02 - The Land of the Silver Apples

  Ethne had heard of the place. Wasn’t it awful how they had trapped poor Nimue in the fountain? Father Swein had sprinkled holy water around the outer walls. When Nimue had tried to cross it, she came up in the most dreadful rash.

  Ethne’s voice was like a lively stream pouring down a hillside. Jack was enthralled by it. He barely noticed Pega on his other side.

  “Now’s your chance,” said Thorgil, poking him with a drumstick. Jack looked up to see that Partholis and Partholon had left the dais. They were making a ceremonial tour of the hall, greeting their subjects and being bowed to in return. Brutus had completely engrossed Nimue’s attention. Lucy was unguarded.

  Jack went to the platform and touched his sister’s foot to get her attention. “We’ve come to take you home,” he said in a low voice.

  Lucy frowned. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m your brother. Don’t play silly games.”

  “I don’t have a brother.” Lucy kicked at him.

  “Have it your way, but you do have a mother and father who miss you terribly.”

  “Oh, them.” Lucy shrugged. “My real parents are here, or at least Partholis is. She can’t remember which one is my father.”

  Jack wanted to slap her, but he held his temper. “We’ve come all this way to rescue you. You’re probably under a spell and can’t remember how nice it was at home.”

  “Oh, I remember! Lumpy beds, ugly dresses, and the same oatcakes day after day after day.” Lucy leaned forward, and Jack saw, with a sinking feeling, the necklace of silver leaves.

  “Can I see that?” he said, thinking that this might be the thing enchanting her.

  “Don’t touch it! Thief!” Lucy jumped from her throne and ran to the Lady of the Lake, who gave Jack a venomous look before turning back to Brutus.

  “Spoiled rotten” was Thorgil’s opinion when Jack returned. “I always said a good thrashing and a night outside with the wolves would have been good for her.”

  “You may be right,” Jack said glumly.

  Partholis and Partholon finished their tour and mounted the dais once more. “Now for an after-dinner treat,” announced the queen. “I would bid our dear visitors to give us a song or some such entertainment to repay us for our hospitality—not you, Brutus. We would not want to give Nimue cause for jealousy.”

  Brutus grinned wolfishly. Thorgil cursed under her breath, and Pega looked terrified. “I’ll do it,” Jack offered. He knew the others weren’t used to performing, and he’d appeared before far worse audiences. He’d sung for bloodthirsty berserkers. At least these people weren’t going to hack him to bits if they weren’t amused.

  The thrones were moved to one side. Jack climbed onto the dais, and the elves watched him intently. They seemed eager to listen, and yet Jack had a sense that there was something malicious about their attention. No matter. They couldn’t be nastier than Frith Half-Troll, who had the power to freeze a man’s blood in his veins. “I give you the saga of Beowulf,” he began.

  Jack had a good voice and he knew it, but the effect was not what he expected. The elves seemed disappointed, although the queen was polite and Ethne smiled encouragement. When he was finished, everyone clapped halfheartedly. “I’ve heard that story before,” said Partholis, “from a mortal called Dragon Tongue.”

  “The Bard?” said Jack, startled.

  “Ah, he was a cheeky devil,” said the queen, smiling at the memory. “I quite adored his golden hair.”

  Partholon stirred himself for the first time. “He was a scoundrel of the first order.”

  “You didn’t like the attention he paid to me. You’re jealous,” said the queen, delighted.

  “Nonsense. Everyone pays attention to you. It makes as much sense to worry about moths dancing around a light. Dragon Tongue made off with some of my best magic,” grumbled Partholon, and sank into silence again.

  The elves clamored for another story. “By Odin’s eyebrows, don’t look at me,” said Thorgil. “I’d rather take a spear thrust than make a fool of myself.” But Gowrie led everyone in calling for the shield maiden. And so Thorgil, who wasn’t all that opposed to showing off, climbed onto the dais.

  The problem was, Jack thought, she really didn’t know how to tell a story. She rushed through the action and had to go back and explain things. She had moments of poetry, but her voice was so harsh, you thought you were being sworn at. On the good side, she was better than Sven the Vengeful, who forgot the point of jokes, and Eric Pretty-Face, who always shouted. Other Northmen would have enjoyed her performance very much.

