The Islands of the Blessed - Nancy

“Did you say ‘half-troll’?” said Jack. The offspring of troll/human marriages were almost always doomed. They were forever torn between two worlds and either went mad or turned vicious. Frothi had devastated King Hrothgar’s hall and tried to murder Beowulf. Her sister, Frith, had sent a Nightmare to kill the Bard. When Frith fell into a snit, even berserkers climbed the walls to escape.

Skakki grimaced. “Not all such beings are evil. Much depends on the parents. Frothi and Frith’s father had been rescued from an avalanche by the Mountain Queen and imprisoned in her harem. He spent the rest of his life bitterly regretting his captivity. He hated the sight of his daughters. Schlaup had a different father.”

“I can see that he is a handsome lout,” said Thorgil, using the troll word for male. “I look forward to taking ship with him.” Schlaup turned a bright orange, the troll equivalent of blushing, and ducked his massive head.

“Go on,” said Jack, but Skakki, to his annoyance, insisted on having breakfast first. Bread and cheese was brought from the ship and toasted before the fire. It was excellent bread, and the cheese was strong enough to bring tears to your eyes. Jack, who’d had nothing to eat that morning, was grateful, although he wished Skakki would tell the story and eat.

But the Northmen weren’t like that. They preferred to do only one thing at a time. If pillaging, they gave their whole attention to it. If feeding, all conversation stopped until their bellies were stuffed.

Skakki produced a large pot of salty black berries that had come from across the sea. He called them “olives”, and Jack thought they were delicious. So did the Northmen, who were besotted with anything salty and jostled one another aside to get at the treat.

The sounds of chomping and slurping filled the air. Sven the Vengeful passed around bags of cider, with a large one reserved for Schlaup. A quarrel broke out over who had eaten the most olives, and Skakki clouted the crewmen nearest him. That was how his father had kept order, Jack remembered, except that when Olaf smacked someone, he stayed smacked for at least ten minutes.

When the food was gone, Skakki suggested a burping contest. Thorgil eagerly joined in, and Jack drummed his fingers with impatience. He knew what the young sea captain was up to. Northmen loved to drag out a story until you were ready to scream and half the fun was making the listeners beg for the conclusion.

When the burping contest was over—Schlaup won with a sulfurous belch that was pure troll—Skakki insisted that Rune produce a poem to celebrate their arrival. “Stop fooling around!” exclaimed Jack. “I want to know Schlaup’s history.”

Everyone guffawed, with Schlaup producing a deep wuh-huh-huh, and Jack knew they had only been waiting for him to lose his temper. “Do you really, really, really want to know?” cooed Skakki.

Jack sighed. “I really, really, really want to know.”

Skakki paused for effect, and everyone leaned forward, though all of them, except Thorgil, must have known the tale.

“One dark, snowy night,” began the young captain, “we heard a knock on the door of our hall. Everyone stopped what he was doing, for we knew few beings ventured out in the dead of winter. The ships were drawn up onto land, the sheep were locked into their pens. Honest folk, and even the dishonest ones, were sheltering inside their houses.

“We listened. One knock meant a draugr was lurking outside. You definitely don’t want to open the door to a draugr, because—”

“Don’t change the subject,” said Jack.

Skakki smiled evilly. “I thought you were interested in draugrs. Thorgil says you’ve got one in the village.”

Jack restrained himself with the greatest difficulty. Nothing entertained Northmen more than making you lose control.

“Very well,” Skakki went on. “We waited and listened. Whoever it was knocked three times. We waited again and the sound was repeated. Yet you don’t want to be hasty, for all kinds of things are abroad in the dark. The men took up their weapons and sent the women and children to the back of the hall.” Skakki paused to gulp down cider, taking his time about it. Jack wanted to upend the bag over his head.

“I opened the door a crack. Outside, the snow was coming down in flakes as big as my hand. Before me, almost invisible, were two huge creatures wrapped in cloaks of white wolfskin. ‘Trolls!’ I shouted. I tried to close the door, but one of them shoved it open so forcefully that it ripped off its hinges.

“‘Put down your weapon, son of Olaf One-Brow,’ the creature said. ‘I bring greetings from Glamdis, the Mountain Queen.’ And she—for it was a female—held out a carving of an elk. Do you remember how Olaf loved to make toys out of wood and how he decorated our hall with wolves and bears? No one could make better animals. I recognized his work.

“‘I am Fonn, daughter of the Mountain Queen,’ the troll announced. ‘This is my sister Forath. I speak for both of us, because she cannot use human speech.’ It was then that I felt the muttering of troll-thought in my mind,” said Skakki. “Meanwhile, the snow was blowing inside in great drifts.”

“‘Olaf made this elk for us on one of his visits,’ said Fonn. ‘And once, while he was visiting our mother, he made Schlaup.’ She stepped aside, and I saw a third, smaller shape behind her. It was a young lout.”

“Wait!” said Thorgil. “You mean Schlaup is Olaf’s son?”

“Indeed, he is. When you get used to him, you’ll see the similarity,” said Skakki.

