The Land of the Silver Apples

Chapter Nineteen THE KNUCKER HOLE

Brutus insisted it was morning when Jack awoke. He was already bustling around, toasting oatcakes on sticks. Pega was propped against a wall, looking the worse for wear.

“Nothing like warm oatcakes to start the day,” the slave declared. Jack was allowed a few swallows of cider to wash them down.

“I dreamed of kelpies all night,” said Pega. “Every time I woke up, I saw Yffi in the shadows.”

“Mother used to say dreaming of bad things meant something good was about to happen,” Brutus said.

“Like getting eaten by a dragon instead of starving to death.” Pega was unusually ratty this morning, but Jack couldn’t blame her. He felt ratty too. The walls were closing in and the air was stale. He felt the weight of the rock over his head.

“The more we eat, the less we’ll have to carry,” Brutus said brightly. “Mother always said there was a good side to everything, if you only took the trouble to find it.” Humming maddeningly, he made up fresh torches and loaded up bags. Last of all, he strapped on the green belt with the sword Anredden.

When they were ready, Jack led them down the right-hand tunnel. It might be full of dragon poop, but it promised water. Somewhere. As they walked, the lumps of jet grew more numerous, and after a few hours they had to walk around heaps of it. “Look at that!” enthused Brutus. “There’s enough here for a dozen dragons.”

“Please don’t talk,” begged Pega. “I have such a headache.” So Brutus whistled instead, a tuneless, breathy sound that soon drove Jack frantic.

“Be quiet!” he finally exploded. “Don’t you understand stealth? Don’t you understand caution? If there’s a dragon within ten miles, he’ll home right in on your miserable, incessant noise!”

“Somebody needs his nap,” said Brutus, not in the least insulted. “Let’s all take a break and chase those nasty jimjams away.”

Jack slumped against a pile of dragon poop and fantasized about breaking his staff over the slave’s head. Brutus passed around a sack of sour oat mash. Age had not improved it and Pega said it reminded her of rat droppings, but they didn’t dare waste it. Jack was beginning to get dreadfully thirsty. He thought of waterfalls and rushing streams until he actually thought he could hear them. But if he concentrated, there was only the sluggish breeze. And, of course, Brutus.

“I know! I’ll tell riddles,” the slave cried. “There’s nothing like riddles for sheer fun.

Brutus waited expectantly, like a dog watching for a stick to be thrown.

“I don’t care. My head hurts,” said Pega.

“Wait. I think I can solve it,” Jack said. “Wind and wave mean boats. And the part under the sea is… the anchor!”

“Very good,” approved Brutus. “Here’s another.

“That’s too easy. Honey,” said Jack, who knew all about beekeeping from his mother.

“Here’s a toughie.

Jack tried to work it out. “A snail’s quiet, but so is its shell. A turtle? A chick in an egg?”

“It’s a fish,” said Pega. “A fish in a lovely, chattering, bubbling, water-filled stream—oh, bedbugs! We’re going to die down here. We’ll n-never see a s-stream again!” She burst into tears.

Jack was astounded. He’d never seen her cry before, not even when he struck her. He’d been so wrapped up in his own misery, he hadn’t noticed how hopeless she’d become. He didn’t know what to do.

But Brutus did. “There, lassie,” he said, holding her and rocking her as though she were a baby. “The middle of a quest is always the hardest, but heroes come through. And we are heroes! They’ll be singing about us as they do King Arthur and Lancelot, my ancestor. There were noble ladies, too, Morgan le Fay and Nimue, the Lady of the Lake. Actually, it’s the same Lady of the Lake, for her kind live long, but the others wound up on the Islands of the Blessed, where it’s always summer and sorrow never comes. My mother is there, for she was the Lady of Din Guardi as well as being a wise woman.”

“I’m a Christian. I hope to wind up in Heaven.” Pega laid her tearstained face against his chest.

“That’s a grand place too, lassie. The point is, we live as bravely as possible and go to our just rewards. There’s always hope, even in death.”

“I like it when you call me ‘lassie’,” said Pega, snuggling close.

“Then I’ll do it often. Now I want you to drink some cider. You’re far too dried out. We must go on, but you tell me if you get tired.” Never had Brutus looked so noble, like a real king and not a sniveling wretch.

Jack promised to pay more attention to Pega. He knew she was capable of marching until she fell down dead, out of sheer mulishness. It was up to him to tell Brutus when she got tired.

They went on and on, with the dragon poop increasing until it formed pillars from floor to ceiling. They had to walk around them like trees in a forest. From time to time, Jack dowsed with the Y-shaped stick. Water was still ahead and growing nearer (he hoped). They rested often, though not often enough for Pega, who kept stumbling. Even Brutus’ whistle had sunk to a slight hiss between his teeth. Jack’s mouth was glued shut. He kept thinking of the cider bags. Surely, if they were going to die, it would be best to have one last, glorious drink and then sit down to await the inevitable.

