The Land of the Silver Apples

Chapter Thirty-five THE BARD’S MESSAGE

Jack was deeply worried by Brutus’ absence. He’d scratched a mark on the wall for every time the Picts had brought food since their arrival, and now there were fourteen scratches. Two whole weeks had passed since Brutus had been summoned back up to the palace! Thorgil had tried to question Brude and been spat on for an answer.

Jack tracked a meadow mouse through the straw and captured it before it got any closer to Father Swein. He held it gently and looked into its bright eyes. The life force was like a tiny spark in its quivering body. It comforted the boy, and he imagined the mouse’s family waiting for its return. Then he noticed something else.

It had a flower in its mouth.

It was a daisy, the sort of thing that appeared by the thousands in midsummer. Jack had seen them every year of his life but had paid little attention to them. Now, in the darkness of the prison, this single daisy shone like a star. The mouse had been taking it to build a nest.

Jack released the creature into an escape tunnel, but he kept the flower. He sat quite still, and, unbidden, he heard a voice in his mind:

Dimly, he saw houses surrounded by green fields. Threads of smoke rose from hearth fires, and John the Fletcher called to his dogs as he strode along the road. Such an ordinary, wonderful sound! It made the vision grow brighter and more real. Women sat in doorways, combing wool for spinning. A girl chased an evil-hearted ewe from a garden. Men fitted sections of a cart wheel together with pegs. Jack could hear the faraway tap of their hammers. And all around, fields of daisies stretched as far as he could see.

But this wasn’t where he was meant to be. He turned and found himself in a room. It was a comfortable place with a table and chairs, a brazier for warmth, and beds at the side. A window let in a bar of sunlight, and Jack saw a swallow pecking crumbs from the floor. It looked up at him and warbled, Chirr, twitter, cheet.

You see him, too? Clever bird! said a voice. Jack trembled.

Warble, churdle, coo, said the bird.

He does look the worse for wear, but don’t worry. He is guarded by the need-fire. The Bard stared at Jack through the farseeing tube formed by his hands. Behind him, Father lay in a bed, pale and unmoving, with Brother Aiden at his side.

You have allies you are not aware of, said the Bard, speaking directly to Jack. Remember: No illusion, no matter how compelling, can stand against—

The vision faded. The boy clutched the air to pull it back, but that wasn’t how the magic worked. The Bard was powerful enough to allow him a glimpse of the other side. Jack was nowhere near as skilled. He doubted he could calm his mind enough to even begin the charm, what with “Ubba ubba” in the hallway and Father Swein’s laments.

No illusion can stand against what? thought Jack. The message had ended before that vital piece of information could be given. And what allies did he have in this dark place? Not Brutus, surely! Jack felt absolutely helpless. He could have withstood starvation, beatings, or captivity, but not this false hope. He had no control over anything and no chance of ever escaping. The boy bent his head and gave himself up to despair.

“Come here, Jack,” said Father Severus from the table where he was warming his hands over a lamp.

The boy seated himself and prayed he wouldn’t lose control.

A long silence followed. “Never forget that there is a purpose to everything under Heaven,” Father Severus said at last.

Jack didn’t know what he was talking about.

“If I hadn’t sinned, I would never have been sent to the forest. If I hadn’t been sent to the forest, I would never have saved Aiden’s life,” explained the monk. “If I hadn’t returned to the Holy Isle, I would not have been carried off by Northmen. I wouldn’t have met you or Pega or Thorgil. I was meant to be here, because you needed me. And the three of you are meant to be here for a purpose not yet revealed. But purpose there is.”

Jack swallowed very hard. “You sound like the Bard.”

The monk laughed, setting off a coughing fit. He drank a cup of water to recover. “Don’t insult me by comparing me to a wizard. I’ve heard a lot about your Bard or, as the elves call him, Dragon Tongue.”

“You have?”

“He came here as a young man. He’d been gathering mistletoe on an elf hill when Partholis spotted him. She lured him inside and slammed the door. She was smitten by him, you see, or as much as these soulless creatures can care about anyone. It took Dragon Tongue a year to get away. And when he did, he made off with some of Partholon’s best magic. A fine trick. Not that I approve of magic,” the monk said.

Jack was enormously cheered by this. Good old Bard! He’d got the better of that nasty Elf Queen.

“What’s that?” inquired Father Severus, pointing at Jack’s hand.

“A daisy. A mouse carried it in.”

