The Islands of the Blessed

Chapter Thirty-eight ST. COLUMBA’S CAVE

“A cave? Let’s go inside,” said Thorgil.

Jack had an instinctive dislike of dark holes in the ground. So far he hadn’t found anything good in them. “What about knuckers?” he said, remembering the spiderlike creature that had almost trapped him and Pega.

Thorgil paused. She had met them too. A wave shook the ground and cold water splashed over them. “If we stay here, we’ll surely drown. We don’t know that there are knuckers inside.”

“There could also be wyverns, hippogriffs, manticores, basilisks, and krakens,” said Jack, naming a few of the things they might find in dark tunnels. He wasn’t sure what all of them were. More water sprayed over their heads.

“Those things eat you quickly,” pointed out Thorgil, who seemed to have more information. “That’s not so bad. Knuckers kind of suck at you for a long time.”

“Wonderful,” said Jack. They both stared at the dark opening, unwilling to move. “The Bard once said…” Jack swallowed and forced himself to go on. “The Bard once said that caves with no air movement are the most dangerous. This one has a breeze.” He could feel a steady flow of warmer air blowing in his face.

“So… only wyverns, hippogriffs, and the rest to worry about,” said Thorgil. A really big wave sent water swirling around their feet.

Jack slung the rope over his shoulder. He used one hand to feel the wall and the other to hold on to Thorgil. “If I disappear, you’re to go back,” he said.

“If you disappear, I’m going with you,” she retorted.

Jack went first, slowly and cautiously. It had occurred to him that the cave could fill up with water and they’d be no better off, but the ground went up. The roof of the cave went up as well. “I say! This is lucky,” Jack said. “It’s a regular tunnel.” The farther they went, the better he liked it, although he had no reason for this.

“Is that light?” said Thorgil.

Jack had been so absorbed with avoiding rocks, he hadn’t noticed. There was a faint light coming from a side cave. Side cave, he thought, remembering the knuckers. Yet even here a breeze stirred. It was cold and smelled of the sea. When he got to the entrance, he could see that the light came from a small hole on the farther side. The ground trembled as a wave crashed nearby.

He thought he saw a man crouching in a white robe. The Bard, he thought, for one frozen moment. But it was a cloth draped over a rock. He expected to feel sorrow and disappointment. Instead, he was unaccountably happy, as though he’d turned aside from a dark road to find a house with a cheerful fire on the hearth. The cave was brimming with the life force.

“Why is it so nice here?” said Thorgil, coming up behind him.

“You feel it too? I don’t know. It seems like a good place to rest.” Jack saw other articles around the room. Yes, room. This was no ordinary cave, but the dwelling place of someone long gone. He saw a three-legged stool, cooking utensils, a cauldron, a goblet with a pattern of vines inscribed on it, and a staff. Everything was coated with fine sand that must have come in through the hole.

“Do you know what this place is?” Jack said, with dawning excitement. “This is where Father Severus found Fair Lamenting. His cave is on the other side of that hole. It was a small cave, remember, and he enlarged it with his knife until he broke through to here. He didn’t realize this place was so large. He thought it was simply a hiding place.”

“It would have looked dark from that side,” said Thorgil.

“He reached inside and found the bell wrapped in the robe St. Columba had worn when he was head of the School of Bards. Brother Aiden said it was very fine and embroidered with gold.”

“It never occurred to Father Severus to look farther,” said Thorgil. They stood together in the room, caught in the wonder of it. After the total darkness of the tunnel, this place seemed bright. The walls were decorated with wonderful scenes. Swans floated sedately on painted lakes, deer gathered in a meadow, dogs leaped and barked for the pure joy of it.

“St. Columba must have made these,” Thorgil said. “What was he doing here?”

“Brother Aiden said he was giving up his magic to become a Christian,” said Jack. “It looks like it took him a while to make up his mind.”

Thorgil sank gratefully onto the sandy floor. “I’m tired,” she admitted. “There must be another way out or St. Columba couldn’t have lived here, but I’m too tired to look. It wouldn’t hurt to take a nap.”

Jack looked around instinctively. In his experience falling asleep in a strange place was always dangerous. They could find themselves in a hogboon’s barrow, for example. But if there was any place in the green world that felt safer than this cave, he couldn’t imagine it. He sighed deeply. Even sorrow was forbidden here, or was unimportant.

He shook the sand off the white cloth and found that it was a well-made woolen cloak. He spread it over himself and Thorgil, for the damp wind coming through the hole was very cold. They fell asleep, burrowed into the soft sand.

