Nancy - The Islands of the Blessed

“Brother Aiden says the bell is called ‘Fair Lamenting’. When people hear it they are reminded of Heaven,” Jack said.

“It reminds them of what lies beyond the setting sun. Call it Heaven if you like.” The Bard polished the flute with the hem of his robe. “The bell was named Fair Lamenting long before any monk set foot in Ireland. It was made for Amergin, the founder of my order. Through time, it came to St. Columba, who was top of his class for that year.”

“St. Columba was a bard?” said Jack.

“One of the best. It was he who moved my school to the Vale of Song to protect it from Christians. He himself became a Christian, yet he did not entirely forget the ancient lore. He could call up winds and calm storms, draw water from the earth, and speak to animals. When he was old, a white horse came to him and laid its head against his breast. Then he knew that the wind blew to the west and that it was time to go. It is said that St. Brendan the Navigator took him to the Islands of the Blessed.”

For a moment Jack could find nothing to say. The vision of the horse saluting the old bard moved him in a way he couldn’t explain. In his mind he saw the ship waiting to bear St. Columba away. It would be a humble vessel, as befitted a Christian saint, but its place in the sea would be assured.

“I thought… saints went to Heaven,” he said at last.

“Perhaps they do. Eventually. But the Islands are a way station for those who are not yet finished with the affairs of this world. The old gods live there, as do the great heroes and heroines. Amergin is there, unless he sought rebirth. Now, it’s getting late and we have work to do.”

They went outside. “Cast your mind into the wind,” commanded the old man. “Feel the lives in the air.”

The boy had often followed birds in their flight, sensing the steady beat of their wings. He had amused himself by making them swoop and turn. He could even, though this was forbidden, have called a fat duck down to its death. Now he searched the black sky for whatever might dwell within. High above he detected a skein of geese. Lower down an owl coasted the breeze, its eyes scanning for mice. And lower still—

Jack heard a thin, peeping call, and his attention wavered enough to see the Bard blowing on the flute.

Eee eee eee, it went. A simple call and yet not simple. It had layers and layers of meaning, the same way a leaf-stained pond reveals first the surface and then more depths as one continues to gaze. Eee eee eee went the air from a hundred different places.

And suddenly the sky was full of bats swirling and dipping around the old man. The Bard played his flute, and the bats answered. Jack could detect variations of pitch and intensity in the cries, but he had no idea what they meant.

The Bard put down the flute. With a dry rustle the bats dispersed, and in an instant they had disappeared. “They’ve gone in search of Thorgil,” the old man explained. “I’ll leave the door ajar in case one of them comes back.”

“Is that what the flute is for? To call bats?” whispered Jack. He wasn’t sure why he was whispering.

“You can call many things with it, some of which you would not care to meet. On the way to Bebba’s Town I’ll show you some of its uses.” The old man said nothing more, but Jack was elated. He was going to learn new magic. He’d already learned a few words in Bird and how to cast a sleep-spell. Things were looking up.

He shifted his bed to the other end of the house. He didn’t care to spend the night next to an open door with bats coming and going and a monster wandering in the hazel wood. He kept his knife ready and had his eye on a hefty branch smoldering in the fire in case of an emergency.

But the Bard slept peacefully all night and woke refreshed, just as Jack finally managed to close his eyes.

It was Brother Aiden who roused Jack some time later. The little monk banged the door open with his foot because his hands were holding the bell. “There is a monster,” he said, panting as he placed the bell on the floor. “Something killed John the Fletcher’s fighting cock and all the hens. The chief found a dead lamb outside his door.”

“Sit down and catch your breath,” the Bard ordered. “Jack, fetch our guest some cider.”

The boy sat up and brushed bits of straw from his hair. He quickly found a bag and filled a cup.

The monk downed the cider and held out his cup for more. “I could take a bath in this, I’m that lathered. Jack was right about a creature attracted to Fair Lamenting. It was all over the village hunting for it.”

“Or the attack was a coincidence. The damage could have been done by a bear,” suggested the Bard.

“A bear kills to eat. This thing tore animals to shreds and scattered the remains. Thank God it didn’t find a child.” Brother Aiden put the cup down. “The chief has ordered women and children to stay indoors, and John the Fletcher is organizing a hunt party.”

“They won’t find anything,” the Bard said quietly. A significant look passed between him and the monk.

“Thorgil!” cried Jack. “She was out all night!”

“She’s fine,” the old man assured him. “A crow spied her early this morning, sitting on a beach.”

“I’ll look for her.”

“She’ll come when she’s ready,” the Bard said firmly. “Now, Aiden, let’s discuss this monster of yours.”

Jack was torn. He wanted to know about the monster, but he was worried about Thorgil. She had to be very cold and hungry. She couldn’t even start a fire with that paralyzed hand of hers.

