The Land of the Silver Apples

Chapter Fifteen DIN GUARDI

“It could have been worse,” said the Bard, leaning back in the chair King Yffi had provided in his room. His feet extended toward a brazier full of coals near a deep, narrow window. A spring storm blustered outside. Rain occasionally splattered through and made the coals hiss. “It couldn’t have been much worse, mind you, but worse.” The old man sipped thoughtfully at the chamomile tea Pega had made him.

“It wasn’t my fault,” protested Jack. He’d spent the past night and most of the day in King Yffi’s dungeon. Only Brother Aden’s appeals had released him. Jack’s cell had been a dark, terrifying place hollowed out of rock, where he could hear the howls of unknown creatures and waves booming not far away.

“I warned you, just before I left: ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’”

“You did say that, sir. I remember,” said Pega.

“Oh, be quiet,” said Jack.

“Never use anger to reach the life force, lad,” the Bard scolded him. “It turns on you when you least expect it.”

Jack felt horrible. Because of him, St. Filian’s Well had been destroyed and dozens of people had been hurt. Father wouldn’t be able to walk for months and had gone mad with grief. Jack couldn’t imagine how they were going to tell Mother about Lucy.

“King Yffi wanted to roast you over a slow fire—St. Filian’s pays him well for protection—but I threatened him out of it.” The Bard tranquilly drank his tea. The sun had set, and the long, rectangular window faded from silver to lead. The old man smiled as a swallow struggled into the opening and sat there, drying her wings.

“Thank you, sir,” muttered Jack. Just because the king wasn’t going to roast him didn’t mean something else awful wasn’t planned. Guards stood outside the door to make sure no one wandered.

“Yffi has an interesting decision to make,” remarked the Bard. “I don’t think he knows it yet.”

Probably deciding how much pain I can endure, the boy thought.

Pega, busy as usual, had laid out a small table with bread and stew from the fortress kitchen. Jack noticed four trenchers and wondered who else was coming. Father was housed in Din Guardi’s infirmary, and the Bard said he’d been given poppy juice to calm his mind. “Giles has a long recovery ahead,” the old man said. “I fear his leg is the least of his problems.”

“Why are you treated so well, sir, when King Yffi is a Christian?” Jack asked, noting the richness of the room and its furnishings. “I thought they hated pagans.”

“Yffi is like a wall covered with fresh plaster,” explained the Bard. “He appears Christian on the outside, because it brings him wealth. Inside, he’s the same brute who slew the rightful ruler of Din Guardi and enslaved his wife and child. Most creatures can be ruled by kindness, but now and then you meet one like Yffi who responds only to fear. Fortunately, I know how to supply it.”

“But…” said Jack, trying to sort out his thoughts, “I thought he was a king.” In all the stories the boy had heard, such beings were noble from birth.

Pega laughed out loud. “You were hatched under a gooseberry bush. Kings are only successful thieves.”

“That’s not true!” Jack said hotly.

“There, there,” the Bard said. “Not all rulers are corrupt, Pega, although your experience has taught you to believe it. Ah! There’s Aiden. Now we can eat.”

The little monk was wrapped in a wet cloak that steamed in the warm room. “What a day! I asked the monks of St. Filian’s to clear fallen stones, and they replied, ‘That’s the slaves’ job.’ Everything was the slaves’ job, I soon discovered. What do those men do all day? They certainly don’t spend time in the library, and when I looked into the chapel, it was deserted.” Brother Aiden unwrapped the cloak, transforming himself from a fat partridge into a skinny sparrow. Pega hung the cloak near the coals to dry.

The little monk produced Jack’s ash wood staff. “I expect you’ll need this soon, lad.” Brother Aiden exchanged a meaningful look with the Bard. “The king’s guards were afraid to touch it after they arrested you. Hot lentil soup! You’re a wonder, Pega!” he cried before Jack could ask why he would need the staff.

They sat down to eat. The soup was flavored with onions and the new spice Father had called pepper. It was delicious! Jack thought he could eat pepper every day and twice on Sunday. The Bard saved a scrap of bread for the swallow in the window. She showed no fear whatsoever, but hopped forward and took the food from his hand.

When they were finished, Pega brought out a special treat she’d made in the fortress’ kitchen, an omelet sweetened with honey. “If only Father Severus were here,” Brother Aiden mused after they had settled around the brazier to bask in heat. “He’d get those lazy monks off their backsides. He could frighten a wolf into saying prayers.”

“Who’s Father Severus?” Jack asked.

“The man who saved my life,” replied the little monk. “I was a starving child, lost in the Forest of Lorn. I remember eating bark.”