  Thorgil spoke of Olaf One-Brow and his battles. It was a saga that could go on for a long time. Olaf had fought many battles. But partway through the first tale, about how the giant had rescued Ivar the Boneless from the Mountain Queen, someone burst out laughing.

  Thorgil halted. This tickled the elves even more, and they began nudging one another. “Go on,” one of them called. The shield maiden continued, but the undercurrent of laughter returned, and soon everyone was infected with it.

  “Isn’t she priceless?” an elf lady whispered.

  “That voice. It just makes you want to howl,” said another.

  Thorgil’s face turned red, and she yelled, “Listen, you toad-eating fops. I’m talking about the bravest man who ever lived, and if you don’t like it, you can take a flying leap!” The whole hall erupted with laughter. Elves pounded the tables and fairly wept with glee. The shield maiden drew her knife. Brutus leaped to his feet.

  “I think that was a wonderful performance,” he cried, putting himself between Thorgil and her intended targets. “Let’s give this gallant warrior a hand.” The elves broke into a storm of clapping and cheers. Brutus swiftly steered Thorgil back to her seat.

  “They liked it?” she said in bewilderment.

  “Absolutely. Brought tears to their eyes,” said the slave.

  “Of course they did,” said Jack, knowing that what the elves really enjoyed was Thorgil’s lack of talent.

  “Let’s have the little hob-human,” Gowrie shouted. This was considered extremely witty, and everyone started laughing again.

  “I can’t go up there,” Pega said, shrinking into her seat.

  “Hob-human! Hob-human! Hob-human!” chanted the elves, drumming the tables, and Queen Partholis rose to quiet them.

  “This has been a party,” she said with a pretty smile. “I’m afraid you have to perform, child. They simply won’t settle down without it.”

  “I can’t,” Pega moaned.

  “Please, Mother,” said Ethne, rising from her seat. “The child is overcome by fear, and it would be cruel to insist.”

  Partholis frowned. “You may be my child, Ethne, but you have more than a little taint of humanity. I say she performs and that’s the end of it.”

  To Jack’s surprise, Ethne put her arm around Pega and whispered, “I’ll stand with you.”

  “We’ll all stand with you,” said Jack. “Don’t worry. If you falter, I’ll take over.” Trembling, Pega allowed herself to be lifted to the dais. Thorgil and Brutus stood behind her as a protective guard, and Ethne took her hand. Jack murmured, “Give them Brother Caedmon’s hymn.”

  So Pega began. Her voice was almost inaudible at first, but she quickly recovered. She loved music as much as Jack did, and once she got going, she forgot everything else. Her voice rose through the hall with those sublime notes that had so impressed the Bard and enchanted the Bugaboo. It was as though all the beauty missing in her body had concentrated in this one skill.

  Praise we now the Fashioner of Heaven’s fabric,

  The majesty of His might and His mind’s wisdom,

  Work of the World-warden, Worker of all wonders…

  It was the hymn given to Caedmon by the angel. You could see the glory of Heaven and the wonder of the earth as you listened to it. It was a celebration of life beyond even what Jack could call up with his staff. It humbled him to admit this, but it was so. He was so caught up in the song that he
didn’t notice, at first, the reaction of the elves. They were absolutely silent.

  They were stunned.

  Jack woke up when he heard a sob. An elf lady had buried her face in her hands, and several others wept quietly. “Oh, make it stop,” groaned the lady. The men were crying too. Jack knew why, and, of course, this was why he’d suggested this particular hymn.

  He’d been disgusted by the elves’ taunting of Thorgil and Pega. He knew they only wanted to make fun of humans. No mortal could possibly compete with them, and these bored, jaded—what had Thorgil called them?—toad-eating fops merely wanted entertainment. Well, they’d got more than they bargained for. This hymn came straight from Heaven, the one thing elves couldn’t have. It had to remind them of it. Pega’s perfect voice had been a nasty surprise too. Jack smiled grimly. This was the sort of revenge you needn’t feel guilty about.

  “Stop!” a voice shouted behind them. Pega halted. Partholon was standing over Partholis, who had fainted.

