The Islands of the Blessed Read Online Free PDF Page B

The sea, still troubled by distant storms, was lined with foam. The air was beautifully clear, however, with every sound carrying for miles. Jack heard Brother Aiden’s bell from the little beehive-shaped hut where he lived. It trembled like a plucked harp string before dying away into the deepening blue sky—as different from a cowbell as nightingales were from crows.
    King Brutus had found it buried in an old chest at St. Filian’s Monastery. Since the monastery already had a bell, and this one was too small for such a grand establishment, he’d sent it to the village. Brother Aiden was delighted.Until a week ago, he’d made do with a rusty instrument that clanked rather than rang.
    This was the first time Jack had heard it, and it filled him with a longing he didn’t quite understand. It sounded again. Brother Aiden would be kneeling in prayer; the bell was to call whoever wished to join him. Jack thought it odd that sound traveled farther than sight, for Brother Aiden was too far away for Jack to see even the fire outside his hut.
    Thorgil said that sounds never really died. She said the Northmen heard their dead calling to them on nights when lights danced in the sky. Jack had never seen such a thing and didn’t want to.
    The bell rang a third time, and from the sea came a terrifying wail. Jack’s hand went to his knife. The cry faded to a sob and then ceased altogether. He waited tensely, scanning the distant waves. He saw a long, discolored patch of sea moving toward shore, and then it was gone.
    Probably seaweed,
thought Jack. Still, he watched until darkness forced him to go on.
    Inside the Bard’s house, a cheerful fire sprouted green, red, and yellow flames as it burned driftwood. An iron pot bubbled with the enticing smell of mushrooms. Jack sighed with happiness. Everything was as it should be. The painted birds on the walls moved in the firelight, and a painted breeze appeared to ruffle the leaves of a flower garden.
    Jack was about to ask the Bard whether he’d heard the cry when he saw the old man feeding scraps of dried fish to a large, bedraggled-looking bird. Thorgil was squatting besidehim, engaged in conversation—to go by the croaks—with the bird. She didn’t look pleased, and Jack guessed the Bard had bullied her into performing.
    â€œLook what the storm has washed up,” said the Bard. “Fetch us some of that stew while I put our friend to bed.” He urged the bird to an alcove filled with straw. Jack noticed that it hopped unsteadily and that one of its wings dragged on the floor.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked.
    â€œA great wonder,” said the Bard enthusiastically. “He’s called a—what did you say, Thorgil?”
    â€œAn albatross,” she replied sullenly. She was pale and her face was badly bruised, but she seemed to have recovered.
    â€œHe’s a visitor from the far south, and I do mean far,” said the old man. “Imagine! There’s a place even I haven’t heard of. It’s a land full of ice mountains that groan all winter long and break off into islands when summer comes.”
    â€œIt sounds like Jotunheim,” said Jack.
    â€œI thought so at first, but Seafarer—that’s the bird’s name—says it’s home only to birds and seals. It’s so remote, I can’t understand his speech. Fortunately, Thorgil can.”
    Jack took down a stack of bowls, placed a chunk of bread in each, and ladled stew over it.
    â€œThe poor fellow took a beating in the storm. Dislocated his wing. Thorgil found him struggling in the surf and carried him here.” The Bard was delighted with his new guest, and Jack knew it was due to tales of a new land beyond the sky’s reach. The Bard was always interested in new things.
    Jack and Thorgil sat on the floor to eat. “I’ve never seen such a big seagull,” the boy said, watching the bird fidget in his