“I’ve done that,” Pega said brightly. “One of my owners—”

“Let him tell the story,” said Jack, who wanted to hear about the Forest of Lorn.

“My memories are shadowy, but it seemed something was hunting me. I had made a nest in a tree like a bird. Father Severus had been sent into the forest to do penance, and he spotted my hiding place. I was afraid of him at first. I was afraid of everything, but he left food at the foot of my tree. Gradually, I learned to trust him.”

“Were your parents dead?” asked Pega.

Brother Aiden sat back and frowned. “I don’t remember. I can still speak their language.” He said something in a whispery voice that seemed more like the wind blowing through a forest than human speech.

Jack’s hair stood on end. “That’s Pictish!” he exclaimed. He didn’t understand the words, but their sighing, hissing quality brought back evil memories. He’d heard them in the slave market where the Northmen were trying to sell him. He remembered the small, painted warriors materializing from the twilight. Their skins seemed to writhe in the firelight. The pictures on their bodies—a wolf with a man’s head in its jaws, a deer devouring a snake, a man being crushed beneath the feet of a bull—spoke of a world of pain. They were like the drawings Brother Aiden made on his parchments.

“You’re a Pict!” Jack said, now understanding the monk’s smallness.

“I am,” replied Brother Aiden.

“How can that be? They’re savages! They eat people!”

“Are you quite through?” said the Bard.

“I guess so,” Jack said.

“Well then, I must say you’ve been insufferably rude. You know nothing of Aiden’s people, yet you believe the worst of them.”

“I saw them, sir. The Northmen were bartering slaves for weapons, and the Picts were feeling the captives all over to see how fat they were. They almost took me! It was horrible.”

“And the Northmen’s slaughter of the monks wasn’t?” The Bard’s eyes snapped with anger.

“Of course it was,” Jack said, desperate to make the old man understand, “only the Picts were worse. Unnatural, you see. Even Olaf One-Brow hated them.”

“The list of people Olaf One-Brow hated, and who hated him, would reach from here to the next village.”

“I’m not offended,” said Brother Aiden, unexpectedly coming to Jack’s defense. “Many people find the Old Ones disturbing. Modern Picts are no different from anyone else. They wear clothes and live in houses. They speak the language of folks around them and marry their sons and daughters. The Old Ones…” Brother Aiden’s voice trailed off.

“Live as their ancestors did a thousand years ago,” the Bard finished. “Naked, painted, secretive, they come out only at night. People say light makes them weak.”

“They’ve lived in darkness so long, it has made them fear the sun,” agreed Brother Aiden.

“The Picts I saw were covered in designs,” said Jack.

“I have a couple.” Brother Aiden bared his chest to show an ornately decorated crescent moon intersected by a broken arrow. Beneath it was a blue line with five short lines crossing it at right angles. “You needn’t be worried by me, Jack. I haven’t eaten anyone in ages.”

“I—I’m sorry,” Jack stammered. He found it hard to associate the gentle monk with the savages he remembered at the slave market.

“This mark is how I got my name.” Brother Aiden indicated the blue line.

“It’s a rune,” the Bard explained. “It means aiden, or ‘yew tree’ in Pictish. The monks of the Holy Isle thought it as good a name as any.”

“Now I must attend to prayers,” said Brother Aiden. He stopped by the window to say good-bye to the swallow. “I’ve often wondered where they go in winter. Some say they fly to Paradise,” he said, stroking the bird’s head.

“I’m curious,” said Pega, holding out the warmed cloak for Brother Aiden to put on. “Why was Father Severus doing penance?”

“He had an unfortunate encounter with a mermaid—but I don’t want to indulge in idle gossip,” Brother Aiden said. “Tomorrow will be a long day. We should all get a good night’s sleep.”

“What’s wrong with idle gossip? Would he prefer busy gossip?” fumed Pega later as she fluffed up her bedding. The Bard might be honored with a goose down mattress, but the courtesy didn’t extend to Jack or Pega. The meager piles of straw would hardly take the curse off the stone floor. “I’ll bet Father Severus fell in love with that mermaid,” said Pega. “They say Sea Folk marry humans to gain souls.”

“The Bard says they smell like seaweed,” Jack said.

“Father Severus probably smelled like old boots.”

“You don’t respect anyone, do you?”

“That’s not true,” Pega protested. “I’m simply not taken in by frauds. Kings, nobles, abbots—they think they’re so holy, mud wouldn’t stick to their bums if they sat in a bog. But I admire good people—really I do—like the Bard and Brother Aiden… and you,” she finished softly.