“Really?” The monk looked up at the dark ceiling. “I’ve often wondered…” He paused. “The air is always fresh, and sometimes I’ve smelled rain. The mice, the voles, the shrews that fall in…”

“Are too weak to go deep into the earth,” Jack said. “You know, sir, it looked like we were going down when we came here—”

“—but Elfland is full of illusions,” cried Father Severus. “Of course! Why has this never occurred to me? A folk who can make palaces appear out of thin air would think nothing of making us think we were going down, when in fact—”

“—we were going up,” finished Jack.

The two of them gazed at the ceiling. Jack had never considered climbing up because it had seemed pointless. But if they were close to the surface, they could break through and—

The iron door flew open. Jack saw Guthlac pinned against a wall and Brude with his torch. It wasn’t time for supplies. The Picts were here for another reason and probably not a good one. Jack grasped his staff and a trencher to throw if it became necessary. Thorgil and Pega appeared from the gloom. Even Father Swein came out of his corner.

Lady Ethne fled across the room and knelt at Father Severus’ feet. “I tried! I tried!” she wept.

“There, child,” said Father Severus, patting her head. “Tell me what’s upset you. I’m sure talking will help.”

“Nothing can help,” Ethne groaned.

“That’s the problem with getting a new soul,” the monk said gently. “It’s like taking a boat out on a choppy sea. You love too deeply and hate too extremely. You suffer agony from minor slights and are transported by the slightest kindness. It takes time to get used to mortality.”

“It isn’t my soul I’m worried about,” said Ethne, looking up at Father Severus with her mouth trembling and her eyes brimming with tears. “It’s yours.”

“Mine is in the hands of God.”

“You don’t understand! A messenger has arrived from There. We are all called to Midsummer’s Eve.”

Jack thought Father Severus couldn’t look more ill, but he was wrong. The monk’s face turned as white as parchment, and he trembled. “All must attend?”

“I argued and argued with Mother. I begged her to free you, but she’s dreadfully frightened. She says they get to choose. She says they get angry if they’re fobbed off with something second-rate.”

“When?” The word was spoken so quietly, it was like the rustle of a candle flame. Jack, Thorgil, and Pega bent closer. It was as though Father Severus had barely enough strength to speak.

“Ssssooon,” said Brude, making them all jump. His eyes were shining like a wolf’s in the forest. He held the blazing torch high and reached out to touch Ethne’s hair.

“Get back!” she cried, leaping to her feet. She turned at once from a frightened girl to the daughter of the Elf Queen. Brude recoiled, holding his hand up as though warding off a blow. “I could have you sent Outside,” snarled Ethne. “I could bar you from Elfland. You could spend the rest of your life lying on a cold hillside, begging to be let in.”

“Nnnoooo,” groaned the Pict, cowering at her feet. Jack was astounded at the change in her.

“Leave us, vile worm!” she commanded. Brude scurried out the door. Ethne immediately reverted to the tearful girl she’d been when she entered. “I shall not desert you,” she whispered, bending to kiss Father Severus’ hand. She left as dramatically as she’d arrived, and the door was bolted behind her.

“Hussy,” said Father Swein, his gaze boring into the spot where the elf lady had stood. “Temptress. Strumpet.” Then his attention wavered, and he retreated to his corner, muttering.

“I don’t see what the fuss is about. We Northmen enjoy Midsummer’s Eve,” said Thorgil. “Olaf One-Brow used to make a great, straw-covered wheel, set it ablaze, and roll it down the hill from King Ivar’s hall. That was to make the trolls think twice about attacking us. On Midsummer’s Eve the mountains open up and the trolls swarm out, looking for a fight. They find it, too, by Thor!” The shield maiden smiled at the memory.

Jack saw she had missed the point of Ethne’s visit. It was no innocent party they were being invited to. You had only to look at Father Severus’ face to know something dreadful was afoot. He remembered the Bard’s words when they were at Din Guardi: Elves don’t welcome visitors except on Midsummer’s Eve. And Brother Aiden’s response: You don’t want to be around then.

“Why is Ethne so upset?” Jack said. “How can there be midsummer, when time doesn’t pass in Elfland?”

“It is midsummer when they say it is. Time means nothing in Hell,” said Father Severus.

“What are you talking about? What’s going to happen to us?” Pega said shrilly.

The monk took a deep breath and clutched the little tin cross he wore around his neck. “I must set an example for these young ones,” he murmured. “I must not beg for mercy.” He looked directly at Jack, Pega, and Thorgil. “Long ago the elves sought to hold back time, but they didn’t have the strength to do it on their own. They asked for aid from the powers of darkness.”

