The Islands of the Blessed

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.

“Thank Freya,” groaned Thorgil. “Dragon Tongue wouldn’t let us have a fire earlier. What were you doing over there, mumbling all that time?”

“N-N-Nothing,” Jack managed to say, annoyed that she didn’t appreciate his bravery.

“Certainly looked like it. Someone kick Schlaup. He’s got his head on the cider keg.”

Jack slowly came back to life. He took a grateful swig when the cider keg was passed. “We freed the spirits in the wall,” he said. “What’s next?”

“Cleaning out the hall,” said the Bard. “Are you up for a little gate-pulling, Schlaup?”

“Sure,” said the giant, taking an enormous drink of cider. He went straight to the gate and began tugging on it, his large legs firmly planted on the ground. Jack could hear each lock as it popped out of its holder. With a dreadful splintering of wood, Schlaup wrenched the gate from its hinges and threw it to one side. Excited voices came from the ruined hall beyond. Torchlight shone from the gaping hole where the hall’s roof had been, but no one ventured outside.

“Good. They think the wall’s still haunted,” said the Bard.

“Should we storm them? Or wait for the villagers to arrive?” said Skakki.

“They’d only get in the way. Schlaup, attend to the iron door,” the old man said. The giant went to work and tore it out easily. This time there was a reaction from inside as arrows flew through the opening.

“Hunh! Bee stings,” said Schlaup, picking an arrow from his arm.

“Come back,” the Bard told the giant. “I want you to hear what happened to Thorgil last night.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jack. “I thought we weren’t supposed to tell him anything. You said the last thing we needed”—he glanced at the giant—“was a shape-shifting half-troll.”

“Perfectly true. That is the last thing we need. We’ve done everything else. Thorgil, proceed.”

“Excuse me, sir,” faltered Big Half. He had said nothing until now, and everyone had forgotten about his existence. He stood up in the flickering light and bowed to the Bard. “I know my brother’s been bad and I should hate him. But I can’t. He’s always looked after me, you see. I was wondering… before you do things in that hall… could Little Half come out?”

There was silence for a moment. Then Skakki said, “Your brother is responsible for many deaths.”

“I think he did it for me,” said Big Half. “I’m the one who always got us thrown out of places. I am an ox-brain, like he says. I forget to feed animals and they die, or I leave doors open or set things on fire. He could have abandoned me many times, but he didn’t. Sometimes he did bad things so he could take care of me.”

Skakki looked to the Bard for guidance. The old man shook his head. “There is always a choice between good or evil,” he said. “You chose to save Thorgil and Jack, showing that your heart is wiser than your brother’s. He chose, not once but many times, to drug travelers, knowing full well their fate. The answer is no.”

Big Half didn’t argue. “Then I want to join him.”

“You don’t have to. We’ll take care of you,” said Jack.

The big man smiled. “That’s awfully nice of you, but I’ve been with Little Half all my life. It wouldn’t feel right to leave him now that he’s in a tough spot.”

“You don’t know what’s going to happen,” Skakki said. “No one is going to survive in that hall.”

But Big Half couldn’t be persuaded, and eventually they gave him a burning branch from the fire. “Hold it up by your face so they know who you are,” said Thorgil. They watched him go through the ruined gate, cross the courtyard, and go inside.

Thorgil unfolded the saga of what had happened in Adder-Tooth’s hall as they sat around the fire. As she spoke, a change began to come over Schlaup. First, he panted like a man who has run many miles. Then he moaned and drummed his feet on the ground. The Northmen moved away from him. “My sister, my little sister,” he kept groaning.

“Everybody give him space,” said the Bard in a low voice. Jack had seen a half-troll fall into a snit only once before, when he’d made Queen Frith’s hair fall out. Frith’s body had bulged in a dozen places. Her features had rippled and twisted until he couldn’t guess what she was turning into—only that he didn’t want to find out. Northmen had fought one another to get through the door, whimpering in a most unheroic way.

Now Schlaup changed in an equally alarming manner. He swelled up, and his body turned lumpy and dark. He no longer looked remotely human, or remotely troll, either. Instead, he resembled a giant wave full of rocks. He towered up and up and up until he crashed over—SCHLAUP!—and flowed through the gate like an avalanche. On he went across the courtyard and into the hall, where they couldn’t see him anymore. But they heard the rumble of boulders dashing against the walls and saw flickers of light where rocks ground together.

