“Yes! Yes!” cried the monk. “That was my name.” He thrashed his legs, knocking over the pot of goose grease. “Flee, all of you. The End of Days has come.”
“We were about to do so when you showed up,” said the Bard, who was sitting on a stone nearby.
“What about the Holy Isle?” said the chief.
“Gone,” Brother Aiden moaned.
“How can it be gone?” said Father, his eyes widening.
“Dead. Burned to ashes.”
“That’s not possible!” Father lurched to his feet. He looked ready to faint. “No one attacks the Holy Isle. It’s the one safe place on earth. God protects it. God would not allow such a thing!”
“Be quiet, Giles. The man doesn’t have the strength to out-shout you,” said the Bard.
Little by little the terrible story came out. It had been a wonderfully warm day, and the monks were in the fields cutting hay. The nuns were churning butter and sewing a new altar cloth. Servants were piling stones to make a new cattle barn.
Around midday someone spotted the ships. Four of them, or perhaps five. They were speeding for shore. Visitors, someone said. What a nice surprise.
Brother Aiden ran to tell the cook. They would prepare a meal for the unexpected guests. But when the ships reached the shallows, men streamed ashore, swinging axes and screaming curses. “They chopped the first ones into mincemeat,” wept Brother Aiden.
Grim warriors tied stones around others and threw them into the sea. They killed everything in their path: men, women, servants, cattle, and sheep. Then they destroyed the buildings. They tore down the silk tapestries and trampled them. They smashed the stained-glass window.
“Not the window,” groaned Father.
“Yes, that and more,” said Brother Aiden. They overturned the altar and urinated on the books. They ran through the library and ripped manuscripts that had taken the monks fifty years to copy.
“That’s where I was,” said Brother Aiden. “I was hiding in a loft just under the roof. They tore up the manuscripts and then they set fire to them. I dared not leave. I stayed curled up under the roof while the smoke came on thickly and the heat almost set my robe on fire. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I dropped down into the flames and ran.”
By then the whole island was afire, the monastery and nunnery, the church, the granary, the barns and fields. Brother Aiden stumbled around, looking for anyone who might have survived, but there was no one. The longships had gone with their cargo of treasure and slaughtered animals. There was nothing left but smoking ruins and corpses.
“Oh, horror, horror!” cried Father, falling to his knees. Mother burst into tears. The blacksmith’s wife ran to the other villagers, who were still packing, and gave them the news. Cries of disbelief and stormy weeping spread outward like a wildfire. Jack was crying too. He had never seen the Holy Isle—few of the villagers had—but it had always been there like a kindly light on the edge of an uncertain world.
Suddenly, Jack remembered the Bard’s words: There’s no way in this world for happiness to exist alone. The golden hall was too beautiful, and so, like all bright things, it attracted destruction. “It’s like Hrothgar’s hall,” he said aloud.
“Very good,” said the Bard, and Jack saw that he alone was not weeping. “Sometimes you quite surprise me with your intelligence.”
“I should have been there,” groaned Father. “I should have been a monk and fallen like a true martyr. Oh, horror!”
“Giles, you idiot. If you’d been a monk, you would never have had this good woman for wife or these fine children. You’d be lying there in the ashes.” The Bard stood up and spread his arms to the sky. From the distance came the harsh cry of a crow. Presently, it appeared, circled overhead, and came down to rest in a tree.
“It’s probably been feasting on the dead,” said Father.
“We should be going,” the Bard said to the chief, ignoring Father. The chief shook himself.
“Of course,” he said in a distant voice.
“I’ll organize the boys to make a litter so you can take Brother Aiden along.”
Soon a line of villagers, many still crying, made its way west to the forest. The squawking, clucking, hissing, and bleating of the livestock faded away. Silence settled over the fields.
Jack felt sore inside. Every time he thought of the Holy Isle, tears came to his eyes. It had been an enchanted place where they ate roast lamb flavored with rosemary and rowanberry pudding and flummery—the best kind, with nutmeg and cream. Gentle monks prayed over the sick beneath a stained-glass window that shone with the colors of the rainbow when the sun was behind it.
