The Brave Apprentice

by P. W. Catanese

  “The wall,” someone shouted. “There goes the wall!”

  Overhead came whistling sounds, followed by resounding crashes as boulders were flung at Dartham from the outside. The great rocks exploded on the walls of the castle and shattered tiles on the roofs. The archers bent down to shelter behind the jutting blocks of stone on the wall. Somebody somewhere began to scream for help.

  Patch stepped back toward the courtyard, but Simon wrapped his arms around him and pulled him toward the door. “The king ordered us to leave he shouted at the soldier.

  “I know,” the soldier shouted. Patch writhed and kicked, but he could not escape Simon’s grasp. The soldier shoved the two of them into the opening and down the dark tunnel that passed through the wall. When they reached the ironclad door on the far side, he clapped a hand over Patch’s mouth. “If you’re trying to sneak out of here, you two might want to shut your mouth,” he said into Patch’s ear. “Or you’ll be troll food for sure. Now hold on.”

  The soldier peered through a small hole at eye level in the door, shifting left and right to widen his view. “Don’t see any of them. They’re out there, though—patrolling outside the walls.” He slid an enormous bolt back and eased the door open. Ahead of them was the deep ditch that surrounded the castle walls. Across it lay a temporary bridge, just a single narrow plank with no railing. “Over you go,” the soldier said. “And good luck to you.”

  “He wasn’t such a bad fellow after all,” Simon said. “I should have offered him some cheese.”

  “Quiet!” barked Patch. There were terrible sounds all around them. They heard grunts and howls of trolls, more screams from the walls above. A roar came from within the walls, and it made Patch shiver despite the growing warmth in the air—at least one of the beasts must have climbed over the fallen rubble into the courtyard of Dartham.

  There was a tower not far away. Ffft, ffft. Patch heard arrow after arrow fly out from the narrow slits that the archers hid behind. From out of the mist, trolls heaved boulder after boulder at the tower, rocking it and dislodging the stones. The tower would not take this battering for long, Patch could see. Not long at all.

  Amid all the noise, they heard heavy thumping steps approaching. “Run,” Patch whispered. They fled just as an ugly silhouette, twelve feet tall and nine wide, holding what looked like an enormous axe, emerged from the mist.

  They dashed across a frozen vegetable field, the snow turning to slush under their feet, and came to a knee-high rock wall. The plodding steps could still be heard—and the pace seemed to have quickened.

  “Up on the wall—so we don’t leave tracks,” Patch said, putting his mouth close to Simon’s ear.

  “Brilliant!” Simon exalted, clapping his hands.

  “Hush!” Patch hissed. Behind them he heard a sound in the fog. The footsteps were coming straight toward them for certain, squishing in the soggy field. The two ran along the wall, making noise only when a loose stone moved under their feet and grumbled against its neighbor. When the wall ended after a few hundred feet, Patch turned to stop Simon, putting a finger to the fool’s lips. “Listen.”

  The footsteps were still out there. The mist made it hard to judge, but the troll no longer seemed to be heading their way. The sound faded. Patch turned to tell Simon that the troll had lost their trail. But Simon was staring up goggle-eyed over Patch’s shoulder, and he had thrust his knuckles into his mouth. Patch whirled about. For a brief, terrible moment, he thought he was seeing the largest troll yet, twice the size of any they’d met, with arms spread thirty feet wide—but then he recognized the shape for what it was. He practically fainted with relief and leaned against the fool. “Windmill, Simon. It’s a windmill. Come on.” They hopped off the wall and ran inside.

  Simon stared up at the innards of the mill, at the wooden wheels and gears that would turn the grindstone when the wind turned the sails. “What are we doing here?”

  “Thinking.” Patch shrugged off his pack and laid it on the stone, which was sprinkled with fine meal. The man who worked the mill had lived here as well; his straw mattress lay in one corner, and the crude table and bench where he took his meals was nearby. Patch sat and crossed his arms.

  “Thinking? At a time like this?” Simon said.

  Patch bolted upright, knocking the bench over, as they heard a high scream not far away. It was followed by a shout: “Run! I said run!”

