The Land of the Silver Apples

Chapter Twelve ST. OSWALD’S HEAD

“Does he have fits?” a man said nearby. Jack opened his eyes on the wooden beams of a low ceiling. Bunches of dried herbs dangled here and there.

“Never,” replied Father. “Perhaps he’s coming down with a fever.”

“If anything, he’s too cold. Were you bringing him for a dip in the pool?”

“Just my daughter,” said Father.

“He probably only needs a hot meal. I’ll have a slave bring soup.”

Jack lifted his head. Pain shot down his spine. He saw a monk in a brown robe disappear through a door.

“Good, you’re awake. How do you feel?” said Father.

“Like a herd of sheep ran over me.” Jack found that any attempt to move swamped him with agony. “Where are we?”

“The monastery hospital. They’ve been more than nice to us! They moved us out of that smelly hostel and into the best guest rooms. We’ve been invited to dine with the abbot himself.”

Father seemed more interested in their new status than Jack’s health. But I’m being unfair, the boy thought. This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to him. “Why are we getting special treatment?” he asked.

“It has something to do with those pots of ink Brother Aiden brought. They’re made by a secret process known only to the monks of the Holy Isle and are as valuable as gold.”

A slave arrived with a pot of lentil soup. “I’m to feed the lad—unless you want to do it,” he said hopefully.

But Father was anxious to be off. There was a stained-glass window in the chapel, he said, and a fine herd of white sheep to see. An oak tree in the orchard had the face of St. Filian burned on it by a lightning stroke. Then they were going on a tour of the beer cellar. Imagine having so much beer that you needed a whole cellar to store it! A feast was being laid on that evening. It was a shame Jack couldn’t come.

“Listen,” said the slave after Father left, “I don’t know what kind of mooncalf you are, but if you try to bite me, you’re getting my fist for dessert.”

“I’m not crazy,” Jack said.

“That’s what they all say.” The slave spooned the soup into Jack’s mouth, not waiting to see whether it was swallowed before shoving the next dose inside.

“Wait! Wait!” sputtered Jack, jerking his head aside. His spine exploded with pain. He froze into position, fearful of any movement.

“What happened? Did you get thrashed?” the slave inquired. “They say thrashing cures everything. Got a sour marriage? Beat your wife. Got an idiot son? Knock sense into him. Father Swein says it works every time.”

“You can’t believe that rot,” said Jack.

“Who am I to judge my betters? In five or ten years they might even beat goodness into me, though I doubt it. Are you ready for more food?”

“If you don’t ram it down my throat!”

This time the slave was more careful, and Jack discovered that in spite of the pain, he was hungry. The stew was excellent, a thick pottage of lentils, leeks, and shreds of mutton. It had been days since he’d had anything so satisfying. “What’s your name?” he asked the slave.

“Hey You, most of the time,” replied the man. “My mother called me Brutus.”

“Brutus? Is that Saxon?”

“It’s Roman. And, yes”—the slave drew himself up to his full height—“the blood of conquerors flows in my veins. I am of the line of Lancelot, but as you see, I have fallen far from the glory of my ancestors. Father Swein says I’m fit only for pigsties.”

Jack wondered what crime Brutus had committed to get enslaved by a monastery. The man’s arms were scarred by whips, and his nose had been broken. But a hint of nobility lay in his wide, intelligent face and gray eyes. “Someone I once knew,” Jack said, “told me you should never give up, even if you’re falling off a cliff. You never know what might happen on the way down.”

Brutus laughed out loud. It was a surprising, joyful sound that completely transformed him. Suddenly, the scars and broken nose didn’t matter. “I’d like to meet that fellow! He sounds like a true knight.”

“You might not have liked him,” said Jack, thinking of Olaf One-Brow’s habit of chopping first and asking questions later.

“Might not have? Is he dead?” asked Brutus.

“He died in battle with a giant troll-bear. But he killed the bear,” Jack added.

Brutus looked at him sharply. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, mooncalf.”

“I’m not a mooncalf,” protested Jack, and provoked another laugh.

The meal continued pleasantly, except for Jack’s grimaces of pain when he moved the wrong way. Brutus was full of tales, and he was clearly in no hurry to return to his chores. “How came you by this affliction?” he said at last.

Jack told him about the beautiful woman who had materialized out of mist. “When she thrust her arm at me, I lost my senses until I woke up here,” he finished. “I’m not insane. I really did see her.”

The slave sat very still, as though listening to something far away. The sounds of monastery life—wood being chopped, orders shouted, feet stamping—filtered in from outside. Then Brutus shook himself and came back to the present. “You weren’t dreaming. You’ve been elf-shot.”

