection she wore. It was only natural that the two instincts were at war.

Pega came to the door with a hen caged in a basket, and Jack’s heart lifted. Pega never made you feel rotten. She was endlessly thoughtful, always looking for ways to make people happy. She helped Mother with the cooking, weeded the Bard’s herb garden, and stood over Brother Aiden, making sure he ate regularly. She had been born a slave and was touchingly grateful for any welcome anywhere. Jack thought she looked almost pretty, in spite of a disfiguring birthmark across half her face. It was her spirit shining through, the Bard said, just as Thorgil’s simmering malice spoiled what could have been real beauty.

“We’ll have to keep the chickens here,” Pega announced, placing the basket against a wall. “You should see the sky to the south! It’s weird and dark, but I can’t make out any clouds.”

“Do you need help?” Jack asked hopefully.

“I need you to take food to the workers in the fields,” Mother said, bumping the door open as she carried in another hen. “From the look of that sky, there won’t be time to cut more bracken. You can double-check the hives on the way back.”

She didn’t smile, and Jack felt unfairly included in Thorgil’s disgrace. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t keep the shield maiden in line. Even Olaf One-Brow used to hang her over a cliff, by way of getting her attention, when she acted up. Unfortunately, Olaf had been just as likely to reward her for nasty behavior. Northmen admired such things.

Jack and Thorgil loaded the donkey with baskets of bread and cider. Most of the villagers were harvesting hay as quickly as possible. A few, like Mother and the chief’s wife, were supplying food to keep them going. The sky outside had indeed changed remarkably in just a few minutes. To the north it was blue, but it deepened to slate when you turned toward the south. And yet, as Pega had said, you couldn’t make out any clouds.

“What’s that odd smell?” said Thorgil.

“I’m not sure,” said Jack. “It’s a little like clothes drying in sunlight.”

“It’s… nice. Makes me feel like running or singing. Maybe this storm will be fun after all.” Some of the gloom lifted from Thorgil’s face. Jack thought it was typical for her to be cheered by something that worried everyone else.

“I’ve never seen a sky like that,” he said.

“I have,” said the shield maiden, “when I was very small. My mother carried me to a cellar where they stored vegetables. She was trying to protect me, and I remember her lying on top of me. I heard dogs howling, or perhaps it was the wind—”

“We’d better get our chores done,” Jack said to change the subject. Thorgil’s mother had been a slave, sacrificed on the funeral pyre of her real father. All of Thorgil’s memories from that part of her life were evil. When she could be persuaded to speak of them at all, they drove her even deeper into despair.

They hurried from farm to farm, delivering food to people in the fields and barns. The storage barns had floors of slate, over which was spread a layer of bracken. Bracken not only protected the hay on top from rising damp, but also cut into the mouths of rats and discouraged them from invading. Livestock depended on this fodder for winter. If it was spoiled by rain, it would rot and the animals would starve. The newly cut hay gave a rich, green smell to the air.