“Oh! I don’t like the sound of that,” said Pega.

“For such things, there is always a price. The elves drag out their years, aging only when they leave this enchanted realm. In return, on Midsummer’s Eve, they must pay a tithe to Hell. They find a plump, well-nourished soul and bind him over to the fiends. Demons scorn ordinary sinners such as petty thieves. They claim there’s not enough meat on them. But nothing pleases them more than a good man who has fallen into evil ways. Or a woman. They aren’t particular.”

“I’ve been a petty thief. They won’t like me,” said Pega hopefully.

“They’d never be interested in you, child.” Father Severus attempted a smile. It only made him look more ghastly. “The amount of evil you’ve done would barely satisfy an imp.”

“I won’t be chosen,” declared Thorgil. “I serve Odin, not a thrall god who can’t keep order in his own hall.”

“You’ve done crimes and you will be called to account for them,” said the monk, “but not yet. For the Midsummer’s Festival the demons prefer the taste of guilt. They say it adds spice to the dish. You, shield maiden, are as shameless as a Roman alley cat. They won’t choose you either, Jack. In spite of your wizardry, you haven’t used it for evil.”

Jack felt a craven sense of relief. He remembered Father’s stories of demons with sharp claws. “What about him?” He nodded at the dark corner where Father Swein was mumbling.

“Already in the service of the Evil One. They’ll come for him one day, but they prefer to keep their servants on earth to lead others into sin.”

“That leaves only…” Pega faltered.

“Me,” said Father Severus.

“You’re not evil!”

“In my youth I committed an act of great cruelty. I won’t plead ignorance. I knew in my heart of hearts that it was wrong. Now my sin will drag me down to Hell.”

Everyone was shocked into silence. Finally, Pega said, “Did it have anything to do with a mermaid?”

“Be quiet,” hissed Jack.

“I must accept my fate, for it is deserved,” said Father Severus, ignoring the girl’s question.

“Well, we won’t let them take you,” Pega said. “We’ll stand up to those demons and tell them what a good man you are.”

The monk smiled slightly. “I take back what I said earlier, child. You wouldn’t even make an appetizer for an imp. Unfortunately, no one can look upon Hell without being struck dumb with terror. There is nothing worse. Nothing.”

“You mean, we’ll see right into—” Pega began.

Jack shook his head at her. He saw that Father Severus was struggling to appear calm. “Would you like to be alone, sir?” the boy asked.

“Yes! Yes! I must pray!” The monk walked unsteadily into the darkness, and soon there were competing sounds coming from different places: prayers from Father Severus, moans from the abbot, and “Ubba ubba” from Guthlac. They made the atmosphere in the dungeon extremely depressing.

But Jack wasn’t ready to give up yet. He told the others of his belief that they were close to the surface of the earth. “We must dig our way out,” cried Thorgil, seizing the initiative. She immediately dragged the table over to the wall, and the three of them lifted the heavy benches on top.

Jack climbed onto the unsteady heap and began digging a series of holes for them to use for climbing. When he was tired, Thorgil took over. It was slow and exhausting work. Rocks had to be pried out. Dirt fell on their faces. How they would make a tunnel once they reached the ceiling, Jack didn’t know. But they had to try.

Pega sat at the bottom and offered advice. “I think Father Severus is too weak to climb,” she pointed out.

“We’ll carry him,” grunted Thorgil, clinging to the wall.

“I don’t see how. I mean, it’s awkward enough hanging on to those holes.”

“I said we’ll carry him! He weighs no more than a dead dog,” said Thorgil. She attacked the wall with renewed fervor, and the knife clanged against a rock.

“If you’re not careful, you’ll snap the blade,” Pega said.

Thorgil dropped a fistful of dirt on her head. “Next time it’ll be a rock,” she said.

Jack slumped against the wall, resting. Something was different. Thorgil’s knife still hacked at the wall. Dirt pattered down. Father Severus prayed from the left. Father Swein moaned from the right. “Ubba ubba” was missing.

Jack jumped to his feet. The hall was full of tramping feet. The door flew open, and the heap of benches collapsed as Thorgil spun around. She landed easily like the good warrior she was, but the benches knocked the knife from her hand.

A mob of Picts swarmed into the prison. They forced Jack, Pega, and Thorgil into the hallway. They dragged Father Swein from his corner, and two more carried Father Severus between them as easily as a dry twig.

“You commmmme,” hissed Brude.

“I’d rather stayyyyy,” said Jack, dodging a blow, but there was no way he could resist.

It was time for the Midsummer’s Eve celebration.