The Land of the Silver Apples

Chapter Thirty-seven THE TITHE OF HELL

By now the elves had ranged themselves in a wide arc around a grassy lawn, with Partholis and her consort at the center. The bonfire snapped nearby and sent a shower of sparks high into the air. They floated golden among the silver stars and did not dim. Will the demons drag us into the fire? Jack wondered. Can an illusion burn you? He guessed it probably could. The heat was certainly uncomfortable against his face. Gowrie clapped his hands for silence.

Partholis rose to her feet. “It is Midsummer’s Eve,” she said in a sweet voice. “The moon is almost at zenith, and our guests”—she wavered slightly here—“are soon to arrive. First we must have entertainment, and so I call upon the grim monk”—a titter ran around the gathering—“for one of his amusing sermons.”

Jack was startled, but Father Severus seemed unsurprised. He walked slowly, resting his weight upon Pega, until he faced the queen. “Foolish as ever,” he said. “You’ve been given an opportunity for salvation, but you close your ears to it. Time lies in wait for you, false queen. You may hide in this pretty bauble called Elfland, but someday it will be torn from you. You will be cast out on the cold roads to wander until you fade like mist before the rising sun. Not one of your lying tricks will call time back on that evil day. Repent!” His voice suddenly rose, and goose bumps came up on Jack’s arms. “Repent! For the hour is at hand when the keepers of houses shall tremble and the strong shall bow down to the earth. All the doors shall be closed and the daughters of music shall be brought low.”

As the monk spoke, he straightened up and the marks of illness fell away. Jack had seen the exact same thing happen with the Bard. The old man was sometimes exhausted by the end of the day. Sometimes his fingers were stiff and clumsy. But when he took up his harp, he became a young man again, playing without flaw, with his voice strong.

It was the magic that lay in music. And here, Jack saw, was a different kind of magic. Pega’s eyes shone, and Thorgil listened with her mouth open. The shield maiden respected power. Here was power indeed!

But then Jack heard another sound that swelled and overwhelmed Father Severus. It was laughter! The elves roared and hooted and stamped and slapped one another on the back. Partholis was so overcome, Partholon had to signal a thrall to bring her wine. “Oh! Oh! That was good!” the Elf Queen wheezed. “It’s like pulling the string on a top. Whisk! And off it goes!”

Only Ethne was upset. “Stop it!” she cried. “Don’t make fun of him! He’s right. We must repent.”

“Ethne, you’re even more tiresome than usual,” said Partholis, wiping her eyes. “It’s that taint of humanity.”

“Half-human! Half-human! Half-human!” taunted Lucy.

“Now, now. That isn’t nice,” reproved the queen.

“But it’s fun,” Lucy said.

The queen put her arm around the little girl and hugged her. “You may be an obnoxious little flea-brain, but you’re all elf,” she said proudly. And then Jack knew, sure as sure, that Lucy was not under a spell. The necklace had not been responsible for her behavior. It had only awakened her heritage. Lucy was all elf, with the selfishness and cruelty that implied. She had never loved Father and Mother. She had never loved him. She was simply a creature of desire who would one day fade like a rainbow when the night comes on.

It made Jack extremely sad. It also freed him. He no longer needed to worry about her or try to save her, for restoring her to Father and Mother would only bring sorrow to all of them.

Meanwhile, the laughter had drowned out Father Severus’ voice. He seemed to shrink before Jack’s eyes, becoming frail and sick again. “You beasts!” cried Pega, her eyes flashing.

“Beasts would have more honor,” Thorgil said.

“La, la, la! Time for the next event,” mocked Gowrie. He seemed to be the master of entertainment. He signaled thralls to take Father Severus and the others to one side. A low fence was tricked up out of air, to mark a playing field. Elf lords and ladies stood around the edge armed, Jack noted uneasily, with what appeared to be long tongues of fire. They writhed in the air as though alive, and the elves’ eyes gleamed in the light.

