Nancy - The Islands of the Blessed

• Название: The Islands of the Blessed
• Автор: Nancy
• Жанр: Фэнтези

The crowning volume of the trilogy that began with The Sea of Trolls and continued with The Land of Silver Apples opens with a vicious tornado. (Odin on a Wild Hunt, as the young berserker Thorgil sees it.) The fields of Jack’s home village are devastated, the winter ahead looks bleak, and a monster—a draugr—has invaded the forest outside of town.

     But in the hands of bestselling author Nancy Farmer, the direst of prospects becomes any reader’s reward. Soon, Jack, Thorgil, and the Bard are off on a quest to right the wrong of a death caused by Father Severus. Their destination is Notland, realm of the fin folk, though they will face plenty of challenges and enemies before get they get there. Impeccably researched and blending the lore of Christian, Pagan, and Norse traditions, this expertly woven tale is beguilingly suspenseful and, ultimately, a testament to love.

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And so Jack sang of the earth when it was gentle and not wild, of the harp in the trees when wind played among the leaves. He sang of fair meadows where deer brought their young, knowing them to be safe, and of the cry of larks tumbling in High Heaven.

Gradually, Brother Aiden’s face cleared and he looked hopeful again. “Thank you,” he said. “Your voice is wonderfully healing, almost as fine as Pega’s.” He began once again to bless the raw wound in the forest.

Jack gazed down the passage, thinking, This is the path Odin took with his warriors, if Thorgil saw truly. They passed her by, ignoring one who wanted to join them and taking Gog and Magog, who didn’t. Why does everyone always compare me with Pega?

Feeling slightly nettled, he bade good-bye to Brother Aiden and went home to see whether he could help with repairs. 

Chapter Four SEAFARER

The last rays of sunlight caught on the wings of swallows as Jack returned to the Bard’s house. The sea, still troubled by distant storms, was lined with foam. The air was beautifully clear, however, with every sound carrying for miles. Jack heard Brother Aiden’s bell from the little beehive-shaped hut where he lived. It trembled like a plucked harp string before dying away into the deepening blue sky—as different from a cowbell as nightingales were from crows.

King Brutus had found it buried in an old chest at St. Filian’s Monastery. Since the monastery already had a bell, and this one was too small for such a grand establishment, he’d sent it to the village. Brother Aiden was delighted.

Until a week ago, he’d made do with a rusty instrument that clanked rather than rang.

This was the first time Jack had heard it, and it filled him with a longing he didn’t quite understand. It sounded again. Brother Aiden would be kneeling in prayer; the bell was to call whoever wished to join him. Jack thought it odd that sound traveled farther than sight, for Brother Aiden was too far away for Jack to see even the fire outside his hut.

Thorgil said that sounds never really died. She said the Northmen heard their dead calling to them on nights when lights danced in the sky. Jack had never seen such a thing and didn’t want to.

The bell rang a third time, and from the sea came a terrifying wail. Jack’s hand went to his knife. The cry faded to a sob and then ceased altogether. He waited tensely, scanning the distant waves. He saw a long, discolored patch of sea moving toward shore, and then it was gone.

Probably seaweed, thought Jack. Still, he watched until darkness forced him to go on.

Inside the Bard’s house, a cheerful fire sprouted green, red, and yellow flames as it burned driftwood. An iron pot bubbled with the enticing smell of mushrooms. Jack sighed with happiness. Everything was as it should be. The painted birds on the walls moved in the firelight, and a painted breeze appeared to ruffle the leaves of a flower garden.

Jack was about to ask the Bard whether he’d heard the cry when he saw the old man feeding scraps of dried fish to a large, bedraggled-looking bird. Thorgil was squatting beside him, engaged in conversation—to go by the croaks—with the bird. She didn’t look pleased, and Jack guessed the Bard had bullied her into performing.

“Look what the storm has washed up,” said the Bard. “Fetch us some of that stew while I put our friend to bed.” He urged the bird to an alcove filled with straw. Jack noticed that it hopped unsteadily and that one of its wings dragged on the floor.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A great wonder,” said the Bard enthusiastically. “He’s called a—what did you say, Thorgil?”

“An albatross,” she replied sullenly. She was pale and her face was badly bruised, but she seemed to have recovered.

“He’s a visitor from the far south, and I do mean far,” said the old man. “Imagine! There’s a place even I haven’t heard of. It’s a land full of ice mountains that groan all winter long and break off into islands when summer comes.”

“It sounds like Jotunheim,” said Jack.

“I thought so at first, but Seafarer—that’s the bird’s name—says it’s home only to birds and seals. It’s so remote, I can’t understand his speech. Fortunately, Thorgil can.”

Jack took down a stack of bowls, placed a chunk of bread in each, and ladled stew over it.

