The Land of the Silver Apples

The meal continued pleasantly, except for Jack’s grimaces of pain when he moved the wrong way. Brutus was full of tales, and he was clearly in no hurry to return to his chores. “How came you by this affliction?” he said at last.

Jack told him about the beautiful woman who had materialized out of mist. “When she thrust her arm at me, I lost my senses until I woke up here,” he finished. “I’m not insane. I really did see her.”

The slave sat very still, as though listening to something far away. The sounds of monastery life—wood being chopped, orders shouted, feet stamping—filtered in from outside. Then Brutus shook himself and came back to the present. “You weren’t dreaming. You’ve been elf-shot.”

The door flew open, and in came the monk who had treated Jack. “You lazy swine!” the monk shouted. “The cook’s been waiting ages for his firewood. You deserve a double whipping!”

Brutus changed before Jack’s eyes. He hunched over, and a half-witted expression crossed his face. “Begging your pardon, master,” he whined. “You won’t be angry with poor Brutus? He’s such a poor excuse for a man.”

“Oh, be gone with you,” said the monk. The slave scuttled out the door.

The monk bustled about, fetching a threadbare blanket and tucking it around Jack. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up so I can give you medicine. You’re in luck. I happen to have soil from St. Oswald’s grave on my shelves. Well, one of his graves.” He showed the boy a pot of dark dirt that could have come from anywhere.

“This is from where they planted St. Oswald’s head. The pagans buried parts of him all over the place after they martyred him. But the head ended up on the Holy Isle, so it’s doubly blessed. I always think head soil is the best.” The monk boiled water and picked odds and ends from the herbs hanging off the rafters. He finished by dropping a pinch of dirt into the cup. “There! If that doesn’t cure you, nothing will.”

He held the cup to Jack’s lips. The tea tasted of chamomile with a strange mineral background. Oswald’s head, no doubt.

“Why is Brutus a slave?” Jack asked when he’d choked down the last gritty bits.

The monk raised his eyebrows. “Has he been filling you up with tales about his noble ancestry? His mother was a miserable witch. When she lay dying of fever, she ordered her boy to drive off the priest with rocks. Refused the last rites, she did. Brutus set her body afloat in a little boat in the belief that it would take her to the Islands of the Blessed. He was condemned for witchcraft.”

“For obeying his mother’s last wish?” Jack said faintly. Choosing your afterlife seemed entirely reasonable to him. Not everyone was suited to Heaven—look at Thorgil—and the Bard always swore he would go to the Islands of the Blessed.

“No, no. Many fools believe in the Islands of the Blessed. Brutus was condemned for casting spells over women. They absolutely can’t resist him… young, old, married, single—even the ewes follow him around the fields. We’ve spent years trying to thrash the magic out of him, but he’s hopeless.”

Jack lay awake thinking long after the monk left. The room was lit only by coals in the fire pit, and the herbs hanging from the rafters looked like bats. In the shadows on the far side of the room Jack saw his staff. He could imagine the monk’s reaction if he knew how much magic it contained.

I have to be careful, Jack thought. No wonder the Bard preferred to stay with King Yffi. Jack’s stomach began to churn.

Perhaps Oswald’s head didn’t like finding itself in his gut. Very soon the boy realized he would have to get out of bed or vomit over the blanket.

Jack’s back exploded with pain as he rolled over and fell to the floor. He couldn’t move. Curse that lady, he thought. What business is it of hers to hang around the well? And why hurt me?

Was she an elf? Jack recalled her pale gold hair and moonlit skin. Her eyes were like forget-me-nots in a deep forest. Everything about her seemed muted, but perhaps that was because she was enveloped in mist.

When the pain died down, he began to inch his way toward the staff—for no reason, really, only that it made him feel closer to the Bard. Right now he needed someone’s friendship. The herb bundles looked like they were about to drop off the rafters and take wing. Oswald’s head burbled in his stomach.

Eventually, he reached the wall. The staff felt warm, as though, in spite of the darkness, it still lay in sunlight. “Ut, lytel spere, gif her inne sy,” he whispered in Saxon. Out, little spear, if it lies within. He knew all about elf-shot. Mother had taught him a charm to remove it: “Gif her inne sy, hit sceal gemyltan.” If it lies within, it shall melt.

He repeated the charm, and gradually, the warmth of the staff reached up his arm and flowed over his body. The pain withdrew until it was only a faint, glimmering echo. Then it went away altogether, and Jack fell into a dreamless sleep on the cold floor without even a blanket.

“Oh, blessed saints, he’s dead!”

The cry pierced Jack’s comfortable sleep. He leaped to his feet, blinking at the distraught man before him. The monk sprang back. “Praise God and all His angels! The boy lives! Forgive me, St. Oswald, for doubting your miracle!”

“What miracle?” said Jack crossly. He’d been torn from the best rest he’d had since starting out on this pilgrimage.

“You,” cried the monk. “On your knees, boy. We must thank Heaven.” He pulled Jack down, and together they prayed. Jack gave thanks willingly, for by whatever means, his pain had vanished. Sunlight spilled through a window. The smell of bacon roasting over a fire drifted through the door. It was good to be alive.

“Wait till the abbot hears about this,” said the monk, rising to his feet. “He’s always saying St. Oswald isn’t as powerful as St. Filian.”

Still chatting, he led Jack down a hall to a door that he unlocked. Beyond was a musty-smelling room with gray stone walls, and at the far end was a faintly lit alcove. Jack felt a presence, just as he had sensed one by the well. A distinct impression of hostility hung in the air. Oh no, he thought. I really don’t need another elf-shot. He grasped his staff and willed the creature to keep its distance. “This place isn’t haunted, is it?”

“Certainly not! We exorcised that demon ages ago,” said the monk, urging Jack on. “These holy relics are off- limits to ordinary folk, but as St. Oswald has chosen to favor you, I think he’d like you to see his.”

His what? thought Jack. The alcove was filled with boxes carved with designs. On one a man struggled with a pair of serpents that threatened to devour his head. On another a woman’s body ended in legs covered with scales. Instead of feet, she had fins.

In the alcove was a tiny window. Shards of colored glass—scarlet, apple green, and yellow—were fastened together with strips of lead. The morning sun lit them from behind, making them blaze like sparks of fire.

“Oh!” cried Jack, delighted.

“It is nice, isn’t it?” agreed the monk. “Those are all the bits we were able to save from the Holy Isle. The window in our chapel is bigger, but the colors aren’t as bright. There was nothing finer than that window on the Holy Isle. Here,” said the monk proudly, tapping one of the carved boxes, “are St. Chad’s sandals. He refused to ride horses on his pilgrimages, preferring to walk like a humble peasant.”

“Perhaps he was afraid of horses,” said Jack.

“Nonsense. Saints aren’t afraid of anything. Here we have a lock of St. Cuthbert’s hair. One of our monks had a dreadful tumor over his eye—big as a hen’s egg, it was. The brother held Cuthbert’s hair against his eyelid, and from that moment, the tumor began to shrink.”

The monk held up one item after another, explaining their holy powers. Jack would have said magic powers, but he knew the monks were sensitive about that. Finally, the man brought out a chest made of sea ivory.

The cover was stained with something dark, perhaps blood, Jack thought uneasily. He saw a carving of a man lying with his arms outstretched on a bed of leaves. Vines twisted around him like snakes, as though he were being devoured by foliage and would soon disappear altogether.

“This,” the monk said reverently, “contains St. Oswald’s arms.”

“His weapons?”

“Oh, no. When the pagans chopped him up, the saint’s pet raven carried off his real arms and hid them in a