  Ethne screamed and ran to the queen. “You scheming mortals!” roared Partholon. “You’ve brought sorrow to this hall that has not seen grief for an age! Brude! Take the humans to the dungeons! I’ll decide on their fate later.”

  The Picts were unleashed into the hall. Jack grabbed Thorgil’s wrist and said, “We can’t fight them.”

  “I do not fear battle!” cried the shield maiden.

  “No, brave warrior,” said Brutus. “There will be a time for war, but not here in the heart of illusions. Trust me. I know how these things work.” Thorgil spat on the floor near Gowrie’s foot, but she put her knife away.

  The Picts surrounded them and herded them off.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  THE PRISONERS

  They went down long, winding tunnels. The light grew shadowy, and the noises of the outside world died away. Jack expected to be frightened. His other experience of dungeons had been at Din Guardi, where he’d been locked in a chamber haunted by the cries of sea monsters. But Jack wasn’t frightened. On the contrary, he felt better the farther down they went. His mind was clear, and he hadn’t realized it had been clouded. Memories came flooding back.

  Brude walked ahead with a flaring torch. There was something familiar about him, and Jack suddenly knew what it was. “You were the man at the slave market!” he cried. Brude hunched his shoulders, rejecting any communication. “You bought slaves from Olaf One-Brow. You offered a fine sword for Lucy and a cheap knife for me. I guess I wasn’t worth much.” Jack smiled ruefully.

  “It is him,” exclaimed Thorgil. “I wonder why I didn’t see it before. Between you and me, I should have sold Lucy to him. She’s been nothing but trouble ever since. Hauu nehahwa oueem?”

  “Hwatu ushh,” said Brude.

  Thorgil laughed out loud.

  “You can speak Pict?” said Jack.

  “Only a few words. I asked him where the tunnel went, and he told me to eat troll droppings.”

  “Nice.”

  “It’s my fault we’re here,” mourned Pega. She’d been crying most of the way.

  “Nonsense, lassie,” said Brutus. “This is the best thing that could have happened. Those upper reaches are drenched in glamour. It’s impossible to think straight. Down here the air is clear.” He was right, Jack realized. The air was fresh and invigorating, which was odd considering they were so deep in the earth.

  “I thought I’d like elves,” Pega wept. “B-but they’re so heartless.”

  “Not Ethne,” said Jack.

  “No,” she agreed. “Not Ethne.”

  Jack thought about the elf lady. The others had been beautiful beyond compare, yet now he couldn’t remember their faces. Ethne was still in his mind. “She’s more there,” he said, trying to put his finger on the difference.

  “She wasn’t laughing at Thorgil like the rest of them,” Pega added.

  “Who was laughing at me?” demanded the shield maiden.

  “No one,” Jack said quickly. But he did wonder. Out of all the elves, only Ethne had shown compassion.

  In the distance Jack heard a strange sound. It echoed through the winding hall like an animal cry: Ubba ubba… ubba ubba… ubba ubba. Was it a seal? Or an owl? They rounded a corner and came to an iron door, guarded by a man Jack never expected to see again. He was as big as a bear and twice as threatening. He swayed restlessly from side to side, swinging his long arms and muttering, “Ubba ubba… ubba ubba… ubba ubba.”

  It was Guthlac, he of the large demon possession. Jack thought he’d drowned in St. Filian’s Well. From the look of him, the demon was still in possession.

  “Back!” snarled the Picts, driving Guthlac against a wall. Brude quickly produced a key and opened the door.

  “Inssside,” he hissed. “Sufffferrrr.”

  “And a fine hwatu ushh to you too,” said Jack, avoiding a blow. The instant the prisoners were inside, the door slammed and the Picts let Guthlac go.

  “Gaaaaaa!” he roared, hurling himself against the metal. Jack heard his body thump and his fists pound. After a moment the noise stopped and there was only the monotonous “Ubba ubba… ubba ubba.”

  “Good thing they locked the door,” observed Thorgil. The room wasn’t bad, compared to some of the places Jack had been. The floor was covered with clean straw, and a table held a water pitcher and cups, loaves of bread, and cheese. They wouldn’t starve. A small lamp on the table cast a pool of yellow light. It didn’t reach far, but it made the center of the room cheerful.

  “I thought Guthlac was dead,” said Jack.

