The Land of the Silver Apples

compound was a garden for herbs and vegetables.

When the weather was good, Brother Aiden dragged his table outside to work on a copy of the scriptures. He was working on it now, and his inks were lined up next to goose quills and brushes tipped with marten fur. He had only three pieces of parchment, but he worked so slowly, it didn’t matter. The parchment was covered in swirling designs with odd little details like vines or snakes or eyes.

“Do they truly worship?” Father said in wonder, watching the swallows fly away.

“All things praise Him,” Brother Aiden said. “When St. Cuthbert used to meditate in cold seawater up to his neck, the otters swarmed over his feet to dry them when he came out.”

Jack was about to ask how something as wet as an otter could dry anything when he was silenced by a stern look from the Bard.

“We’ve come to you with questions,” the old man said.

“I’ll do my best, though you know I’m not greatly educated.”

“You’ll do,” said the Bard, smiling. “Giles has just revealed that his girl Lucy isn’t his.” And he recounted the story of the elder tree and swarm of little men.

“Interesting,” said Brother Aiden. “They sound like pookas.”

“Pookas?” said Jack, to whom the term was unfamiliar.

“Or hobgoblins. They go by many names,” said the Bard. “I thought of them too.”

“I can’t bear to think of my child being carried off by those—those things! Is she even alive?” cried Mother.

“My poor Alditha!” Brother Aiden grasped her hands. “We’re a pair of fools, talking about your daughter as though she were only an amusing problem. I think it very likely your child is alive. Pookas aren’t evil, just mischievous. They sometimes turn milk sour or knock holes in buckets. Nothing major.”

“But what did they want with her?”

Brother Aiden and the Bard exchanged glances. “That’s the only flaw in the theory,” said the Bard. “I’ve never heard of pookas stealing a baby.”

“If they did, I’m sure they’d be kind to it,” Brother Aiden said.

Mother slumped down with her face in her hands, and Father, hesitantly, as though he expected to be rebuffed, knelt beside her. “I’ll look for them. I’ll offer them a ransom,” he said.

“You don’t know where they live.” Mother’s voice was muffled.

“That’s where I might be of help,” said the Bard. “There are ways into their land if you know where to look. And, of course, I do. Pookas live in caves under the ground, and I visited them often when I was a young man. They’re fond of dark forests and mountains with rushing streams. The nearest place like that is the Forest of Lorn.”

The Forest of Lorn, thought Jack. What a wonderful name! The very sound of it was exciting. He could almost see craggy ravines overhung with ferns. “Where is it, sir?” he asked eagerly.

“A few days’ journey north of Bebba’s Town.”

“If the creatures lived that far away, what were they doing here?” said Father.

“You don’t know pookas,” the Bard said. “They’ll run thirty miles to gather hazelnuts and be home in time for dinner. They’re crazy about hazelnuts.”

“If only I hadn’t stopped in the woods,” moaned Father.

“Well, you did, and that brings us to the second question,” the Bard said. “Where did they get Lucy from?”

Everyone turned to her. She was picking wildflowers next to Brother Aiden’s garden like any normal child. But then she thrust them at Pega and said in a nasty voice, “Weave them into a crown for me, froggy.”

“Do it yourself, bedbug,” retorted the girl. Bedbug was Pega’s worst insult. She absolutely hated the bloodsucking creatures, having been locked into a hut swarming with them by one of her owners.

The Bard explained about Lucy’s change of behavior since the need-fire ceremony and the anger that had spread from Giles to Alditha to Jack.

“She might be possessed,” observed Brother Aiden. “It’s well known that demons are attracted to children who are indulged by their parents. The souls of children forced to endure hardships are too tough for demons to get their teeth into. They go after the tender lambs.”

“Don’t say things like that!” begged Father.

“I’m sorry. That’s just the way things are,” the little monk said. “Exorcism might do Lucy a world of good.”

“She’s not possessed!”

“Call it madness or a demon or whatever you like, something happened at the ceremony,” the Bard argued.

“Oh, please stop,” Mother broke in, and Jack was aware of how tired she looked. For the first time he saw strands of gray in her hair and lines on either side of her mouth. They must have been there before, but he hadn’t noticed them. “Lucy draws away from us more each day. At first she only claimed to be someone else’s daughter— little did I know how true that was!—but now she talks to people I can’t see and repeats conversations I can’t hear.”

Jack saw that his little sister was talking to someone at that very moment. She was seated on the grass with the flowers she had picked scattered around her. She was looking at a spot just above Brother Aiden’s herb garden. Her face was filled with joy, and she clasped her hands as though she were watching the most delightful entertainment.

“You didn’t mention this before, Alditha,” said Father.

“How could I, with you going on and on about demons?”

There was nothing in the herb garden except rosemary, mint, and sage, and a few bees hovering over the flowers.

“Lucy,” said the Bard gently. “What do you see?”

She turned abruptly, her face contorted with rage. “Leave us!” she snarled. “You have not been given permission to speak.”

“Then I ask permission,” the old man said, and Jack wondered at his patience.

Lucy seemed confused for a moment. She turned toward the herb garden and back again. “You may speak,” she said.

“I fear I cannot see your friends.”

“That’s because you’re a commoner,” said the little girl.

“Lucy!” cried Mother.

“It’s all right. I’d like it very much, Lucy, if you’d give your friends my greetings.”

The little girl turned toward the herb garden and spoke earnestly. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. The Bard came closer and watched the garden intently. Finally, she replied. “They say you are a foolish old man with hair growing out of your ears.” Mother started to protest, but the Bard held up his hand.

“All true except the foolish part,” he said. “Tell me, do these friends have names?”

“They don’t like to give their names.”

“What are they doing now?”

“Dancing—oh!”

For the Bard had thrown his cloak over the herb garden. He held it down with his foot. “Quick, Jack! Get the other end!” he shouted, but before Jack could react, a sudden fierce wind whipped the cloak back over the old man’s head. The cloth wrapped itself tightly around his face. “Get it off me!” he cried in a muffled voice. Jack had to fight to peel the cloth away—it seemed to have a mind of its own!—but then it went limp and fell to the ground.

“I almost had them!” panted the Bard.

“You scared them off!” screamed Lucy. She threw herself down and rolled from side to side gnashing her teeth. When Father tried to pick her up, she struck him with her fists.

“They were demons!” Father groaned.

“We aren’t sure of that,” said the Bard, tidying his beard. “Personally, I think ‘demon’ is a ragbag category. There’re sprites and boggarts, will-o’-the-wisps and pixies, spriggans and flibbertigibbets, not to mention