“The poor fellow took a beating in the storm. Dislocated his wing. Thorgil found him struggling in the surf and carried him here.” The Bard was delighted with his new guest, and Jack knew it was due to tales of a new land beyond the sky’s reach. The Bard was always interested in new things.

Jack and Thorgil sat on the floor to eat. “I’ve never seen such a big seagull,” the boy said, watching the bird fidget in his alcove.

“I haven’t seen anything like him either,” the old man said. “He wasn’t at all friendly when he arrived—tried to peck out my eyes—but I soon put him straight with a fear-spell. We have an uneasy truce now. He needs my help, and I’ll only give it if he behaves.”

“I’d like to learn a fear-spell,” said Thorgil, spearing a morsel of stew meat with her knife.

“I wouldn’t dream of teaching it to you,” the Bard said. “You’d terrorize the village every time you got into a snit.”

The albatross clacked his beak. Jack held out a chunk of meat at arm’s length, and the bird seized it before retreating back into the shadows.

“He trusts you,” the old man said approvingly. “That’s very interesting. Your powers have grown since you lost your staff.”

Jack concentrated on his food. It still upset him to think about the staff. He’d cut it from a branch of Yggdrassil. It had been a true bard’s staff, except that he’d had no time to learn its powers. He’d lain it across the barrier between life and Unlife to lift a curse from Din Guardi. Now it was gone, ashes on the wind.

“That deed opened a door into the unseen world for you,” the Bard said, correctly guessing what was on Jack’s mind. “Sacrifice, done rightly, is stronger than magic.”

“Northmen sacrifice thralls,” Thorgil said. “I never saw it do them any good.”

“I’m not talking about the slaughter of hapless slaves. I’m speaking of a man who lays down his life so that others may live, or a woman who starves herself to keep food in her children’s mouths.”

“You sound like one of those mewling Christians,” sneered the shield maiden. Jack raised his hand to caution silence. The Bard was slow to anger, but you didn’t want to push him too far.

“I wouldn’t dismiss Christians so readily, Thorgil Small-Brain,” the old man said. “They may seem weak, and some of them are certainly rogues, but they have prevailed in situations that would slow the blood of the bravest hero.”

“They’re only fit to pull dung carts,” Thorgil said carelessly. “The future belongs to the strong.”

“That belief is why Northmen are going to disappear.”

“Disappear!” Thorgil sprang to her feet. “My people will never be defeated! Our fame will never die!”

For an instant the hearth flames blazed and the shadow behind the Bard loomed. Thorgil sank to the floor, her eyes wide and frightened. The albatross moaned, and Jack was suddenly clammy with sweat. Then the flames subsided. The Bard was a kindly old man again, normal-size and a bit frail.

“Good fear-spell,” murmured Jack.

“Thank you,” said the old man. “I learned that one from a sea hag in the Orkney Islands.”

The shield maiden struggled to a sitting position with as much grace as she could manage. Her eyes shot daggers at the Bard.

He continued, ignoring her. “Many strange things have been happening: the Wild Hunt, the loss of Gog and Magog, the arrival of Seafarer, that cry from the sea.”

“You heard it too, sir?” Jack said.

“I could hardly miss it. I was on the cliff watching waves,” the Bard said. “I was rather hoping to find another albatross. The cry came from directly below, and I was about to climb down to investigate when I saw a creature poke its head out of the water. It was as long as a Northman ship with a huge tail curled beneath it.”

“A sea serpent?” cried Jack.

“A much rarer being. It was a Pictish beast.”

“Now I know we’re in for bad luck,” Jack said.

“For shame,” the old man scolded. “Not everything Pictish is bad. At any rate, this beast seemed drawn to whatever screamed. It made straight for shore, and I ran for my staff. You can never be quite sure whether a monster is hungry or merely curious. It was gone by the time I returned.”

“And the creature below?”

“I couldn’t find it,” said the Bard. “You know, I’ve heard that cry before, but I can’t quite remember where.”

“We should hunt for it,” said Thorgil. She drew her knife and held it up in the firelight. Her movements were much more polished after a year practicing with her left hand, but she would never regain her earlier skill. Her right hand looked completely normal, apart from a strange silvery hue, but it was as useless as a block of wood.

Jack wasn’t sure whether Thorgil’s paralysis was of the mind or whether some dire ill had passed to her from the demon she had attacked. The Bard had tried to heal her. Even Brother Aiden (when she was asleep and couldn’t spit at him) had prayed over her. Nothing helped.

“It’s as black as a lead mine out there,” the Bard said. “It’s far more likely something would find you before you stumbled over it. Besides, I have new magic for you to learn, Jack.”

