The Islands of the Blessed

“So this is a Wild Hunt,” said Jack.

“Grim’s Island is where we rest up afterward,” the giant explained. “It’s a fine place. Good forest, plenty of kindling, no nosy neighbors.”

The boy suddenly remembered the blacksmith’s slaves, Gog and Magog. “Exactly what do you hunt?”

“Our old piggy. S?hr?mnir is his name.” Olaf pointed at the fire pit where the boar was still roasting.

“But he’s… dead.”

“So are most of us at the end of the day,” said the giant. “We pull ourselves together and go on. Tomorrow morning S?hr?mnir’s bones will cover themselves with flesh and he’ll be pawing the ground, ready for another run.”

It didn’t sound like fun, getting roasted every night, but maybe the boar liked it. He was probably as dim- witted as the berserkers. What bothered Jack most was that Thorgil valued this afterlife. “When you came through our village,” he said, “there was a pair of brothers called Gog and Magog. They liked to sit outside during storms and watch the sky. After you left, they were gone.”

“Gog and Magog. I didn’t know they had names,” said Olaf. He went over to the mead bucket, shoved a Valkyrie aside, and filled his horn. “They’re around here somewhere. They were so pleased to see us that we brought them along. They’ve been as happy as a pair of ticks on a fat dog ever since. They stay on this mountain all the time, keeping the campsite tidy, gathering kindling, and so on. Very restful companions, Gog and Magog. Never bother you with conversation.”

Jack was aware that Thorgil had said nothing for some time. He glanced at her and saw that one of her gloomy moods was building up inside, not unlike the storm clouds boiling overhead. He knew the reason for it, of course. Olaf had chosen Gog and Magog over her. “Why did you leave Thorgil behind?” Jack said.

She looked up, her face pale with emotion.

“Leave her where?” Olaf belched richly and wiped his mouth on his arm.

“When you went over our village, she begged you to take her with you.”

“She did?”

“Yes, I did,” cried Thorgil. The paleness was being replaced with a rosy flush of irritation. “Only, I didn’t beg. I asked, and you looked down and pretended you couldn’t see me. And then you rode off. It’s because I have a paralyzed hand, isn’t it?” Jack was almost relieved. Anger had replaced sorrow, and with Thorgil, this was a much easier thing to deal with.

Olaf looked puzzled. “Believe me, daughter, I didn’t know you were there. We’d just picked up Gog and Magog, and S?hr?mnir was running for all he was worth. I had my eye on that pig and my spear was ready to bring him down. Are you sure you saw me?”

“Of course!” shouted Thorgil.

“Put it down to the heat of battle, then. There’s a blindness that comes over you when you’re really involved. At any rate, an injury doesn’t disqualify you from entering Valhalla. Tyr had his hand chomped off by Fenris. Hoder is blind and still leads men into battle. He sometimes hits the wrong target, though,” Olaf said thoughtfully. “They have special privileges because they’re gods, but I’ve seen a number of men missing body parts. What keeps you out of Valhalla is being alive.”

Olaf drained his mead-horn, oblivious to Thorgil’s simmering emotions.

“I suppose I could throw myself off this mountain,” the shield maiden said sarcastically.

“There you go. You’d find yourself in Valhalla in no time. Hey, Brynhilda! Stir your stumps and fetch us another horn of mead.” A Valkyrie stood up from the group clustered around Heidrun and obeyed.

“But I’ve sworn an oath to save Dragon Tongue’s daughter. I can’t die until I fulfill it,” Thorgil said sulkily.

“Oh, well. I guess you’ll have to wait,” said Olaf, who didn’t sound particularly disappointed. “How is old Dragon Tongue? Is he still making Northman kings run for cover?”

Jack stepped in before Thorgil could completely lose her temper. He described the visit to Notland, and sorrow weighed heavily upon him as he recalled how the Bard had walked into the tomb with the draugr following. But Olaf listened with only half an ear. Perhaps that was how it was with the dead. Being shut into a tomb wasn’t the devastating thing it was to the living.

It was clear something else was on Olaf’s mind, and after Jack was finished, the giant said shyly, “You wouldn’t mind… I mean, it would please me very much…” He blushed deeply. “I’d really like to hear that praise- poem you wrote for me again.”

And so Jack recounted the poem he’d sung in the court of King Ivar the Boneless, and again on Olaf’s funeral pyre:

Listen, ring-bearers, while I speak

Of the glories of battle, of Olaf, most brave.

Generous is he, that striker of terror….

When he was finished, Olaf sighed with pleasure. Jack saw, to his delight, that Gog and Magog had crept out of whatever shadows they’d been hiding in. He was never sure how much they understood, but the joy on their faces showed they had liked the music.

Thorgil was nodding with exhaustion, and Jack longed to lie down and sleep. Olaf told the silent brothers to carry them to the beach. “Isn’t it too stormy?” said Thorgil, stifling a yawn.

“The storm is over,” Olaf said. “We ride for Valhalla in the morning.”

She was so tired, she didn’t have the strength to grieve at their final parting. She fetched the pack with her wealth-hoard and kissed her heart-father on the cheek. He ruffled her hair. Then Gog and Magog picked up Jack and Thorgil, and climbed down the sheer rocks of the mountain as easily as a pair of spiders coming down a wall. They laid them in front of the snail house and were gone.

Jack and Thorgil fell asleep on the sand. They didn’t awaken until the sun was high in the sky and the storm clouds had been gathered away into the utter north. 

Chapter Forty-one RESCUE

“Did it really happen? Was it a dream?” said Thorgil, staring out to sea the next morning. A mild sunlight had brought warmth to the beach and gray-green waves lapped gently against the shore.

“I still have St. Columba’s cloak and staff,” said Jack.

Thorgil shivered. “Then it’s true we ate the food of the dead. What will it do to us?”

“Keep us from being hungry for a while.” Jack thought longingly of roast salmon, grouse, and leeks with cream sauce. Certain parts of the previous night still seemed unbelievable to him. Had he really stood toe-to-toe with Odin? Other parts—the warriors slashing at each other—were depressingly familiar.

“Did you see how those Valkyries were treated?” said Thorgil. “I would never, ever let anyone order me around like that. ‘Get me a horn of mead. Fetch me some bread.’”

“‘Put my head back on for me,’” Jack said, stifling a laugh.

“That too,” the shield maiden said, completely without humor. “All my life I’ve wanted to go to Valhalla. Now…”

“The Bard said people get to choose their afterlife. He’s probably on the Islands of the Blessed right now.” Jack blinked back tears. The wonderful calm he’d felt in St. Columba’s cave didn’t extend to the beach. “I’m a Christian, so I guess I’ll wind up in Heaven eventually.”

“What do people do there?”

“I’m not sure,” Jack admitted. He felt listless after the turmoil of the past weeks—the battle with the hogboon, the trip to Notland, the loss of the Bard. It was enough to sit here on the pale sand and listen to the lapping of the waves. But of course he couldn’t do it forever. Today was only a brief pause between storms. They’d have to find food and they had to build a boat. Our of what? Jack thought. Driftwood? Seaweed? Perhaps Gog and Magog could fell trees, if he could get to the top of the mountain and ask them.