The Land of the Silver Apples

Chapter Nine BROTHER AIDEN

Mist was curling up from the fields and meadows as they walked to Brother Aiden’s hut. Lucy insisted on riding Bluebell, though Jack thought it would have done her good to walk.

Brother Aiden was sitting outside, his face turned toward a flock of swallows wheeling in the upper air. He regarded them with an expression of such joy that Jack looked up to see if he’d missed something. They were ordinary birds swooping and twittering, but Jack noticed that they never strayed far from Brother Aiden’s hut.

“They’re worshipping God,” said the little man, waking from his trance to greet his visitors. When Brother Aiden turned his attention from the sky, the swallows drifted away toward the hazel wood.

The chamber inside the beehive hut was dark and cramped, with a tiny altar topped by a small pewter cross. Father had made him a stool and worktable, as well as a chest to store supplies. When everything was inside, there was scarcely room for the monk himself. And so Father had built him a shed for cooking. Beside this neat little compound was a garden for herbs and vegetables.

When the weather was good, Brother Aiden dragged his table outside to work on a copy of the scriptures. He was working on it now, and his inks were lined up next to goose quills and brushes tipped with marten fur. He had only three pieces of parchment, but he worked so slowly, it didn’t matter. The parchment was covered in swirling designs with odd little details like vines or snakes or eyes.

“Do they truly worship?” Father said in wonder, watching the swallows fly away.

“All things praise Him,” Brother Aiden said. “When St. Cuthbert used to meditate in cold seawater up to his neck, the otters swarmed over his feet to dry them when he came out.”

Jack was about to ask how something as wet as an otter could dry anything when he was silenced by a stern look from the Bard.

“We’ve come to you with questions,” the old man said.

“I’ll do my best, though you know I’m not greatly educated.”

“You’ll do,” said the Bard, smiling. “Giles has just revealed that his girl Lucy isn’t his.” And he recounted the story of the elder tree and swarm of little men.

“Interesting,” said Brother Aiden. “They sound like pookas.”

“Pookas?” said Jack, to whom the term was unfamiliar.

“Or hobgoblins. They go by many names,” said the Bard. “I thought of them too.”

“I can’t bear to think of my child being carried off by those—those things! Is she even alive?” cried Mother.

“My poor Alditha!” Brother Aiden grasped her hands. “We’re a pair of fools, talking about your daughter as though she were only an amusing problem. I think it very likely your child is alive. Pookas aren’t evil, just mischievous. They sometimes turn milk sour or knock holes in buckets. Nothing major.”

“But what did they want with her?”

Brother Aiden and the Bard exchanged glances. “That’s the only flaw in the theory,” said the Bard. “I’ve never heard of pookas stealing a baby.”

“If they did, I’m sure they’d be kind to it,” Brother Aiden said.

Mother slumped down with her face in her hands, and Father, hesitantly, as though he expected to be rebuffed, knelt beside her. “I’ll look for them. I’ll offer them a ransom,” he said.

“You don’t know where they live.” Mother’s voice was muffled.

“That’s where I might be of help,” said the Bard. “There are ways into their land if you know where to look. And, of course, I do. Pookas live in caves under the ground, and I visited them often when I was a young man. They’re fond of dark forests and mountains with rushing streams. The nearest place like that is the Forest of Lorn.”

The Forest of Lorn, thought Jack. What a wonderful name! The very sound of it was exciting. He could almost see craggy ravines overhung with ferns. “Where is it, sir?” he asked eagerly.

“A few days’ journey north of Bebba’s Town.”

“If the creatures lived that far away, what were they doing here?” said Father.

“You don’t know pookas,” the Bard said. “They’ll run thirty miles to gather hazelnuts and be home in time for dinner. They’re crazy about hazelnuts.”

“If only I hadn’t stopped in the woods,” moaned Father.

“Well, you did, and that brings us to the second question,” the Bard said. “Where did they get Lucy from?”

Everyone turned to her. She was picking wildflowers next to Brother Aiden’s garden like any normal child. But then she thrust them at Pega and said in a nasty voice, “Weave them into a crown for me, froggy.”

“Do it yourself, bedbug,” retorted the girl. Bedbug was Pega’s worst insult. She absolutely hated the bloodsucking creatures, having been locked into a hut swarming with them by one of her owners.

The Bard explained about Lucy’s change of behavior since the need-fire ceremony and the anger that had spread from Giles to Alditha to Jack.

“She might be possessed,” observed Brother Aiden. “It’s well known that demons are attracted to children who are indulged by their parents. The souls of children forced to endure hardships are too tough for demons to get their teeth into. They go after the tender lambs.”

“Don’t say things like that!” begged Father.

“I’m sorry. That’s just the way things are,” the little monk said. “Exorcism might do Lucy a world of good.”

“She’s not possessed!”

“Call it madness or a demon or whatever you like, something happened at the ceremony,” the Bard argued.

“Oh, please stop,” Mother broke in, and Jack was aware of how tired she looked. For the first time he saw strands of gray in her hair and lines on either side of her mouth. They must have been there before, but he hadn’t noticed them. “Lucy draws away from us more each day. At first she only claimed to be someone else’s daughter—little did I know how true that was!—but now she talks to people I can’t see and repeats conversations I can’t hear.”

Jack saw that his little sister was talking to someone at that very moment. She was seated on the grass with the flowers she had picked scattered around her. She was looking at a spot just above Brother Aiden’s herb garden. Her face was filled with joy, and she clasped her hands as though she were watching the most delightful entertainment.

“You didn’t mention this before, Alditha,” said Father.

“How could I, with you going on and on about demons?”