Father Swein was tethered to a block of wood in the middle of the field. He stood there, blinking owlishly at the gathering. A gang of thralls dragged Guthlac out, whisked off his hood, and ran for safety. The vines slithered off Guthlac’s arms and legs.

For a moment the man simply stood there. A whisper of excitement went round the crowd. “UBBA UBBA!” roared Guthlac as he recognized his enemy. He launched himself at Father Swein. The abbot was a strong man, but he was no match for someone possessed by a large demon. He dragged the block of wood to the edge of the field, all the while fending off blows and bites from the frenzied Guthlac. But when he got there, he was driven back by the burning whips.

Back and forth they went, with both of them screaming at the top of their lungs and Father Swein getting the worst of it. He got in a few blows. Guthlac shook them off like fleabites. The abbot’s robe was in tatters. He bled from a dozen wounds and was beginning to stagger. Whenever either of the men got close to the edge, the elves drove them back.

Everyone was cheering. Partholon stood on his chair and clapped. Lucy danced madly around the edge. Even Ethne looked flushed and excited. “Stop them! Stop them!” shrieked Pega.

“Shall we throw the little hob-human in too?” cried Gowrie.

“Yes! Yes!” shouted a dozen voices. “Hob-human! Hob-human! Hob-human!”

Gowrie, his handsome face shining with mirth, reached for the girl, and Jack struck his legs out from under him with his staff. Gowrie fell over with a look of absolute amazement. “He hurt me!” he exclaimed. The other elves roared with laughter.

“Go on, Gowrie! Get the hob-human!”

The huntsman rose painfully to his feet, and Jack braced for battle, but Father Severus put himself between them. “I’ll take the girl’s place,” he said.

Oh, this was rare sport, indeed! The elves were beside themselves with glee. “Throw the gloomy monk in! Two monks against one demon! What sport!”

“No!” shouted Ethne, jolted from her pleasure in the fight.

“Oh, shut up, you sorry excuse for an elf,” said Partholis. “But it really is time to stop. Separate those men,” she commanded. “At this rate we won’t have anyone left to offer our visitors—and we all know what that means.”

That sobered up the elves at once. They dragged Guthlac away from Father Swein and tied him up with vines again. The abbot collapsed where he was. The magic fence disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. The elves withdrew to their seats.

Then all fell silent except Guthlac. He shifted from foot to foot, murmuring softly. The bonfire rustled and snapped. The moon moved just that bit closer to zenith. Everyone waited. Jack put his arm protectively around Pega. Thorgil stood with the barely controlled energy of a Northman warrior about to do battle. Father Severus prayed.

From the heart of the bonfire came a distant groaning and grinding of stone being torn apart. The fire brightened. It climbed to the very roof of the sky, licking at the stars. In the distance Jack heard cries that made his heart falter for the fear and pain that lay in them. It was the voices of the damned.

Jack wanted to run and could not. His feet were rooted to the ground. All will, all rational thought fled. He could only stare at the fire and watch the shapes arising within.

They were worse than anything Father had described to him. Father had never seen a real demon. It wasn’t only their claws and teeth that were dreadful, but their loathsome bodies half hidden by the flames. Their eyes shone with awful knowledge. They had seen the worst, been the worst. Hate radiated from them like the foulest stench. And stench there was as well. A thousand odors of corruption mixed and mingled in their breath.

Jack covered his nose, but there was no escaping it. Pega clasped her hands. Father Severus fell to his knees. Thorgil bent over and vomited, and she was not the only one. Utter terror swept over the onlookers, elf and human alike. Father Swein lay where he had fallen, gibbering with fear.

A tall shape within the fire reached out a long, long arm and pointed a charred finger, first at Jack, then Pega, then Thorgil. It hesitated at Thorgil. Shield maiden, said a voice like thunder rolling from a distant storm.

Thorgil stared back, unable to move. She had met her match, but even here, where all others were paralyzed, she managed to speak. “I am Odin’s shield maiden,” she gasped. Jack could see that it hurt her to speak. “I’m not yours.”

