The Land of the Silver Apples

Chapter Six THE LIGHT FROM FAR AWAY

It was lambing time, but this year Jack was not sent to hunt for newborns. Father had help from other village boys. Jack occasionally saw them dodging headbutts from the vicious black-faced ewes. He didn’t miss the job—not one bit!—but he did miss coming home to Mother’s cockle soup and bannock cakes. Lucy would run to hug him. He would sit down in his favorite place, and Mother would talk in her quiet way of something the hens had done or of a plant that had opened its leaves.

Jack wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He would not care. He was an adult now with important duties as a bard’s apprentice. He had poetry to memorize, charms to learn, and fog to call up.

Pega did most of the household chores. She hauled logs from the beach, scampered over rocks in search of whelks, and picked weevils out of oats.

Whenever possible, Jack practiced his farseeing charm. Sometimes he thought he saw the fire dim. Sometimes the air dimpled like a pond with the first drops of rain. But always the vision cleared and Jack found himself back where he started. He continued to wonder about the source of the light shining on the painted cane. The Bard didn’t ask about his progress, and Jack didn’t volunteer any information.

Winter slipped away. A haze of green covered the hills, and the clouds turned from gray to white. Crickets began to chirp, and a warm wind blew from the south, bringing the first bees to the flowers. The bees reminded Jack of Mother and made him sad.

A group of Pictish peddlers arrived from Bebba’s Town, leading their donkeys and blowing a horn to announce their presence. “They’ve got everything!” Colin, the blacksmith’s son, cried as he delivered the daily shipment of bread. “They’ve got pots and knives and three-pronged eel spears and sewing needles! I’m to spy and find out how the needles are made. They won’t tell Father.”

“What else?” the Bard said.

“Boring stuff like parchment.” Anything that wasn’t made of iron didn’t interest Colin.

“Parchment?” said the Bard.

“Heaps of it. Brother Aiden was bargaining for a piece.” Colin handed the basket of bread to Pega and took his leave.

“I could use a bit of parchment,” said the old man, considering. “Brother Aiden knows a secret formula for ink that never fades. I tell you what, let’s pack a lunch and make a holiday of it.”

But Jack didn’t want to go. Father would be there, and the confrontation was more than he could bear.

“You’ll have to face him sometime. You can’t spend the rest of your life here,” the Bard said.

“I’m not afraid of Giles Crookleg,” declared Pega, dancing around. “I’m free, and he can’t lay a hand on me.”

“Oh, dry up,” said Jack.

The Bard put on his white cloak. Pega decorated herself with a garland of flowers (which didn’t improve her looks at all, Jack thought privately). She packed a basket with bread and cheese. “Sure you won’t go?” the old man said at the door. “You could scare up a game of Bull in the Barn. It would do you a world of good.”

Jack liked playing Bull in the Barn. A group of boys formed a ring around whoever was chosen to be the bull. The bull would ask each in turn, “Where’s the key to the barn?” and each child would reply, “I don’t know. Ask my neighbor.” Until one of them suddenly shouted, “Get out the way you got in!” which was the signal for the bull to try to break through the encircling arms. It was a rough game that usually ended with someone running home, bawling at the top of his lungs. Jack enjoyed it, but he dreaded meeting Father.

“I’d rather stay,” he said.

“Suit yourself.” The Bard bade him a cheery good-bye, and Pega skipped out with the picnic basket. Jack heard her warbling all the way down the path.

It was a bright, sunny day, but by contrast, the inside of the Roman house was dark. It suited Jack’s mood. He’d been thrown out by Father, and now the Bard had deserted him. Jack took down his practice harp and played a few melancholy tunes to make himself feel more wretched. He thought about running away to Bebba’s Town. The Bard and Pega would find him gone and be sorry. But another thought trickled like cold water down his spine: Maybe they wouldn’t miss me at all.

After a while Jack went outside to work in the herb garden. I should soak beans for dinner, he thought, but he’d got used to Pega doing all the cooking. She made an excellent eel stew with barley, leeks, dill, and a touch of vinegar. It was unlike anything he’d ever eaten. Pega had been traded so many times up and down the coast that she had a large stockpile of recipes. The thought of eels reminded Jack of the spears Colin had been so excited about.

I should have asked the Bard to get one, he thought. He had a few silver coins left. Very few, thanks to Pega. At least she cooked and did her share of hunting. She had a peculiar skill in catching trout. She lay on her stomach by a stream and wiggled a finger like a fat worm. Sooner or later a trout drifted over, and she tickled it under the chin—did trout have chins? When it had fallen under her spell, she whisked it up into a bag.

Jack’s thoughts kept coming back to Pega. She got into everything, like the mice during the harvest. To distract himself, he blew the hearth into life. He would practice farseeing, the one thing she hadn’t managed to invade.

The flames were streaked with green and blue, and the fire rustled like a wind in a sail. Jack began the spell.

He saw the painted bird on its reed cane. There were small daisies at the base of the rosebush and a fretwork of vines beyond. The leaves extended back into green darkness, against which the bird shone brightly. Its chest was puffed out with cream-colored feathers, and its wings were a lively brown. Jack thought it was a wren.

He circled three times three, paused, and began again. Boredom crept over him, and it seemed he had walked in this circle for years. He was hardly aware of movement anymore, only of the slow passage of images beyond the seeing tube. The room faded and suddenly—

Jack stopped. The bird was perched with its tiny claws fastened on to the cane. It had a grasshopper in its beak!

There had been no grasshopper before. Jack was sure of it. He couldn’t possibly have missed such a detail. A long sliver of light gleamed on the cane. Jack turned to see where it was coming from and saw a small fire on an expanse of sand. Beyond lay the sea. Two boys were rolling over and over in a fierce fight. One of them had a bloody nose, and he was mouthing words Jack was sure were curses. Nothing could be heard.

The other boy seemed to be winning the battle. He thrust the first one into the sand and put his foot on his throat.

A man ran up. Jack’s heart stood still. It was Eric Pretty-Face! No one else had those horrible battle scars.

Eric Pretty-Face pulled them apart like a pair of squabbling puppies and threw one in each direction. The boy with the bloody nose jumped to his feet and began screaming. The other one roared with laughter.

Turn, turn, Jack willed the boy who was jumping up and down and taunting his adversary. Then at last the boy did turn to show a triumphant, none-too-clean face.

Thorgil, thought Jack. He missed her—oh, heavens, how he had missed her!—and yet he hadn’t been aware of it till now. The gray-green sea stretched out behind her, and a wind ruffled her chopped-off hair. All the excitement of sailing to the north came back to him. He could almost feel the deck move under his feet and hear the timbers creak. Somewhere a wind blew off a glacier from an ice mountain folded into itself.

“Jack!” Someone was tugging at his sleeve. The vision collapsed, and he was back in the Roman house. Pega was there, yanking on his arm, her froggy mouth opening and shutting as she spoke.

Rage swept over Jack. To have finally achieved his goal and have it snatched away drove him into a fury. He struck Pega across the mouth and sent her spinning. She fell to her hands and knees and scuttled out of reach.

“Jack!” cried another voice. The boy swung around.

“Mother?” he whispered.

“This is very, very bad,” said the Bard, hurrying past Mother to lift up Pega. “Oh, my poor dear!” Her chin was dripping blood. She wasn’t crying, only staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“Mother,” Jack said again, dazed by what he’d just done.

“I came to fetch you home,” Mother said. “Lucy’s gone mad.”