  “It … sounded like Ludowick,” Patch said, a numbness coming over his brain. And that scream might have been Cecilia. “Stay here,” he cried.

  Patch raced out the door and turned in the direction of the shouts. As he ran, faster now without the heavy pack across his shoulders, he heard the deep voice of a troll somewhere before him: “Gargog! Over here!” And an answering cry, behind him: “Hold on!”

  There was a patter of feet, so light compared with the thunderous steps of the trolls, and Patch glimpsed a small figure in the mist, moving stealthily off to his right. He could not risk calling out from this distance, so he ran as quietly as he could toward the person. The closer he drew, the more certain he was that it was the queen, dressed like a stable boy. She disappeared behind a tiny cottage. When Patch rounded the corner to follow, he found himself staring down the length of a sword pointed at his throat. At the far end of the sword he saw Cecilia’s face—her eyes wide and fearful, then suddenly relieved to see him. She lowered the sword and rushed forward to embrace him.

  “We have to hide,” she said, looking toward the door of the cottage. Patch shook his head and took her hand. He led her toward the mill, but stopped when he heard the low, gravelly voices, one just before them and one just behind:

  “Where are you, Yurg?”

  “Right here, you stupid lump!”

  There was a hay wagon nearby, tipped over with its load of hay spilled on the slushy ground. They pressed themselves against the hidden side just as the two trolls stalked into the clearing. Patch looked at the ground around them. He was relieved to see many sets of footprints that the fleeing peasants had left in the snow—theirs would not stand out among them.

  “What was it?” the one called Gargog asked.

  “A man. And a woman—might have been the queen. She screamed when she saw me, or I’d have thought it was a boy.”

  “The queen? Did you catch her?”

  “Oaf! Does it look like I caught her?”

  “So what happened?”

  “The stupid man got in the way. Waved his spear in my face while the woman ran. He took off when I broke the spear—but it’s the woman we have to find. She’s wearing a brown cloak. She’s got to be near here somewhere. I caught her scent—I’ll smell her out!”

  Patch glanced at the queen. Her lip was curled up in an expression of utter disgust.

  “I’ll tell you what smells, Yurg. This whole business. Letting a man make slaves of us.”

  Patch had been waiting for the right moment to dart away with Cecilia, but now he craned his neck, suddenly eager to hear every word.

  “You know the game, Gargog,” Yurg said. “If we don’t obey … you know what he’ll do. Can’t have that, can we?” “Why not just kill him? Won’t that solve the problem?”

  “Because, idiot, he said he’s not the only one who knows.”

  “I think he’s just saying that—so we don’t snap his scrawny neck and make a stew of him.”

  “You want to take that chance? Hold on!” Yurg began to sniff at the air. Patch risked a peek over the top of the wagon and saw the troll turn his nose to the right and left. He saw Yurg gesture toward the cottage, and Gargog bare his fangs in a smile. They crept—as quietly as such massive creatures could creep—toward the low building.

  Patch looked at the queen and whispered, “Get ready.” The trolls snarled and began to tear the roof off the cottage. With the sound covering their footsteps, Patch led Cecilia away, keeping the wagon between them and the trolls for a while before turning toward the windmill. Soon the high domed building and its four b
road sails loomed before them.

  Simon had unpacked what was left of his cheese and was sitting on the large round millstone, munching contentedly away. He grinned as Patch and Cecilia came through the door. “Hello, Patch. Hello, young man.”

  Patch eased the wooden door shut behind him. “This is the queen, Simon. She’s only dressed like a man. Now put that cheese away before the trolls catch a whiff”

  Simon looked back and forth at the queen, the cheese, and the queen and cheese again, utterly baffled. Finally Cecilia took the cheese from his hands and placed it in the pack for him.

  “It sounds like Ludowick got away,” Patch said.

  “Thank goodness for that,” Cecilia said. “Those devils! But Patch, why are we here? We were told to flee.”

  Patch paced across the floor. “We can’t, Your Highness! You heard the trolls. Giles knows something about them, it’s the only reason they obey him. But what is it? Will Sweeting knew the answer was there. If we can only figure it out …” His mind was abuzz with that feeling again, the sensation that the answer was so close. He slammed his fists on the table, and Simon squeaked with surprise. “Think about what we know,” Patch said. “The clues. They stick to stony ground. But what does that mean?”