“Oh, go to sleep,” said Jack, feeling uncomfortable with this sudden change of tone. He snuggled into his heap of straw and turned his back on her. The storm blustered outside. Occasional gusts of wind penetrated the narrow window and chilled his body. If only he had more straw. Or a sheepskin. Pega didn’t seem to mind the cold, but she was used to ill treatment.

After a while Jack got up. The swallow was a dark blob in the corner of the window. Not even a child could get through that narrow space. From what little Jack could see, there was a long drop to the ground. He went to the door. The guards were curled up on the floor like a pack of wolfhounds.

Jack pulled the brazier to the middle of the room. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well make use of the time.

He chanted silently, circling the fire. Maybe he could see Lucy if she still lived. Round and round he went until the sound of the storm faded and the coals grew bright. A shudder rolled through the fortress.

“Don’t do that,” the Bard said sharply. Both he and Pega were sitting bolt upright. Cries sounded in the distance. “The forces you called up yesterday are still abroad. We don’t want the whole fortress down around our ears.” He got up and placed a poker in the coals. “Mint tea would go down well, Pega.”

The girl set about fetching charcoal from an alcove. She built up the fire, filled cups from a wooden bucket, and sprinkled mint leaves on top. “I don’t have honey, sir,” she apologized.

“You’re doing marvelously,” the old man assured her. “We need the heat more than anything. My stars! You’d think it was December.”

Soon they were sitting around the brazier with mint-flavored steam misting their faces. “What did I call up, sir?” Jack asked.

“An earthquake,” the Bard replied.

“What is an earthquake?”

“A very good question. The Picts say it’s the Great Worm and her nine wormlets burrowing in the earth. I’ve always thought it was an imbalance in the life force. An even better question is why it responded to you. What were you thinking when you called it, lad?”

“The first time I was angry at Father Swein. I mean, furious,” Jack admitted. “I was grasping the staff so hard, it’s a wonder it didn’t break. It was shaking in my hands.”

“I felt it too,” Pega interrupted.

“Did you, now?” The Bard looked at her thoughtfully.

“I called—something—to come forth,” Jack said. “I told it to break down the walls. And to clean up the place. For an instant I actually saw into the ground. There were caves like halls under the earth, pitch-black…”

“And the second time?” the Bard said softly.

“I was doing the farseeing spell. I only wanted to see Lucy.” Jack felt hollow inside. Where was his little sister? Was she frightened by the dark halls he’d glimpsed? Or was she the prisoner of some monster?

“Long ago,” said the Bard, folding his hands around his cup, “St. Filian’s was not a well, but a lake. It was ruled by a powerful lady of Elfland—the Lady you heard Brutus speak of—and her nymphs. They had always been protected by the Lord of Din Guardi.”

“Not King Yffi,” said Jack.

“Not him. He slew the true king, and then he called in a group of renegade monks. They dammed up the spring that fed the lake, trapping the Lady in the courtyard with Christian magic. For years they’ve had a sweet little enterprise going there. The abbot of the Holy Isle complained, but nothing was done. Then Northmen destroyed the island. Too bad Olaf and his dim-witted crew didn’t land here instead.”

“Was the Lady truly unhappy?” asked Jack.

“In a tiny courtyard? Without the flocks of birds, the mists and reeds and wildflowers she loved? Of course she was. Even worse, she was aging. Elves live long in our world, but they prolong their existence by visiting Elfland, where time does not move.”

“I suppose that’s why she shot me,” said Jack.

“She must have been brooding for years. When you broke open the pit—By Odin’s eyebrows! That’s it! How could I have missed it?”

“What, sir? What are you doing?”

The Bard dropped his cup and went to the window. He could just reach his arm through. The swallow chirped peevishly. “Don’t worry, my friend. I’m only checking the weather,” the old man said. “Hah!”

“What?” cried both Jack and Pega.

“Perfectly dry outside. Just as I thought. That was no ordinary storm.”

“It was raining earlier,” Pega said.

“The water poured out of the well and into that hole you opened up, Jack, leaving it perfectly dry.” The Bard looked at Jack and Pega expectantly.

“But what does this have to do with—” Jack began.

“Think! All last night and today the sky’s been streaming with rain. Now it’s gone!” The old man folded his arms, looking immensely satisfied with himself.

Jack and Pega stared at him.

“Save me from slack-jawed apprentices! The Lady of the Lake was emptying out the sky. She’s taken all the water,” explained the Bard. “It wouldn’t surprise me if every well in this district has gone dry. And when King Yffi finds out, they’ll be able to hear him bellow all the way to Jotunheim!”