02 - The Land of the Silver Apples

  “The Bard says they smell like seaweed,” Jack said.

  “Father Severus probably smelled like old boots.”

  “You don’t respect anyone, do you?”

  “That’s not true,” Pega protested. “I’m simply not taken in by frauds. Kings, nobles, abbots—they think they’re so holy, mud wouldn’t stick to their bums if they sat in a bog. But I admire good people—really I do—like the Bard and Brother Aiden… and you,” she finished softly.

  “Oh, go to sleep,” said Jack, feeling uncomfortable with this sudden change of tone. He snuggled into his heap of straw and turned his back on her. The storm blustered outside. Occasional gusts of wind penetrated the narrow window and chilled his body. If only he had more straw. Or a sheepskin. Pega didn’t seem to mind the cold, but she was used to ill treatment.

  After a while Jack got up. The swallow was a dark blob in the corner of the window. Not even a child could get through that narrow space. From what little Jack could see, there was a long drop to the ground. He went to the door. The guards were curled up on the floor like a pack of wolfhounds.

  Jack pulled the brazier to the middle of the room. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well make use of the time.

  I seek beyond

  The folds of the mountains

  The nine waves of the sea

  The bird-crying winds….

  * * *

  He chanted silently, circling the fire. Maybe he could see Lucy if she still lived. Round and round he went until the sound of the storm faded and the coals grew bright. A shudder rolled through the fortress.

  “Don’t do that,” the Bard said sharply. Both he and Pega were sitting bolt upright. Cries sounded in the distance. “The forces you called up yesterday are still abroad. We don’t want the whole fortress down around our ears.” He got up and placed a poker in the coals. “Mint tea would go down well, Pega.”

  The girl set about fetching charcoal from an alcove. She built up the fire, filled cups from a wooden bucket, and sprinkled mint leaves on top. “I don’t have honey, sir,” she apologized.

  “You’re doing marvelously,” the old man assured her. “We need the heat more than anything. My stars! You’d think it was December.”

  Soon they were sitting around the brazier with mint-flavored steam misting their faces. “What did I call up, sir?” Jack asked.

  “An earthquake,” the Bard replied.

  “What is an earthquake?”

  “A very good question. The Picts say it’s the Great Worm and her nine wormlets burrowing in the earth. I’ve always thought it was an imbalance in the life force. An even better question is why it responded to you. What were you thinking when you called it, lad?”

  “The first time I was angry at Father Swein. I mean, furious,” Jack admitted. “I was grasping the staff so hard, it’s a wonder it didn’t break. It was shaking in my hands.”

  “I felt it too,” Pega interrupted.

  “Did you, now?” The Bard looked at her thoughtfully.

  “I called—something—to come forth,” Jack said. “I told it to break down the walls. And to clean up the place. For an instant I actually saw into the ground. There were caves like halls under the earth, pitch-black…”

  “And the second time?” the Bard said softly.

  “I was doing the farseeing spell. I only wanted to see Lucy.” Jack felt hollow inside. Where was his little sister? Was she frightened by the dark halls he’d glimpsed? Or was she the prisoner of some monster?

  “Long ago,” said the Bard, folding his hands around his cup, “St. Filian’s was not a well, but a lake. It was ruled by a powerful lady of Elfland—the Lady you heard Brutus speak of—and her nymphs. They had always been protected by the Lord of Din Guardi.”

  “Not King Yffi,” said Jack.

  “Not him. He slew the true king, and then he called in a group of renegade monks. They dammed up the spring that fed the lake, trapping the Lady in the courtyard with Christian magic. For years they’ve had a sweet little enterprise going there. The abbot of the Holy Isle complained, but nothing was done. Then Northmen destroyed the island. Too bad Olaf and his dim-witted crew didn’t land here instead.”

  “Was the Lady truly unhappy?” asked Jack.

  “In a tiny courtyard? Without the flocks of birds, the mists and reeds and wildflowers she loved? Of course she was. Even worse, she was aging. Elves live long in our world, but they prolong their existence by visiting Elfland, where time does not move.”

  “I suppose that’s why she shot me,” said Jack.