“Stop fidgeting, lad. She’s guarded by the rune of protection,” the old man said. “Now, to begin—”

The rune only helps you endure pain. It doesn’t save you from it, Jack thought bitterly, remembering the blows he’d received from Olaf One-Brow.

“—something was awakened by Fair Lamenting that should have remained asleep.”

“I don’t know how it could have heard the bell so far away, or why it chose this moment to emerge,” argued Brother Aiden.

It? thought Jack. What on earth is he talking about?

“The bell of Amergin is heard in all worlds, and remember, it hadn’t been used for a long time,” said the Bard. He set the bell upright and a faint chime sounded. All three listeners flinched. “I’ll have to wrap this in wool.”

“Father Severus has much to answer for,” Brother Aiden said sadly.

“Indeed he does. For one thing, he should have left the bell on Grim’s Island.”

Grim’s Island! Where’s that? thought Jack.

The little monk sighed, running his hand over the bright gold of Fair Lamenting. “The abbot himself insisted on bringing the bell. Remember, it had been owned by blessed St. Columba.”

“And hidden by him,” reminded the Bard.

“Yet Fair Lamenting was one of the few things to survive the destruction of the Holy Isle,” said Brother Aiden. “Surely that means the bell is holy. Who could have guessed it would travel the long miles?”

“They say such beings can swim through rock,” said the Bard.

Jack couldn’t hold it in any longer. “What are you talking about? What’s ‘it’? Where’s Grim’s Island? How can anything swim through rock?” He looked down, his face hot with embarrassment. The Bard had often lectured him about demanding quick answers. Most things worth knowing took time, the old man said. One had to wait, let the answer reveal itself. Forcing an explanation before it was ready was like picking an apple blossom and expecting it to taste like an apple.

“I’m surprised you waited this long,” commented the Bard. “I could see the questions piling up, but for once, I sympathize. This is a secret we’ve kept too long, and we must move swiftly to contain the damage.” The old man sat down on the chest where he stored the silver flute. “You go first, Aiden. You’re the one he trusted with the tale.”

“You must understand that Father Severus is the most unselfish man alive,” began Brother Aiden. “He has done many, many acts of kindness.”

Jack nodded. He remembered the gloomy priest in Olaf One-Brow’s ship lecturing everyone about sin and later giving tongue-lashings to the elves (who thought it great fun). But the man had shown compassion for three imprisoned children. Without him they would have died.

“In other circumstances Father Severus could have been a great king,” the monk said. “He inspires obedience. People follow his orders without question.”

Jack recalled the wicked monks of St. Filian’s cringing before Father Severus like whipped hounds. The citizens of Bebba’s Town accepted his leadership instantly and thus obeyed his order to make Brutus their king. Without the priest’s guidance Brutus would never have accomplished anything except to look adorable.

“Let’s not forget, your hero has a few blind spots,” said the Bard.

Brother Aiden smiled apologetically and continued his tale. “Grim’s Island is a cold, nasty place and so far north that sunlight barely touches it in winter. In summer it’s either shrouded in fog or lashed by arctic storms. But to Father Severus it was a paradise for the soul. He had grown weary of the soft life on the Holy Isle.”

“I thought the monks worked hard,” said Jack.

“Oh, we did. When we weren’t digging rocks out of fields, we were repairing roofs, mending fences, and chasing sheep. We prayed seven times a day and twice in the middle of the night. We slept on the ground and in winter meditated in snowdrifts. But there were pleasures too.” The little monk’s eyes softened at the memory.

“I remember singing in the chapel, and the beautiful stained-glass window. I spent many happy hours mixing inks in the library—such beautiful colors! I rolled out sheets of gold to decorate the manuscripts. And the food! We had chicken on Sundays, and bread and beer every day. We made wonderful syllabubs for saint’s days. As for the flummery…” Brother Aiden closed his eyes in ecstasy.

“The best kind, with nutmeg and cream,” Jack murmured. “Father told me.”

“I can see why Severus wanted to leave,” the Bard remarked dryly.

“Yes, well, he’s a very spiritual man,” Brother Aiden said. “Grim’s Island was made for heroes like him. It’s the most forbidding chunk of rock imaginable, and even Father Severus was taken aback by the sheer bleakness of the place. He arrived in a little coracle with only a sack of seeds and a few tools. He had to hunt all over the island for loose stones to build a hut. The only trees were on a mountain in the middle and beyond his strength to reach.

“At night Father Severus curled up in a sandstone cave hardly big enough for a family of foxes. By day he toiled unceasingly, digging seedbeds. He lived on seaweed and limpets. He drank rainwater caught in the rocks.

“Winter came early. By then all the limpets had been eaten and the crops had withered from the cold. The hut was unfinished, and so Father Severus moved into the cave. He didn’t expect to survive. This would have depressed a lesser man, but he looked upon it as a chance to enter Heaven early.”