“Smell that!” cried Thorgil, sitting bolt upright.

Jack was still comfortably half asleep. He hadn’t rested this well since leaving the village and was unwilling to move, until the odor wafted into his nostrils too. He sat up abruptly. “That can’t be what I think it is.” His mouth filled with saliva and his stomach knotted.

“Wild boar,” Thorgil said reverently. “Beautiful, succulent, greasy wild boar roasted over a fire.”

“But how…?” Jack knew from Brother Aiden’s description that Grim’s Island was too desolate for such large animals.

“Who cares? I know what it is and I want some.” Thorgil stood up and swayed on her feet. “By Thor, I’m weak with hunger!”

“Is the smell coming from outside?”

“No. From there.” The shield maiden pointed at the dark tunnel. “Do you suppose St. Columba is still hanging about?”

“The Bard said he sailed for the Islands of the Blessed long ago,” said Jack. Strangely, he wasn’t sad thinking of the Bard now. He felt slightly guilty about it, but almost instantly that regret vanished as well. It was impossible to be depressed here. Jack went out into the tunnel and sniffed. The odor was coming from somewhere above them. “Whoever it is, I hope he’s generous.”

“We should take the cloak,” Thorgil said. She rummaged around and found a carrying bag with straps that fit over her shoulders. “This is perfect! I can put my wealth-hoard in here.”

“I don’t know,” Jack said doubtfully. “St. Columba meant to abandon these things. Look what happened when Father Severus carried off Fair Lamenting.”

“That’s because Father Severus didn’t understand magic,” the shield maiden said reasonably. “You do. You’re a bard.”

“Not really,” said Jack.

“Well, you’re the closest thing we’ve got. Now put on that cloak and pick up that staff. It will make a decent weapon if we run into trouble. I’d take the cauldron except it’s too heavy—now what’s wrong?”

Jack had turned very pale. “You can’t take a bard’s staff.”

“Don’t be silly. St. Columba isn’t going to want it back.”

“You don’t understand. Such things have to be earned.” Jack had never, ever dared to ask the Bard to borrow his. It was one of those things you didn’t do. A lifetime of experience went into crafting the magic. Life itself gave power to a staff—all the minutes and hours and days of a person, all the memories, hopes, triumphs, friendships, sorrows, and mistakes. They went into the wood to be called up at need.

Jack had only begun to build this lore when he used his staff to free Din Guardi. It had crumbled into dust.

“You used to have a staff. How did you earn that one?” said Thorgil.

It was when they were in Jotunheim, he told her, crossing the frozen waste to the Mountain Queen’s palace. Thorgil’s ankle had been broken and Jack went in search of wood to make her a crutch. He found an ash tree, a most unusual plant in such a cold place, with two branches exactly suited for his needs. One had a fork at one end for Thorgil to lean on. The other reminded him of the gnarled, blackened wood the Bard used. He decided to make himself a walking stick from it. It was only later he realized that the ash had been an offshoot of the great tree Yggdrassil.

“You see?” Thorgil said triumphantly. “The gods meant you to have that staff, and now you are meant to have this one.”

Jack wanted to believe it, but he was afraid. “I’m not worthy,” he said.

“Probably not, but you have to start somewhere,” Thorgil argued. “It’s like learning to be a warrior. You get knocked around a lot at the beginning.”

Jack’s hand hovered over the staff. He could feel a thrum of power in the air. “If it burns me to ashes, you’ll be sorry.”

“If you don’t do something soon, I’m going to die of hunger, and you’ll be sorry.”

Jack grasped the staff, and it was as though a sheet of light wrapped him from head to toe. He saw the entire island in a flash: the seas battering the shore, the stormy clouds, the dark mountain and forest on top. He saw men fighting one another with swords. Then the vision was gone. He slumped, still holding the staff.

“Well? Are you burned to ashes yet?” the shield maiden demanded.

“I’m not sure. I think the problem will be to avoid burning up other things,” said Jack. He felt dizzy. “I hope I’m strong enough to control this.”

“You’ll be fine. You’re Dragon Tongue’s successor.”

“Don’t say that!” A flame licked out of the end of the staff and left a black mark on the ceiling. “Oh, Freya! Don’t make me angry,” Jack begged. “I need time to get used to so much power. I meant to say that I’ll never be Dragon Tongue’s successor. I’m only his apprentice.”

Thorgil shouldered the pack carrying her wealth-hoard and went outside. “I’d say if we don’t get to the end of this tunnel fast, there won’t be anything left of that boar except bristles.”