The noise died away. Jack’s ears rang and his heart pounded. He found that his fists were clenched so tightly, his fingernails had drawn blood. Skakki, Rune, Sven the Vengeful, and the others seemed turned to stone. The Bard leaned on his staff, intently watching the hall.

“We really… must… let Mrs. Tanner see him do this sometime,” breathed Thorgil.

A figure stepped into the courtyard. It was Schlaup. He was slightly hunched over, a habit he’d acquired to apologize for his size. “The hall’s clean,” he said.

Jack didn’t want to see what lay inside. He’d seen terrible scenes before when Olaf One-Brow destroyed a village. He’d seen the Forest Lord demolish Din Guardi. He sat down next to the fire, hugging himself and shivering.

“You need to rest,” the Bard said. “We all do.” He raised his staff and murmured something Jack found familiar. It was a spell the old man had cast long ago when he’d pushed the boy too hard. Something dropped over Jack like a soft blanket. It felt safe and warm. He wanted to wrap himself up in it and never come out.

Others lay down close to the fire. Skakki stretched out his long legs as though he were on the most comfortable bed. Eric Pretty-Face curled into a ball with his thumb in his mouth. Thorgil pulled her cloak over her face. “I’d give anything to learn how you do that,” said Rune, yawning.

The Bard smiled. “It is the lorica of Amergin, the founder of my order—a warding-spell against harm. The words come when they are needed and cannot be spoken at any other time. They may not be memorized.”

And that was true, Jack thought, slipping into welcome sleep. He couldn’t remember anything about the lorica now, though he’d just heard it.

He woke wonderfully refreshed. Not only had the spell relaxed him, it had kept him warm. The ache that had crept out of the wall the night before was gone.

The sun was still hidden by hills, but the mist lying between sea and sky to the west had turned pink. Sven the Vengeful had risen early and returned with brushwood to replenish the fire. It was crackling cheerfully now, and Jack savored the heat. “I can’t stop thinking about poor Big Half,” said Thorgil. “His courage shames me, for I despised him as a fool.”

“Everyone did,” Jack said. He dreaded going into the hall. In the morning light it looked a complete ruin, like something that had been abandoned for a hundred years. Jack was very thirsty and suspected that everyone else was too, but the closest water lay in the courtyard. No one went near it. Finally, when the sun had cleared the hills, Skakki rose and led the way.

Jack was surprised to see the courtyard covered with tendrils of grass, with here and there a tiny clover leaf pushing its way through the soil. The channel by the spring was bright with reflected clouds. He cupped the water in his hands and found it cold and refreshing, with the hint of something green in it. “This is like water from the land of the yarthkins,” he said.

“Yarthkins?” echoed Skakki.

“Landættir,” translated Thorgil. “Spirits of the land. We encountered them on the way to Din Guardi.”

“Yarthkins are the first to arrive when Unlife is driven away,” said the Bard. “They are repairing the land, and for a time this water will be full of life. We should drink deeply of it.” So they did, and all declared that it was as good as a feast. Schlaup lay on his stomach and sucked up enormous quantities of it.

Jack approached the hall in better spirits, though his mind still recoiled from what lay inside. But when he got there, he found the place had been scoured clean. With the stones melted together, it looked like a hall-shaped rock formation. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Skakki, running his hands over the walls.

Everything on the cliff overhanging the sea was gone except for one small shed. Jack approached it warily. Inside, a pit had been filled with straw to house chickens, and when Jack opened the door, a hen scurried past him. More hens clustered against the far wall, squawking and climbing on top of one another. Big Half was lying on the straw, blinking at the sudden light.

“You’re alive!” Jack cried.

“I didn’t want to hurt the nice chickens. Or him,” admitted Schlaup from behind him. He looked vaguely guilty, as though expecting to be scolded.

“You did exactly the right thing,” said Jack. “Sir! Skakki! Thorgil! Big Half’s alive!” Everyone crowded around, trying to see into the dark interior. The man rolled to one side, and they saw that he had been concealing Little Half. But the dwarf looked completely witless. He stared into space and showed no awareness of anything around him.

“Don’t hit me!” cried Big Half, cringing away from Sven the Vengeful.

“I’m only trying to get you into the fresh air,” grumbled the Northman. “Phoo! The chickens have been roosting all over you.” Sven pulled both men out and laid the dwarf on the ground.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with my brother,” said Big Half. “He won’t talk.”

The Bard knelt down and felt the dwarf’s neck. “His heartbeat is strong. What happened last night?”