The Being laughed, shaking the ground. That remains to be seen, it said, but what have we here? The finger moved and pointed at Father Severus. I remember you. Do you remember me, when I whispered in your ear about the mermaid?

The monk was speechless. His hands clutched his tin cross and his lips moved, but no sound came out.

Ah! The exquisite flavor of guilt. The aroma of shame. Other voices hissed and burbled with appreciation in the bonfire.

“Leave… him… alone,” Jack managed to whisper. The finger hesitated.

Defiance. I like that, but it is not as tasty as shame.

“Go… away,” Pega moaned.

And loyalty. The voice sounded faintly surprised. Then, giving no warning, Thorgil suddenly lunged. She had no weapon, so she brought her fist crashing down on the finger. Lightning flashed. Flame engulfed Thorgil’s right hand. She screamed, frantically rolling on the ground to put out the fire. But it clung like a live thing. The Being turned its attention to her, laughing and shaking the earth.

The evil spell holding Jack and Pega wavered. “Pega,” gasped Jack. “Hold out your candle.”

He understood what the Bard had been trying to tell him in the vision. He is guarded by the need-fire, the old man had told the swallow. No illusion, no matter how compelling, can stand against—

Can stand against the simple fact of one true thing. He grabbed the fire-making tools and struck a spark onto the dried mushroom. A tiny flame appeared, pale against the roaring energy of the bonfire. Pega shoved her candle into it.

The candle ignited. Its light was small and humble, but it was real where all else was illusion. It came from the need-fire, drawn by the efforts of the villagers on the darkest night of the year. It was pure life force.

The light gently pushed away the sickly dreams of Elfland and the lies that gave Hell its deadly power. First it enveloped Thorgil and dowsed the fire that consumed her hand. The shield maiden groaned and drew herself up into a ball.

The light moved on—it was wonderful how such a little thing could overwhelm such a large space. The bonfire died. The grass and gardens of Elfland faded. The moon blinked and went out. Now the light reached the elves.

Their glorious robes and jewels melted. Their perfect faces grew gaunt; their ever-youthful bodies became what they truly were: the dry husks of beings whose time was nearly gone. Partholis turned into a hag. Partholon was a grasping scarecrow. Gowrie became a weasel-like thug with shifty eyes. Even Lucy, genuinely young, became the crude, selfish creature she really was. The silver necklace had turned to lead.

The whole elfin kingdom was a dirty cave full of rubbish and bones. But most amazing of all, where the bonfire had been was a gaping hole. Creatures crawled and slithered at its edge like giant sow bugs or the half-decayed things thrown up on beaches after storms.

The Being still inspired terror, though. It was a mass of tentacles boiling out of the hole, the knucker of all knuckers. And it still hissed and bubbled threats. I will have my tithe, it said in a deadly voice.

“And I will give it to you!” Guthlac, whose bonds had vanished in the candle’s light, seized Father Swein and hurled him into the midst of the tentacles. The abbot shrieked once and disappeared into the seething mass. Guthlac laughed. “A fit feast for my master!” he cried.

You fool, said the Being. He was mine already and no more toothsome than a crust of dried bread. Come forth and receive your punishment. Guthlac opened his mouth as if to scream, but a giant sow bug forced its way out instead. It oozed horribly, prying the man’s jaws apart until Jack heard them crack. The creature dropped to the ground and was swept up by one of the seething tentacles.

I guess you’d call that large demon possession, thought Jack wildly. He saw Guthlac’s eyes clear, and for the first time the man looked sane. And joyful. Then he keeled over and died.

I will have my tithe, howled the Being, rising out of the hole. One burned-out sinner is not enough. You elves know the pact. If I’m not satisfied, I take one of you! And with that, it swept up Gowrie.

The elf’s screams echoed horribly as the Being sucked him down the hole. The teeming hordes of sow bugs hurried after, throwing themselves into the darkness. Rocks groaned and clashed as they came together again. Thunder shook the earth, going deeper and more distant until at last it died away.