“The women did a good job,” remarked the Bard, breaking into Jack’s thoughts. “Of course, I trained them. They’ve been practicing for months.”
“You knew this would happen?” said Jack.
“Not exactly. I knew some kind of trouble would arrive when the winter storms were over. I sent directions to the other villages as well. I hope they listened.”
“Now what?” said Jack, talking to keep the silence of the village from depressing him.
“Now we make the biggest and wettest fog you’ve ever seen.”
Chapter Eight
The Rune of Protection
They sat outside the old Roman house, calling to the life force. Rivers in the earth quickened their flow. Rivers of the air began to churn. Never had Jack felt them so strongly. Tears flowed down his cheeks at the wonder and beauty of it, and just as quickly the tears curled off his face as mist.
A flock of crows dropped out of the sky as though felled by arrows. They landed clumsily on the roof and clung to the thatch. Their beaks opened and shut. They were too dazed to even squawk.
The sea rolled far below, a dim white ribbon in the fog, glimmering and then gone. Cold wetness sank into Jack’s shirt, but it was a good wetness. He felt like laughing. He did laugh, and the crows answered with a muted grumble.
“We should rest,” said the Bard.
Jack woke up to find the light fading. The sun had set! The whole day had passed! He stood up, feeling as exhausted as though he’d wrestled a hundred black-faced ewes. His arms and legs ached, his head throbbed, and even his skin hurt.
The Bard hunched over, and Jack realized the old man was at the end of his strength. “I’ll build a fire, sir,” the boy said. “I’ll get you food.” He took flint and iron—he had no energy left to call up fire—and soon he had a fine blaze going and a cauldron of porridge bubbling. He led the Bard to the fire pit and folded his hands around a steaming cup of cider. As hungry as Jack was, he was even more concerned about reviving the Bard.
“Ahhh, the blessings of Frey and Freya upon you,” the old man said with a sigh. He drank the hot liquid and allowed Jack to spoon porridge into his mouth. “It takes it out of you,” he said at last.
“Do we need to make more fog tonight?” Jack said.
“I’m not up to it. I’m counting on darkness to protect us.” The old man shuffled outside to the privy. Jack came along with a torch to be sure the Bard didn’t fall over the cliff. The night was as black as the inside of a lead mine.
When they returned, the Bard fell into his truckle bed and was asleep between one breath and the next. Jack banked the fire and pulled the remaining porridge to one side for breakfast. There would be no more deliveries of food from the village.
Where were the villagers sleeping? Jack wondered as he watched the painted birds shift on their painted trees. Were they outdoors in the wet? Lucy wouldn’t like that. She insisted on a soft bed and warmth. I’m a lost princess, she would say. Lost princesses need their beds. Lucy’s complaints were endearing at the house because she was so small and beautiful. Father and Mother might not find them so endearing in the woods.
Jack fell asleep to the sound of crows’ feet scraping on the roof.
“Wake up!” called the Bard. Jack sat up. Sunlight was streaming in the door, and for a moment he was pleased. Then he remembered th
e need for bad weather.
“Shall I heat the porridge, sir?”
“No time. We’ll eat it cold.”
Jack pried the gummy, lumpy porridge from the pot. It tasted smoky from the fire—not a bad thing, the boy decided. At least it filled the yawning pit in his stomach. He soaked a chunk of hard bread in cider.
“Come on!” said the Bard. “The berserkers won’t be dawdling over their breakfasts.”
I’m not dawdling, Jack thought bitterly. I’m tired and hungry, and I have to work while the villagers get to relax in the forest. But he knew that was unfair. The villagers would be huddled together like a flock of stunned sheep. He’d seen it happen when a flock lost its lead ewe far from home.
Sighing, he settled outside with the Bard and began to call to the life force. This time it was much easier. The earth and air responded as though they had only been waiting. Fog rolled in with a speed that was almost frightening. What if we can’t make it go away? Jack thought. What if the sun never shines again and the land is covered with eternal darkness?
“What’s wrong?” the Bard said.
