The Land of the Silver Apples

Jack found himself surrounded by the company. He felt outrageously happy and smiled at Ethne, who smiled back, instantly winning his allegiance. She was so radiant! He had never known anyone so fair. She drew him on effortlessly.

The Picts followed behind like a pack of hungry, ill-favored hounds.

Jack walked in a dream. Wonders led to more wonders. The gate of Elfhame was a single arc of gold framed in a wreath of emerald vines. The doors were of silver. Pillars soared up inside to a dark blue ceiling spangled with a myriad of lamps.

Elves stood on either side, dressed in robes trimmed with fur and shot with gold. Little dogs with jingling bells on their collars danced around their feet. One dashed up to Pega, bared its pretty teeth, and darted away.

Some of the ladies had toddlers on leashes. These kept falling over and whimpering. One of them sniffled constantly, and its owner rapped it sharply on the head with a fan.

Jack and his companions were swept on through several rooms, each more magnificent than the last, until they reached a hall with a floor of glass. In the center of the air burned a miniature sun. Jack turned his face up in wonder, to feel its mild warmth.

“Come on,” urged Ethne, laughing. Jack followed her onto the glass. It’s like walking on water, he thought, for beneath the transparent floor was a lake full of golden-scaled fish that glittered as they swam. The elf lady took his hands and swirled him into a dance.

Thorgil probed the surface with her foot before stepping on it. “I do not fear this,” she announced.

“Of course not!” cried Gowrie, pulling her on. Pega halted at the edge and then walked stolidly after the couples. Jack glanced back to see that no one had chosen her for a partner. He let go of Ethne and hurried back to her.

“Come on, Pega,” he said kindly, holding out his hand. Her look was so grateful, his heart turned over. She had almost been a queen in the realm of the hobgoblins. Now her ugliness was painfully obvious. He tried to copy the elves’ steps, but Jack wasn’t a good dancer, and of course no one had ever bothered to teach Pega. All he knew were highland flings that were more like jumping up and down until you ran out of breath.

But then Ethne joined them, and her magic turned them all graceful. Round and round they went, with the miniature sun overhead and the golden fish beneath their feet. It was intoxicating. It was like the best days of Jack’s life rolled into one. He was so happy, he laughed out loud.

Then they were at the other end of the hall. Jack staggered to a halt, his heart pounding and his body clammy with sweat. Pega collapsed against him. Ethne was still as fresh as a daisy.

Before them rose a dais bearing four thrones. At the right end sat the Lady of the Lake. Jack remembered her, all right. His back tingled where she’d shot him. In the center were a tall woman in golden robes and a tall man in silver. At the other end, in a throne hardly bigger than an ordinary chair, was Lucy.

“Lucy!” cried Jack. The Lady of the Lake raised her hand threateningly. A man Jack hadn’t noticed rose from the floor near the Lady’s feet.

“Good for you! You made it!” Brutus said, bounding from the dais. No longer was he dressed in the rags of a slave. He wore a splendid gold tunic under a crimson cloak. The great sword Anredden hung from a belt flashing with diamonds. “Don’t speak to your sister yet,” he said. “There are courtesies we must observe in this place.” He grabbed Jack’s arm and pulled him down to bow to the thrones. Thorgil and Pega followed suit.

“Brutus—” began Jack, both exasperated and delighted to see him. What had the untrustworthy slave been up to all this time?

“Manners, lad,” said Brutus. “Noble Partholis and Partholon, these are the companions I told you about,” he said, making another, exaggerated bow to the dais. “They have come to marvel at your splendor. I implore you to veil your face, Partholis, so they won’t be blinded by your beauty.”

“You’re as honey-tongued as always, heir of Lancelot,” said the queen, laughing. “How do you put up with him, Nimue?”

“His compliments ripple like a babbling brook,” said the Lady of the Lake, smiling. “They are as various as its waves, and as inconstant.”

