The Land of the Silver Apples

Chapter Thirty-six SECRET ALLIES

“Are you all right?” Jack asked Thorgil. The bench had struck her a hard blow, and her wrist was beginning to swell.

“I’ve felt better. By Fenris’ fangs, I’m sorry to lose that knife! At least none of these hwatu shazz found it.”

“Does that mean ‘troll droppings’?” said Jack. He guessed from the Picts’ scowls that it was an insult.

�Putrid troll droppings,” said Thorgil.

“I seem to remember Fenris. Wasn’t he the giant wolf Thor chained up?” asked Jack.

“Yes. Fenris refused to be bound unless the god Tyr placed his hand in the wolf’s mouth. When Fenris realized he’d been tricked, he chewed off Tyr’s hand and swallowed it. Hah! That was a merry tale!”

“If you say so,” Jack said. He remembered Rune telling the story on the morning the Northmen brought him home. They had camped on a fog-shrouded beach, and Thorgil had given Lucy the necklace of silver leaves. What an ill-fated gift that was! That moment of generosity had led to Lucy’s mischief at the need-fire ceremony, the destruction of St. Filian’s Well, Father’s injury, and now the danger of being dragged down to Hell. All from one little necklace.

Jack turned to get a glimpse of Father Severus. The monk was too weak to walk fast and so was being carried. One of the Picts noticed Jack’s interest and shouted, “Shooff hhahh!”

Thorgil laughed. “That means ‘dog vomit’.”

“You seem to know a lot of their curses,” said Jack.

“It’s the sort of thing you pick up at slave markets.”

Father Severus was right, Jack thought. She hadn’t a scrap of shame about the crimes she’d committed. Pega was walking next to the monk, holding Mother’s candle against her cheek. Jack hoped it comforted her. He couldn’t find anything good about their situation.

They trudged upward—or was it down? Jack closed his eyes and tried to guess. But the farther they went, the cloudier his mind became. He could feel the memories slipping away. A moment earlier Thorgil had reminded him of a fog-shrouded beach, yet now he couldn’t say where it had been. Then even that faded. There was only the sense of something gone.

The tunnel changed from a grim mine shaft to a hallway hung with rich tapestries. Torches blazed from jeweled sconces in the wall. The floor was a sheet of gold and made a sweet chiming sound as they walked over it. Glamour, Jack thought, both hating and desiring it. Well, why not be surrounded by beauty? Why live in a mine shaft when you could have a palace?

He knew something bad was going to happen, but he couldn’t recall what. He asked Thorgil, and she didn’t know either. “We’re being taken to the Midsummer’s Festival,” Pega said in a voice made high by fear. “There’re going to be demons.” Jack was mildly surprised by this outburst. How could she remember when he didn’t?

“We Northmen like to go troll-hunting on Midsummer’s Eve,” Thorgil said. “I hope demons provide good sport.” She lost the train of her thought and fell silent.

They came to a doorway, and here the Picts left them. Not for Brude and his warriors was this festival. Elf guards crossed spears to keep them from entering, but they urged Jack and his companions on. The Picts crouched in the hallway, searching one another for fleas.

Jack saw Guthlac in the custody of human thralls. He was wrapped securely in vines, and Jack was unpleasantly reminded of St. Oswald’s portrait. The coils around Guthlac rustled and slithered, and a thrall had dropped a hood over his head.

“I wonder what they intend for him, poor fellow,” said Father Severus, who was walking slowly and leaning on Pega’s shoulder.

“Noooo,” moaned Father Swein, attempting to flee. The elf guards at the hall door shoved him back. But Guthlac was unable to see his enemy, and so the abbot was able to edge past.

They found themselves in a vast courtyard under a starry sky crowned by a full moon. In the middle was an enormous bonfire, while at the sides were flower-filled gardens lit by lamps and torches as well as by the fire. Bright shadows competed with dark ones.

Elves were singing, dancing, feasting, playing games, and conjuring up monsters. A giant toad snagged fireflies with its tongue. Jack could see its belly glow as the creatures flew around inside. Then a monstrous black flower grew out of the ground and swallowed the toad. It croaked mournfully as the petals closed. The pet toddlers howled and tried to crawl away, but they were brought up short by their leashes. The elves laughed merrily at their antics.

It was a scene of swirling chaos, a feverish quest for more and more pleasure, and Jack realized suddenly that there was no joy in the celebration at all. It was a mad frenzy, such as came over sheep after they had eaten moldy grass.

“Something touched my face!” cried Pega. Jack whirled around, ready to do battle with whatever had frightened her. But there was nothing. He walked around her to be sure. The competing lights and shadows made it difficult to see. “There was something,” the girl insisted. “I felt it first in the hallway and now here.”

“Did it hurt you?”

“No.” Pega seemed unwilling to say more.

“It was probably a bat,” said Thorgil. Large, leathery shapes with bodies the size of puppies swooped above the bonfire.

Pega shuddered. “I’d know if one of those bumped into me. This was more like… a kiss.”

“Maybe it was tasting you to see if you’d be good.”

“Thorgil!” exclaimed Jack.

“There’s Lucy,” said Pega. And Jack saw Queen Partholis and his sister watching a lumpy seedling rising from the ground.

