The Islands of the Blessed

“It’s not much of an army,” observed Jack. The remaining warriors, minus Eric the Rash, numbered twelve. Or eleven, because Rune was too crippled to fight, though he would certainly try. Ten, when you subtracted Thorgil, because she was small. Nine, because Jack wasn’t really a warrior, and eight, because Big Half was quaking with fear. But there was also Schlaup, who might count for four or five warriors on his own.

“It will do,” said the Bard. He sent Seafarer on one last mission to look over the wall.

Two-legged beasts hiding, the albatross reported. Air feels nasty.

The wall is awakening, the old man said. You must go and sleep now, my friend. Seafarer soared out to sea, aiming for a distant rock covered with seagulls. “Now our work begins. Jack and I will tackle the wall. The rest of you stay back where it’s safer.”

Are you joking? Jack thought. Us? Alone? He could already feel the rage radiating from the stones. It made him sick, this hopeless anger and despair. He felt dizzy.

“It’s all in a day’s work for a bard, or perhaps I should say a ‘night’s work’,” the Bard said cheerfully. “And yes, it’s nasty, but far less terrible than what these poor spirits endured. Put your hands on the wall.”

Jack, after a moment’s hesitation, obeyed. The rage flared up. He collapsed against the stones.

“Good. You’ve made contact,” said the old man. “Now tell them about the hogboon’s destruction. I’d do it, except they wouldn’t believe me. You were there.”

Jack didn’t know how to begin. All around him he felt unending pain, loss so extreme that it surpassed his ability to comprehend. He heard voices, terrible voices that called to loved ones who couldn’t hear them. They were all at the bottom of a pit, bound and helpless. Earth fell on their faces. The light of the sky vanished. They couldn’t breathe.

“Steady, lad. You’re seeing their memories.” Jack felt the Bard’s hand on his shoulder.

“Nechtan,” he said weakly. Instantly, the attention of the spirits was drawn to him. “Nechtan has been destroyed. I saw it.” He told them of the barrow and of the hogboon. He described the moon standing directly overhead and of what happened when the hogboon grasped the rune of protection. “It was life,” he said. “Nechtan could not bear the presence of life. He has utterly disappeared.”

Dimly, Jack heard a voice say, Is this true?

“Yes, I was there,” he replied. He felt the presences crowd around him, reaching into his mind.

It is true, the voice said. He does not lie.

“Now your long vigil is over,” said the Bard from somewhere close by. “You must go into the west, there to be restored and in time to return with the sun.”

But it seemed that the spirits could not let go of their sorrow. They continued to rage and cry out against their fate. Jack lay against the wall and felt himself pulled down into their desolation.

“Men of the sea, do you remember the feel of a deck beneath your feet,” said the Bard, “when waves stood high and the ship flew before them like a bird returning to her nest?”

Voices sighed. We remember.

“Never were there more seacrafty men or mariners surer of strength under sky than you. You returned to your halls, bright with hearth fire and filled with friends, your wives waiting onshore for first sight of sail.”

We remember.

Gradually, the Bard awakened their memories, and gradually, the anger dimmed, to be replaced by a great longing for all that had gone before. “It is time to take ship again,” the old man said, “to fare forth to the islands where winter never comes and the sea is as clear as sky. You are young again, worthiest of warriors, and your wives and children stand beneath the apple trees.”

Jack heard distant shouting and the sound of wind crackling in a sail and a thump as an anchor was hauled up. The voices, now joyful, faded until there was only the hiss of wind over stone. Jack found himself lying in an uncomfortable heap at the bottom of the wall. The air was cold with the first bite of fall, and the night was empty of fear. 

Chapter Thirty THE WATER OF LIFE

The moon was at zenith, painting the earth with a pale radiance, but a small slice had been taken out of its side. Jack saw Schlaup, Skakki, and the others clustered together for warmth. He was so cold, he couldn’t move. “You’ve done extremely well,” the Bard said. “Talking to the dead is one of the most difficult tasks a bard has, and one of the most dangerous. In my opinion, you’re ready to take on a draugr.”

No thanks, thought Jack. No draugrs. He was unable to speak. His arms and legs were numb.

“I’ll raise a fire,” the old man said. Someone must have gathered firewood earlier, because there was a large heap of it near the gate. The Bard thrust his staff into it and a flame shot up.