The Islands of the Blessed

“Go on, ask,” Thorgil said. “I did, the first time I saw him.”

“Ah, but I didn’t tell you the whole story, little sister,” said Skakki, who was lounging on a log with his long legs stretched out before him. “I told you he was a half-troll, but I didn’t say where we got him.”

“Did you say ‘half-troll’?” said Jack. The offspring of troll/human marriages were almost always doomed. They were forever torn between two worlds and either went mad or turned vicious. Frothi had devastated King Hrothgar’s hall and tried to murder Beowulf. Her sister, Frith, had sent a Nightmare to kill the Bard. When Frith fell into a snit, even berserkers climbed the walls to escape.

Skakki grimaced. “Not all such beings are evil. Much depends on the parents. Frothi and Frith’s father had been rescued from an avalanche by the Mountain Queen and imprisoned in her harem. He spent the rest of his life bitterly regretting his captivity. He hated the sight of his daughters. Schlaup had a different father.”

“I can see that he is a handsome lout,” said Thorgil, using the troll word for male. “I look forward to taking ship with him.” Schlaup turned a bright orange, the troll equivalent of blushing, and ducked his massive head.

“Go on,” said Jack, but Skakki, to his annoyance, insisted on having breakfast first. Bread and cheese was brought from the ship and toasted before the fire. It was excellent bread, and the cheese was strong enough to bring tears to your eyes. Jack, who’d had nothing to eat that morning, was grateful, although he wished Skakki would tell the story and eat.

But the Northmen weren’t like that. They preferred to do only one thing at a time. If pillaging, they gave their whole attention to it. If feeding, all conversation stopped until their bellies were stuffed.

Skakki produced a large pot of salty black berries that had come from across the sea. He called them “olives”, and Jack thought they were delicious. So did the Northmen, who were besotted with anything salty and jostled one another aside to get at the treat.

The sounds of chomping and slurping filled the air. Sven the Vengeful passed around bags of cider, with a large one reserved for Schlaup. A quarrel broke out over who had eaten the most olives, and Skakki clouted the crewmen nearest him. That was how his father had kept order, Jack remembered, except that when Olaf smacked someone, he stayed smacked for at least ten minutes.

When the food was gone, Skakki suggested a burping contest. Thorgil eagerly joined in, and Jack drummed his fingers with impatience. He knew what the young sea captain was up to. Northmen loved to drag out a story until you were ready to scream and half the fun was making the listeners beg for the conclusion.

When the burping contest was over—Schlaup won with a sulfurous belch that was pure troll—Skakki insisted that Rune produce a poem to celebrate their arrival. “Stop fooling around!” exclaimed Jack. “I want to know Schlaup’s history.”

Everyone guffawed, with Schlaup producing a deep wuh-huh-huh, and Jack knew they had only been waiting for him to lose his temper. “Do you really, really, really want to know?” cooed Skakki.

Jack sighed. “I really, really, really want to know.”

Skakki paused for effect, and everyone leaned forward, though all of them, except Thorgil, must have known the tale.

“One dark, snowy night,” began the young captain, “we heard a knock on the door of our hall. Everyone stopped what he was doing, for we knew few beings ventured out in the dead of winter. The ships were drawn up onto land, the sheep were locked into their pens. Honest folk, and even the dishonest ones, were sheltering inside their houses.

“We listened. One knock meant a draugr was lurking outside. You definitely don’t want to open the door to a draugr, because—”

“Don’t change the subject,” said Jack.

Skakki smiled evilly. “I thought you were interested in draugrs. Thorgil says you’ve got one in the village.”

Jack restrained himself with the greatest difficulty. Nothing entertained Northmen more than making you lose control.

“Very well,” Skakki went on. “We waited and listened. Whoever it was knocked three times. We waited again and the sound was repeated. Yet you don’t want to be hasty, for all kinds of things are abroad in the dark. The men took up their weapons and sent the women and children to the back of the hall.” Skakki paused to gulp down cider, taking his time about it. Jack wanted to upend the bag over his head.

“I opened the door a crack. Outside, the snow was coming down in flakes as big as my hand. Before me, almost invisible, were two huge creatures wrapped in cloaks of white wolfskin. ‘Trolls!’ I shouted. I tried to close the door, but one of them shoved it open so forcefully that it ripped off its hinges.