Grim warriors tied stones around others and threw them into the sea. They killed everything in their path: men, women, servants, cattle, and sheep. Then they destroyed the buildings. They tore down the silk tapestries and trampled them. They smashed the stained-glass window.

“Not the window,” groaned Father.

“Yes, that and more,” said Brother Aiden. “They overturned the altar and urinated on the books. They ran through the library and ripped manuscripts that had taken the monks fifty years to copy.

“That’s where I was,” said Brother Aiden. “I was hiding in a loft just under the roof. They tore up the manuscripts and then they set fire to them. I dared not leave. I stayed curled up under the roof while the smoke came on thickly and the heat almost set my robe on fire. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I dropped down into the flames and ran.”

By then the whole island was afire, the monastery and nunnery, the church, the granary, the barns and fields. Brother Aiden had stumbled around, looking for anyone who might have survived, but there was no one. The longships had gone with their cargo of treasure and slaughtered animals. There was nothing left but smoking ruins and corpses.

“Oh, horror, horror!” cried Father, falling to his knees. Mother burst into tears. The blacksmith’s wife ran to the other villagers, who were still packing, and gave them the news. Cries of disbelief and stormy weeping spread outward like a wildfire. Jack was crying too. He had never seen the Holy Isle—few of the villagers had—but it had always been there like a kindly light on the edge of an uncertain world.

Suddenly, Jack remembered the Bard’s words: There’s no way in this world for happiness to exist alone. The golden hall was too beautiful, and so, like all bright things, it attracted destruction.“It’s like Hrothgar’s hall,” he said aloud.

“Very good,” said the Bard, and Jack saw that he alone was not weeping. “Sometimes you quite surprise me with your intelligence.”

“I should have been there,” groaned Father. “I should have been a monk and fallen like a true martyr. Oh, horror!”

“Giles, you idiot. If you’d been a monk, you would never have had this good woman for a wife or these fine children. You’d be lying there in the ashes.” The Bard stood up and spread his arms to the sky. From the distance came the harsh cry of a crow. Presently, it appeared, circled overhead, and came down to rest in a tree.

“It’s probably been feasting on the dead,” said Father.

“We should be going,” the Bard said to the chief, ignoring Father. The chief shook himself.

“Of course,” he said in a distant voice.

“I’ll organize the boys to make a litter so you can take Brother Aiden along.”

Soon a line of villagers, many still crying, made its way west to the forest. The squawking, clucking, hissing, and bleating of the livestock faded away. Silence settled over the fields.

Jack felt sore inside. Every time he thought of the Holy Isle, tears came to his eyes. It had been an enchanted place where they ate roast lamb flavored with rosemary and rowan-berry pudding and flummery—the best kind, with nutmeg and cream. Gentle monks prayed over the sick beneath a stained-glass window that shone with the colors of the rainbow when the sun was behind it.

“The women did a good job,” remarked the Bard, breaking into Jack’s thoughts. “Of course, I trained them. They’ve been practicing for months.”

“You knew this would happen?” said Jack.

“Not exactly. I knew some kind of trouble would arrive when the winter storms were over. I sent directions to the other villages as well. I hope they listened.”

“Now what?” said Jack, talking to keep the silence of the village from depressing him.

“Now we make the biggest and wettest fog you’ve ever seen.”

They sat outside the old Roman house, calling to the life force. Rivers in the earth quickened their flow. Rivers of the air began to churn. Never had Jack felt them so strongly. Tears flowed down his cheeks at the wonder and beauty of it, and just as quickly the tears curled off his face as mist.

A flock of crows dropped out of the sky as though felled by arrows. They landed clumsily on the roof and clung to the thatch. Their beaks opened and shut. They were too dazed to even squawk.

The sea rolled far below, a dim white ribbon in the fog, glimmering and then gone. Cold wetness sank into Jack’s shirt, but it was a goodwetness. He felt like laughing. He did laugh, and the crows answered with a muted grumble.

“We should rest,” said the Bard.

Jack woke up to find the light fading. The sun had set! The whole day had passed! He stood up, feeling as exhausted as though he’d wrestled a hundred black-faced ewes. His arms and legs ached, his head throbbed, and even his skin hurt.

The Bard hunched over, and Jack realized the old man was at the end of his strength. “I’ll build a fire, sir,” the boy said. “I’ll get you food.” He took flint and iron—he had no energy left to call up fire—and soon he had a fine blaze going and a cauldron of porridge bubbling. He led the Bard to the fire pit and folded his hands around a steaming cup of cider. As hungry as Jack was, he was even more concerned about reviving the Bard.

“Ahhh, the blessings of Frey and Freya upon you,” the old man said with a sigh. He drank the hot liquid and allowed Jack to spoon porridge into his mouth. “It takes it out of you,” he said at last.

“Do we need to make more fog tonight?” Jack said.

“I’m not up to it. I’m counting on darkness to protect us.” The old man shuffled outside to the privy. Jack came along with a torch to be sure the Bard didn’t fall over the cliff. The night was as black as the inside of a lead mine.

When they returned, the Bard fell into his truckle bed and was asleep between one breath and the next. Jack banked the fire and pulled the remaining porridge to one side for breakfast. There would be no more deliveries of food from the village.

Where were the villagers sleeping? Jack wondered as he watched the painted birds shift on their painted trees. Were they outdoors in the wet? Lucy wouldn’t like that. She insisted on a soft bed and warmth. I’m a lost princess,she would say. Lost princesses need their beds.Lucy’s complaints were endearing at the house because she was so small and beautiful. Father and Mother might not find them so endearing in the woods.

Jack fell asleep to the sound of crows’ feet scraping on the roof.

“Wake up!” called the Bard. Jack sat up. Sunlight was streaming in the door, and for a moment he was pleased. Then he remembered the need for bad weather.

“Shall I heat the porridge, sir?”

“No time. We’ll eat it cold.”

Jack pried the gummy, lumpy porridge from the pot. It tasted smoky from the fire—not a bad thing, the boy decided. At least it filled the yawning pit in his stomach. He soaked a chunk of hard bread in cider.

“Come on!” said the Bard. “The berserkers won’t be dawdling over theirbreakfasts.”

I’m not dawdling,Jack thought bitterly. I’m tired and hungry, and I have to work while the villagers get to relax in the forest.But he knew that was unfair. The villagers would be huddled together like a flock of stunned sheep. He’d seen it happen when a flock lost its lead ewe far from home.

Sighing, he settled outside with the Bard and began to call to the life force. This time it was much easier. The earth and air responded as though they had only been waiting. Fog rolled in with a speed that was almost frightening. What if we can’t make it go away?Jack thought. What if the sun never shines again and the land is covered with eternal darkness?

“What’s wrong?” the Bard said.