“Everyone got mad when I returned,” Big Half said miserably. “Adder-Tooth told me to go away. Little Half said I was a big dummy and he was sorry he’d ever known me. Then I heard thunder. Rocks and stuff poured into the hall. Little Half screamed, but I held on to him tight and said, ‘Little Half, we’ll get through this. See if we don’t.’ The next thing I knew, we were in the henhouse.” Big Half tenderly smoothed his brother’s hair. “He hasn’t said a word since.”

“Is he injured?” Jack said to the Bard.

“Not in his body. His mind has been unhinged by terror.”

“Then how did Big Half escape the same fate?”

The Bard smiled slightly. “There is sometimes a point to having an uncomplicated mind. Little Half’s brain swirled with many ideas. Every scheme gave rise to further schemes and every fear called up more fears. Such an imagination is easily overwhelmed. Big Half sees things simply. A rock is a rock, a tree is a tree, an avalanche is an avalanche. He doesn’t waste time imagining what they might do to him.”

By now the villagers and warriors had arrived and were amazed at the utter destruction. They had seen the torn-off gate, the glassy walls, and the absence of their enemies. They treated Skakki with extreme respect, considering him to be the man responsible for it.

“We are your subjects now, King Skakki,” one of the men said, bowing low. “Please accompany us to the village for a celebration.”

“King Skakki! I like that,” said the young sea captain.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” said the Bard.

Thorgil called up the wild horses and rode the stallion, which she had named Skull-Splitter in honor of Bjorn. She persuaded a mare to carry the Bard. This greatly impressed the villagers, especially when the Bard informed them that she was a descendant of King Hengist. But when Seafarer arrived and Thorgil spoke to him in Bird, their admiration knew no bounds. “It’s like living in a saga,” a woman gushed. And the third-rate skald, who had shown up when it was clear the fighting was over, said he would write a poem about it.

The excited voices died away in the distance. Jack had chosen to stay behind with Schlaup and the two brothers. Schlaup was too frightening to invite to a feast and Little Half too despised. Some of the villagers had wanted to throw him off the cliff, but when they saw his vacant eyes, they left him alone.

Jack found the silence soothing. There was something to be said for people who spoke seldom and had uncomplicated thoughts. He was tired of dealing with things that wanted to kill him. It was enough to listen to the wind and watch the seabirds coasting the air above the cliff. He could understand why St. Columba and St. Cuthbert had had a fondness for lonely islands.

Schlaup sat down next to him and watched the clouds drift by as if they were the most interesting things in the world. “I was thinking,” the giant said.

“Yes?” Jack was pleasantly diverted from his thoughts.

“Dragon Tongue said the stream was full of life.”

“The yarthkins have that effect on water,” explained Jack. “It has something to do with how things grow.”

“Landvættir,” said Schlaup, showing that he not only knew the word, but that he might know a great deal about such beings. The boy reminded himself not to underestimate the giant. “Landvættir heal things,” said Schlaup after a moment. He paused to call up the words. “If we put Little Half into the water, he might get better.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” said Jack.

They found the brothers next to the chicken house. Schlaup picked Little Half up and carried him off to the spring. “Please don’t hurt him,” begged Big Half. “Don’t drown him! Please! I beg you!” The giant plunged the dwarf into the channel and held him down. Big Half fought to loosen Schlaup’s hands to no avail.

“That’s enough!” cried Jack.

Little Half’s eyes flew open and he began to struggle. Schlaup hauled him out, coughing and spluttering, and patted him on the back gently—gently for a half-troll, that is. Little Half vomited up water, straw, and a few chicken feathers. “Better,” said the giant.

“Brother,” Big Half said, weeping, “are you all right?”

Little Half blinked and looked around. “Who are you?” he asked.

Reason had returned to the dwarf’s mind, but his memory had entirely vanished. He spoke well enough and he remembered what was said to him, yet his behavior was that of a small child. A nice child, Jack decided. It was Little Half before all the plotting and scheming had happened.

After a while villagers appeared with baskets of supplies, and one of them asked whether Jack would like to join them for the festivities. The man pointedly avoided asking the others. “No thanks,” Jack said. “I’m perfectly happy here.”

And he was. They feasted on oysters, smoked haddock, bannock cakes, and buttered cabbage. For drink they had ale and cider, but all agreed that the water from the spring was better. “That’s an oyster,” Big Half said patiently. “You don’t eat the hard part.”

“Oy-ster,” repeated Little Half.

Afterward they napped under the sky, except for Schlaup, who found his way down to a beach. Unlike true trolls, he wasn’t afraid of water, and Jack saw him in the distance, floating and spouting water like a whale.