The Land of the Silver Apples

Chapter Five THE FARSEEING CHARM

The old Roman house shuddered as the wind blew off the North Sea. Black ice covered the path outside, and cold crept in through a dozen cracks in the walls. Not for the first time, Jack wished the Bard lived somewhere else. But the old man said the life force was strong on the cliff. “It always is at the border of two realms,” he explained. “The sea tries to capture the land, and the land forces it back. Between them is a great upwelling of power. It makes me feel quite young.”

It makes me feel quite old, Jack thought bitterly. The cold and dark depressed him, and his heart was sore from being cast out by Father. Not a day went by when he didn’t regret his rash action at the Yule feast. I lost my home and family—for what? For a pesky girl who had glued herself to him like a hungry, yowling cat.

Jack couldn’t really blame Pega. When he had grandly presented the thirty-one pieces of silver and the freeing was duly recorded by Brother Aiden, the chief had said, “Well, that’s one less mouth to feed.”

For the first time Jack realized what he’d done. He’d taken a scrawny, unlovable girl away from the only livelihood she knew. No one had a use for Pega as a paid servant. No one, in fact, wanted her around. She might mark unborn babies or make the sheep come down with foot rot. Who could tell what effect that weird birthmark on her face would have? Even Father wouldn’t pay her a wage, not that Jack dared ask him.

“I will serve you all my days,” Pega had announced. “You have given me freedom, and I’ll never forget it.”

She had followed Jack back to the Roman house. He didn’t know what to do. He considered pelting her with rocks and was ashamed for thinking of it. He hoped the Bard would tell her to go away, but the old man welcomed her enthusiastically.

Now she was plaiting grass into mats at the other end of the house. She warbled like a little bird, and the Bard plucked his harp and smiled. That’s another thing, Jack thought as he sank further into gloom. Pega’s voice was remarkable. The Bard was enchanted by her, and Jack, try as he would to overcome it, was horribly jealous.

“Could you fetch some wood?” the Bard called. “I swear the frost giants are stamping around outside.”

Right, thought Jack. Give me the nasty work. Let Pega sit by the fire like a princess. But he knew he was being unfair. Pega toiled from dawn to long past dark. She attempted any task you set her, even if it was beyond her strength. She worked, to be honest, like a slave. But it was different, she insisted, from actually being a slave. She never minded work so long as it was of her own free will.

Jack couldn’t see the difference and thought her rather stupid.

He hauled driftwood from a back shed and nestled it in the coals of the hearth. Green and blue flames danced along the wood. “The colors of the sea,” said the Bard.

“Is that because it came from the water?” Pega asked.

Of course, you half-wit, thought Jack.

“There’s my clever girl,” the Bard said. “Wood that has been at sea becomes partly sea. I have even seen trees turn to stone from long lying in the earth.”

“Truly?” said Pega, her eyes shining.

“You could break an axe on them, for all they appear to be alive.”

“I’m bored,” said Jack. The Bard looked up sharply, and the boy regretted his outburst. Father always said the cure for boredom was hard work, so Jack expected to be handed another nasty chore. It had been a while since anyone had chipped the ice off the privy.

But the Bard put down his harp and said, “I think it’s time for a lesson.” Pega, without being told, fetched the poker to heat in the fire. “It’s Brigid’s Eve,” the old man began.

“St. Brigid?” said Jack, who had heard of her from Father.

She had prayed to become ugly to avoid marriage. After her husband-to-be had rejected her, she became a holy nun. She had performed a number of entertaining and useful miracles. Her cows gave milk three times a day, and once, when a group of priests unexpectedly arrived for a visit, she changed her bathwater into beer.

“Our Brigid existed long before any saints,” the Bard said. “She’s one of the old gods out of Ireland. She taught the first bards how to sing.”

Pega plunged the hot poker into the cider cups, and the smell of summer filled the room.

“She taught us the skill of farseeing,” said the Bard. Suddenly, Jack no longer heard the storm blustering outside. He no longer felt cold or bored or even irritated by Pega, who had settled herself by the fire as though she really belonged there. The Bard was speaking of magic. And magic was what Jack wanted more than anything in the world.

“Farseeing is a matter of attention,” the old man explained. “It’s a matter of looking with particular intent, of peeling away the barriers between you and what you wish to know. I can’t tell you how to do it. I can only tell you the steps. If you have the ability, and I think you do, you’ll find the way. But be warned. You can become lost on this journey. Anger and jealousy can hide the path as surely as fog can cover a marsh. You can wander into darkness and never return.”