  “They can’t fly!”

  “Simon, don’t be—”

  “They can’t swim!”

  “We know that, but that doesn’t—”

  “They don’t like the fields!”

  “Well that’s—”

  “Or the meadows! Or the flowers!”

  “But what about the cold?” Patch asked. “They’re supposed to prefer the cold. They invaded during winter, after all. But Simon, you said they built a fire to warm their cave it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You’re right,” Cecilia said. She shrugged off the heavy cloak she’d been wearing and draped it across one arm, then took the seat opposite him. She leaned closer and looked into Patch’s eyes. “Keep thinking.”

  Patch rubbed his temples with his fingers. Simon’s answers had been ridiculous, of course. But were they really? There was something to what the fool said. The meadows, the fields … when Patch thought about that again, the answer seemed to swim up closer and closer to the surface. The Barren Gray: Griswold said it was known for its desolation, its lack of vegetation. No plants, no flowers.

  The humming in his head grew louder still. And Patch began to listen to it, instead of hoping it would go away. And he began to understand what that low hum might be.

  “Simon, keep talking,” Cecilia said, keeping her eyes on Patch. “What else do we know about them? What did you learn when you were in their cave?”

  “They liked my songs!” Simon said, puffing with pride. Then he deflated, adding, “Until they swatted me.”

  Patch spun on his chair to face Simon. “Sing it. Sing that song, Simon. Not too loud, though.”

  Simon stood, brushed himself off, and put a finger to his chin, collecting his thoughts. Then he began to bend and unbend his knees, bobbing to some inner rhythm, and sang.

  “Listen to the hound

  ’Cause he smells the fox’s blood

  When he’s running through the mud And he makes his happy sound

  Bark, bark, bark bark bark,

  Bark, bark, bark bark bark!

  Listen to the cat

  As she prowls around the house

  Till she catches master mouse

  And she leaves him on the mat

  Mew, mew, mew mew mew

  Mew, mew, mew mew mew

  Listen to the bees

  ’Cause they must be making honey

  When they’re sounding rather funny

  As they buzz about the trees

  Bzz, bzz, bzz bzz bzz

  Bzz, bzz, bzz bzz bzz…”

  Simon stopped and stuck his lower lip out. “And that’s when one of them swatted me.”

  Patch felt countless goose bumps sweeping down his arms. He looked toward Cecilia. She was staring at him, her mouth small and tense and her eyes wide.

  “Simon,” Patch said. “Didn’t you say they hit you when you were drawing pictures, too?”

  “True,” Simon said, looking cross. He rubbed at some remembered bruise on his rump.

  “Draw for me what you drew for them,” Cecilia said. “Here.” She pointed toward the ground meal that was scattered across the grindstone.

  “Certainly, my queen!” Simon skipped to the grindstone. He spread the meal into a fine, wide layer and began to trace shapes with his finger. “First, I always draw a pig.” A moment later, the image of a pig had appeared in the meal. Patch and the queen stepped close, on either side of the fool.

  Simon used the side of his hand to erase the pig. “Second, I always make a cow….” As Patch and the queen watched, he drew creature after creature: A mouse. A butterfly. A duck. A frog. A deer.

  Patch turned toward the small open window that was near them, afraid he might have heard heavy steps. But just as he became aware of it, the sound stopped. Perhaps it was only the distant crash of more stones striking the walls of Dartham.

  “And that’s when they swatted me! Now I remember!” he heard Simon say.

  The humming in Patch’s head grew to a roar as he looked down at Simon’s drawing. But of course, he finally realized, it wasn’t a hum at all.

  Patch hopped and danced about the room, as quietly as he could, whirling his arms in every direction, with a mad grin on his face. “That’s it, Simon! Oh, that’s it!”

  Simon sat on the stone with his arms crossed and the corners of his mouth pulled down. “Well,” he said, “if you’re going to start acting like a fool, what’s left for me to do?”

