The Islands of the Blessed - Nancy

Thorgil declared she would sink her teeth into the hogboon’s throat like Sigmund when the wolf came for him. Jack didn’t point out that even Bjorn had been unable to harm the creature, and he’d had a sword.

The moon rose slowly, fading from gold to white. Its chill light flooded the hollow containing the barrow. “It must have been the Man in the Moon,” Jack said.

“What?” Thorgil had drifted asleep.

“That’s the kind of god who would ask you to sacrifice your sons,” Jack said. “Nechtan was in the service of Unlife.”

Thorgil shivered.

“That’s why the hogboon comes out when the moon is directly overhead. He’s still in thrall to it.” Jack twisted himself to look at the standing stone. It was clearly illuminated now, and he wasn’t surprised to see a crescent moon crossed by a broken arrow. Thorgil slept again, and Jack, though he fought to stay awake, found his eyes closing involuntarily. The next time they opened, the moon was almost overhead.

“Thorgil!”

She stirred. “I can’t understand this drowsiness. I’m so cold! How can I fall asleep?”

“It’s the standing stone,” said Jack. “It wants to lull you so you become easy prey. Last time a honeybee woke me. Too bad we don’t have one now.”

“The only thing that comes out after dark is bats,” she said.

Jack tried to think of something good, something that might protect them from the helplessness creeping over them. “Remember the Valley of Yggdrassil? Remember Mimir’s Well?”

“That was nice,” Thorgil said sleepily.

“Honeydew rained out of the upper branches of the Tree and the bees gathered it in midair. The Tree was pure life force, forever being destroyed and forever renewing itself. Valhalla, the Christian Heaven, and the Islands of the Blessed were among its leaves, along with other places we can only guess at. But of one thing I’m sure: The Man in the Moon was a leaf that shriveled up and fell from the Tree.”

“Was he?” said the shield maiden. Her voice was thick.

“Wake up!” Jack kicked her as well as he could with his feet tied together. “He’s more dead than the stupid hogboon who worshipped him. He isn’t even a wandering spirit. He’s a nothing! And the hogboon is nothing too. I don’t believe in him and neither should you.”

“Oh! What’s that?” cried Thorgil.

Something was beginning to take shape in the moonlight. At first it was a blur and then it was a mist. It lengthened out until it was as tall as a man, with gray cobwebs trailing from its body. I like that, calling me nothing, said the hogboon. Who do you think sucked the life out of Bjorn Skull-Splitter and the other morsels Adder-Tooth brought me?

“You only have power over people who believe in you,” said Jack, who desperately hoped this was true. “To the rest of us you’re a tiresome old bore.”

You will think otherwise soon. But what have we here? The creature hovered over Thorgil. A princess! By the dead moon, Adder-Tooth has outdone himself this time. I may even forgive his debt, though probably not.

“She isn’t really a princess,” said Jack.

Oh, but she is, sighed the creature in a voice like the wind fiddling at a door on an October night. She is a daughter of the horse lords. Hengist was her ancestor.

“I told you,” said Thorgil.

“You aren’t helping,” Jack said. He was dismayed that the hogboon knew so much, and it made his hope that the creature was only an illusion waver. “Whatever you think, she isn’t the bride you lost.”

Istolis, fairest of the fair, murmured the creature. Yet this child of Hengist is also fair, and I have been alone so long.

“It won’t work out,” Jack said stubbornly. “You see, Thorgil is a shield maiden dedicated to Odin. She’s never going to get married, so you’re wasting your time. My suggestion is to hunt up Adder-Tooth and make a meal out of him.”

Food that fights back, said the hogboon with a hint of humor. It has been long since I fed upon such courage, but first I must see to my bride.

“You’ll have to go through me first,” said Jack. With enormous effort, he wrenched himself up and fell across Thorgil. His head lay at an awkward angle over her shoulder and his back felt horribly exposed. He couldn’t see the hogboon.

Foolish boy, whispered the dust-clogged voice. You force me to slay you.

Jack waited in an agony of fear. Instinctively, he reached for the life force deep in the earth—and found it just below his heart. A warm sensation, at first no larger than a rose leaf, spread out and brought feeling to his entire body. It’s the rune of protection, he thought, filled with wonder. It burned anyone who tried to take it by force—but he hadn’t tried to take it by force. It lay between him and Thorgil.

Why aren’t you dying? complained the hogboon, and Jack became aware of a hand pressing on his back. He cringed inwardly. Faugh! I’ll deal with you later. Jack was flung sideways and the warmth vanished. He gasped for breath. It took a moment for his senses to clear, and then he saw the tall, gray hogboon bending over Thorgil and reaching for her throat.