  “She must have been brooding for years. When you broke open the pit—By Odin’s eyebrows! That’s it! How could I have missed it?”

  “What, sir? What are you doing?”

  The Bard dropped his cup and went to the window. He could just reach his arm through. The swallow chirped peevishly. “Don’t worry, my friend. I’m only checking the weather,” the old man said. “Hah!”

  “What?” cried both Jack and Pega.

  “Perfectly dry outside. Just as I thought. That was no ordinary storm.”

  “It was raining earlier,” Pega said.

  “The water poured out of the well and into that hole you opened up, Jack, leaving it perfectly dry.” The Bard looked at Jack and Pega expectantly.

  “But what does this have to do with—” Jack began.

  “Think! All last night and today the sky’s been streaming with rain. Now it’s gone!” The old man folded his arms, looking immensely satisfied with himself.

  Jack and Pega stared at him.

  “Save me from slack-jawed apprentices! The Lady of the Lake was emptying out the sky. She’s taken all the water,” explained the Bard. “It wouldn’t surprise me if every well in this district has gone dry. And when King Yffi finds out, they’ll be able to hear him bellow all the way to Jotunheim!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  KING YFFI

  The swallow sang before dawn. She warbled and chirred as though she were holding a long conversation. Jack covered his ears, but it was no use. Cold seeped into his bones, and the straw had flattened into a thin mat. He sat up.

  “You don’t say,” murmured the Bard.

  Chirr, twitter, cheet, cheet, went the bird.

  Pega was sitting up too, watching.

  “The whole side of the mountain came down. That was an earthquake!”

  Warble, churdle, coo.

  “Your cave wasn’t touched. Well, that’s lucky, anyway. I’ll see you in the Forest of Lorn, for we have much to discuss.”

  The old man sat back, and the swallow hopped to the edge of the window. She fluffed her feathers in the silvery light and flew off with a rustle of wings. “Good morning,” the Bard said, standing and brushing the wrinkles from his robe. “I believe we’ll have a fine, sunshiny day.”

  “Were you talking to that bird?” Pega asked.

  “To be accurate, she was speaking to me. The earthquake caused havoc up and down this coast, and she wanted to know if another one was likely. I told her no.”

  “I didn’t know swallows were so intelligent,” said Pega. The Bard merely smiled, and Jack knew better than to ask him questions. The Bard never revealed anything unless he thought it was important. Jack often saw him talking to foxes, hawks, crows, and badgers, but he rarely passed on the information.

  They breakfasted on bread left over from yesterday, soaked in cider to make it chewable. They had hardly finished when King Yffi’s guards appeared. “Don’t forget your staff,” the Bard reminded Jack. They went down stairs that twisted round a central column. From this, Jack guessed they’d been in a tower. He’d hardly noticed when he was dragged up from the dungeons. The guards stamped along before and behind with not a glimmer of friendliness in their eyes.

  The air in the passage was stale, and the floor was achingly cold. It seemed a place forever deserted by spring. Even in high summer, Jack thought it would be freezing. And sad. Cold could be cheerful, as when they woke the apple trees, but t
his was despairing. If Jack listened intently, he could—almost—hear distant weeping. Or perhaps it was only his imagination.

  King Yffi’s hall was no less grim. It was large and sumptuously furnished, but the numerous torches along the walls did not lessen the melancholy that hung over the room. The king himself lounged on a gilded throne flanked by flaming braziers. He was a large man, taller and broader than any of his men. Most oddly, he was dressed in black from head to toe and his hands were encased in leather gloves. The only part of him visible were his eyes, sunk into his face like pebbles in a bowl of oatmeal.

  A man knelt on the floor before him. Jack recognized Brutus in spite of the slave’s eyes being blackened and his lip swollen. He’d obviously suffered for his defense of Lucy. “Brutus knows he’s a wretch, noble master,” the man groaned, banging his head on the floor. “He’s as brainless as a March hare. He didn’t mean to attack the nice monks—no, indeed—he loves them! But he was bewitched by a powerful wizard.”

  What wizard? thought Jack. Then he knew. Brutus was shifting the blame onto him! “That swine,” Jack muttered.