“I hear something,” said Pega.

Jack was so hypnotized by the crunch of their feet and Brutus’ hissing, he hardly registered the noise. They all stopped and listened. Eee eee eee, said something not too far ahead.

“Is that a mouse?” whispered Jack.

Eee eee eee eee eee. The sound multiplied and spread.

Brutus drew his sword. Jack grasped his staff. They edged forward. The tunnel ended at an enormous hall like a bubble under the earth. The far side was hidden in darkness, and the ceiling was so high, it was scarcely visible. Brutus held up his torch. At first Jack thought he was looking at rock formations, but when one of the rocks stretched out a wing, he realized he was seeing bats.

Thousands and thousands of bats.

They clung to knobs of jet, jostling one another and squeaking peevishly when the light fell on them. Brutus laughed, a shocking sound in that empty hall. “By the Lady, it’s only flitter mice. Hey! Flitter mice! You’ve got visitors.” He waved the torch, and the bats rustled angrily. Something pattered down like dust.

“Oh, pooh! Lice!” cried Pega.

“Stop scaring them,” said Jack, catching Brutus’ arm.

“You’re right, lad. I’ve been discourteous. It’s their house.” The slave lowered the torch and bowed. “We are but wayfarers passing through, gentle creatures. Please permit us to camp this one night. We shall be gone in the morning.”

“Camp?” said Pega with longing in her voice.

“The sun is almost at the horizon, lassie.”

“How do you know?” Jack said crossly. He was still brushing bat lice off his hair.

“I just do,” Brutus replied. They searched for a campsite. Much of the floor was sandy but covered with the refuse of a large bat colony—tiny bones and guano. Wherever they looked, the creatures covered the ceiling.

“What do you suppose made those marks?” said Jack. A ropy trail plowed through the sand. It feathered out from a central, deeper furrow as wide as Jack was tall. When he tried to picture what could have made such a pattern, he imagined a blobby body with many snakelike arms pulling it along. It was not a welcome image.

“Whatever it is, I hope it stays away,” said Pega. “Look at all this filth!”

On the far side seven more tunnels led outward, each one exactly like the others. “Oh, bother!” cried Jack, throwing down his carrying bags. “How are we ever going to find the right one!”

“Personally, I think this is a good sign. The hall is clearly an important meeting place,” said Brutus.

“For what? Dragons?”

“Look!” cried Pega. With a dry, rustling sound, the bats detached themselves from the ceiling. They filled the air of the hall in a flickering mob, darting here and there, yet never colliding. “Oh! Oh! If bats fly three times around your head, it means you’re going to die!” she moaned, crouching.

“They can’t do it if you lie flat,” said Jack, who had heard the same story. Both of them burrowed into the sand. Tiny bones crunched under their weight, and a fume of old guano enveloped their noses.

Brutus laughed. “Bats used to visit Mother all the time, and not one of them killed anything except a gnat. The sun has set, and they merely go forth to greet the night. Mark how they fly!”

Jack raised his head cautiously. The crowd of bats was smaller. Those that were left flowed into the tunnel on the extreme right. “They’re going outside,” he said as the meaning of it dawned on him.

“I spoke to them courteously, and they have shown us the path,” Brutus replied.

But did it lead to Elfland? Jack didn’t know. To be sure, he should inspect all the tunnels, but the lure of being outside was too great to resist. They could be free of the oppressive rocks. They could find water. “You can get up, Pega. They’re gone,” Jack said, having made up his mind.

“But they left their lice behind,” she grumbled, brushing her hair.

Brutus suggested camping in the tunnel. The hall was too dirty, and not even he relished the idea of sleeping in an ominous space with openings snaking off in all directions. A fresh breeze met them as they entered. “This is nice!” said Jack. “Why don’t we keep going?”

“The lassie needs rest,” Brutus pointed out, “but I can go ahead and see how far the opening is.”

“I’m not tired,” protested Pega.

“You’re practically falling over.” Jack pulled her down to sit beside him. Brutus strode on with sword drawn, and they listened to his footsteps die away. The tunnel suddenly seemed much emptier.

“There’s no branches on the ground here,” said Pega, stifling a yawn.

Jack held his torch high. She was right. “If the entrance is near, we won’t need more wood to build a fire.”

“That’s not what I meant. No litter means no elves. We’re on the wrong path. Ohhhhh,” Pega yawned again, and stretched.