The boy was elated. At last! Months had passed with only a repetition of the spells he’d already studied. He’d called up fire, calmed winds, and practiced farseeing, which had shown him meaningless beaches and gloomy rocks. The only new spell he’d learned was to separate grain from grit by calling to the life force within the kernels.

“What about me? Why can’t I learn magic?” demanded Thorgil.

“I haven’t chosen you as my apprentice, but if it’s any consolation, you already have some powers. When you tasted dragon’s blood, you became part dragon. That’s why you can understand the languages of the air.”

“Part dragon?” Thorgil said, interested. Jack could almost see the thought passing through her mind. If she were part dragon, she could fly over her enemies and blast them with fire.

The Bard smiled grimly, showing that he, too, understood. “Don’t expect to sprout wings anytime soon. You’ve been given a useful skill, and through the sacrifice of your hand, I suspect you’ve gained even more. You might even turn into a healer.”

Jack hooted with laughter before he could stop himself.

“Your wits have turned,” Thorgil snarled. “I am no healer to mumble charms over weaklings. I’m a shield maiden and will fall in battle holding my sword, even if it’s in the wrong hand.”

“That path is no longer open to you,” the Bard said. “I’ve seen how the horses come to you and follow your every command. I heard how you lifted that crow from the mud and breathed hope into his wings.”

“What crow? Nobody saw me. I didn’t do it,” cried Thorgil.

“He came by the house and told me about it,” the Bard said, amused.

“He was a follower of Odin. It was the least I could do,” the shield maiden conceded.

“You needn’t be ashamed of kindness, Thorgil. Even the great Olaf One-Brow once stretched out his hand to a girl-child nobody wanted. Now, I need to teach Jack a sleep-spell. We must put Seafarer’s wing right before it sets permanently in that position.”

“I could learn that,” Thorgil said eagerly.

“No, you couldn’t, but you can haul Seafarer out of his nest for me.”

Seafarer was in no mood to let anyone touch his wing. He snapped and screamed when Thorgil tried to move him. In the end she had to lure him out with a trail of dried fish. He gulped down the treats, keeping one beady eye on the humans, and kept up a burble of hisses and grunts. Even Jack, who knew no Bird, recognized them as insults.

“Now comes the hard part,” the old man said when the bird had settled far from its lair. “I must pull Seafarer’s dislocated wing back into line, and it’s going to hurt like the very blazes. I don’t dare give him poppy. The infusion is too strong and might kill him.”

“Should I hold him down?” said Jack, looking doubtfully at the sharp beak.

“Too dangerous. Birds, even intelligent ones, panic when you try to restrain them. Thorgil, you must distract Seafarer. We need him relaxed while the spell works its power. Ask him about the land he came from. You can tell him about the Northland too.”

Thorgil grinned, and Jack knew she had every intention of learning the new spell. She began speaking in Bird. It was a strange language full of groans and clicks, and Seafarer answered her with croaks and sighs. Sometimes his voice seemed to come from a great distance, like something you might hear on a night wind. Sometimes it boomed close to your ear. Whatever they were talking about, the great bird was entranced by it.

“Now, lad. Observe my hands,” the Bard said quietly. “I’m going to weave a spell in the air as well as with words. Seafarer can’t understand human speech, but with animals, music is far more important. Listen to the tone of my voice.”

The Bard settled in front of Seafarer and began to move his hands like seaweed undulating in a gentle sea. It was a beautiful motion, so fluid and peaceful that you wanted to watch it for hours. Jack thought it was like music made visible. The Bard began to speak in a drowsy voice that made the boy feel warm and safe inside. The words didn’t matter. The Bard could have been saying “tra-la-la” for all the difference it made, but in fact he was actually making sense:

You are floating on a still pond… floating… floating…. It’s the softest bed you have ever known… floating… floating… softer than your mother’s wings… safer than your father’s shadow…. Nothing can harm you…. All is peaceful… floating…. You are getting very sleeeeepy….

Jack’s head jerked up. His vision had blurred and he had to force himself to focus. For an instant the Bard’s hands looked exactly like seaweed, and Jack knew the magic was overwhelming him. He pinched himself viciously.

Seafarer sat with his beak half open. He slowly blinked that double blink of seabirds when a milky skin slides sideways before the eyelids come down. His legs gradually collapsed until he was sitting on the floor. Jack pinched himself again. Warm… safe… floating…

Thorgil fell over with a thump. She was going to have another bruise, Jack thought distantly, trying to keep his wits about him. Then Seafarer fell over.

“Quick, before he wakes,” murmured the Bard. “Hold his good wing close to his body.” Jack obeyed, and all the while the slow music of the old man’s voice wove itself around them like a vast, shining coil. The Bard grasped the other wing and flexed it with a quick movement. There was an audible click. Seafarer shrieked, but his eyes stayed closed. He lay on the floor, sound asleep.