The Islands of the Blessed

wood was damp. “Nothing like a fire on a cold morning,” he said, warming his hands.

“Sister Wulfhilda packed venison pies,” said Thorgil. “I can heat one up if you’re hungry.”

“Do you want one, Pangur?” Jack gave a friendly scratch behind the cat’s ears. The creature was stretched out to get maximum warmth on his stomach.

Save them for the trip, he advised. It might be longer than you think.

“He says we should wait,” Jack translated. By now the sun had risen over the eastern sea, but it was still veiled in mist. It shone like a pale gold moon.

“You can understand him. That’s new,” said Thorgil.

“Yes, it is,” Jack said uneasily.

“Ask him what he ate all that time Ethne was starving herself.”

So Jack asked, and Pangur Ban said he’d been eating rats. He preferred lamb chops and roast goose, of course, but one made do with what one could get. He’d slain any rats that tried to get into Ethne’s cell and taken them outside to devour because she was so tenderhearted. She’s turned into a decent human, he said. Dragon Tongue would be pleased.

“You do know what happened to him?” the boy said sadly.

I know everything, replied the cat. They spoke of this and that, and Jack invited him to come along, but Pangur Ban preferred to stay in the monastery. They spoil me rotten, he said, purring loudly. Besides, I want to keep an eye on Ethne. Now you should go, for the way is difficult.

They put out the fire and called the horses, and Thorgil gave a last stroke to Pangur Ban’s fur. He sniffed her hand and made an excited chattering sound. Forgive me. She smells like Bird and I always lose control.

“What’s he saying?” Thorgil said suspiciously.

“Nothing you need to know. Farewell, old friend,” Jack said to the cat. “May the life force hold you in the hollow of its hand.”

And you as well. Pangur Ban stretched luxuriously and then trotted off. After a moment he turned aside and vanished into the bushes. 

Chapter Forty-six THORGIL SILVER-HAND

Up until then the weather had been cold but dry. Now storm clouds blew in from the northeast, and by afternoon the first raindrops began to fall. “Balder’s backside,” grumbled Thorgil, wrapping herself in a heavy, woolen cloak treated with oil. The rain increased until they could hardly see the way forward. The road became awash with streams pouring out of the forests on either side. The ponies’ hooves slipped in hidden holes, and finally Jack said they would have to camp.

They had only gotten as far as a small beech wood, a half-day’s journey from town. In the teeming rain they saw a well with a copper cup attached to a chain. “We won’t be needing that for water,” said Thorgil. “All we have to do is look up and open our mouths.”

The beech trees were completely leafless and offered no shelter from the storm. Jack and Thorgil had to huddle next to the well, where an ancient wall, half tumbled down, gave some protection. The ponies stood together with their backs to the wind.

“Maybe we should return to the monastery tomorrow,” said Jack.

“Never! I shall never go back,” Thorgil said. Jack knew there was no point arguing with her yet. By morning she might be miserable enough to change her mind. He put St. Columba’s robe over both of them, and as before, it gave them ample cover. It not only made them feel warmer, but drier. The wool didn’t smell of wet sheep either, but of green leaves and summer.

“I wonder whether I could magic up some kind of shelter,” Jack said, looking at St. Columba’s staff.

“That would be very welcome,” said Thorgil. She might be warmer, but she was still shivering.

Jack held the staff out, trying various commands such as “Walls, arise!” and “House, appear!” but nothing happened. Even to him the words sounded lame. He needed a lorica, and that only came when needed.

I really, really need one now, Jack thought, hoping that someone was listening. The water kept thundering down. Next, he tried to stop the rain, but he had only ever been good at calling it up. “The staff has a mind of its own,” he conceded at last.

“We’ll get through this,” said Thorgil. “I remember once, when I was very small, being stuck on a cliff with Olaf while he was hunting wild sheep. A storm came up and we couldn’t move. The wind was so strong, I thought it was going to blow us over the edge, but Olaf said, ‘Hang on by your fingernails, child. That’s why Northmen never cut them. They’re as good as eagle talons.’ He was so cheerful about it, I lost all fear.”

Jack unwrapped one of the venison pies, and they took turns nibbling it. Darkness fell with no letup in the storm. The ground where they lay was full of stones and a tree root meandered through the middle, but eventually exhaustion brought them sleep.

It was still raining in the morning. “We have to return,” Jack said.

“Never,” said Thorgil flatly.

“I’ve seen these storms go on for a week. Besides, what’s the harm in staying at the monastery until spring? You can stuff wool in your ears if you don’t want to hear Christian prayers.”

“I won’t go back!” cried Thorgil, with more than a little hysteria in her voice.

Jack decided it was better to eat breakfast before pushing the argument further. He unpacked a round of cheese and cut her a chunk with his knife.

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

“You need to eat.” He made the mistake of trying to put the cheese into her mouth, and she struck him. The whole round went spinning into the mud. “What’s the matter with you?” Jack shouted, retrieving the food and holding it out in the rain to clean it.

“I said I wasn’t hungry and I meant it! I want to get moving! I’ll go mad if I sit here and do nothing!”

“Go mad, then.” Jack turned his back on her. He ate slowly while staring at the teeming rain. Even on the high ground where they were, the water sat in pools. It seemed likely that the road ahead was flooded. He heard a slight noise over the relentless storm and turned to see Thorgil crying.

She was trying not to make a sound, but her body shook with sobs and a few gasps escaped her. “Thorgil, I’m so sorry,” cried Jack. He was used to her rages. Crying was much more alarming. He slid over to put his arm around her and found that her skin was hot. “Oh, Thorgil. Oh, no,” he murmured. She had caught flying venom. It had simply taken a while to surface.

When they had arrived at the monastery, the monks and nuns no longer had it, but Ethne was still ill. Thorgil had bent over her when she transferred the rune of protection. The elf lady had breathed on her.

Jack held Thorgil closely. He was aware that she could infect him, but he didn’t care. “You know you’re very sick, don’t you?” he said. There was no point avoiding the truth. Northmen preferred to face a problem head- on.

“I don’t feel good,” Thorgil admitted. “My head aches horribly, and I keep having chills. My eyes are blurry.”

“It might be flying venom.”

“It might. Wulfie said she felt like this.”

They sat for a while longer. “You know that we can’t go to my village now,” said Jack. “We’d carry the disease to them.”

“I know,” she said.

“The only place in the world where we’ll be welcome is the monastery. They’ve already had the disease. They won’t catch it again.” Jack smoothed her wet hair. Even that was too hot.

He helped Thorgil to her feet, and she called the ponies in the way that only the heirs of Hengist knew. They