02 - The Land of the Silver Apples

  But he’d never been down a mine. The very thought of going under the earth now made him dizzy. It had something to do with being enclosed on all sides. It was like being swallowed alive.

  “I, uh, I—” He gulped.

  “I’ll help you,” said Brutus. He swiftly dropped all the carrying parcels over the side. Then he slung the boy, staff and all, over his shoulder and started down the swaying rope ladder. It happened so quickly, Jack only had time to stifle a scream and cling to the slave’s arms like a cat trying to keep from being dragged out of a tree. At the bottom of the rope Brutus pulled the boy’s fingers loose, swung him out, and let go.

  Then Jack did scream—he couldn’t help it. Almost at once he landed on soft sand and felt like an idiot. He looked up at the rim of torches and saw Brutus coming down with Pega in his arms. “If you’ve broken those cider bags, I’ll never forgive you,” she threatened.

  “Don’t worry, lassie. It’s as soft as heather down there.” Brutus jumped with a soft crunch on sand, and the guards pulled up the rope ladder.

  “Hey!” Pega shouted. “How are we supposed to get out?”

  “When the water starts flowing, you can swim out!” The captain and his men guffawed heartily as Pega let fly a string of insults.

  “Pay no attention,” said Brutus, gathering up the supplies. “They’re sitting around like tadpoles in an empty pond. Soon they’ll dry up and blow away.”

  “What about us? We’ll dry up too,” said Pega.

  Brutus struck flint and iron, and lit a torch. It flared noisily, having been dipped in pitch, and settled down to a reddish flame. “It’s true we may die on this quest, but there is honor in what we do, far beyond merely waiting for fate to overtake us.”

  The ruddy light shone on his face, marking out his strong cheekbones. Gone was the sniveling slave, and in his place was a man—rough and doglike to be sure—who might almost be noble. Or at least until something scares him, Jack thought. “I suppose we’d better get started,” the boy said.

  It was the hardest thing Jack ever did, walking into that long, black tunnel. Every nerve cried out to flee back to where he could see the ring of torches and the circle of stars beyond. But he would not show less courage than Brutus. He would not be outdone by someone who whimpered if a moth flew past his face.

  So Jack walked ahead as though he hadn’t a worry in the world. He did, of course. The tunnel led deeper under the earth, and the mass of rock overhead became that much thicker and heavier. It could collapse at any moment, squashing them as flat as fleas. Jack saw no reason why it couldn’t.

  They trudged for miles past dull limestone walls. Torches burned away and Brutus lit more. The ground was not only littered with discarded branches, but broken pottery, apple cores, fish bones, and mussel shells. Elves must have been trooping through the tunnel for years, and from the smell, Jack suspected they buried their waste in the sand like cats. They were, as Brother Aiden had said, extremely trashy.

  After a long while Jack and his companions came to a place where the passage divided in two. One path went to the left and the other, equal in size, to the right. A faint breeze wafted from both of them, so it was impossible for Jack to choose between them. But for the first time something new appeared on the walls. Knobs of gleaming, black material jutted from the limestone of the right-hand tunnel. “What’s that?” said Jack, and was shocked by how loud his voice seemed after walking in silence so long.

  “Some call it ‘jet’,” said Brutus. “The Romans made it into jewelry.”

  Jack worked a knob loose. It was curiously warm and light. “Does it have another name?”

  “My mother called it ‘dragon poop’.”

  Jack dropped the knob and dusted off his hands.

  “That means we should stay out of the right-hand tunnel,” Pega observed.

  Jack unpacked the Y-shaped stick the Bard had given him. He held it out. Very faintly, he felt a stir in the wood and a corresponding tremor of energy in his hands. The water was far away down the right-hand tunnel. “Wouldn’t you know it?” Jack muttered.

  “By my reckoning, we’ve walked a quarter of the night away,” said Brutus. “You and I could keep moving, but the lassie is clearly tired.”

  Jack had been so involved with his own worries, he hadn’t noticed the girl’s exhaustion. “Oh! You should have said something, Pega. Of course we can camp here.”

  “I’m no weakling,” she protested, but didn’t suggest going on.

