The Islands of the Blessed

“Odin and his warriors rode among the clouds and tore a road through the forest. I’ll show you tomorrow.” Jack retold the story the way a bard would, first describing the dark sky and the ominous stillness. When he got to the part where the wind carried off the ewe, Hazel was hanging on to him as though a wind might carry her off too. Jack was pleased with his storytelling. He ended the tale on a high note with everyone safe. Hazel fell asleep while leaning against him. He wondered how he would ever carry her back into the house.

“That’s proper nightmare material,” complained Blewit, popping up from behind a rosemary bush. “Totally unsuitable for a delicate sprogling. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wakes up screaming.”

“She’s not delicate, and she loved every minute of it,” Jack said.

“She’s my dainty little toadflax blossom, yes she is,” crooned the hobgoblin, taking one of Hazel’s chubby hands. She didn’t stir. Like most sproglings, she was used to sleeping through parties where young ones might be whisked up at any moment and admired.

“I heard her begging for food,” accused Blewit. “You’re letting her waste away.”

“I am not,” Jack said.

“Liar.”

“Calm down, Blewit,” said the Bugaboo, suddenly appearing from the darkness with the Nemesis. “We all know Hazel eats as much as the Great Worm and her nine wormlets.” Blewit grumbled under his breath, but he didn’t contradict his king.

They sat together under a nearly full moon. The odor of crushed mint rose from the ground where they were sitting, and a nightingale began to sing from a tree. The village seemed so peaceful—and had once been peaceful, Jack thought. He longed for those days again. Season had followed season with comforting regularity—plowing, planting, harvesting, a pause for winter. No surprises.

All had been predictable until the Bard arrived.

That was when the world had waked up and noticed the sleepy little village on the shores of the North Sea. First the rider on the Nightmare thundered in from across the sea. Jack still shivered to remember the Rider’s thorny legs gripping the belly of its horse and the white blood dripping down. Then the Northmen missed the village by only a hair, though they didn’t miss Jack and Lucy. They had carried the children off as slaves.

This year alone, in only a few days, the village had been visited by a Wild Hunt, a draugr had taken up residence in the hazel wood, and now a troop of hobgoblins was camped in Jack’s garden. He sighed inwardly. He was the Bard’s apprentice and, as the old man had said, such a calling wasn’t just singing and picking wildflowers. It was a bard’s job to deal with things that went bump in the night.

“I have to go in now,” the boy said. “I don’t know whether I can lift Hazel.”

“Weakling!” sneered Mr. Blewit. He swept the little girl up easily and carried her to the door. The motley wool robes of the hobgoblin shifted eerily like the shadows of bushes dancing in the wind.

Jack was suddenly reminded of the Bugaboo’s mission. “Did you ask Pega again if she would marry you?” he asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it!” the Bugaboo cried, flinging his cloak over his head and disappearing completely.

“That means yes, and that means she said no,” said the Nemesis. Then all three creatures bade Jack good night and vanished into the darkness.

Jack dragged Hazel inside and rolled her onto a pile of heather and straw. She didn’t stir as she was bumped along and she didn’t wake up screaming in the night, as Blewit had predicted. She slept as soundly as a sprogling, which was very sound indeed. The first Jack heard from her was a monotonous “Food… food… food…” around dawn. 

Chapter Twelve THE TANNER BRATS

During the next few weeks, when Jack wasn’t helping the Bard, he was trying to keep peace at home. Pega returned and was of great help, but even she was becoming irritable. Hazel threw unexplained tantrums. Father spent most of his time in the fields or drinking ale with the blacksmith. Mother found fault with everything. The only good thing was that Thorgil stayed away. Jack didn’t know what he would have done if she’d been added to the explosive mix.

“It’s those Tanner brats,” said Blewit at one of Jack’s nightly meetings with the hobgoblins. “They’ve decided to move in permanently, and they’re trying to drive out Pega and Hazel.”

“Are you sure?” said Jack. He knew Blewit complained about everything, even that the sun rose in the east and disturbed his sleep. Blewit, like all hobgoblins, was happiest underground.

“He’s right,” said the Bugaboo. “We can hear everything they say.” He unfurled his ears to demonstrate how very keen hobgoblin hearing could be. “They’ve been unforgivably cruel to dear Pega. I was within a heartbeat of taking steps, but the Bard said I had to get your permission.”

Jack wondered what “taking steps” involved. Hobgoblins, if threatened, could stand up to dragons. “I haven’t noticed Ymma and Ythla doing anything bad,” he said.

“Blistering beetles! The first thing Dragon Tongue taught you was how to observe and melt into the background,” exploded Blewit. “What good is it spying on animals when you’ve got people at home that need watching?”

It had simply never occurred to Jack that the same skills he used to study animals could work on humans. The Bard called it “being cloaked in the life force.” You became part of the landscape, no more noticeable than a tree or rock. Jack had become so good at this, mice perched on his feet to nibble seeds and birds landed on his shoulders.

“I suppose I could spy on them,” he faltered, thinking that there was something low about the activity when it involved people.

“Well, you’d better do something fast,” Blewit said. “They’re making my Hazel miserable, and I won’t put up with it much longer.”

So Jack began observing the activities in his house. When he stood next to a wall, he became wall. When he stood in the shadows, he became shadow. It surprised him how effective the magic was. Even Mother, who was a wise woman, couldn’t detect him.

Ymma and Ythla had always seemed ready to help with tasks, and yet they didn’t accomplish much. Jack saw that they did chores so carelessly, Pega often had to redo the work. The Tanners frequently stole small items to carry back to their hovel. Turnips and apples, a cup, a piece of leather, and a horn spoon found their way into the girls’ pockets. Nothing large was taken, but all together, the theft was considerable.

Mrs. Tanner seemed honest, but she must have known what was going on. Occasionally, in a halfhearted way, she tried to discipline her daughters. She never went so far as to return any of the ill-gotten goods.

Now Jack was watching as the Tanner girls cleaned house. As usual, when they thought they were alone, they spent most of the time poking into corners and trying to open chests. When Pega came through the door with a pail of milk, Ymma whispered, “I hope the milk won’t turn sour,” just loud enough to be overheard. Pega flushed.

This was another game Jack had discovered. Pega had been born with a birthmark covering half her face. She had ears that stuck straight out through wispy hair, and her mouth was as wide as a frog’s. Jack no longer noticed her looks, Thorgil had never noticed them, and the Bugaboo thought she was positively ravishing. But most people didn’t want Pega around. Her ugliness might mark unborn babies. She might turn milk sour.

The Tanner girls subtly and continuously drew attention to the girl’s disfigurement.

Hazel bounded in, and Pega quickly put the milk pail on a shelf before the child could knock it over. “I do love you,” said Hazel, hugging the older girl.

Ymma and Ythla whispered together. Jack heard the word half-wit. This was another game, to make Hazel feel stupid.

“I love you, too, but I’ve got work to do.” Pega pried Hazel’s arms loose and covered the milk with a cloth.