The Land of the Silver Apples

Chapter Twenty-eight ST. COLUMBA

They sat around the tables drinking cider. The taste was slightly vinegary, but Jack found it deeply satisfying because it came from Middle Earth, not the Land of the Silver Apples. It had come from trees that had slept all winter and were wakened by boys and men shouting waes hael. The chopped-up apples had been fermented in vats of ordinary water. But they had been left slightly too long, and the cider had turned just that little bit sour. It was this imperfection, the evidence of change and time, that Jack relished.

The Bugaboo was gazing moodily at will-o’-the-wisps, and Pega was playing peekaboo with Hazel. The little girl had worked herself into a state of hysteria, bouncing up and down like a sprogling and gleeping when Pega uncovered her eyes. Dear Heaven, thought Jack, how am I ever going to get used to her?

Turning to the Bugaboo, he asked why there was such enmity between hobgoblins and elves. “The elves hate us because we have souls,” the king explained.

Jack listened in fascination as the Bugaboo retold Brother Aiden’s story of the war in Heaven and of how God cast out the angels who wouldn’t take sides. “For long years we lived peacefully with elves,” the Bugaboo said. “Or, rather, they ignored us and we stayed out of their way. They built the Hollow Road to avoid the Forest Lord. He wasn’t above trapping an unwary elf caught hunting in his realm.

“Then the Picts landed in boats and straight off began chopping down trees. The Forest Lord took a terrible vengeance. He asked his brother, the Man in the Moon, to rain madness on their women. Some hurled themselves off cliffs, others drowned themselves in the sea. The men fled underground, where, in the secret places of the earth, they encountered elves.

“They were awestruck,” continued the king. “Or, I should say, they were enthralled, which is a much more serious affair. Most of the Picts came out of hiding and bartered for wives from the Irish across the sea. A few stayed behind.”

“The Old Ones,” said Jack.

“They worship the elves like gods and bring them slaves.”

Jack and Thorgil exchanged a startled look. Jack remembered the slave market so long ago, when the Northmen had tried to sell him and Lucy. He remembered the small men who had seemed like shadows from the forest. Their bodies writhed with painted vines, and their voices hissed like the wind through pine needles. Their leader had wanted Lucy, but Olaf One-Brow had protected her.

“I thought they ate their captives,” said Thorgil.

“Once they did,” the Bugaboo said. “Now slaves unsuitable for elf service are sacrificed to the Forest Lord. The Old Ones seek his friendship, but they delude themselves. The Forest Lord will never be their friend. His hatred is eternal. Slaves are taken under the trees in the dark of the moon. What happens to them there is something I don’t care to describe.”

“I think I know,” said Thorgil, who had turned deadly pale.

“Who wants a roasted apple?” said Mumsie. The hobgoblins eagerly held out their bowls. Mumsie ladled out the steaming fruit drizzled with honey, and a helper topped them with cream. The warm and spicy smells raised Jack’s spirits after the depressing history of the Picts. There had been a gloomy monk among the slaves they had bought from the Northmen. Jack wondered what his fate had been.

The hobgoblins competed to see how many apples they could stuff into their cheeks. The winner managed ten—hobgoblin cheeks were amazingly stretchy. Hazel had to be pounded on the back because she tried to mimic them. My stars, even I think of her as a sprogling, Jack realized. He tried to lure her to him by holding out a roasted apple. She fled at once to Mrs. Blewit’s arms, and he felt both sad and jealous.

“The Picts were followed by the Celts, Britons, Romans, and Saxons,” continued the Bugaboo, tossing the apple cores over his shoulder. “You never saw anything like the Roman army! They swarmed over the hills, clanking and stamping and bawling orders. They cut down trees, built roads, and heaved up walls. If the Forest Lord got a few of them, there were always more behind. He was left only a few untouched stretches of trees, and it weakened him. He draws his strength from them, you see.”

“Now we’re coming to the good part,” interrupted the Nemesis. “The arrival of St. Columba.”

“My ever-so-great-grandparents saw him arrive,” the king said. “He came over the sea from Ireland.”

“In a little coracle,” added the Nemesis, his eyes blinking in a soothing rhythm. He clearly liked the story of St. Columba. “The waves should have dashed it to pieces, but it floated along as peacefully as a gull. Columba spoke to the Picts of strange things called ‘mercy’ and ‘pity’. The Picts laughed merrily and tried to murder him, but Columba blew a wisp of straw into the air.”

“He was a bard!” cried Jack. “That’s how they drive people mad.”

“Whatever he did, it scared the living daylights out of the Picts. They fell on their knees and begged him for this new thing called mercy. So Columba poured water over their heads, and they all became as docile as lambs.”

“My ever-so-great-grandparents concealed themselves in motley wool cloaks to listen to the saint’s sermons,” the Bugaboo resumed. “Then, as now, hobgoblins were not welcome in mud men’s houses. They followed Columba as he walked from village to village, always keeping out of sight. And one dark night my ever-so-great-grandfather got up the courage to approach his window. ‘Please, mud man,’ he whispered. ‘What magic did you use on the Picts?’

“‘Come in by the fire so I can see you,’ said Columba. My ever-so-great-grandfather edged through the door, expecting to be pelted with rocks, as was the custom. But Columba only laughed. ‘You’re a rare one,’ he said. He gave my ever-so-great-grandfather a cup of cider and asked him many questions about mercy and pity. He was impressed with my ever-so-great-grandfather’s answers. ‘I see you’ve been listening,’ Columba said approvingly. My ever-so-great-grandfather admitted to eavesdropping at windows.

“The upshot was that Columba called all the hobgoblins together and baptized them. They stood on the banks of Loch Ness, and one after the other, Columba popped them in. It took seven days and seven nights. At one point a kelpie surfaced and ate a few hobgoblins, but the saint drove him off.”

“Kelpies! That’s the part I hate!” the Nemesis broke in. “They’ll do anything to get at us—climb trees, burrow into the earth, hurl themselves off cliffs. I can’t bear thinking about it!” He had turned pale, and his whole body quivered. Mumsie and the Nemesis’ wife settled on either side of the distraught hobgoblin, cooing and stroking him until he recovered.

“He lost his parents, aunts, and uncles on a picnic at Loch Ness,” the Bugaboo whispered to Jack. “We all try not to mention the K-word around him. To finish our history, Columba assured our ancestors that they now had souls in tip-top condition. And since that time the elves have been our bitter enemies.”