The Islands of the Blessed by Nancy Farmer Page A

by a fire outside his hut.

Chapter Six

FAIR LAMENTING
    Jack knelt too, not wishing to disturb Brother Aiden. He couldn’t understand the prayers, yet the words soothed him. Pega often said it felt like summer near the monk’s hut, no matter how cold the winds were elsewhere. There was something so angelic about Brother Aiden that even the frost giants walked carefully around his dwelling.
    Now Jack felt a calm descend on him, as though the creature in the hazel wood hadn’t been so terrible after all. It was merely a lost wolf howling for its companions or a seal that had wandered from the coast. He
had
smelled seaweed.
    â€œI should teach you Latin,” said Brother Aiden. “Then you might not fall asleep during prayers.”
    Jack sat up abruptly. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s the warmth and quiet. I’ve been working all day.”
    â€œNo offense taken,” the monk said cheerfully. “I’d invite you in, but there’s no room.” He waved at the door of his beehive-shaped hut. Jack had been in there once or twice and knew it was hardly more than a man-made cave. There was space for a tiny altar, a storage area for parchment and ink, and a heap of dried heather for a bed. Anyone taller than the monk couldn’t even stand up.
    A table and stool sat outside where Brother Aiden illustrated his manuscripts. Dishware and food were stowed in a heavy wooden chest beneath. The bell was suspended from a wooden frame near the fire.
    â€œI can offer you some of Pega’s excellent eel-and-turnip stew,” the monk said, laying out bowls, spoons, and a knife for himself. Jack, like most villagers, carried his own knife. His was especially fine, for it had been a gift from the Mountain Queen in Jotunheim. “Let me ring that bell a last time—good heavens! What’s the matter?” Brother Aiden cried as Jack grabbed his arm.
    â€œBegging your pardon, sir,” the boy said, “but you can’t do that. At least not tonight.”
    â€œWhy ever not?” said the monk, rubbing his arm.
    â€œI—I’m not sure. Only, there’s a
thing
in the woods that screams when you toll it. Last night the thing was on the beach, and now it’s closer. We’d better ask the Bard what to do.”
    â€œHave something to eat, lad. You can explain more clearlyon a full stomach.” Brother Aiden ladled stew from a pot on the fire and unwrapped a small loaf of bread. “I can’t imagine anyone screaming about that bell. It has such a lovely tone that it has been given its own name: Fair Lamenting.”
    â€œFair Lamenting?” said Jack, his mouth muffled by bread. “That doesn’t sound good.”
    â€œIt depends on what you’re lamenting,” said Brother Aiden. He took less stew than Jack and only the thinnest slice of bread. “There’s a longing that comes over you when you see something so perfect, it must be divine—a lamb standing on its feet for the first time, for example, or a swallow diving out of a cloud. The moment is so beautiful that you want to hold on to it forever, but you can’t. And so you lament and feel joy at the same time.”
    Jack struggled to understand. It seemed yet another puzzle to do with happiness. He doubted whether Gog and Magog had done much “fair lamenting” when they mooed with the cows. For that matter, the cows seemed pretty happy too. There were no worries about whether the mooing was going to go on forever.
    â€œWhat you really see is a glimpse of Heaven, for in Heaven such moments last forever,” explained the monk. “The sound of Fair Lamenting reminds us of the joy that lies beyond the sorrow of this world. Did you know that this is the very bell St. Columba brought from Ireland?” Brother Aiden reverently lifted the instrument from its hook and set it on the table. “It’s what drew the Picts from their hills.”
    â€œI heard