The creature screamed a long, shuddering cry that shook the air. The moon became very bright, but it was a dead light and had no power against the rune. The hogboon began to come apart, peeling away like the filth one finds in an abandoned cellar: cobwebs, dust, corruption. Shreds of it came off and were blown away by a breeze rising in the east. The last fragments swirled around the standing stone and disappeared.

Jack lay stunned on the cold hillside. The damp of early dew soaked into his clothes. Equally stunned, Thorgil stared up at the round, white moon, now turning west to drown itself in the sea. After a while she said, “We really need to find something sharp to cut these beastly ropes.” 

Chapter Twenty-nine

THE DEAD WALL

They did find something sharp—several things, in fact. Bones, white with age, were scattered about as though they had been tossed there by a careless hand. Among them lay a throwing axe, a sword with a pommel inlaid with jewels, and a dagger. They used the dagger to cut the ropes, and if the bones were ancient, the dagger was as keen as if it had been forged yesterday.

Jack freed his hands, and after that things became easier. “Don’t cut yourself,” warned Thorgil as he sliced through the rope tethering them to the standing stone. “Some old weapons are smeared with poison.”

Once they were free, they scrambled off the barrow and climbed to the top of a nearby hill. “I didn’t see those bones and weapons earlier,” Jack said.

“Neither did I.” Thorgil leaned against him.

The thought occurred to Jack that those things had been wrapped up inside the hogboon, and he wiped his hands on the damp grass. “The sword is beautifully made. Do you want it?”

“Do you?” she asked.

Jack liked her leaning against him, and not just for the extra warmth. They had decided against traveling in the dark, for neither of them was sure of the way. “The Bard told me of swords that should only be drawn when you want to kill someone,” he said. “There’s a kind of charm on them. If you pick one up, you have to kill the next person you meet, even if it’s a friend.”

“Olaf told me that story too,” she said. They sat quietly until Jack saw a faint light in the distance. It wavered back and forth, sometimes disappearing altogether, but coming steadily nearer.

“Thoooorgilll! Jaaaack!” called a voice.

“It’s Skakki,” cried Thorgil. “We’re heeere!” She jumped up and down, but of course no one could see her at that distance.

They shouted back and forth until Jack could see Big Half at the head of the group, with the Bard holding out his staff to provide light. Big Half’s face was mottled, as though he’d lost a game of Bonk Ball. Behind him came Skakki and Sven the Vengeful. Thorgil hoisted up her skirts and ran down the hill to fall into Skakki’s arms. “You have no idea what happened here!” she said. “The hogboon came out and tried to take the rune of protection. And the rune ate him all up! It was glorious!”

“Whoa! Little sister, start at the beginning. When Big Half came galumphing into the village, he said you were going to be sacrificed. We came as quickly as we could. Big Half was afraid to go out again, but he agreed to guide us with a little encouragement.”

“I helped,” said Sven the Vengeful, smacking a big fist into the palm of his hand.

“We must be grateful to him,” the Bard chided. “He didn’t have to tell us anything. My stars, lad, it’s good to see you! I should have known better than to drink that tea Little Half served us. I must be getting careless in my old age. I see you managed the fire at the hall.”

Jack and Thorgil told him everything that had happened, and the old man said that when Adder-Tooth and his men had almost reached the hall, Big Half bolted and ran for the village. “It was very brave of him. He was absolutely terrified the hogboon would get him.”

“I couldn’t let anything happen to the pretty princess. Besides”—Big Half’s voice quivered—“Little Half called me a stupid ox.”

“There, there,” said the Bard. “You were very clever to run away. Now we must hurry back to the village. Others are waiting, and we have unfinished business with Adder-Tooth.”

“What about those weapons on the barrow?” Jack said, pointing.

“Leave them for the sun to find,” the old man said with an expression of disgust. “Ill fortune clings to weapons found in darkness.”

It was now nearing dawn. The voices of lapwings and larks arose, and a hen harrier hawk gave its whistling cry. As the light strengthened, the moon sank into ever-deepening shadow over the western sea.

A mob of villagers and warriors had gathered just before the cluster of turf houses. “Adder-Tooth betrayed us,” a man shouted.

“He’s been doing human sacrifices,” a woman cried. “My cousin disappeared, and we all thought he’d drowned.”

“He went down the hogboon’s throat,” another woman moaned. “Who knows how many others did?”

“We will no longer serve such a master,” a warrior swore. “We were aware that he used sei�er, which no honorable man resorts to, but we knew nothing of the sacrifices.”

“You’ve stirred things up a bit,” the Bard said to Big Half.

Jack saw that the villagers were armed with scythes, hoes, and axes. The warriors had swords and spears. It seemed a decent enough army. They had dragged the third-rate skald with them, and the poor man was almost fainting with terror.

“Warriors always do that,” the Bard said privately to Jack. “They don’t want to miss out on a chance to become deathless poetry, though what that poor creature writes won’t last a week.”