by Nancy Farmer
The LAND of the SILVER APPLES
NANCY FARMER
Atheneum Books for Young Readers
New York London Toronto Sydney
The LAND of the SILVER APPLES
Also by the Author
The Sea of Trolls
The House of the Scorpion
A Girl Named Disaster
The Warm Place
The Ear, the Eye and the Arm
Do You Know Me
Atheneum Books for Young Readers
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2007 by Nancy Farmer
Illustrations copyright © 2007 by Rick Sardinha
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Book design by Ann Zeak
The text for this book is set in Edlund.
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
ISBN 978-1416-90735-0
eISBN-13: 978-1-439-10331-9
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Farmer, Nancy, 1941-
The Land of the Silver Apples/Nancy Farmer.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Richard Jackson book.”
Sequel to: The Sea of Trolls.
Summary: After escaping from the Sea of Trolls, the apprentice bard Jack plunges into a new series of adventures, traveling underground to Elfland and uncovering the truth about his little sister, Lucy.
Includes bibliographical references (p.)
[1. Bards and bardism—Fiction. 2. Druids and druidism—Fiction. 3. Saxons—Fiction. 4. Goblins—Fiction. 5. Elves—Fiction. 6. Mythology—Fiction.]
1. Title.
PZ7.F23814Lan 2007
[Fic]—dc22 2006031433
For Ruth Farmer 1916-2006
May the life force hold you in the hollow of its hand
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many, many thanks to my husband, Harold, for sharing my adventures on the Hollow Road.
To Richard Jackson, for his encouragement and help, and to Dr. William Ratliff, for providing me access to the Stanford University Library.
I also want to thank the members of our writing group: Margaret Kahn, Antoinette May, James Spencer, and Rob Swigart. There’s nothing like a troupe of professional writers to pull you out of knucker holes when you fall in.
CONTENTS
Cast of Characters
1. The Necklace
2. The Need-Fire Ceremony
3. Wassail
4. The Slave Girl
5. The Farseeing Charm
6. The Light from Far Away
7. Giles’s Secret
8. The Lost Child
9. Brother Aiden
10. The Pilgrimage
11. The Lady in the Fountain
12. St. Oswald’s Head
13. Small Demon Possession
14. The Earthquake
15. Din Guardi
16. King Yffi
17. The Half-Fallen Angels
18. The Hollow Road
19. The Knucker Hole
20. The Enchanted Forest
21. The Girl in the Moss
22. Thorgil’s Saga
23. The Bugaboo
24. A Proposal of Marriage
25. Frog Spawn Omelet
26. The Maelstrom
27. Hazel
28. St. Columba
29. Betrayal
30. Elfland
31. The Dark River
32. Lucy
33. The Prisoners
34. The Wild Hunt
35. The Bard’s Message
36. Secret Allies
37. The Tithe of Hell
38. Freedom
39. The Forest of Lorn
40. The Midgard Serpent
41. The Vision
42. Yarthkins
43. The Kelpies
44. Ethne
45. Glamour
46. Unlife
47. The Last of Din Guardi
48. The Gifts of the Lady
49. St. Filian’s Welcome
50. Homeward Bound
Appendix
Religion
St. Filian’s Well
Din Guardi
Symbols Carved by Thorgil’s Shipmates
Pictish Symbols
Sources
CAST OF CHARACTERS
HUMANS (SAXONS)
Jack: Age thirteen; an apprentice bard
Lucy: Jack’s sister; age seven
Mother: Alditha; Jack and Lucy’s mother; a wise woman
Father: Giles Crookleg; Jack and Lucy’s father
The Bard: A druid from Ireland; also known as Dragon Tongue
Pega: A slave girl; age fourteen
Brother Aiden: A monk from the Holy Isle
Father Swein: The abbot of St. Filian’s Well
Brutus: A slave at St. Filian’s Well
Father Severus: A prisoner of the elves
Hazel: A child stolen by hobgoblins
HUMANS (NORTHMEN)
Thorgil Olaf’s Daughter: An ex-berserker; age thirteen
Olaf One-Brow: A famous warrior and Thorgil’s adoptive father; deceased
Skakki: Olaf’s son; shipmate of Thorgil
Rune: A skald
Eric the Rash: Shipmate of Thorgil
Eric Pretty-Face: Shipmate of Thorgil
Heinrich the Heinous: Nephew of King Ivar the Boneless
PICTS
Brude. Leader of the Old Ones
HOBGOBLINS
The Bugaboo: King of the hobgoblins