“Maybe not,” said Jack, who hated to give up the idea of going outside. What difference did it make anyhow? Once they found water, they could return.

Pega stood up, tottering on rubbery legs. “I’ve got to keep moving. If I lie down, I’ll never get up again.” She staggered against a pillar of dragon poop. “I say! There’s a tunnel back here.”

Jack was up at once. On the other side of the pillar was a dark opening. He held out the torch. It didn’t flicker. “The air isn’t moving. I think this is a cave.”

“It wouldn’t be a bad place to camp.”

“If it’s empty.”

“We ought to look,” argued Pega. “I’d sleep a lot better if I didn’t have to worry about things creeping up on me. The ground is even soft… and sticky. I can’t lift my feet!”

“Get out!” yelled Jack. Suddenly, he remembered what the Bard and Brother Aiden had said: Never go into a tunnel with no air movement. It will either be a dead end or a knucker hole.

“I can’t! I can’t! It won’t let go!”

Jack put down the torch and grabbed her around the middle. He pulled as hard as he could, but he couldn’t budge her. He heard a stealthy movement at the back of the cave, a sucking sound, as of something dragging itself out of deep mud.

“Keep pulling!” screamed Pega.

“Now my feet are stuck!” he cried.

Jack fumbled for the torch. He waved the flame back and forth at the cave. Something hissed and retreated. He couldn’t see it clearly, but a lump of darkness at the far end seemed to flow down the wall.

“Brutus! Help! Come back!” Pega shrieked.

“It doesn’t like fire,” panted Jack, trying to stay upright as Pega clung to him. He looked around frantically for more wood and saw his ash wood staff. He dropped the torch. The staff was just out of reach.

“Don’t leave me!” Pega screamed, hanging on to him. He had to tear her hands loose. He fell forward and landed with one hand on the ground and the other grasping the staff. He twisted around and pointed it at the cave.

By the dying light he saw a dark streak snaking across the floor. Several dark streaks. Fire, come to me, he called. He didn’t have time to compose his mind or do any of the meditative things the Bard had taught him. All he had was raw need and terror. Come to me, come to me, come to me!

He reached down through the rock, expecting the sluggish response he got when calling fire in the village. But the magic was close to the surface of the earth here and eager to respond. Jack felt heat sweep toward him. “Run,” he gasped.

“I can’t,” wept Pega.

A jet of flame shot out the end of the staff. Fire licked over the cave, and for an instant Jack saw a huge round body like a monstrous tick engorged with blood. Arms coiled from its sides, anchoring it to the rocks, and others fanned out across a floor deep in slime. They were almost touching Pega’s feet. Then the flames engulfed them.

Jack wrenched her loose from the bubbling slime and staggered back. The heat was so intense, he was afraid to breathe. “The roof!” Pega cried. Jack looked up. In dozens of places the knobs of jet had caught fire. They burned furiously like a sky full of hot stars. The pillar before the cave went up with a sudden whoosh, making a blaze so dazzling, Jack was stunned. He felt Pega grab his arm. The whole tunnel was ablaze.

They ran. Sand stuck to the slime on Jack’s feet and mired him down. He had a stitch in his side. He thought his knees would collapse, and still he ran, pulling Pega along. When at last they fell, gasping and coughing, to the ground, Jack could hear the roar of the flames behind them. A dire light flickered on the walls. “Is it coming?” Pega said fearfully.

Jack braced himself for another effort, but as the moments passed, the light grew no brighter and the roaring no louder. “The wind is blowing it away,” he said. And, indeed, the fire drew air toward it so fiercely, a near gale moaned down the passage. A distant rumble told Jack that something had collapsed. “We can’t stay here. Can you walk?”

“An hour ago I’d have said no,” admitted Pega. “Amazing what mortal terror can do.”

Jack nodded soberly. They went on again, slowly, with the sand weighting down their feet. The light faded until it died away altogether, and they had to feel their way along the wall.

“The food’s gone,” Pega said.

“The cider, too,” said Jack.

“I’m trying not to think about that.”

“Would you believe it? I’m cold,” said Jack. The wind had a touch of ice that went straight through him. His cloak had been with the carrying bags and was now ashes. “If we found wood, I could start a fire.”

“Don’t you dare!”

They trudged on, following the wall. Jack probed the ground ahead with his staff. His feet were scorched, and he guessed Pega’s were too. He wondered what the bats would do when they tried to fly back up the passage. On the positive side, the fire must have cleaned out the wyverns, hippogriffs, cockatrices, manticores, basilisks, hydras, and krakens. And knuckers.

Especially knuckers.

“Where do you suppose Brutus got to?” Pega said.

“I wonder,” said Jack as all his bitter suspicions of the slave rushed back.