  “Patience,” counseled the Bard. “There are worse things than being thought powerful.”

  “Aiii!” shrieked Brutus, throwing himself flat. “He’s here! He’s here! Please, master wizard, don’t pull down this fortress! Don’t crush poor Brutus under the stones!” He crept forward and kissed Jack’s foot. Jack reacted at once. “Yiiiii!” screamed the slave. “He kicked me! He put evil magic into me. Brutus is going to soil his pants!” And he began passing gas noisily.

  “Get him away!” shouted King Yffi. The guards dragged the slave to a far corner. Jack now saw that Brutus wasn’t the only outsider present. Several monks, including Brother Aiden, stood behind the throne.

  The room fell silent except for the flaring of the torches and Brutus’ whimpers. “Wizards,” said King Yffi at last, looking from the Bard to Jack. His eyes passed over Pega as though she didn’t exist. “What have I done to deserve wizards?”

  “Something good, no doubt,” the Bard said.

  “Nothing but ill luck has happened since you arrived,” growled the king. “First the earthquake. Then the wells ran dry. My soldiers tell me the drought extends only a mile or two outside of Bebba’s Town, but there’s no way we can transport enough water for our needs. All because of wizards.” Yffi’s eyes fixed on Jack. “I ought to burn you at the stake.”

  “How about it, lad?” the Bard said genially. “Shall we knock down a few pillars to show them what’s what?”

  “Noooo!” shrieked Brutus from his corner. “Don’t rain stones on poor Brutus!”

  “I trust we can think of something else to do.” Yffi cast a furtive look at the ceiling over his head.

  “Getting the water back comes to mind,” remarked the Bard.

  “Indeed,” said the king. He and the Bard stared at each other, and Jack was heartened to see Yffi drop his gaze first.

  “Good!” said the old man. “Here are the facts as I know them: The Lady of the Lake fled with your water. (She would consider it her water, but we won’t quibble.) At the same time she took Father Swein and this boy’s sister prisoner. My advice would be to find her and promise to restore her lake. I’m sure she’ll cooperate if we make it worth her while.”

  “How can we find her?” cried one of the monks. “She’s gone down that dirty great hole where our well used to be.”

  “I’m not exploring it,” one of the guards said under his breath.

  “The monks say it’s the mouth of Hell,” another muttered.

  “You’ll go if I order you!” roared King Yffi, making everyone jump. “By St. Oswald’s moldy arms, my kingdom is drying up! I’ll send the whole army down there if I have to. I’ll bring back that witch in chains!”

  “Oh, dear,” came Brother Aiden’s gentle voice. “I’m afraid that won’t work. The Lady of the Lake is a water elf. You can’t chain water.”

  “I don’t care how it’s done!” shouted the king. “Use chains! Use a bucket! Put her in a jug for all I care! But I want her back on the job.” He glowered at Jack. “You miserable wizard! I ought to feed you to my pet crabs—it’s been weeks since I gave them a treat—but I have a better idea. You shall go down into that hole. You shall make the wells flow again. And if you don’t, I’ll weight your father down with rocks and drown him in the sea!”

  Jack reeled with shock. He’d thought kings—Saxon kings, anyway—were somehow more noble than common folk. They were the guardians of justice. They wouldn’t take revenge on a helpless man. But Yffi wasn’t noble. He was only a vicious pirate who’d obtained his kingdom by murder. As Pega had said: Kings were merely successful thieves.

  “I’ll go with him,” said Pega.

  “It’s too dangerous,” said Jack.

  She turned to him. Her grave expression gave her a dignity that silenced him. “I’m a free girl. I go where I will.”

  “Well, I’m not free, so you can’t take me!” cried Brutus, scuttling across the floor on all fours. “Oh, no, no, no! You can’t drag Brutus along. He’s afraid of the dark. He’ll die of terror!” He threw himself at King Yffi’s feet, covering them with noisy kisses.

  “Stop that!” roared the king, jumping up so quickly, he collided with a guard next to the throne. “I swear I’ve never met a more disgusting creature! You’re going down that pit if it’s the last thing I do, and I hope you meet something nasty at the bottom of it!”

