The Land of the Silver Apples

Chapter Thirteen SMALL DEMON POSSESSION

Father fussed with Lucy’s hair. She was wearing her white Yule dress, which had been cleaned and brushed, and the silver necklace hung about her neck. “Is that necklace a good idea?” Jack said.

“Don’t touch it!” the little girl shrilled. “You only want to steal it!”

“Dear child, he’s your brother,” Brother Aiden admonished.

“He’s a thief!”

Father merely shrugged and gathered up his cloak. He lifted Lucy into his arms.

“I can whisk that necklace right off her,” whispered Pega to Jack. “One of my owners taught me how to pick pockets.”

“It would only make her wild,” he replied. They followed Brother Aiden through the grounds of the monastery. A ragged line of people waited outside a door in a high wall, and for the first time Jack got a close look at those who came for St. Filian’s blessing.

One boy drooled continuously—his tunic was soaked—and another twitched as though he had ants attacking his arms and legs. A thin, anxious-looking woman wept monotonously while her husband stroked her arm and murmured, “There, there.” Presently, someone started screaming, and the whole line woke up with moans and shrieks. Family members stolidly comforted or wrestled—whichever was necessary.

Lucy shrank against Father’s chest. “I don’t like these people!”

“You won’t be treated with them,” Father assured her. “Father Swein has assured us a special audience.”

Slowly, the line filed through the door. A monk stood outside with a checklist. “Jocelyn. Night terrors. Fee: A brace of rabbits. Paid.” He checked the item off a list. Jocelyn, who squeaked every time someone got close to her, was held closely by her mother. “Erkbert. Falling sickness and small demon possession. Fee: Two laying hens. Paid.” Erkbert walked meekly past the recording monk, followed by his equally meek wife. “Guthlac. Large demon possession. Fee: One cow in milk. Paid.” Guthlac, who was large himself, never mind the demon, had to be dragged through the door by his father and brothers.

“I want to go home,” wailed Lucy.

“And so you shall, the minute you are cured,” soothed Father.

“Just how do they exorcise people?” Jack asked.

“Sprinkle them with holy water, I expect,” said Brother Aiden. “That’s what we did on the Holy Isle.”

By now they were at the door. “Lucy. Possible small demon possession. Fee: Five containers of Holy Isle ink—ah! It’s you,” cried the recording monk, smiling at Brother Aiden. He signaled to a large slave lounging against the wall. “Please conduct our esteemed visitor to the relic room. They’re holding a small reception in your honor.”

“But I wanted to observe the child’s exorcism!”

“The abbot himself requested the celebration. It isn’t every day we have the esteemed librarian from the Holy Isle as a guest. He’d be delighted, let me assure you, to have you stay permanently.”

“But—” protested Brother Aiden as he was steered away from the door. Jack watched in dismay. He didn’t trust these monks, and Aiden, small and humble though he was, provided some protection.

“Where was I?” said the recording monk. “Fee: Five containers of Holy Isle ink. Paid. In you go.”

On the other side of the door was a jostling, moaning crowd. Beyond them lay a yawning pit with only the faintest glint of water in its black depths. A ladder was propped against its side, leading downward. Guarding the pit were the evilest-looking thugs the boy had ever seen, including Northmen.

“We’re supposed to have a private consultation,” protested Father. He turned back to the door, but it had closed. A gang of slaves positioned themselves before it.

“Get back with the rest of the loonies,” snarled one of them.

“This isn’t a place for a little child,” cried Father, clutching Lucy to his chest.

“I want to go!” she wailed.

“You’ve got a choice, boss,” said the leader of the slaves. “Line up nice and quiet with the other mooncalves, or get a dose of my special headache medicine.” He smacked a cudgel against his meaty palm.

Father worked his way through the crowd, with Jack and Pega in tow. In the far corner of the courtyard he found a willow tree growing next to the wall. It had been cut down to allow the growth of a small forest of slender, new branches. Inside was a natural hollow just large enough for Lucy.

“It’s like when we were hiding from Northmen,” Jack whispered as she crouched inside. “You must be absolutely quiet.” She nodded, making herself as small as possible. She remembered being dragged up by the hair and having a knife held to her throat.

“Can you climb that?” Father asked Jack.

“Me?”

“Get to the top and I’ll hand you Lucy.”

The willow branches were covered with fluffy yellow catkins that spilled pollen on Jack’s face and made him sneeze. “Quiet,” whispered Father. Jack swallowed and tried to ignore the tickle that rose in the back of his throat. He wormed between the willow and the wall, looking in vain for footholds. Every gap in the stones had been covered with white plaster. The branches bent beneath his weight and sprang up with a whoosh of pollen whenever he stepped off them. Any minute one of the slaves would notice. Jack paused halfway up, panting with exertion. “Hurry,” urged Father.