  “It would be a mercy if he were,” came a voice from the darkness of a corner. Everyone jumped, and Brutus drew his sword. This was answered by a bitter laugh. “Have you come to slay us?”

  “Noooo,” moaned a voice from an opposite corner.

  “Courage,” said the first man. “With luck, you’ll only get a few thousand years in purgatory.”

  Brutus put back his sword. Jack squinted into the darkness. “Why don’t you come into the light?” he suggested. There was a pause, and he heard a rustle from the first corner. Slow, painful feet dragged through the straw, and a monk emerged from the gloom.

  “I remember you,” the monk said. “And you, spawn of Satan.” He glowered at Thorgil.

  “Do you recognize him?” asked Jack.

  Thorgil shrugged. “We pillage so many monasteries.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I am but a shadow of my former self. Soon there will be nothing at all.” The man tottered to a bench and lowered himself carefully. Then Jack did recognize him. It was the monk who had been bartered to the Picts in the slave market. He’d been fat then.

  “I’m truly glad to see you, sir,” Jack said. “I thought you’d been eaten by—um, er…”

  “The Picts?” The monk laughed, which ended in a coughing fit. Another moan issued from the dark corner. “They no longer dine on men, though they’re careful to foster the rumor. It makes people fear them, and Picts like nothing better than fear. They have worse habits now.”

  “There are worse habits than cannibalism?” Jack was concerned about the wretched state of the man before him. His robes hung loosely on his skeletal frame. Coughs racked his body, and there were feverish patches of red on his cheeks.

  “They make sacrifices to the demons they worship. That’s what happened to the others who were taken with me. First they offered us to the elves as slaves. Those who were rejected were taken under the trees in the dark of the moon. I didn’t see what happened, but I heard the screams.”

  “Nooooo,” groaned the man in the darkened corner.

  “It can’t be nice back there,” said Jack. “Why don’t you join us?”

  “He’ll kill me.”

  “Who? The monk?”

  “No! That witch’s child, that limb of Beelzebub, that agent of the Evil One.”

  “I remember those curses,” Brutus cried. He strode into the dark and, after a scuffle, reappeared dragging Father Swein by one leg.

  “Me
rcy! Mercy!” shrieked the abbot of St. Filian’s, trying to dig his fingernails into the floor.

  “This really takes me back,” Brutus chortled. “The thrashings, the nights I was forced to sleep in snow, the weeks on bread and water.” He propped Father Swein against a wall.

  “You’re not going to take revenge, are you?” whimpered the abbot. “It was for the good of your soul.”

  “Just as you tried to improve Guthlac,” said the monk. “He doesn’t seem forgiving.”

  Jack heard a muffled “Ubba ubba… ubba ubba” outside.

  “That’s why the Picts put him there,” moaned Father Swein. “To torment me. He has only one thought now, to tear me limb from limb.”

  “I didn’t know he was even alive,” said Jack.

  “Oh, he isn’t. Not really,” the monk explained. “He was halfway to the next world, thanks to my colleague here, when the elves pulled him back. Guthlac is stuck between life and death. It would be a mercy to free him.”

  “Excuse me, sir. I was with you all those days on Olaf One-Brow’s ship and never asked your name,” said Jack.

  “Why ask names of the doomed?” said the monk in a hollow voice. “But in better times I was called Father Severus.”

  “Severus!” exclaimed Jack and Pega.

  “I seem to have achieved some fame,” said the monk with a ghastly smile.

  “You’re the one who rescued Brother Aiden,” cried Pega. “He speaks warmly of you. I’m sure he’ll be delighted you’re alive.”

  “So he survived the raid on the Holy Isle,” murmured Father Severus. The monk’s harsh expression softened. “He was always a good lad, always gentle and forgiving. We must celebrate his deliverance with a meal, even though our own chance of rescue is nonexistent.”

  Jack almost smiled at the monk’s utter bleakness. He remembered it from Olaf’s ship.

  Thorgil cut up bread and cheese, and Pega poured the water. Most of the food was consumed by Father Swein. Father Severus had little appetite, and the others had just come from a rich banquet. Jack found the water surprisingly good, far nicer than what he’d drunk earlier. It quenched his thirst, while the other had left him unsatisfied.