The Bard looked into Jack’s eyes, and the boy knew, sure as sure, that the old man had seen into his secret heart. He knew Jack resented Pega’s presence. He was warning him of the danger this posed to becoming a bard. Very well! If that’s what it took, he’d learn to love the pesky girl. “This is good!” remarked the old man, sipping his cider. “It’s from your mother’s hands, none finer.”

For a while they sat in silence, watching the blue and green flames among the yellow. Pega gathered up the cups and put them away. Jack’s and Pega’s were cheaply made and easily broken. They were produced by the potter in the village. But the Bard’s had a pale green glaze that reminded Jack of a cloudy sea and came from somewhere to the south.

“Can I do farseeing too?” Pega chirped.

Jack almost lost his resolve to stop hating her.

“This is not for you,” the Bard said gently, and Jack’s spirits soared. “You have your own talent, greater than you realize, but being a bard is a dangerous path and lonely. Your spirit craves a family and warmth.”

“I’ll never have those,” Pega said.

“I think you will.”

“No, never!” cried the girl with more anger than Jack thought she possessed.

“One thing you learn in a life as long as mine is never to say ‘never’,” said the Bard.

“I’m sorry,” Pega apologized at once. “I sound ungrateful and I’m not. I’d be happy staying here—and doing chores forever—and just being a fly on the wall.”

“You’re worth much more than that.” The Bard patted her wispy hair, and she smiled, somewhat tearfully. “Now I’m about to teach Jack something important. Your job is to stay quiet. Do you think you can do that?”

“Oh, yes, sir! Anything!” Pega withdrew to her heap of straw in a corner, looking for all the world like a frog perched on a clump of weeds.

“You must curl your hands, Jack, to make what we call a ‘seeing tube’.” The Bard demonstrated, curling his fingers around each of his eyes. “This helps you concentrate your vision. You walk sunwise around the fire and say to yourself:

“Say it over and over until you have traveled around the fire three times three. Then stand with your vision concentrated on the fire. Breathe deeply and begin again.” The Bard put down his hands.

“That’s it?” Jack asked.

“It’s harder than you think.”

“How many times should I do it?”

“I don’t know,” the old man said. “You won’t succeed today or perhaps ever. If you’re patient and have the gift, the way will open for you.”

Jack would have liked more information, but that was how the Bard taught. He’d sent Jack out over the hills for months to observe birds and clouds without explaining why. All the while the boy had been learning about the life force.

The Bard repeated the charm until Jack had it right, for it was perilous to make a mistake. Jack understood this very well. He remembered what had happened when he tried to sing a praise-song for Queen Frith. All her hair had fallen out.

Pega sat solemnly on her clump of weeds. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, and her ears seemed to stick out more than usual. Half her face was covered by the birthmark, making her appear to be half in shadow. She didn’t make a sound.

“What should I look for, sir?” Jack asked.

“The sight will come to you, depending on what you most need. Later you can learn to bend it to your will.” The Bard went to his truckle bed and lay down with his back to the fire.

What do I most need? Jack asked himself. To see Mother. She had been forbidden by Father from visiting him. The boy missed her terribly, and he felt deeply wronged. Father should never have tried to buy a slave, not after what Jack had told him about being carried off by Northmen. It was as though nothing Jack said made the least impression while Lucy’s slightest wish was of overwhelming importance.

The boy made the seeing tubes with his hands, one for each eye. By some magic they came together to make one view that was somehow clearer and deeper. Jack gazed at the old pictures on the wall of the Roman house. A painted bird perched on a reed cane to which was tied a rosebush. Odd how he’d never noticed it was a rose before. He could see delicate thorns and a long sliver of light reflected on the cane. Where was the light coming from?

He turned and walked around the hearth, staring straight ahead and keeping the warmth of the fire on his right. The scene shifted from the bird to a shelf with bundles of dried herbs and on to the far end of the room, which was in shadow. Even that was interesting. He could see, just over the Bard’s bed, a line of little holes where something had been attached. He’d never noticed them before.

Must repeat the charm, Jack scolded himself. He began chanting silently. It was difficult to keep track of the number of times he circled because he was only used to counting things he could see. The ever-changing scene made him slightly dizzy. Once, he blundered into the coals and burned his foot. When he had gone round three times three—hopefully—he turned to stare at the hearth.

Most of the green and blue flames had gone. It was a normal yellow fire, dipping and waving with an occasional snap of sparks. That was all.

Jack breathed deeply and began again. He performed the ritual until he got so sleepy, he lost track of how many times he had circled. He also thought he’d chanted untying of a sheep instead of untying of a knot the last time round. He banked the fire and went to bed.

Pega still watched the coals of the hearth with her bright little eyes and her ears sticking out, as though she could hear something far away. Probably listening to bats, Jack thought as he drifted off to sleep.