Jack opened his eyes. The fog was shredding before a sudden sea wind. Rifts of blue appeared overhead.
“What were you thinking?” the old man said.
“Why—why, only that the fog was so thick,” stammered Jack. “And that it might not go away.”
“Lad, listen to me. The life force is ever moving, altering its appearance. Only death is unchanging.”
“B-But if it didn’t move”—Jack felt a bleak terror from somewhere he couldn’t identify—“It w-would get dark forever. Like Father says happens when sinners are cast into outer darkness.”
“Thor’s hammer and anvil! Preserve me from Giles’s ravings!” The Bard raised his arms as though asking the thunder god to witness such idiocy. The crows on the roof—how long had they been there?—cawed loudly. It sounded almost like laughter.
“But it’s possible—it’s just barely possible…,” the Bard said.
“What?” cried Jack.
“Keep your voice down. She may be working against us. She may be sending her thoughts across the sea. Her influence is lessened by passage over water. I didn’t notice her spell because it was too feeble to affect me. At this distance she can only work on a weak mind.”
“Hey,” said Jack.
“But I’ll fix her. I’ll throw up a barrier to chip her rotten fangs if she tries it again. Here.” The Bard felt inside his shirt and drew out a pendant on a chain. He settled it around Jack’s neck.
The boy had never seen it before, though he’d been with the old man for months and months. He held it up, his mouth in an O at the wonder of it. It was a square disk of heavy gold. On it was a pattern that might have been a sunburst, except that each ray had branches like a budding tree. As Jack looked the pendant vanished. He gasped. This was real magic. He could still feel the heaviness of the gold on his neck.
“That’s a rune for protection,” said the Bard. “I wore it when I walked through the Valley of Lunatics in Ireland. It kept my wits about me when others were losing theirs. You may keep it.”
“But, sir.” Jack felt close to tears again. No one had ever thought him worthy of such a gift. The Roman coin Father had found was destined for Lucy. “What if Frith attacks you?”
“ Do not name her! She flies to the mention of her name. Don’t you worry about me,” the old man said gruffly. “I’ve peeled the hide off more than one monster in my life. Now let’s go make some fog.”
Jack didn’t know whether it was the rune or simply the joy of being cared for, but he felt strong and happy. He called up the waters of the earth. He pulled down clouds from the sky. He felt the wet smack of mist on his face and the soak of it in his clothes. His hair was plastered down, his chin dripped, and water trickled into his shoes. But he was as happy as a frog in a sunny pond.
He heard a rasping cough. His eyes flew open and saw nothing. The world had gone black. For an instant he was swept with panic. Then he heard the cough again. It was the Bard.
Night had fallen while Jack had been absorbed in his magic—pure, simple, innocent night. The fog he had called was so thick, every scrap of starlight was hidden from the earth. Jack felt for the door of the house. The cough came from there.
Inside, only a tiny coal shone in the fire pit. “Sir? Are you all right?” he whispered. It seemed right to whisper.
“In bed,” the old man said.
The boy felt his way to the truckle bed. He touched the Bard’s face and found, to his shock, that it was burning with fever. “I’ll build up the fire, sir, and make you a healing drink.”
“You’re a good boy,” the Bard said faintly.
Working quickly, Jack blew the coal into flame. He heated water mixed with willow bark. He added coriander to take the curse off the bitterness. This was a remedy he’d learned from Mother. Father wasn’t pleased when Mother taught him such things. They were women’s secrets, Father said, not fit for men, perhaps not safe for good Christians. Mother had smiled and gone on teaching.
“Foo,” said the Bard when he tasted it.
“Mother swears it brings down fever.”
“I’m sure it does. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” The old man finished the drink. Presently, he doubled up with long, rattling coughs that frightened Jack.
“Take the pendant,” the boy cried. “You need protection worse than I.”
“Can’t,” said the Bard, struggling to talk. “Once given, can’t be returned. Anyhow, wanted you to have it.” He lay back, and Jack covered him with a sheepskin.
