The Islands of the Blessed

“Ethne agreed to it,” said Brutus. “She was suffering so from the voices, and she truly wanted to earn a soul. Food and drink are handed through the window and she isn’t entirely without entertainment. She can listen to the monks pray. Several times a week the abbot—Father Severus—gives a sermon. Oh, and he let her keep the cat.”

“Thank Freya,” breathed the Bard. “She still has Pangur Ban.”

“Is that what he’s called? He goes in and out the window and brings her all sorts of things from the outside world.” The king looked relieved by the old man’s apparent approval, but in the next instant the Bard’s staff came crashing down and the walls trembled.

“You have much to answer for,” the old man said. “You should have taken Ethne away and married her. Love would have driven away the illusions of Elfland, love and the presence of honest sunlight. But I have graver concerns than punishing you. I must go to St. Filian’s now, for there is a debt that has fallen due. I fear that all the treasure Father Severus has laid up in Heaven will not cover it.”

King Brutus gave them ponies to ride, for it was a long walk to the monastery. He insisted on providing them with a basket of meat pies for the road. The Bard angrily waved it away, but Thorgil accepted it. The king held her hand just a little too long when he gave her the basket.

Neither Jack nor Thorgil dared speak to the Bard. He rode silently ahead, and the air around him rippled like a heat haze over a summer field. But when they reached the grove of pines overlooking the monastery, the old man turned aside and found a grassy meadow. “If I go to St. Filian’s in this state of mind, I’ll bring the whole place down around our ears,” he said. “Does that sound familiar, Jack?”

The boy grimaced. The year before, he’d accidentally called up an earthquake when the monks threatened to throw his sister into St. Filian’s Well.

They let the ponies graze while they picnicked. In the distance Jack could see the walls of the monastery. The earthquake cracks had been filled in and a brilliant layer of whitewash had been applied. All around lay an extensive garden, and a new white building stood at the edge of the Lady of the Lake’s territory. Father Severus must have driven the monks hard to accomplish so much.

“That, I believe, is the convent,” the Bard remarked, looking at the new building.

Jack lay down the bundle containing Fair Lamenting, and Thorgil handed around meat pies. The pastry was crisp, the lamb meltingly tender, and the whole flavored with pepper, Jack’s favorite spice. Also in the basket was a flask of mead. “I’ll save this for later,” the Bard said. “I need my wits about me.” His mood seemed to have improved with the good food and fresh air.

“I’ve often told you,” the old man said, “that one should never use anger to reach the life force. Yet that was what I was about to do.” He shook his head. “I’ve lived a long, long time, but mortals still have the ability to make me lose my temper.”

Mortals? thought Jack, but he didn’t dare ask what the Bard meant.

“I need advance knowledge before I approach St. Filian’s.” The old man felt in the bag he always carried and drew out the silver flute of Amergin.

“That’s pretty!” exclaimed Thorgil.

“Wait till you see what it does,” said Jack.

The Bard played a tune first, a rippling, lilting melody like a mountain stream pattering over rocks. Birds landed on the branches above him and cocked their heads to listen. Then the music became solemn, not sad exactly, but very serious. It was the kind of music an ancient forest might make. It spoke of time passing and beauty fading. All things ultimately returned to the earth, even trees that had seen the Romans arrive with their mighty plans. But the Romans had gone into the earth with the trees. They had rested awhile and then had returned with the sun, as creatures immersed in the life force did.

The Bard put down the flute. Thorgil quickly wiped tears from her eyes. “There,” the old man said. “I needed to remind myself what’s important, or I might have lost my temper and called lightning down on that idiot Severus. Now I’ll play something else.” He put the flute to his lips and produced a sound so deep that Jack felt it in his chest.

The sound rolled through the grove of pine trees, and the birds fled before it. It was like the purr of an immense, self-satisfied cat. It made Jack sleepy, and he thought about how nice it would be to curl up in front of a fire. Suddenly, a large, snow-white cat sped out the monastery door and bounded up the hill as fast as it could go. It arrived at the top of the hill lickety-split and threw itself at the Bard.

“You old rascal! You’re so heavy, you must have made off with half the chickens in the neighborhood,” cried the old man, fending the creature off. The cat paraded back and forth, rubbing itself against the Bard and meowing. “Yes, yes. I missed you too. It’s been a long time since the Vale of Song. Sit down, old friend.”