The door flew open, and in came the monk who had treated Jack. “You lazy swine!” the monk shouted. “The cook’s been waiting ages for his firewood. You deserve a double whipping!”

Brutus changed before Jack’s eyes. He hunched over, and a half-witted expression crossed his face. “Begging your pardon, master,” he whined. “You won’t be angry with poor Brutus? He’s such a poor excuse for a man.”

“Oh, be gone with you,” said the monk. The slave scuttled out the door.

The monk bustled about, fetching a threadbare blanket and tucking it around Jack. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up so I can give you medicine. You’re in luck. I happen to have soil from St. Oswald’s grave on my shelves. Well, one of his graves.” He showed the boy a pot of dark dirt that could have come from anywhere.

“This is from where they planted St. Oswald’s head. The pagans buried parts of him all over the place after they martyred him. But the head ended up on the Holy Isle, so it’s doubly blessed. I always think head soil is the best.” The monk boiled water and picked odds and ends from the herbs hanging off the rafters. He finished by dropping a pinch of dirt into the cup. “There! If that doesn’t cure you, nothing will.”

He held the cup to Jack’s lips. The tea tasted of chamomile with a strange mineral background. Oswald’s head, no doubt.

“Why is Brutus a slave?” Jack asked when he’d choked down the last gritty bits.

The monk raised his eyebrows. “Has he been filling you up with tales about his noble ancestry? His mother was a miserable witch. When she lay dying of fever, she ordered her boy to drive off the priest with rocks. Refused the last rites, she did. Brutus set her body afloat in a little boat in the belief that it would take her to the Islands of the Blessed. He was condemned for witchcraft.”

“For obeying his mother’s last wish?” Jack said faintly. Choosing your afterlife seemed entirely reasonable to him. Not everyone was suited to Heaven—look at Thorgil—and the Bard always swore he would go to the Islands of the Blessed.

“No, no. Many fools believe in the Islands of the Blessed. Brutus was condemned for casting spells over women. They absolutely can’t resist him… young, old, married, single—even the ewes follow him around the fields. We’ve spent years trying to thrash the magic out of him, but he’s hopeless.”

Jack lay awake thinking long after the monk left. The room was lit only by coals in the fire pit, and the herbs hanging from the rafters looked like bats. In the shadows on the far side of the room Jack saw his staff. He could imagine the monk’s reaction if he knew how much magic it contained.

I have to be careful, Jack thought. No wonder the Bard preferred to stay with King Yffi. Jack’s stomach began to churn.

Perhaps Oswald’s head didn’t like finding itself in his gut. Very soon the boy realized he would have to get out of bed or vomit over the blanket.

Jack’s back exploded with pain as he rolled over and fell to the floor. He couldn’t move. Curse that lady, he thought. What business is it of hers to hang around the well? And why hurt me?

Was she an elf? Jack recalled her pale gold hair and moonlit skin. Her eyes were like forget-me-nots in a deep forest. Everything about her seemed muted, but perhaps that was because she was enveloped in mist.

When the pain died down, he began to inch his way toward the staff—for no reason, really, only that it made him feel closer to the Bard. Right now he needed someone’s friendship. The herb bundles looked like they were about to drop off the rafters and take wing. Oswald’s head burbled in his stomach.

Eventually, he reached the wall. The staff felt warm, as though, in spite of the darkness, it still lay in sunlight. “Ut, lytel spere, gif her inne sy,” he whispered in Saxon. Out, little spear, if it lies within. He knew all about elf-shot. Mother had taught him a charm to remove it: “Gif her inne sy, hit sceal gemyltan.” If it lies within, it shall melt.

He repeated the charm, and gradually, the warmth of the staff reached up his arm and flowed over his body. The pain withdrew until it was only a faint, glimmering echo. Then it went away altogether, and Jack fell into a dreamless sleep on the cold floor without even a blanket.

“Oh, blessed saints, he’s dead!”

The cry pierced Jack’s comfortable sleep. He leaped to his feet, blinking at the distraught man before him. The monk sprang back. “Praise God and all His angels! The boy lives! Forgive me, St. Oswald, for doubting your miracle!”

“What miracle?” said Jack crossly. He’d been torn from the best rest he’d had since starting out on this pilgrimage.

“You,” cried the monk. “On your knees, boy. We must thank Heaven.” He pulled Jack down, and together they prayed. Jack gave thanks willingly, for by whatever means, his pain had vanished. Sunlight spilled through a window. The smell of bacon roasting over a fire drifted through the door. It was good to be alive.

“Wait till the abbot hears about this,” said the monk, rising to his feet. “He’s always saying St. Oswald isn’t as powerful as St. Filian.”