The Nemesis: The Bugaboo’s second-in-command
Mumsie: The Bugaboo’s mother
Mr. and Mrs. Blewit: Adoptive parents of Hazel
ELVES
Partholis: Queen of Elfland
Partholon: Partholis’s consort
Ethne: An elf lady; daughter of Partholis and an unknown human
Cowrie: An elf lord
Nimue: The Lady of the Lake; a water elf
UNCLASSIFIABLE
King Yffi: Ruler of Din Guardi and Bebba’s Town; half-kelpie
Man in the Moon: An old god; exiled to the moon
Forest Lord: An old god; ruler of the Green World
The Hedge: Aspect of the Forest Lord
Knuckers: They look like your worst nightmare.
Yarthkins: Also known as landuættir; spirits of the land. You really don’t want to meddle with them.
The Songs of Wandering Aengus
—William Butler Yeats
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor,
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name.
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
The LAND of the SILVER APPLES
Chapter One
THE NECKLACE
It was the middle of the night when the rooster crowed. The sun had disappeared hours ago into a mass of clouds over the western hills. From the wind buffeting the walls of the house, Jack knew a storm had rolled off the North Sea. The sky would be black as a lead mine, and even the earth, covered with snow as it was, would be invisible. The sun when it rose—if it rose—would be masked in gloom.
The rooster crowed again. Jack heard his claws scratching the bottom of his basket as if he was wondering where his soft nest had gone. And where his warm companions had hidden themselves. The rooster was alone in his little pen.
“It’s only for a while,” Jack told the bird, who grumbled briefly and settled down. He would crow again later, and again, until the sun really appeared. That was how roosters were. They made noise all night, to be certain of getting it right.
Jack threw back the heap of sheepskins covering him. The coals in the hearth still gleamed, but not for long, Jack thought with a twinge of fear. It was the Little Yule, the longest night of the year, and the Bard had commanded they put out all the fires in the village. The past year had been too dangerous. Berserkers had appeared from across the water, and only merest chance had kept them from slaughtering the villagers.
The Northmen had destroyed the Holy Isle. Those who had not been drowned or burned or chopped to bits had been hauled off into slavery.
It was time for new beginnings, the Bard said. Not one spark of fire was to remain in the little gathering of farms Jack knew as home. New fire had to be kindled from the earth. The Bard called it a “need-fire.” Without it, the evils of the past would linger into the new year.
If the flame did not kindle, if the earth refused to give up its fire, the frost giants would know their time had come. They would descend from their icy fortresses in the far north. The great wolf of winter would devour the sun and light would never return.
Of course, that was the belief in the old days, Jack thought as he pulled on his calfskin boots. Now, with Brother Aiden in the village, people knew that the old beliefs should be cast away. The little monk sat outside his beehive-shaped hut and spoke to anyone who would listen. He gently corrected people’s errors and spoke to them of the goodness of God. He was an excellent storyteller, almost as fine as the Bard. People were willing to listen to him.
Still, in the dark of the longest night of the year, it was hard to believe in such goodness. God had not protected the Holy Isle. The wolf of winter was abroad. You could hear his voice on the wind, and the very air rang with the shouts of frost giants. Surely it was wise to follow the old ways.
Jack climbed the ladder to the loft. “Mother, Father,” he called. “Lucy.”
“We’re awake,” his father replied. He was already bundled up for the long walk. Mother was ready too, but Lucy stubbornly clung to her covers.
