The Land of the Silver Apples

“Are you quite through?” said the Bard.

“I guess so,” Jack said.

“Well then, I must say you’ve been insufferably rude. You know nothing of Aiden’s people, yet you believe the worst of them.”

“I saw them, sir. The Northmen were bartering slaves for weapons, and the Picts were feeling the captives all over to see how fat they were. They almost took me! It was horrible.”

“And the Northmen’s slaughter of the monks wasn’t?” The Bard’s eyes snapped with anger.

“Of course it was,” Jack said, desperate to make the old man understand, “only the Picts were worse. Unnatural, you see. Even Olaf One-Brow hated them.”

“The list of people Olaf One-Brow hated, and who hated him, would reach from here to the next village.”

“I’m not offended,” said Brother Aiden, unexpectedly coming to Jack’s defense. “Many people find the Old Ones disturbing. Modern Picts are no different from anyone else. They wear clothes and live in houses. They speak the language of folks around them and marry their sons and daughters. The Old Ones…” Brother Aiden’s voice trailed off.

“Live as their ancestors did a thousand years ago,” the Bard finished. “Naked, painted, secretive, they come out only at night. People say light makes them weak.”

“They’ve lived in darkness so long, it has made them fear the sun,” agreed Brother Aiden.

“The Picts I saw were covered in designs,” said Jack.

“I have a couple.” Brother Aiden bared his chest to show an ornately decorated crescent moon intersected by a broken arrow. Beneath it was a blue line with five short lines crossing it at right angles. “You needn’t be worried by me, Jack. I haven’t eaten anyone in ages.”

“I—I’m sorry,” Jack stammered. He found it hard to associate the gentle monk with the savages he remembered at the slave market.

“This mark is how I got my name.” Brother Aiden indicated the blue line.

“It’s a rune,” the Bard explained. “It means aiden, or ‘yew tree’ in Pictish. The monks of the Holy Isle thought it as good a name as any.”

“Now I must attend to prayers,” said Brother Aiden. He stopped by the window to say good-bye to the swallow. “I’ve often wondered where they go in winter. Some say they fly to Paradise,” he said, stroking the bird’s head.

“I’m curious,” said Pega, holding out the warmed cloak for Brother Aiden to put on. “Why was Father Severus doing penance?”

“He had an unfortunate encounter with a mermaid—but I don’t want to indulge in idle gossip,” Brother Aiden said. “Tomorrow will be a long day. We should all get a good night’s sleep.”

“What’s wrong with idle gossip? Would he prefer busy gossip?” fumed Pega later as she fluffed up her bedding. The Bard might be honored with a goose down mattress, but the courtesy didn’t extend to Jack or Pega. The meager piles of straw would hardly take the curse off the stone floor. “I’ll bet Father Severus fell in love with that mermaid,” said Pega. “They say Sea Folk marry humans to gain souls.”

“The Bard says they smell like seaweed,” Jack said.

“Father Severus probably smelled like old boots.”

“You don’t respect anyone, do you?”

“That’s not true,” Pega protested. “I’m simply not taken in by frauds. Kings, nobles, abbots—they think they’re so holy, mud wouldn’t stick to their bums if they sat in a bog. But I admire good people—really I do—like the Bard and Brother Aiden… and you,” she finished softly.

“Oh, go to sleep,” said Jack, feeling uncomfortable with this sudden change of tone. He snuggled into his heap of straw and turned his back on her. The storm blustered outside. Occasional gusts of wind penetrated the narrow window and chilled his body. If only he had more straw. Or a sheepskin. Pega didn’t seem to mind the cold, but she was used to ill treatment.

After a while Jack got up. The swallow was a dark blob in the corner of the window. Not even a child could get through that narrow space. From what little Jack could see, there was a long drop to the ground. He went to the door. The guards were curled up on the floor like a pack of wolfhounds.

Jack pulled the brazier to the middle of the room. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well make use of the time.

I seek beyond
The folds of the mountains
The nine waves of the sea
The bird-crying winds….

He chanted silently, circling the fire. Maybe he could see Lucy if she still lived. Round and round he went until the sound of the storm faded and the coals grew bright. A shudder rolled through the fortress.

“Don’t do that,” the Bard said sharply. Both he and Pega were sitting bolt upright. Cries sounded in the distance. “The forces you called up yesterday are still abroad. We don’t want the whole fortress down around our ears.” He got up and placed a poker in the coals. “Mint tea would go down well, Pega.”

The girl set about fetching charcoal from an alcove. She built up the fire, filled cups from a wooden bucket, and sprinkled mint leaves on top. “I don’t have honey, sir,” she apologized.

“You’re doing marvelously,” the old man assured her. “We need the heat more than anything. My stars! You’d think it was December.”

Soon they were sitting around the brazier with mint-flavored steam misting their faces. “What did I call up, sir?” Jack asked.

“An earthquake,” the Bard replied.

“What is an earthquake?”

“A very good question. The Picts say it’s the Great Worm and her nine wormlets burrowing in the earth. I’ve always thought it was an imbalance in the life force. An even better question is why it responded to you. What were you thinking when you called it, lad?”

“The first time I was angry at Father Swein. I mean, furious,” Jack admitted. “I was grasping the staff so hard, it’s a wonder it didn’t break. It was shaking in my hands.”

“I felt it too,” Pega interrupted.

“Did you, now?” The Bard looked at her thoughtfully.

“I called—something—to come forth,” Jack said. “I told it to break down the walls. And to clean up the place. For an instant I actually saw into the ground. There were caves like halls under the earth, pitch-black…”

“And the second time?” the Bard said softly.

“I was doing the farseeing spell. I only wanted to see Lucy.” Jack felt hollow inside. Where was his little sister? Was she frightened by the dark halls he’d glimpsed? Or was she the prisoner of some monster?

“Long ago,” said the Bard, folding his hands around his cup, “St. Filian’s was not a well, but a lake. It was ruled by a powerful lady of Elfland—the Lady you heard Brutus speak of—and her nymphs. They had always been protected by the Lord of Din Guardi.”

“Not King Yffi,” said Jack.

“Not him. He slew the true king, and then he called in a group of renegade monks. They dammed up the spring that fed the lake, trapping the Lady in the courtyard with Christian magic. For years they’ve had a sweet little enterprise going there. The abbot of the Holy Isle complained, but nothing was done. Then Northmen destroyed the island. Too bad Olaf and his dim-witted crew didn’t land here instead.”

“Was the Lady truly unhappy?” asked Jack.

“In a tiny courtyard? Without the flocks of birds, the mists and reeds and wildflowers she loved? Of course she was. Even worse, she was aging. Elves live long in our world, but they prolong their existence by visiting Elfland, where time does not move.”

“I suppose that’s why she shot me,” said Jack.