“You wound me, mistress! I am ever faithful,” cried Brutus, smacking himself on the chest. “The fountains that gladden my soul run dry. I am distraught! I perish with grief!”

“Don’t perish yet,” Nimue said with a giggle. “We have a party on tonight.”

“Is that the thrall you lost? He seems completely insane,” murmured Thorgil to Pega.

“You get used to it.” Pega grinned with delight.

“We welcome you, friends of Brutus,” Queen Partholis said, rising from her throne. “We offer you our goodwill and hospitality. Make free with all the pleasures of Elfland and find comfort in its halls and gardens.” Her voice was like summer rain falling on parched soil. Jack could have listened to it for hours.

“We are most grateful, Your Noble Highnesses,” said Jack, giving almost as florid a bow as Brutus. He felt silly, but he supposed it was the thing to do.

The queen laughed again, a silvery ripple that made Jack smile in response. “Lady Ethne advised us of your arrival, and so we have prepared a feast.” She clapped her hands.

Thralls poured out of side chambers with tables and benches. More followed with steaming trays of swans, venison, jugged hare, suckling pig, and many things Jack didn’t recognize. Oysters and whelks made a border around a giant salmon on a platter so huge, it took six men to carry it. Tiny larks, scarcely a mouthful each, were heaped in crystal bowls. And of course there was every kind of pudding, pie, trifle, syllabub, and flummery imaginable.

All this time Lucy pouted on her throne, kicking her feet back and forth. Jack recognized that behavior. It meant she was cross because she wasn’t the center of attention. He tried to catch her eye, but Brutus stopped him. “Patience, lad,” warned the man. “Wait till their highnesses are busy elsewhere.”

Jack was seated at a long table with Pega on one side and Lady Ethne on the other. Thorgil was placed with Cowrie, the huntsman. The two immediately began discussing ways of dismembering game.

Brutus loaded a plate with food and climbed onto the dais. “Oh, fie!” he said, crouching by the Lady of the Lake. “Such delicate hands were not meant for cutting up partridges. Allow me to put morsels of food into your pretty mouth.” Nimue blushed and giggled. Jack wondered how the slave got away with such nonsense.

“She’s stuffing herself, all right,” said Pega, gesturing at Lucy. “Any decent sister would have spoken to you.”

“She’s probably enchanted,” Jack said.

“Pooh! She’s no different than she ever was. And how did they get this feast ready so quickly? I know how long it takes to pluck swans. What’s this monstrosity?” Pega held up a pigeon with six drumsticks.

“Generally, if I don’t know what something is, I don’t eat it,” said Jack.

Thorgil took the pigeon, ate all six drumsticks, and pronounced them delicious.

Jack looked around the hall. He saw no old elves, and there were almost no elf children. About a dozen toddlers on leashes crouched at their owners’ feet. Jack turned away, sickened, and wondered if they still remembered their parents. He couldn’t think of a way to free them.

He saw that all the thralls were human, for the elves did nothing for themselves. They called a thrall to bring them a spoon on the other side of a table rather than reach for it. The humans toiled endlessly, carrying dishes, cleaning up spills, and running to do some peevish elf’s bidding.

Any one of them could have come from Jack’s village. They were ordinary folk who’d had the bad luck to fall asleep on an elf hill and follow strange music in the night. The Bard had said how dangerous that was. Once you were lured in, you might not reappear for years.

Brude and his followers had not been invited to the feast. They waited at a doorway, snuffing the air and jostling one another. Good dogs. Stay, thought Jack with grim satisfaction. The Picts weren’t even as important as the thralls.

His thoughts shifted to and fro, one moment despising the elves and then, turning to Lady Ethne beside him, enchanted once more. She asked him many questions about Middle Earth, of families, farming, and—most surprisingly—of monasteries. Jack knew little about monasteries, except for St. Filian’s.

Ethne had heard of the place. Wasn’t it awful how they had trapped poor Nimue in the fountain? Father Swein had sprinkled holy water around the outer walls. When Nimue had tried to cross it, she came up in the most