“Another brother,” cried Thorgil, transported. “I knew he was quality the minute I saw him.”

“Glamdis was so deeply in love with Olaf, she didn’t try to imprison him in her harem,” Skakki said. “That was most unusual, for Glamdis likes to enslave her louts and they, by all accounts, enjoy being enslaved.”

“No one was ever able to control Olaf,” said Rune.

Jack was appalled, not so much by Schlaup’s existence, but by Olaf’s part in it. Jotun females were eight feet tall with bristly orange hair sprouting from their heads and shoulders. Their fangs, though daintier than the tusks of the louts, weren’t what most men found attractive in a wife.

“HE MADE A TROLL QUEEN FALL IN LOVE WITH HIM. WHAT A HERO!” bellowed Eric Pretty-Face.

“Then why did she cast out his son?” Jack asked.

All eyes turned to Schlaup, who seemed embarrassed by the attention. “Because I can’t think straight,” he said.

“Nonsense,” said Skakki. “There’s nothing wrong with your brain. You just can’t pass thoughts through the air like the trolls. Neither can I.” He turned to Jack. “Fonn explained that Schlaup’s disability made him too isolated. She and Forath cared for him, but after Olaf died, there was no one who could carry on a real conversation with him. No troll-maiden ever selected him to dance. No lout invited him to play Dodge the Spear. It was decided that Schlaup had a better chance of happiness with his father’s kin.”

“And so he does,” Thorgil declared warmly. She sat next to him and laid her head against his massive chest. “I, too, have a disability,” she said. “My right hand was paralyzed when I fought Garm, the Hound of Hel. At first I was devastated and wanted to die, but I remembered what Olaf always said: You must never give up, even if you’re falling off a cliff. You never know what might happen on the way down.”

Schlaup rumbled deep in his chest like a gigantic cat.

Jack was amazed. After all those months of lamenting about her hand, all those tantrums and fits of despair, Thorgil seemed perfectly at ease with her handicap. It must have been the presence of the Northmen and her brother—brothers, Jack corrected himself. Dear God, he was having trouble getting used to Hazel. She was at least human, not a seven-foot monster.

But the Northmen didn’t judge people by their looks. They might be brutish, violent, and dangerous, but they were also loyal and courageous. If someone possessed those virtues, it didn’t matter that he had bristly orange hair and a belch that smelled like a dead whale. Of all the people in the village, Jack remembered, only Thorgil had never commented on Pega’s ugliness. And that was because she simply couldn’t see it. 

Chapter Fifteen

ALL ABOARD

Jack and Thorgil ferried baskets to the ship until he thought they must have walked the distance to Bebba’s Town three times over. Even with the donkey’s help, the process was exhausting. They met the Northmen halfway, handed over their burdens, and returned for yet another load.

After two days another Northman ship, captained by Egil Long-Spear, anchored in the little inlet. Egil had gone on raids with Olaf, but he was not a berserker. His heart wasn’t in killing, and in better times he would have made a good farmer. Unfortunately, the Northman lands were barren. Most years the only source of food was plunder, and Egil, making the best of a bad lot, combined pillaging with trade. He much preferred trade.

Of all the Northmen, he was the most presentable. He had an easy, friendly manner, spoke fluent Saxon, and genuinely liked Saxons. He had sailed from the Northland in a broad-beamed ship designed for transport, not battle. Jack had wondered how Skakki could have traded with anyone, but now he understood.

Good-natured Egil had been the one who sailed into port, while Skakki lurked in the shadows. Egil traded furs, sea ivory, reindeer antlers, and amber from both ships. He returned with silver, casks of olives, salt blocks, Spanish wine, and, for his own ship, a flock of sheep.

Jack found the sheep extremely interesting. They clustered together in a docile herd, and their wool was so thick, he could sink his hands in it up to the wrists. Egil said they had come from the same land as the olives and were called “merinis”.

On the last night Jack’s parents threw a farewell party. Brother Aiden, the Bard, and the Tanners were invited. Mother baked honey cakes, Pega made an eel stew, and Father roasted a large salmon in the coals. Unknown to him, the salmon had been provided by the Nemesis, who had dangled his wiggly toes in the sea while Mr. Blewit waited nearby with a club. Also unknown to Father was the hobgoblins’ parallel party in the fields.

The hobgoblins feasted on mushrooms and salmon, and toasted each other with Brother Aiden’s excellent heather ale. After dinner they began skirling. They puffed up like giant frogs and let the air out slowly, closing first one nostril, then the other to vary the pitch. The result was such a horrid wailing that villagers in houses all around clutched their crosses and prayed for deliverance. Some of them implored Thor and Odin for mercy, in case Jesus was busy.

“You may need these in your negotiations,” Brother Aiden said, handing a parcel to the Bard.

The Bard felt the package and nodded. “I hope it will not come to that.”

Come to what? thought Jack. All day mysterious signals had been passing between the two men. They could not discuss the draugr openly, nor could they admit that Skakki’s ship was in port. That would have caused so much curiosity and so many expeditions up and down the coast that the secret of the Northmen would have been out. As far as the villagers knew, the trip was going to take place next month.