The Islands of the Blessed

“You’re as dull as a slug. Tell me, Jack. I’ve been puzzling about something that happened during the storm. I remember climbing out of the sheep byre and the hailstones striking me. Then I was lying in the field with the dead ewe at my side. You lifted me up—”

“The mind can plays tricks in an emergency,” said Jack, hoping she didn’t remember what he’d said.

“I know, but it seemed I heard the words—clear as clear—‘Oh, my dear. My love.’ Isn’t that funny? I must have imagined it.”

“You must have. The storm was too loud to hear anything.”

“The words were really distinct.”

“We should start collecting again,” said Jack.

Thorgil made a face at him. “Oh, very well! But I want a bath in that stream first.” She disappeared behind a clump of bushes, and soon Jack heard her splashing around.

He turned his back and occupied himself with whittling a Y-shaped stick. Thorgil emerged a few minutes later, having donned her clothes again.

“This is a dowsing rod,” Jack explained, handing it to her. “It has to be made from hazel wood because hazels have their roots in the life force. You hold the dowser by its arms, see, and when you’re near an underground stream, it dips down.”

“You can’t go five steps without finding a stream here,” said Thorgil, laughing, “but thanks. I’ll keep it for later.” She tucked it into her belt. “Would you like to learn Bird?”

“Why—yes,” said Jack, astounded. Thorgil had actually thanked him! She’d also offered to share her lore. And taken a bath without being threatened. She was in a rare mood.

“Very well: This is how you say hello to Seafarer. First, you have to compliment his wings.” Thorgil cawed—something between a groan and a shriek.

Jack attempted to copy it and was corrected until he got it right. “Why do you have to compliment him?” he asked.

“Albatrosses are proud of their wings, and if you don’t praise them, they’ll attack you. These are the words for getting him into the alcove. You offer to preen his feathers, but you don’t have to follow through. It’s a catchall phrase for ‘please settle down’.” She produced a low burble, followed by a sigh.

Jack learned this one easily, for it was close to music. “How do you know this? Even the Bard had never seen an albatross before.”

“It’s simply… part of me,” Thorgil tried to explain. “Since tasting dragon blood, I’ve had a fellowship with the creatures of the air. When we first returned to Middle Earth, I had to concentrate very hard to understand birds, but with the passage of time, their voices have become clearer.”

“That’s a wonderful gift,” said Jack enviously.

“No, it isn’t.” Thorgil plumped down on the grass. A pair of thrushes caroled to each other from the trees, and Jack wondered what they were saying. All at once he became aware of the complex lives threading in and out of the hazel wood—the moles blindly pushing dirt, the fish with their mouths pointed upstream, the dragonflies darting through dappled sunlight. The wood was like one creature whose mind was bent to—what?

Thorgil interrupted his thoughts. “At first it was fun, knowing something others didn’t. Then it became a curse. Birds never shut up, you know. You can’t imagine how horrible it is, waking up every morning to yammering about earthworms and itchy feathers.”

Her head drooped. She looked so woebegone that Jack forgot her dislike of sympathy and impulsively put his arm around her.

“Don’t pity me!” Thorgil snarled, shoving him away so roughly, he banged his head into a tree.

“What’s wrong with you! I’m only trying to be nice!” Jack said.

“You’re treating me like a stupid girl.”

“You are a girl,” Jack said.

“I’m a shield maiden, not a sniveling Saxon cow.”

“Why don’t you stop yowling about how awful my people are and look at yourself,” cried Jack, stung. “You have no more gratitude than a bog rat. You insult everyone six ways to Sunday.”

“I don’t lower my standards just because I live in a pigsty,” said Thorgil haughtily.

“Pigsty? How dare you say that about my parents’ house! I remember when you slept with dogs in the Northland because they were the only ones who’d have you.”

“Even a Northland dog has more honor than a cringing Saxon.”

“Really? Well, even a cringing Saxon dog has more honor than a half-Northman thrall!” shouted Jack.

“I’m not a thrall!” shrieked Thorgil, grabbing her collecting bags. “And I’m never entering your parents’ house again!” She stormed off before he could reply.

So much for Thorgil’s good mood, thought Jack, rubbing his bruised head. He went off in a different direction.

* * *

After a while Jack’s temper cooled and he began to regret his hasty words. But Thorgil was so infuriating! Even Olaf One-Brow used to knock her flat when she got into a snit. Of course, Olaf had knocked everyone flat, including Jack, at one time or another. It was the Northman way.