  Cecilia took another look at Simon’s picture: a tiny round head on a striped oval body, with wide teardrop wings and a stinger on the bottom.

  “A bee, Patch? Can it be that simple?”

  Patch rushed up and took her hands, the words spilling out of him. “That’s why the trolls stay in the Barren Gray—because it’s barren! It’s why they keep out of the sun, too. And it’s why they’re here now, while it’s cold and snowy. No fields or flowers in the winter, and no bees! Remember Griswold’s stories—the little girl in the meadow that the troll wouldn’t chase? And the troll who just dropped dead all of a sudden?”

  Cecilia nodded. “Years ago … there was a boy at Dartham. The cobbler’s son. He was stung by a bee … died from it, within the hour.”

  “A lady in Crossfield, same thing,” Patch said.

  Cecilia squeezed Patch’s hands, and her eyes sparkled. “The apiary is not far from here. Not far at all. Do you believe in fate, Simon?”

  “Not really,” said the fool, scratching at his chin. “I suppose I wasn’t meant to.”

  And then came a splintering crash over their heads, and an enormous gray fist burst through the roof of the mill.

  of straw and fragments of wood and wet snow rained into the mill. A coarse voice yelled, “Yurg! I’ve got them!”

  Patch and Simon and Cecilia huddled against the wall of the mill. “Not now,” Patch moaned. “Now that we finally know …”

  Enormous hands, with those nails as hard and thick as shields, pried through the hole and wrenched it open wider. The three of them flattened themselves against the wall where they might not be seen. A glob of the yellow stuff that oozed always from the eyes of the trolls came down and hit the tabletop with a splat. Instantly they could smell that rancid, sick-sweet odor.

  The troll put its mouth to the opening. “I know you’re in there,” the mouth growled, and then it hissed and flicked its pointed tongue. “I hear you. And I smell you.”

  Simon whimpered, and his chest rose and fell like a panicked mouse’s. He held his breath for a moment, and then yanked the cloak off Cecilia’s arm. He threw it across his own shoulders, pulled the hood close over his head, and opened the door. “Simon, stop!” Patch whispered hoarsely. But the fool leaped outside and ran, screaming in a ridiculous high-pitched voice,
“I am the queen! Don’t chase me, don’t chase me!”

  Incredibly, the troll did exactly that. Through the open door, they saw Gargog stomp away after Simon. Ahead of the fool, the other troll charged out of the mist. Simon veered right. His voice cracked even higher, “Leave me alone, you monsters, I’m the queen!”

  Patch and Cecilia had one last glimpse of him, with his gangly legs churning, one hand holding the hood in place and the other waving madly over his head. Then he was lost in the whiteness, with the snarling trolls in pursuit.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” Patch said.

  “Fooled by the fool. Let us pray he outruns them,” Cecilia said. “Now follow me to the apiary.”

  It took only minutes to get there, but it seemed endless as they crept through the mist, hugging the hedges and cottages to hide from sight, and listening always for the squishing sound of heavy feet. Finally they were standing in front of a wall made of bricks, nearly six feet high and three deep.

  “Here,” Cecilia said. There were a series of deep recesses like windows in one side of the wall, each of them packed tight with straw. She went to the nearest one and pulled the straw out, revealing what looked like a large basket. It was shaped like a bell, rounded at the top and woven from thick horizontal bands of wicker. Patch had seen its like before, at the beekeeper’s home in Crossfield. “A skep,” he said, remembering the name the beekeeper used for them.

  “That’s right,” Cecilia said. She pulled the skep out and placed it on the ground. It stood perhaps three feet high. “The straw keeps them safe from the elements during the winter. Let’s look inside.” She pulled the domed top away and turned it upside down for Patch to see.

  Honeycombs, built of countless waxy six-sided shapes, hung from the wicker in irregular rows inside the dome. And packed in the largest gap between the combs was a mass of hundreds upon hundreds of bees, huddled together in a dense and fuzzy orange-brown knot.

  “Look, Patch—the warming air is beginning to wake them.” And it was. There was a pulse of movement all over the mass of bees. As Patch watched, a few rolled off the outer layer of the pile, apparently dead.