The Land of the Silver Apples

“She must have been brooding for years. When you broke open the pit—By Odin’s eyebrows! That’s it! How could I have missed it?”

“What, sir? What are you doing?”

The Bard dropped his cup and went to the window. He could just reach his arm through. The swallow chirped peevishly. “Don’t worry, my friend. I’m only checking the weather,” the old man said. “Hah!”

“What?” cried both Jack and Pega.

“Perfectly dry outside. Just as I thought. That was no ordinary storm.”

“It was raining earlier,” Pega said.

“The water poured out of the well and into that hole you opened up, Jack, leaving it perfectly dry.” The Bard looked at Jack and Pega expectantly.

“But what does this have to do with—” Jack began.

“Think! All last night and today the sky’s been streaming with rain. Now it’s gone!” The old man folded his arms, looking immensely satisfied with himself.

Jack and Pega stared at him.

“Save me from slack-jawed apprentices! The Lady of the Lake was emptying out the sky. She’s taken all the water,” explained the Bard. “It wouldn’t surprise me if every well in this district has gone dry. And when King Yffi finds out, they’ll be able to hear him bellow all the way to Jotunheim!”

Chapter Sixteen KING YFFI

The swallow sang before dawn. She warbled and chirred as though she were holding a long conversation. Jack covered his ears, but it was no use. Cold seeped into his bones, and the straw had flattened into a thin mat. He sat up.

“You don’t say,” murmured the Bard.

Chirr, twitter, cheet, cheet, went the bird.

Pega was sitting up too, watching.

“The whole side of the mountain came down. That was an earthquake!”

Warble, churdle, coo.

“Your cave wasn’t touched. Well, that’s lucky, anyway. I’ll see you in the Forest of Lorn, for we have much to discuss.”

The old man sat back, and the swallow hopped to the edge of the window. She fluffed her feathers in the silvery light and flew off with a rustle of wings. “Good morning,” the Bard said, standing and brushing the wrinkles from his robe. “I believe we’ll have a fine, sunshiny day.”

“Were you talking to that bird?” Pega asked.

“To be accurate, she was speaking to me. The earthquake caused havoc up and down this coast, and she wanted to know if another one was likely. I told her no.”

“I didn’t know swallows were so intelligent,” said Pega. The Bard merely smiled, and Jack knew better than to ask him questions. The Bard never revealed anything unless he thought it was important. Jack often saw him talking to foxes, hawks, crows, and badgers, but he rarely passed on the information.

They breakfasted on bread left over from yesterday, soaked in cider to make it chewable. They had hardly finished when King Yffi’s guards appeared. “Don’t forget your staff,” the Bard reminded Jack. They went down stairs that twisted round a central column. From this, Jack guessed they’d been in a tower. He’d hardly noticed when he was dragged up from the dungeons. The guards stamped along before and behind with not a glimmer of friendliness in their eyes.

The air in the passage was stale, and the floor was achingly cold. It seemed a place forever deserted by spring. Even in high summer, Jack thought it would be freezing. And sad. Cold could be cheerful, as when they woke the apple trees, but this was despairing. If Jack listened intently, he could—almost—hear distant weeping. Or perhaps it was only his imagination.

King Yffi’s hall was no less grim. It was large and sumptuously furnished, but the numerous torches along the walls did not lessen the melancholy that hung over the room. The king himself lounged on a gilded throne flanked by flaming braziers. He was a large man, taller and broader than any of his men. Most oddly, he was dressed in black from head to toe and his hands were encased in leather gloves. The only part of him visible were his eyes, sunk into his face like pebbles in a bowl of oatmeal.

A man knelt on the floor before him. Jack recognized Brutus in spite of the slave’s eyes being blackened and his lip swollen. He’d obviously suffered for his defense of Lucy. “Brutus knows he’s a wretch, noble master,” the man groaned, banging his head on the floor. “He’s as brainless as a March hare. He didn’t mean to attack the nice monks—no, indeed—he loves them! But he was bewitched by a powerful wizard.”

What wizard? thought Jack. Then he knew. Brutus was shifting the blame onto him! “That swine,” Jack muttered.

“Patience,” counseled the Bard. “There are worse things than being thought powerful.”

“Aiii!” shrieked Brutus, throwing himself flat. “He’s here! He’s here! Please, master wizard, don’t pull down this fortress! Don’t crush poor Brutus under the stones!” He crept forward and kissed Jack’s foot. Jack reacted at once. “Yiiiii!” screamed the slave. “He kicked me! He put evil magic into me. Brutus is going to soil his pants!” And he began passing gas noisily.

“Get him away!” shouted King Yffi. The guards dragged the slave to a far corner. Jack now saw that Brutus wasn’t the only outsider present. Several monks, including Brother Aiden, stood behind the throne.

The room fell silent except for the flaring of the torches and Brutus’ whimpers. “Wizards,” said King Yffi at last, looking from the Bard to Jack. His eyes passed over Pega as though she didn’t exist. “What have I done to deserve wizards?”

“Something good, no doubt,” the Bard said.

“Nothing but ill luck has happened since you arrived,” growled the king. “First the earthquake. Then the wells ran dry. My soldiers tell me the drought extends only a mile or two outside of Bebba’s Town, but there’s no way we can transport enough water for our needs. All because of wizards.” Yffi’s eyes fixed on Jack. “I ought to burn you at the stake.”

“How about it, lad?” the Bard said genially. “Shall we knock down a few pillars to show them what’s what?”

“Noooo!” shrieked Brutus from his corner. “Don’t rain stones on poor Brutus!”

“I trust we can think of something else to do.” Yffi cast a furtive look at the ceiling over his head.

“Getting the water back comes to mind,” remarked the Bard.

“Indeed,” said the king. He and the Bard stared at each other, and Jack was heartened to see Yffi drop his gaze first.

“Good!” said the old man. “Here are the facts as I know them: The Lady of the Lake fled with your water. (She would consider it her water, but we won’t quibble.) At the same time she took Father Swein and this boy’s sister prisoner. My advice would be to find her and promise to restore her lake. I’m sure she’ll cooperate if we make it worth her while.”

“How can we find her?” cried one of the monks. “She’s gone down that dirty great hole where our well used to be.”

“I’m not exploring it,” one of the guards said under his breath.

“The monks say it’s the mouth of Hell,” another muttered.

“You’ll go if I order you!” roared King Yffi, making everyone jump. “By St. Oswald’s moldy arms, my kingdom is drying up! I’ll send the whole army down there if I have to. I’ll bring back that witch in chains!”

“Oh, dear,” came Brother Aiden’s gentle voice. “I’m afraid that won’t work. The Lady of the Lake is a water elf. You can’t chain water.”

“I don’t care how it’s done!” shouted the king. “Use chains! Use a bucket! Put her in a jug for all I care! But I want her back on the job.” He glowered at Jack. “You miserable wizard! I ought to feed you to my pet crabs—it’s been weeks since I gave them a treat—but I have a better idea. You shall go down into