The Islands of the Blessed

Brother Sylvus took up the tale. “He gave me the keys, all except the one for Lady Ethne’s cell. He said that was not my concern.”

So he meant her to die, thought Jack, with a return of his former rage.

“Father Severus ordered me to protect the sanctity of the monastery. Gradually, a few of us began to recover. This was not due to any goodness on our part, of course, but to teach us humility. We were not yet worthy of glory.”

And, of course, they were very, very hungry. They had water from a well, but no food—unless you counted the rats. Rats they had aplenty, great, swaggering, confident beasts that came within reach of your hand. “But we never considered such unclean food,” Brother Sylvus said hastily.

“Why didn’t you just make a quick trip to the storehouse?” Jack asked wearily.

Oh, no. Never. They would never do that. Father Severus had told them with his dying breath that they were not to go outside until spring. Fortunately, Ethne came to their rescue. She called to them from her cell. She had food enough for all. Brother Sylvus didn’t have the key, but he still managed to open her door.

Jack looked at the door, hacked and chopped in a perfect frenzy.

All the packets of dried meat, cheeses, and Pega’s special scones that Thorgil had smuggled in had gone to feed this lot.

And when these were gone, the monks and nuns had begun to starve again. Ethne had never touched a morsel. She had continued to live on the watery, gray gruel handed through her window, though toward the end she ate nothing at all.

Once outside, she quickly fell ill. She sweetly refused any help, saying that it was her penance to gain a soul. She welcomed suffering. “She’s giving her life for us,” said Sister Brecca, reverently.

“Excuse me!” shouted Thorgil. “Excuse me, but you’re all alive! She’s already saved you! Why does she have to die now?” Jack had rarely seen her in such a towering rage, and he’d seen a lot of rages.

“She’s an elf,” said Brother Sylvus, cowering away from the shield maiden. “Father Severus explained it to us. Elves have to make their souls, and it isn’t easy for them. They have no regard for anyone except themselves. They can see a child drowning and never think to stretch out a hand. Lady Ethne did stretch out her hand.”

“Which you bit, thank you very much,” snarled Thorgil. “I don’t know anything about Christian souls, but I know ingratitude when I see it. She’s proved her worthiness for whatever moldy afterlife you oath-breakers inhabit. I intend to see she inhabits this world.” She bent over Ethne and tried to pry open her mouth. The elf lady turned her head aside.

“Thorgil, don’t,” said Jack.

“I’ll pour cider down her nostrils if I have to!”

Jack grabbed the shield maiden’s arm. “You’ll drown her.”

“Then you hold her jaws open. I can’t do everything.”

“Thorgil,” said Ethne in that beautiful, musical voice only elves had. “I choose this path.” Jack was startled. He hadn’t known she was strong enough to speak, but apparently half-elves could endure starvation better than humans. “Thorgil,” repeated the elf lady, “remember how you used to tell me about Valhalla? You longed to fall in battle so you could go there. This is no different.”

At the mention of Valhalla, the monks and nuns drew away from the shield maiden in horror. They hadn’t realized she was a Northman.

“It is different.” Thorgil faltered. “Let me think why. It’s because we like fighting for Odin.” Jack saw uncertainty in her eyes and knew she was remembering Grim’s Island. “And so, naturally, we want to keep on doing it until Ragnarok is declared.” Except that she wouldn’t be fighting alongside the men, Jack thought. She’d be putting warriors back together and milking goats.

“Dying, for me, is how I will achieve Heaven. Do you understand?” said Ethne gently.

“No, I don’t! I was a berserker once. I wanted to die with a sword in my hand, but I lost that desire after I drank from Mimir’s Well.”

At the word berserker, the monks and nuns scuttled on hands and knees to hide behind Brother Sylvus. He began praying.

“No, that’s not quite right.” Thorgil was struggling to find the right words. “Things changed before I drank from Mimir’s Well. The well grants you knowledge, but only if you sacrifice something of great importance. I offered up my life, but the well rejected me. Apparently, my life wasn’t good enough because I didn’t value it. So in my grief I tried to stab myself anyway, and Jack—”

Jack could see where her argument was going; he wanted to stop her, but he wasn’t fast enough. In a split second she had lifted the rune of protection from around her neck.