  Brutus gathered wood and soon had a merry fire crackling—or as merry as a fire could be in a dark tunnel studded with dragon poop. He passed out slabs of oat pudding. “Drink as little as possible,” he said, producing a bag of cider. “Who knows when we shall find water?”

  “I think there’s water down there,” said Jack, pointing, “but it doesn’t make sense. The Bard said a dragon wouldn’t use a tunnel with water in it.”

  “It depends,” said Brutus, his mouth full of pudding.

  “And I suppose you know more about it than the Bard?”

  “I might,” said the slave with irritating confidence.

  “One of my owners saw a dragon swimming in a lake,” Pega offered. She picked the weevils out of her pudding and flicked them at the wall.

  “He probably did,” Brutus said. “Only fire dragons make tunnels, you see, but other kinds can use them—wyverns, hippogriffs, cockatrices, manticores, basilisks, hydras, krakens, and, of course, Pictish beasts, which prefer water above all else.” Brutus grinned boyishly as he warmed to his subject. “It’s like a badger hole. The badger digs it, but foxes, rabbits, and mice use it once the original owner moves out.”

  “So we needn’t worry about fire dragons,” said Jack, “only wyverns, hippogriffs, cockatrices, manticores, basilisks, hydras, krakens, and—and—what was the other one?”

  “Pictish beasts,” the slave said enthusiastically. “Mother found one and brought it home for a pet. It was newly hatched, no bigger than a cucumber, but it grew extremely fast. She got rid of it when it started devouring cattle.”

  The underworld was far more crowded than Jack had suspected. He didn’t know what a Pictish beast was, but—going by the Picts—it was probably thoroughly nasty.

  “I hope I didn’t dampen your spirits,” Brutus apologized. “Personally, I’m looking forward to adventures—my stars! I forgot the most important thing.” He pounced on his bundle of supplies and withdrew the parcel the Bard had given him. The smell Jack had noticed earlier became stronger. He had supposed it came from the trash discarded by the elves.

  “I thought this had been lost forever,” said Brutus, unwrapping the noxious parcel.

  Pega hurriedly moved to the edge of the firelight and cupped her hands over her mouth.

  “Sorry, lassie. I forgot that most people don’t like the odor of pig flop.” Brutus strode up the tunnel and buried the wrapping under sand. “That smell takes me right back to my childhood. How I used to love mucking about with pigs, scratching their bristly ears, and riding on their backs. They adored Mother, naturally. So did I. To think they’d hidden this under their sty all these years.” He drew the object from its scabbard, and Jack saw a flash of light. It was a beautifully made sword with a blade as bright as a setting sun. The scabbard flashed with gems—rubies, emeralds, and amethysts—and the belt to which it was attached was of bright green leather.

  “An ordinary sword would have corroded, but not this,” said Brutus. And, indeed, not a crumb of filth stained the wonderful object, nor a speck of rust. Even more surprising, the foul smell didn’t cling to it either. The slave brought the sword down, dividing the fire in two. Sparks flew up in a dazzling cloud. “Behold Anredden!” he cried. “It was made by the Lady of the Lake for Lancelot. It is dedicated to her service, as am I!”

  Sparks pattered all around, and Brutus’ shadow loomed up taller and more glorious than the man who cast it. He sat down abruptly with the sword across his lap. The shadow shrank back to normal. “I’
m sorry. It’s ignoble to brag before you’ve earned your reputation, but it does feel nice.”

  Jack and Pega stared at him, openmouthed. “Who are you?” the boy said at last.

  “I am the true ruler of Din Guardi, torn from my rightful inheritance by the treacherous Yffi. The Lords of Din Guardi have served the Lady of the Lake since time out of mind, and she in turn has protected them. But Yffi crept in with lies that my father unfortunately believed. Poor Father! Mother always said he was too trusting.”

  “Yffi killed your father?” said Pega.

  “He came alone, begging for asylum. Father welcomed him, but all the while the traitor was planning his destruction. Yffi’s army couldn’t invade from the land. The Hedge allows entry only at one point and it is so narrow that you must pass through single file. The Hedge can’t be entirely trusted either. Occasionally, a warrior enters the passage at one end and never comes out the other.”

  Jack’s hand went instinctively to the scratches the yew branch had made on his face.

