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.

---

Thou art a good lad, Jack, to bless the fields, whispered the yarthkins. We will not forget thee.

“Brother Aiden will have to come here,” Thorgil said one chilly morning.

Jack looked up from the oatcakes he was toasting on a griddle. “Why?” he asked. It surprised him how much Thorgil cared about the monastery, for someone who had helped destroy the Holy Isle.

“The monks and nuns need a leader. They’re like children on their own. Father Severus gave them tasks for every hour of the day, and without him, they don’t know what to do.”

Jack nodded. He remembered how Father Severus had organized things in the dungeons of Elfland. You must always have an hourglass, he had said. It tells you when to go about your chores, when to meditate, and when to pray. Without direction, men fall into sloth. And from there they degenerate into other sins. But perhaps such unrelenting control wasn’t good for people either.

“Brother Aiden won’t like it,” Jack said. “He had a rotten time when he tried to run St. Filian’s before.”

“All the troublemakers are dead,” Thorgil said bluntly. “In my opinion, Sister Wulfhilda would make the best leader, but they won’t accept her. She’s a female.”

“You’re female.”

“I’m an ex-berserker,” Thorgil said with a wolfish smile.

“I told them I’d tell my brothers, one of whom is a half-troll, where the monastery was if they didn’t obey. At any rate, I’m sick of telling Christians when to pray and when to go to the privy. I want to start for the village before the winter storms.”

Jack looked out at the lake. It was pale under the autumn sky and some mornings there was a crust of ice around the edges. He wouldn’t mind leaving either, although he dreaded seeing the Roman house empty. “Brother Aiden won’t be able to come before spring. Can the monastery survive until then?”

“With Sister Wulfhilda’s help. You’ll have to bring him back without me, though. I won’t return.”

Jack knew she didn’t want to see Ethne with the rune of protection. She couldn’t actually see it, of course, but a brightness around the elf lady told her it was there. “Fair enough,” he said.

They found Father Severus’ hourglass and showed Sister Wulfhilda how to use it. She would tell Brother Sylvus what to do each day—humbly, of course. The nun knew very well how to make others think they were making the decisions. And Brother Sylvus would pass the orders on to everyone else. The monastery was stocked with food meant for a hundred. They had ample firewood.

“I’m leaving this with you, Wulfie,” Thorgil said, handing over the small chest of jewels from Notland. Jack was astounded. Nothing separated Northmen from their wealth-hoards except death. Even Beowulf, as he lay dying, had asked to feast his eyes on the gold he had wrested from the dragon.

“Are you sure?” he murmured.

“It was bought with Dragon Tongue’s life,” she said simply. Jack saw that a profound change had come over the shield maiden.

Sister Wulfhilda admired the dark wood inlaid with ivory. “I’ve never seen anything this fine, not even in the treasure room of the monastery. Is it a saint’s relic?”

Thorgil laughed. “I’ll never understand why Christians keep bones in boxes. No, Wulfie. It’s not a relic. You’ll have fun looking at the contents, but for Freya’s sake, don’t let Brother Sylvus or anyone else see it. Keep it hidden until Brother Aiden arrives. He’ll know what to do.”

They left very early the next morning while the ground was covered with frost. Only Sister Wulfhilda saw them off, for they wanted to slip away without long good-byes. “If I don’t return by spring,” Jack said, “send a message to Brother Aiden. Send it in my name. You and he can decide whether to introduce Ethne to King Brutus. The Bard thought she’d make a good queen, but I’m not sure he’d make a decent husband.”

They kissed good-bye and rode off on a path that Sister Wulfhilda said would skirt the town and join up with the road to the village. The horses blew mist from their nostrils, and the morning star blazed in the eastern sky. “Why did you say that?” said Thorgil. “I mean, about not returning by spring.”

“I don’t know,” Jack admitted. The air was cold, but St. Columba’s robe was proof against any weather. The staff was slung on his back, and the horse’s saddlebags contained provisions for the long journey.

They rode west for a while and then south. The town was barely visible, even in the pearly light of dawn, and they met no one until they came to a stream. A creature sped out of the bushes and sat down on the road ahead of them.

Well met, Pangur Ban, said Jack.

You sneaky wizard. You tried to go off without saying good-bye, accused the cat.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.

“What language are you speaking?” said Thorgil. “And why is Pangur Ban yowling?”