  Brutus curled up into a ball and began to howl.

  “Take them away,” cried the king. “I want them into that pit by nightfall—and post guards around the edge so they can’t come sneaking back!”

  “That went well,” said the Bard as they were herded down the hall by a troop of grim-faced warriors. Yffi’s men walked behind Brother Aiden, Pega, and Brutus, but they were careful to let the Bard and Jack take the lead. They were clearly uneasy at being so close to wizards.

  Well? thought Jack. I’d say it went absolutely foul. They were going to be thrown into the mouth of Hell. If they didn’t find water, Father would be drowned. And we’re stuck with him. Jack glanced at Brutus, who was wailing monotonously. If there is anything nasty down that hole, we’ll never be able to sneak past it.

  “Things aren’t as bad as they seem, lad,” said the old man after the guards had shut them into the Bard’s chambers. “Brutus has more to him than meets the eye.”

  Jack shrugged. In his opinion what met the eye was bad enough.

  The slave stopped moaning the instant they were alone. “Good old Yffi,” he declared, shifting easily from cowering worm to man. “He’s as easy to predict as a sundial. Never passes up a chance to make people suffer.”

  “Creatures such as he live to spread misery,” agreed the Bard. “Eventually, the misery finds its way back.”

  “Did you see how I slobbered over his feet? Lovely! Yffi hates slobber.”

  “You’re certainly good at it,” Jack said.

  “Groveling is what kept my head on my shoulders all these years.” Brutus winked cheerfully. “Just think! We’re going on a quest. We’ll have adventures. We might even meet dragons.”

  “I’ve met dragons,” Jack said, who didn’t like Brutus either as a worm or as a man. “Wringing your hands doesn’t impress them.”

  “I’d never wring my hands,” Brutus cried, drawing himself up to full height. “I’d slay a dragon, as all true knights should. I wouldn’t say no to rescuing a princess, either.”

  Jack couldn’t believe his ears. This was the man who, just minutes earlier, had been cowering on the floor like a whipped dog.

  “It was important to make Yffi send Brutus along. You and Pega need someone to protect you,” said the Bard.

  Jack felt like he’d been dipped in icy water. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Alas, no, lad. I’m not the man I was sixty years ago. Climbing down holes is no longer one of my skills. Besides, I’m needed here. The Northmen are on the move—
not close yet, but you never know. The wells are dry, and I need to tell the villagers where to find water. And I must keep an eye on your father. He’s been badly hurt. If I don’t attend to his leg, he may never walk again.”

  Jack turned to Brother Aiden.

  “Oh, dear. I hate to disappoint you,” said Brother Aiden, bowing his head. “I’m taking over Father Swein’s duties. The monks of St. Filian’s are wandering about like little lost lambs. They need me to provide them with discipline and useful chores.”

  Jack had his own ideas about how lamblike the monks of St. Filian were, but he kept them to himself. His spirits sank through the floor. The only help he would receive was from a scrawny girl and a cowardly slave.

  “Chin up, lad,” the Bard said. “You may be young, impulsive, half trained, somewhat ignorant, and inexperienced—but I have faith in you.”

  “Thanks,” muttered Jack. “I think.”

  They were interrupted by guards bringing food and supplies. “Eat up and pack the rest,” growled the chief guard. “We’ll be back at nightfall. It’ll be dark, but”—he grinned, showing a mouthful of ragged teeth—“not as dark as where you’re going.”

  The food consisted of cold oatmeal, day-old oatcakes, sour oat mash, and oat pudding (with suet). “I wish they’d picked out the weevils,” said Pega, poking at the rubbery pudding with her finger, but no one else complained.

  “Now,” said the Bard as they sat around the brazier and Pega stowed the leftover food into sacks, “you can put your minds at rest. The tunnel is not the mouth of Hell.”

  “Are you certain?” said Brother Aiden.

  “Absolutely! I have much experience with underground paths. Small ones are made by brownies, spriggans, and yarthkins.”

  What are those? thought Jack. All the same, he was enchanted by the idea of tiny, magical creatures burrowing around under his feet.