  “Father guarded the sea, of course, but there was a third way to enter Din Guardi. There’s a passage that goes deep beneath the rock, a terrible place where krakens nest and kelpies hunt. And there’s a curse laid upon that way. Few survive the journey.”

  “Didn’t your da know about the passage?” said Pega.

  “Of course. He thought nothing would attempt it, but he didn’t know Yffi. Have you seen his gloves?”

  Jack remembered the king’s heavy black gloves and clothes. Nothing was visible of the man except his eyes and the unnaturally white skin around them.

  “Yffi is half kelpie,” said Brutus.

  “Crumbs! That’s something I didn’t need to hear,” said Pega, hugging herself and looking at the dark tunnels stretching away from the firelight. “I did get a nasty feeling about him.”

  “If only Father had been as perceptive as you,” Brutus said. “I don’t know what horror led to Yffi’s birth. Kelpies don’t normally mate with humans. They eat them.”

  “You’re giving me goose bumps,” said Pega. “What’s this kelpie thing?”

  “A shape-shifter. Sometimes it appears as a beautiful horse, but if you attempt to ride it, it dives under the water and drowns you. Sometimes it looks like a giant otter and sometimes like a very handsome man. They say it can crush the bones in a woman merely by hugging her.”

  “I can see why women don’t like them,” observed Pega.

  “By some means Yffi was produced, but the villagers cast the infant into the sea. He did not die, however. He was like a dolphin, able to swim from birth. He lived as kelpies do, by lying in wait and dragging his prey into the water. Being smaller than his kind, I imagine he was tormented by the others. Mother was unable to discover much about his childhood. She did learn that he crept up to houses after dark and watched people sitting by their fires. He learned their ways and how to wear their clothes, which he stole.”

  Jack, in spite of himself, felt sorry for the child Yffi. He hadn’t asked to be born half monster. It must have been terrible watching the fires and knowing you’d never be welcome. And then returning to the water, where you weren’t wanted either.

  “Gradually, Yffi learned to be human,” said Brutus. “He had to cover his hair, which was like an otter’s, and his fingers, which were webbed and tipped with claws. The greenish teeth weren’t a problem. Many knights have them.”

  Brutus paused to build up the fire. “I don’t expect visitors, but it never hurts to be careful.” Pega took out her eel-skinning knife and laid it within reach. “To finish the tale, Yffi stole a boat and passed himself off as a pirate. He soon became leader of a band, because even a half-kelpie is three times stronger than a man. But all the while he wanted to live on land, to be accepted and loved.”

  “Loved,” murmured Pega. Jack was struck by the deep sadness in her voice. Looking at her covertly, he thought she could pass for half human herself, with her mottled face, undeveloped body, and wispy hair. Yet the Bard had firmly pronounced her human.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” Brutus said. “I think Yffi really wanted Father’s friendship, but the kelpie part of him wanted blood. On the night of the invasion he swam out to the kraken nests and told them there was a ship sinking to the north. The krakens immediately went off in search of it. Then Yffi’s men climbed up the tunnel to the dungeons. They swarmed through the fortress, killing all in their path. Father was cut down before he could reach his sword.”

  “But you and your mother survived,” said Jack.

  “Yffi wanted his new subjects to love him. That’s why he only banished us to the pigsty and built St. Filian’s Monastery, but he didn’t really understand Christianity. St. Filian’s was founded by renegade monks for profit, exactly what you’d expect from a pirate. Mother and I lived in constant fear of death. He was always threatening to feed me to his pet crabs. Now we should sleep. There’s no telling how far we’ll have to go tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think I can sleep after that story,” said Pega.

  “Heroes often sing jolly songs to keep their spirits up while on quest,” Brutus said.

  “I’m too tired,” said Pega. She held the candle Jack’s mother had given her against her cheek, as if it made her feel safe.

  So Brutus sang them a ballad about a knight tracking an ogre in a haunted wood. It had many a hey! and a ho! and a dilly dilly down! and was no doubt meant to put heart into you, but Jack found it depressing. Especially the way the hey! and the ho! echoed down the long, dark tunnels.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE KNUCKER HOLE

  Brutus insisted it was morning when Jack awoke. He was already bustling around, toasting oatcakes on sticks. Pega was propped against a wall, looking the worse for wear.