She doesn’t understand the Blessed Speech, said the cat. You should use Saxon.

“All right, I will,” Jack said, surprised that he’d been using anything else.

“Will what?” the shield maiden said crossly. “It’s cold as a troll’s backside out here. If we’re going to be entertaining cats, we should build a fire.”

They dismounted and gathered firewood. Jack set it alight with the staff without any trouble, although the wood was damp. “Nothing like a fire on a cold morning,” he said, warming his hands.

“Sister Wulfhilda packed venison pies,” said Thorgil. “I can heat one up if you’re hungry.”

“Do you want one, Pangur?” Jack gave a friendly scratch behind the cat’s ears. The creature was stretched out to get maximum warmth on his stomach.

Save them for the trip, he advised. It might be longer than you think.

“He says we should wait,” Jack translated. By now the sun had risen over the eastern sea, but it was still veiled in mist. It shone like a pale gold moon.

“You can understand him. That’s new,” said Thorgil.

“Yes, it is,” Jack said uneasily.

“Ask him what he ate all that time Ethne was starving herself.”

So Jack asked, and Pangur Ban said he’d been eating rats. He preferred lamb chops and roast goose, of course, but one made do with what one could get. He’d slain any rats that tried to get into Ethne’s cell and taken them outside to devour because she was so tenderhearted. She’s turned into a decent human, he said. Dragon Tongue would be pleased.

“You do know what happened to him?” the boy said sadly.

I know everything, replied the cat. They spoke of this and that, and Jack invited him to come along, but Pangur Ban preferred to stay in the monastery. They spoil me rotten, he said, purring loudly. Besides, I want to keep an eye on Ethne. Now you should go, for the way is difficult.

They put out the fire and called the horses, and Thorgil gave a last stroke to Pangur Ban’s fur. He sniffed her hand and made an excited chattering sound. Forgive me. She smells like Bird and I always lose control.

“What’s he saying?” Thorgil said suspiciously.

“Nothing you need to know. Farewell, old friend,” Jack said to the cat. “May the life force hold you in the hollow of its hand.”

And you as well. Pangur Ban stretched luxuriously and then trotted off. After a moment he turned aside and vanished into the bushes. 

Chapter Forty-six THORGIL SILVER-HAND

Up until then the weather had been cold but dry. Now storm clouds blew in from the northeast, and by afternoon the first raindrops began to fall. “Balder’s backside,” grumbled Thorgil, wrapping herself in a heavy, woolen cloak treated with oil. The rain increased until they could hardly see the way forward. The road became awash with streams pouring out of the forests on either side. The ponies’ hooves slipped in hidden holes, and finally Jack said they would have to camp.

They had only gotten as far as a small beech wood, a half-day’s journey from town. In the teeming rain they saw a well with a copper cup attached to a chain. “We won’t be needing that for water,” said Thorgil. “All we have to do is look up and open our mouths.”

The beech trees were completely leafless and offered no shelter from the storm. Jack and Thorgil had to huddle next to the well, where an ancient wall, half tumbled down, gave some protection. The ponies stood together with their backs to the wind.

“Maybe we should return to the monastery tomorrow,” said Jack.

“Never! I shall never go back,” Thorgil said. Jack knew there was no point arguing with her yet. By morning she might be miserable enough to change her mind. He put St. Columba’s robe over both of them, and as before, it gave them ample cover. It not only made them feel warmer, but drier. The wool didn’t smell of wet sheep either, but of green leaves and summer.

“I wonder whether I could magic up some kind of shelter,” Jack said, looking at St. Columba’s staff.

“That would be very welcome,” said Thorgil. She might be warmer, but she was still shivering.

Jack held the staff out, trying various commands such as “Walls, arise!” and “House, appear!” but nothing happened. Even to him the words sounded lame. He needed a lorica, and that only came when needed.

I really, really need one now, Jack thought, hoping that someone was listening. The water kept thundering down. Next, he tried to stop the rain, but he had only ever been good at calling it up. “The staff has a mind of its own,” he conceded at last.

“We’ll get through this,” said Thorgil. “I remember once, when I was very small, being stuck on a cliff with Olaf while he was hunting wild sheep. A storm came up and we couldn’t move. The wind was so strong, I thought it was going to blow us over the edge, but Olaf said, ‘Hang on by your fingernails, child. That’s why Northmen never cut them. They’re as good as eagle talons.’ He was so cheerful about it, I lost all fear.”