Still chatting, he led Jack down a hall to a door that he unlocked. Beyond was a musty-smelling room with gray stone walls, and at the far end was a faintly lit alcove. Jack felt a presence, just as he had sensed one by the well. A distinct impression of hostility hung in the air. Oh no, he thought. I really don’t need another elf-shot. He grasped his staff and willed the creature to keep its distance. “This place isn’t haunted, is it?”

“Certainly not! We exorcised that demon ages ago,” said the monk, urging Jack on. “These holy relics are off-limits to ordinary folk, but as St. Oswald has chosen to favor you, I think he’d like you to see his.”

His what? thought Jack. The alcove was filled with boxes carved with designs. On one a man struggled with a pair of serpents that threatened to devour his head. On another a woman’s body ended in legs covered with scales. Instead of feet, she had fins.

In the alcove was a tiny window. Shards of colored glass—scarlet, apple green, and yellow—were fastened together with strips of lead. The morning sun lit them from behind, making them blaze like sparks of fire.

“Oh!” cried Jack, delighted.

“It is nice, isn’t it?” agreed the monk. “Those are all the bits we were able to save from the Holy Isle. The window in our chapel is bigger, but the colors aren’t as bright. There was nothing finer than that window on the Holy Isle. Here,” said the monk proudly, tapping one of the carved boxes, “are St. Chad’s sandals. He refused to ride horses on his pilgrimages, preferring to walk like a humble peasant.”

“Perhaps he was afraid of horses,” said Jack.

“Nonsense. Saints aren’t afraid of anything. Here we have a lock of St. Cuthbert’s hair. One of our monks had a dreadful tumor over his eye—big as a hen’s egg, it was. The brother held Cuthbert’s hair against his eyelid, and from that moment, the tumor began to shrink.”

The monk held up one item after another, explaining their holy powers. Jack would have said magic powers, but he knew the monks were sensitive about that. Finally, the man brought out a chest made of sea ivory.

The cover was stained with something dark, perhaps blood, Jack thought uneasily. He saw a carving of a man lying with his arms outstretched on a bed of leaves. Vines twisted around him like snakes, as though he were being devoured by foliage and would soon disappear altogether.

“This,” the monk said reverently, “contains St. Oswald’s arms.”

“His weapons?”

“Oh, no. When the pagans chopped him up, the saint’s pet raven carried off his real arms and hid them in a tree. It was one of Oswald’s first miracles.”

“You keep body parts in there?”

“Relics, my boy,” corrected the monk. “Holy relics. Kings travel from far and wide to worship them. They pay us much gold for the privilege.”

“How nice,” said Jack, thinking, Please don’t open that box.

“I’ll take them to the chapel, and later we can burn a candle, to thank St. Oswald for his deliverance.”

On the way the monk dropped Jack off at a small dining hall. Father, Brother Aiden, Pega, and Lucy were seated at a table laden with oatcakes and many other good things.

“You’re cured!” cried Pega, jumping up to hug him.

“I’m so glad,” said Brother Aiden, moving to make room.

“You should have been here last night,” said Father, apparently forgetting that Jack had been paralyzed at the time. “We had mutton chops and chicken.”

“And honey cakes,” added Lucy.

“They flavored the meat with spices I’ve never heard of,” Father said enthusiastically. “A black powder called ‘pepper’, and a brown powder called ‘cinnamon’ from over the sea.”

“They certainly eat well here,” observed Jack, spearing a slice of bacon with his knife. Or at least in Father Swein’s dining hall, he thought. He wondered what ordinary pilgrims got. Or slaves, for that matter.

Monks came and went. All of them were taller, fatter, and better dressed than Brother Aiden, who looked like a drab little sparrow in his threadbare robe. They heaped their plates with bacon, ham, oysters, and sardines, and they mopped up the gravy with fine, white bread slathered in butter.

“Was the food on the Holy Isle this good?” the boy asked.

“Oh, no,” said Brother Aiden. “We had taken a vow of poverty. Our lives were simple. We hauled water, chopped wood, and tended fields. In our spare time we prayed. I was responsible for keeping order in the library. I fear the library here is neglected—manuscripts dumped on the floor, ink pots empty. I would not like to see the inks I brought dry up for lack of use.”

Jack thought privately they would be sold to buy more bacon, ham, oysters, and sardines. “Did you own slaves?”

“Why—no,” said the little monk. “Our abbot thought slavery was evil, as do I. But Father Swein is concerned with saving the souls of men who would otherwise have been executed. I would not criticize him.”

A bell clanged in the distance. All the monks rose, some of them cramming a last oyster or oatcake into their mouths before bustling out the door. Kitchen slaves shambled in to clear the tables.

“I believe,” said Brother Aiden, “that it’s time for the exorcism.”