The boy rummaged through the stores at the far end of the house. He would have to set beans to soak. He would have to gather shellfish in the morning. How long could they go on like this without food from the village? How would they know when the wolf-headed men had gone?
Jack set the cauldron simmering with dried peas, onions, and turnips. He added a chunk of bacon that was only slightly green with age. The smell of food drove him mad with hunger, but it wouldn’t be ready for hours. Jack found a rock-hard chunk of bread and soaked it in cider. When he had a soft mush, he fed it to the Bard.
Jack was so tired, he kept tripping over things. His eyes blurred. His hands fumbled as he went about his chores. Yet he found time to light a bundle of coltsfoot and leave it smoldering on a stone shelf near the Bard’s bed. The smoke would ease the old man’s lungs.
Jack had no memory of lying down. He hadn’t meant to until he’d fetched more wood. But somehow his body sat down, and then it was only a short distance to the floor. At any rate, Jack was sound asleep with a sack of beans for a pillow when the Nightmare arrived.
Chapter Nine
The Rider on
the Nightmare
The first thing Jack heard was the wind. It drove out of the sea and howled past the house, making the roof shake. It burrowed under the door. Cold air spread along the floor, and the fire sprang to life. Behind this was a rattling like pebbles rolling on a beach, except that it grew louder and louder until it burst upon Jack’s sleep like thunder.
He jumped up. Coals were being blown out of the fire pit by the wind gusting under the door. He ran to sweep them back. The roof groaned, and a huge chunk of thatch lifted up and was torn away. Four or five crows that had been sheltering there tumbled into the room and fluttered to the safety of the Bard’s bed. From a distance came the hideous pounding of hooves coming closer until the whole sky rang with it.
Jack could see the sky. It stretched over the gaping roof, cold and black and filled with heartless winking stars where there had been protecting fog before. He had to do something, but what? He couldn’t think. The pounding drove everything out of his brain. He wanted only to flee. He stepped back, and his foot came down on a live coal. The pain cleared his wits enough for him to realize what was happening.
It was the Nightmare. She’d returned under cover of darkness. She’d discovered the Bard’s weakness and had come to d
estroy him. Jack grasped the rune of protection around his neck. It was strangely warm—no, hot. It poured its heat into his body like a noonday sun.
Jack heard the Bard give a long, terrified wail. It was a dreadful sound, like a rabbit caught in the talons of a hawk. The old man thrashed, and the crows clung to the sheepskin over him. “Move! You’re scaring him!” shouted the boy, but the crows only clacked their beaks and held on grimly.
The thundering was almost overhead. It was worse than the worst winter storm. It was more violent than the sea dashing against a cliff. Jack had never heard such a loud noise before, and it dazed him. He clung to the bed and stared up at the hole in the roof. He was no more capable of moving than the crows.
Suddenly, out of the deep sky came a figure so large and so terrifying that Jack shouted and the birds shrieked in fear. It was a horse draped in shrouds of icicles that broke off and clattered into the room. Its body was gray, its mane was ragged and cobwebby, and it had too many legs ! Jack didn’t count them, but he knew there were far more than there should have been.
On the horse’s back was a rider even darker than the sky, so black that it sucked the light out of the stars. Its thorny legs clasped the belly of the horse, drawing blood—white, oozing blood that was more like pus than anything. The horse screamed. Jack fell to the floor, all thought gone, all consciousness of anything gone but the pulsing warmth of the pendant nestled over his heart.
He woke in darkness. The fire was out. The hole in the roof showed stars but no Nightmare, thank goodness. The air was still, as though the storm had never happened.
Jack felt his way to the truckle bed. The Bard was breathing peacefully, and he appeared to be asleep. Jack’s heart turned over with relief. He reached for the sheepskin cover, touched one of the crows, and got a nip.
“Go away!” he yelled, slapping at the bird. He heard several low grumbles in the dark. “Nobody asked you to come,” Jack cried. He thought about sweeping the creatures out with a broom, but it occurred to him that it was nice to have company, even bad-tempered crows. He wasn’t sure he could have stood solitude after seeing whatever that was on the Nightmare’s back.