Jack unwrapped one of the venison pies, and they took turns nibbling it. Darkness fell with no letup in the storm. The ground where they lay was full of stones and a tree root meandered through the middle, but eventually exhaustion brought them sleep.

It was still raining in the morning. “We have to return,” Jack said.

“Never,” said Thorgil flatly.

“I’ve seen these storms go on for a week. Besides, what’s the harm in staying at the monastery until spring? You can stuff wool in your ears if you don’t want to hear Christian prayers.”

“I won’t go back!” cried Thorgil, with more than a little hysteria in her voice.

Jack decided it was better to eat breakfast before pushing the argument further. He unpacked a round of cheese and cut her a chunk with his knife.

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

“You need to eat.” He made the mistake of trying to put the cheese into her mouth, and she struck him. The whole round went spinning into the mud. “What’s the matter with you?” Jack shouted, retrieving the food and holding it out in the rain to clean it.

“I said I wasn’t hungry and I meant it! I want to get moving! I’ll go mad if I sit here and do nothing!”

“Go mad, then.” Jack turned his back on her. He ate slowly while staring at the teeming rain. Even on the high ground where they were, the water sat in pools. It seemed likely that the road ahead was flooded. He heard a slight noise over the relentless storm and turned to see Thorgil crying.

She was trying not to make a sound, but her body shook with sobs and a few gasps escaped her. “Thorgil, I’m so sorry,” cried Jack. He was used to her rages. Crying was much more alarming. He slid over to put his arm around her and found that her skin was hot. “Oh, Thorgil. Oh, no,” he murmured. She had caught flying venom. It had simply taken a while to surface.

When they had arrived at the monastery, the monks and nuns no longer had it, but Ethne was still ill. Thorgil had bent over her when she transferred the rune of protection. The elf lady had breathed on her.

Jack held Thorgil closely. He was aware that she could infect him, but he didn’t care. “You know you’re very sick, don’t you?” he said. There was no point avoiding the truth. Northmen preferred to face a problem head-on.

“I don’t feel good,” Thorgil admitted. “My head aches horribly, and I keep having chills. My eyes are blurry.”

“It might be flying venom.”

“It might. Wulfie said she felt like this.”

They sat for a while longer. “You know that we can’t go to my village now,” said Jack. “We’d carry the disease to them.”

“I know,” she said.

“The only place in the world where we’ll be welcome is the monastery. They’ve already had the disease. They won’t catch it again.” Jack smoothed her wet hair. Even that was too hot.

He helped Thorgil to her feet, and she called the ponies in the way that only the heirs of Hengist knew. They came readily, but he had to help her climb up. “Put your arms around its neck,” Jack advised. “That way you won’t fall off.”

Far too slowly, they began to retrace their journey. The road was cut by streams and sometimes disappeared altogether. Jack had to keep checking landmarks to be sure they were going the right way. Without the sun, he had no sense of direction. Thorgil slipped into a kind of trance as they plodded on. She no longer raised her head and depended on Jack to find the way. Unfortunately, his pony wasn’t at all cooperative. It balked at going down the road and turned around frequently to be sure its companion was following.

Jack had to fight the animal constantly, and it soon became clear that they wouldn’t reach St. Filian’s before dark. He was looking for a place to camp when suddenly the way before them was blocked by a tangle of bare branches. He halted. “Where are we?” said Thorgil in a drowsy voice.

“Almost there,” Jack lied, his heart thudding with fear.

Somehow, while fighting the pony, he’d gotten off the road. He looked back and found the trees completely unfamiliar. He couldn’t remember which way they’d come, and now they were surrounded by the confusing jumble of a hazel wood.

Paths led off in all directions, most of them roofed by branches so low, a horse and rider couldn’t get through. The light was dim and getting dimmer. Jack looked around desperately for some kind of shelter. “Must lie down,” said Thorgil in a muffled voice.

“No!” cried Jack, but she had already slipped to the ground. She landed in a mush of dead leaves, and he dismounted quickly and ran to her. His pony, freed of its burden, wheeled and galloped off through the trees. Thorgil’s pony followed. “No! No!” shouted Jack, waving his arms, but they paid not the slightest attention to him.