  “Nothing like warm oatcakes to start the day,” the slave declared. Jack was allowed a few swallows of cider to wash them down.

  “I dreamed of kelpies all night,” said Pega. “Every time I woke up, I saw Yffi in the shadows.”

  “Mother used to say dreaming of bad things meant something good was about to happen,” Brutus said.

  “Like getting eaten by a dragon instead of starving to death.” Pega was unusually ratty this morning, but Jack couldn’t blame her. He felt ratty too. The walls were closing in and the air was stale. He felt the weight of the rock over his head.

  “The more we eat, the less we’ll have to carry,” Brutus said brightly. “Mother always said there was a good side to everything, if you only took the trouble to find it.” Humming maddeningly, he made up fresh torches and loaded up bags. Last of all, he strapped on the green belt with the sword Anredden.

  When they were ready, Jack led them down the right-hand tunnel. It might be full of dragon poop, but it promised water. Somewhere. As they walked, the lumps of jet grew more numerous, and after a few hours they had to walk around heaps of it. “Look at that!” enthused Brutus. “There’s enough here for a dozen dragons.”

  “Please don’t talk,” begged Pega. “I have such a headache.” So Brutus whistled instead, a tuneless, breathy sound that soon drove Jack frantic.

  “Be quiet!” he finally exploded. “Don’t you understand stealth? Don’t you understand caution? If there’s a dragon within ten miles, he’ll home right in on your miserable, incessant noise!”

  “Somebody needs his nap,” said Brutus, not in the least insulted. “Let’s all take a break and chase those nasty jimjams away.”

  Jack slumped against a pile of dragon poop and fantasized about breaking his staff over the slave’s head. Brutus passed around a sack of sour oat mash. Age had not improved it and Pega said it reminded her of rat droppings, but they didn’t dare waste it. Jack was beginning to get dreadfully thirsty. He thought of waterfalls and rushing streams until he actually thought he could hear them. But if he concentrated, there was only the sluggish breeze. And, of course, Brutus.

  “I know! I’ll tell riddles,” the slave cried. “There’s nothing like riddles for sheer fu
n.

  “Always I battle with wind and wave.

  When under the sea, the rocks are my friends.

  Lying still, I am strong. Wrenched loose, I’m defeated.

  Tell me my name!”

  Brutus waited expectantly, like a dog watching for a stick to be thrown.

  “I don’t care. My head hurts,” said Pega.

  “Wait. I think I can solve it,” Jack said. “Wind and wave mean boats. And the part under the sea is… the anchor!”

  “Very good,” approved Brutus. “Here’s another.

  “Valued by all, I am brought from afar.

  Gathered in groves, ferried from fields,

  Wings bore me safely to lie under roof.

  Tell me my name!”

  “That’s too easy. Honey,” said Jack, who knew all about beekeeping from his mother.

  “Here’s a toughie.

  “My house is noisy, but I am quiet.

  When I lie still, my house yet moves.

  Within it I stay. To leave it means death.

  Tell me my name!”

  Jack tried to work it out. “A snail’s quiet, but so is its shell. A turtle? A chick in an egg?”

  “It’s a fish,” said Pega. “A fish in a lovely, chattering, bubbling, water-filled stream—oh, bedbugs! We’re going to die down here. We’ll n-never see a s-stream again!” She burst into tears.

  Jack was astounded. He’d never seen her cry before, not even when he struck her. He’d been so wrapped up in his own misery, he hadn’t noticed how hopeless she’d become. He didn’t know what to do.

  But Brutus did. “There, lassie,” he said, holding her and rocking her as though she were a baby. “The middle of a quest is always the hardest, but heroes come through. And we are heroes! They’ll be singing about us as they do King Arthur and Lancelot, my ancestor. There were noble ladies, too, Morgan le Fay and Nimue, the Lady of the Lake. Actually, it’s the same Lady of the Lake, for her kind live long, but the others wound up on the Islands of the Blessed, where it’s always summer and sorrow never comes. My mother is there, for she was the Lady of Din Guardi as well as being a wise woman.”