“No, no!” said Partholis. “Branches first, then honey cakes!” Lucy stamped her foot, and the seedling died. “I don’t know why I bother teaching you glamour,” complained the Elf Queen. “You have the brain of a flea.”

“Why doesn’t it do what I want?” Lucy whined.

“Because glamour needs concentration. Oh, very well. I’ll take over.” Partholis waved her hands, and the seedling revived, putting out branches, leaves, then flowers, and, last of all, honey cakes. Lucy began stuffing herself with the treat.

“There’s our guests of honor!” cried Gowrie, the huntsman who had danced with Thorgil at the party. Elf lords and ladies immediately swept Jack and his companions on to the queen.

“Oh, bother! What’s he doing here?” said Lucy, her mouth smeared with honey. Jack felt a pang of grief. After all he’d done to save her, she might at least be glad to see him. But he reminded himself that she might be under a spell. The silver necklace still gleamed around her neck.

“He’s here for the ceremony,” Partholis said. “He’s meant for the—you know.”

Lucy turned away, bored.

“Let the celebration begin!” cried Gowrie, clapping his hands. Thralls set out chairs, tables, and snacks. Partholis and Partholon seated themselves with Ethne—who threw Father Severus an anguished look—and Lucy.

“Nimue!” shrieked the queen. “Nimue! Come sit with us. This is going to be such fun!” The Lady of the Lake made her way from among a cluster of ladies draped in what appeared to be fish scales.

“I wish I could stay,” she gushed, “but I simply must get Brutie-Wootie out of harm’s way.”

Brutie-Wootie? thought Jack with a sinking feeling. And sure enough, he saw Brutus being fawned over by the same cluster of fishy ladies.

“He can’t go,” wailed the queen. “He promised to sing for me, and besides—”

“You have quite enough humans without him,” Nimue said tartly. “I promised to restore the water to Bebba’s Town, and I have to admit I miss the dear old swamps and marshes. Now that St. Filian’s power is broken, I can go and come as I please.”

“You are selfish as always,” sniffed Partholis. The Lady of the Lake yawned delicately.

Brutus extricated himself from the crowd of admiring ladies. “Has the sun risen? Have I wandered into the heart of a flower? Or are my eyes dazzled by your ravishing beauty?” he cried, bowing before the queen.

“Oh, you,” Partholis said, giggling.

“I assure you, nothing could tear me away from your glorious presence except duty to my Lady,” exclaimed Brutus. “Alas, I am in thrall.”

“The sooner we get out of here the better,” urged Nimue.

“Then I fear I must bid you all adieu,” Brutus said, bowing again.

“Wait a minute,” said Jack, pulling him aside. “How can you abandon the rest of us?”

“I’m not abandoning you. I’m fulfilling the quest.”

“You, Brutie-Wootie, are a vile oath-breaker,” said Jack, falling back on Thorgil’s deadliest insult.

“You wound me deeply,” protested the slave. “My mission was to restore water to Din Guardi. This I shall do. Yet what do I receive for my loyal service? Base ingratitude. But I forgive you, because those of Lancelot’s line don’t hold grudges.”

“Those of Lancelot’s line can barely hold a thought for five seconds!” yelled Jack. “You’re deserting us! You’re leaving us to be dragged down to Hell! How noble is that?”

“Ah! But you have allies you are not aware of,” said Brutus with a mysterious smile.

“What allies? What are you talking about?”

“I wish I could say. Unfortunately, the very air in Elfland has ears. I can, however, pass on a gift from them.” Brutus fished in a pocket and removed a small leather bag.

Jack looked inside. There was a chunk of flint, a nail of bright metal, and a dried polypore, the sort of mushroom used for kindling. “Fire-making tools!” Jack said, beside himself with rage. “What do I need these for? We’ve got the biggest bonfire in Middle Earth over there!”

Brutus laid his finger across his mouth to caution silence. “That would be true if, in fact, we were in Middle Earth. Nothing in Elfland is what it seems.”

“You can’t leave us,” cried Pega, flinging herself against him. “You can’t leave him.” She pointed at Father Severus.

Even Thorgil unbent enough to tug at his sleeve. “True comrades stay together.”

“I have no choice in the matter. The Lady despises humans (except for me, of course). She will not take you,” said Brutus, hugging each of them.

“But—but—” said Pega, beginning to cry.

“At least give me Anredden,” said Thorgil. “I doubt you even know how to use it.”

“Trust me, no mortal sword can defend you. Pega holds the weapon you must use—but I dare not say more.”

By now the fishy ladies were calling for Brutus to join them. He blew them kisses. “Now I must go. Water nymphs are so impatient, the darlings!” He stroked Pega’s wispy hair. “Remember the gift I passed on to Jack, lassie. It is real. It does not come from Elfland.” Then Nimue took him firmly by the arm and led him away. The last they saw of him was his dark head bobbing among a cluster of fish scales in the distance.

“What did he mean, I have the weapon? What can I do?” Pega said. “I’m no warrior. I suppose I could sing.”

“Last time your singing got us thrown into the dungeon,” Thorgil said.

“Brutus meant nothing. He never does,” said Jack, thoroughly disgusted.