The Islands of the Blessed

I’ll never understand Northmen, Jack thought.

Thorgil swayed and almost fell. “I want to see Olaf,” she repeated. But by now Bjorn had been distracted by the appearance of Adder-Tooth and went over to deliver a friendly punch to his head.

“Sit down,” Jack said. “I’ll find him.”

This proved difficult, for dozens of men were careening around, stuffing themselves, drinking, and bragging about their victories. One patted a Valkyrie on the behind, and she snarled, “Try that again and I’ll rip out your windpipe.”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” laughed the warriors all around. One voice sounded familiar.

Jack saw him seated at the foot of a throne. He was wearing his helmet, which was probably why Jack hadn’t recognized him before. It had a ridge across the top like a cock’s comb and two panels at the sides to cover his cheeks. The front was a metal mask like a hawk’s face and the beak came down over Olaf’s nose. His eyes peered out of holes and made him seem otherworldly. He is otherworldly, Jack thought.

But the figure that towered over Olaf, the one sitting on the throne, was so terrifying that Jack almost sank to his knees. He wore a helmet similar to Olaf’s, but only one eye glinted through the holes in the mask. The other was an empty socket. Jack knew who he was.

Odin’s missing eye lay at the bottom of Mimir’s Well. No one could drink from the well without sacrificing something of great importance. Jack had given up his rune of protection. Thorgil had given up her status as a berserker. In return they had gained the knowledge they needed most. Odin, in payment for his eye, had acquired the lore necessary to rule the nine worlds.

The god’s single eye blazed like a star as he considered the boy. Wolves—Jack noticed them now for the first time—lounged at the god’s feet, and ravens perched on his shoulders to bring him news of the wide world. You are not one of mine, said a voice like distant thunder.

I am not one of yours, Jack agreed, clutching St. Columba’s staff. I serve the life force. I do not believe in a world of endless killing. He was very afraid, but at the same time, he knew it was important to stand up to this being.

The figure laughed. Both air and earth shook with it. You sound like a puny Christian, or perhaps one of those harp-strumming skalds always yowling about trees. One of the wolves stood up and yawned. Its tongue lolled out between its fangs.

A single leaf unfurling in springtime is worth more than all your realm, said Jack, surprising himself. He hadn’t planned to say that. It was one thing to resist the awesome power before him and quite another to pick a fight.

War is inevitable, Odin thundered. All exists to kill and be killed, and only courage in the face of death is beautiful.

What good is this courage when you fear life itself? said Jack. If you are deaf to the laughter of your children or cannot understand why your wives rejoice when you return from a voyage, are you not already dead? What courage does it take to leave a world when you are blind to its wonders? Jack was pretty impressed with his poetry, but he was also afraid of how Odin might react. He didn’t seem able to stop arguing. The words simply rolled out.

In the end night covers all, said the war god. The bonds of this world will break, and Garm, the hound of Hel, will be freed from his leash. The frost giants will make war upon light. The ship of death, made from the finger- and toenails of corpses, will set sail to bring destruction upon the living. Ragnarok is coming, the final battle. None can escape it.