There was nothing in the herb garden except rosemary, mint, and sage, and a few bees hovering over the flowers.

“Lucy,” said the Bard gently. “What do you see?”

She turned abruptly, her face contorted with rage. “Leave us!” she snarled. “You have not been given permission to speak.”

“Then I ask permission,” the old man said, and Jack wondered at his patience.

Lucy seemed confused for a moment. She turned toward the herb garden and back again. “You may speak,” she said.

“I fear I cannot see your friends.”

“That’s because you’re a commoner,” said the little girl.

“Lucy!” cried Mother.

“It’s all right. I’d like it very much, Lucy, if you’d give your friends my greetings.”

The little girl turned toward the herb garden and spoke earnestly. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. The Bard came closer and watched the garden intently. Finally, she replied. “They say you are a foolish old man with hair growing out of your ears.” Mother started to protest, but the Bard held up his hand.

“All true except the foolish part,” he said. “Tell me, do these friends have names?”

“They don’t like to give their names.”

“What are they doing now?”

“Dancing—oh!”

For the Bard had thrown his cloak over the herb garden. He held it down with his foot. “Quick, Jack! Get the other end!” he shouted, but before Jack could react, a sudden fierce wind whipped the cloak back over the old man’s head. The cloth wrapped itself tightly around his face. “Get it off me!” he cried in a muffled voice. Jack had to fight to peel the cloth away—it seemed to have a mind of its own!—but then it went limp and fell to the ground.

“I almost had them!” panted the Bard.

“You scared them off!” screamed Lucy. She threw herself down and rolled from side to side gnashing her teeth. When Father tried to pick her up, she struck him with her fists.

“They were demons!” Father groaned.

“We aren’t sure of that,” said the Bard, tidying his beard. “Personally, I think ‘demon’ is a ragbag category. There’re sprites and boggarts, will-o’-the-wisps and pixies, spriggans and flibbertigibbets, not to mention yarthkins—wonderfully different beings. It makes just as much sense to refer to anything with wings as ‘bird’.”

Brother Aiden knelt by Lucy and laid a hand on her tossing head. He said nothing, but somehow his touch calmed her as a good farmer’s hand calms a frightened lamb.

“She’s possessed, isn’t she?” said Father.

“I’m not sure,” said the little monk. “There’s an abbot in Bebba’s Town who specializes in such things.”

“If you want my opinion, and of course you should,” the Bard said, “an abbot wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to handle Lucy’s problem.”

“What’s the harm in an exorcism?” Brother Aiden argued.

“An exorcism is like using a boulder to kill a gnat.” The Bard paced around the herb garden as he thought. “It could do as much harm to Lucy as the gnat.”

“We can’t leave her like this.” The little monk stroked Lucy’s hair, but her eyes were still bewildered and unseeing.

“Bebba’s Town is near the Holy Isle,” murmured Father with a faraway look in his eyes. Jack knew he was remembering his visit there long ago, when the kindly monks tried to mend his leg.

“There’s no one left on the Holy Isle,” Brother Aiden reminded him. “The abbot, Father Swein, lives at St. Filian’s Monastery. St. Filian’s Well is famous for cures.”

“Do you think it could fix my leg?” said Father.

“All things are possible with God, but the well’s better known for afflictions of the soul. It might be just the thing for Lucy.”

“It would be like going on a pilgrimage,” Father said, that faraway look still in his eyes.

“A pilgrimage?” echoed Brother Aiden.

“We could go on to the Forest of Lorn,” added Jack. All this while a strange feeling was uncurling inside him like a seedling reaching for the sun. He saw a ship leaning into a cold wind on a gray-green sea. Dark trees massed on the shore. I should have learned my lesson by now, he thought as the exhilarating sense of adventure grew. Last time this happened, I almost wound up in a dragon’s stomach. The feeling was too strong to suppress, however.

Despite his joy at returning home from the Northland, Jack had found living in the village somewhat dull—not that he enjoyed bumping into trolls or being carried off by giant spiders. Far from it! But looking back, the trip seemed nicer than it had, in fact, been. That’s the nature of adventures, Jack thought wisely. They’re nasty while they’re happening and only fun later.

“You could find my lost daughter,” murmured Mother.

“Oh, very well,” conceded the Bard. “I suppose I can be talked into a trip to the Forest of Lorn. It’s years since I talked to pookas.” He, too, had a distant look in his eyes.

All of them sat in a daze. A few hours before, their problems had seemed overwhelming. Now, in the bright spring sunlight with the swallows dipping and warbling, a plan unfolded in front of them. Father looked transported, and Jack realized he’d never traveled anywhere, except for that one trip to the Holy Isle. The Bard smiled, remembering things Jack could only guess at, and Jack saw himself walking through a magic forest full of little men.

“If we’re going, someone has to pack,” Pega said in her practical way, breaking into the reverie. Jack looked up. He couldn’t remember anyone inviting her along.

“I’ll have to look after the farm,” said Mother. “I’ll ask the tanner’s wife and her two daughters to help me. They’ll welcome the chance to move out of their miserable cottage.”

“I wish you could come,” Jack said, sorry to leave her with the work.

“I’m a wise woman,” Mother said. “My place is with the fields, the animals, the bees, not a monastery. And besides, it will be a treat to have company to talk to of women’s things—only, don’t stay away too long!”

“It’s settled, then,” said the Bard. “I’ll bring herbal cures to trade for lodgings, Giles can contribute candles, and Aiden his special inks. You’re coming, aren’t you, Aiden?”

“On a pilgrimage? With a visit to St. Filian’s?” cried the little monk. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”