He wriggled his way up the last stretch of wall and was relieved to see it was wide enough to lie down on. Through the catkins he saw a group of slaves approaching. Father and Pega crouched in the gap next to the wall while Lucy curled up in the hollow. The slaves trudged by, heading for the ladder in the well. They climbed down, one after the other. From the splashing and coughing, Jack guessed the water was deeper than it looked.

“Take this. The Bard said you must never be without it,” whispered Pega. She carefully lifted Jack’s ash wood staff through the branches. “It tingles,” she gasped as he took the other end. It most definitely did. Jack almost dropped it in surprise. It was the strongest feeling of power he’d had since leaving Jotunheim. Several monks suddenly appeared and sat down on the grass in front of the willow.

What rotten luck! Jack couldn’t possibly take Lucy now. Go away, he ordered them silently. But the men settled themselves comfortably for a stay.

Jack lay on the top of the wall, racking his brains for a plan. On the far side he saw the original St. Filian’s Well, with its rosebushes and orderly flower beds. No lady in white, fortunately. She must have been an elf, thought Jack, remembering Brutus’ remark about elf-shot. Jack had heard about elves all his life, about their beauty and eerie powers. Christians weren’t supposed to believe in them, but Christians didn’t believe in trolls, either, and Jack had seen those with his own eyes. He wished the Bard were here. The old man said that nothing was more enchanting than elf song at dusk. No bard could match it.

St. Filian’s Well rose from a natural spring and was funneled through a hole in the wall to the black pit on the other side. Originally, Jack guessed, the water had meandered through fields. Or perhaps it had emptied into a lake. What must the elf lady think of having her water stolen? Jack thought. Maybe that’s why she’s in such a bad mood.

The slaves were herding the patients to one side, sending the families back out the gate. If only we’d waited, Jack thought regretfully. We could have taken Lucy with us. But the slaves might have forced her to stay, alone and unprotected.

The monks passed around a skin full of wine. “Good stuff,” one of them commented.

“Spanish,” another replied. “From that earl who asked St. Oswald to help pillage his neighbor.”

“Did he help?”

“Of course. The neighbor was a pagan.”

To Jack’s amazement, the patients were being blindfolded. All submitted meekly except Guthlac, he of the large demon possession. He had to be thrown to the ground and tied up with rope. He twisted and roared and cursed and snapped, but the slaves soon had him done up as neatly as a caterpillar in a cocoon. Brutus was set to watch him.

Brutus. Jack didn’t know what to make of him. He was admirable for obeying his mother’s last wishes. On the other hand, he whined and groveled like a worm. As he was doing now before that tall monk in the spotless white robe.

“Afflicted ones!” cried the monk as a silence fell over the courtyard. “Your deliverance is at hand! St. Filian will lay his blessing upon you and drive forth those imps that bedevil your minds. They will resist. They will shriek into your ears and torment you with their filthy claws to gain mastery of your souls. But have faith. We shall be victorious. Sit on that one, Brutus,” he added in a lower voice. “I swear, Beelzebub himself has taken up residence there.”

“Yes, beloved master,” said Brutus, planting himself on Guthlac’s chest.

That must be the abbot, Father Swein, thought Jack.

The slaves led Jocelyn, she of the night terrors, to the edge of the pit. She moaned piteously. They stood her on the edge with her back to the water. “No, no, no, no,” she wailed.

“That’s only the demon talking,” Father Swein assured the other patients, who were blindfolded and could not see what was happening.

“Please, oh, please,” she begged. A slave shoved her brutally. She fell backward, screaming, into the pit. Jack leaped to his feet. Her cry was broken by a loud splash, and at once howls arose from below. It sounded as though all the fiends of Hell had risen from the depths and were fighting over the poor girl.

Jack, from his new height, could see down into the water.

The slaves were throwing Jocelyn around like a bundle of clothes. They submerged her, pinched her, pulled her hair, and slapped her face. Jack clutched the ash wood staff. He couldn’t do a thing to help her.

“Pay no attention,” intoned the abbot. “Satan is difficult to cast out, but St. Filian will overcome.”

Jocelyn must have fainted, because Jack couldn’t hear her cries anymore. She was carried, dripping, up the ladder and laid out on the grass. She seemed dead until a spasm shook her body and she vomited on the ground.

“Take her to the orchard and bind her to a tree,” ordered Father Swein. “Her mother can collect her in the morning.” There was not a scrap of pity in his voice. He might have been talking about a mangy dog.