“Leave me alone!” she wailed.
“It’s St. Lucy’s Day,” Father coaxed. “You’ll be the most important person in the village.”
“I’m already the most important person in the village.”
“The very idea!” Mother said. “More important than the Bard or Brother Aiden or the chief? You need a lesson in humility.”
“Ah, but she’s really a lost princess,” Father said fondly. “She’ll look so pretty in her new dress.”
“I will, won’t I?” said Lucy, condescending to rise.
Jack went back down the ladder. It was an argument Mother never won. She tried to teach Lucy manners, but Father always undermined her efforts.
To Giles Crookleg, his daughter was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him. He was forever cursed with lameness. Both he and his wife, Alditha, were sturdy rather than handsome, with faces browned by working in the fields. No one would ever mistake them for nobility. Jack knew he would be just like them when he grew up. But Lucy’s hair was as golden as afternoon sunlight and her eyes were the violet blue of an evening sky. She moved with a bright grace that seemed barely to touch the earth. Giles, with his lumbering, shambling gait, could only admire her.
Jack had to admit, as he stirred up the hearth for one last burst of heat, that Lucy had been through much in the past year. She had seen murder and endured slavery in the Northland. He had too, but he was thirteen and she was only seven. He was willing to overlook most of her annoying habits.
He heated cider and warmed oatcakes on the stones next to the fire. Mother was busy dressing Lucy in her finery, and Jack heard complaints as the little girl’s hair was combed. Father came down to drink his cider.
The cock crowed again. Both Jack and Father paused. It was said in the old days that a golden rooster lived in the branches of Yggdrassil. On the darkest night of the year he crowed. If he was answered by the black rooster that lived under the roots of the Great Tree, the End of Days had come.
No cry shook the heavens or echoed in the earth. Only the north wind blustered against the walls of the house, and Jack and Father relaxed. They continued to sip their drinks. “I wish we had a mirror,” came Lucy’s petulant voice. “I don’t see why we can’t buy one from the Pictish peddlers. We’ve got all that silver Jack brought home.”
“It’s for hard times,” Mother said patiently.
“Oh, pooh! I want to see myself! I’m sure I’m beautiful.”
“You’ll do,” Mother said.
In fact, Jack had more silver than his parents knew. The Bard had advised him to bury half of it under the floor of the ancient Roman house, where the old man lived. “Your mother has good sense,” the Bard had said, “but Giles Crookleg—excuse me, lad—has the brain of an owl.”
Father had spent some of his share on Brother Aiden’s altar and a donkey for Lucy. The rest was reserved for that glorious day when she would marry a knight or even—Father’s hopes rose ever higher—a prince. How Lucy would meet a prince in a tiny village tucked away from any major road was a mystery.
The little girl climbed down the ladder and twirled to show off her finery. She wore a long, white dress of the finest wool. Mother had woven the yellow sash herself, dying it with the pollen-colored washings from her beehives. The dress, however, had been imported from Edwin’s Town in the far north. Such cloth was beyond Mother’s ability, for her sheep produced only a coarse, gray wool.
Lucy wore a feathery green crown of yew on her golden hair. Jack thought it was as nice as a real crown, and only he understood its true meaning. The Bard said the yew tree guarded the door between this world and the next. On the longest night of the year this door stood open. Lucy’s role was to close it during the need-fire ceremony, and she needed protection from whatever lay on the other side.
“I know what would go with this dress—my silver necklace,” Lucy said.
“You are not to wear metal,” Mother said sharply. “The Bard said it was forbidden.”
“He’s a pagan,” Lucy said. She had only just learned the word.
“He’s a wise man, and I’ll have no disrespect from you!”
“A pagan, a pagan, a pagan!” Lucy sang in her maddening way. “He’s going to be dragged down to Hell by demons with long claws.”
“Get your cloak on, you rude child. We’ve got to go.”
Lucy darted past Mother and grabbed Father’s arm. “You’ll let me wear the necklace, Da. Please? Please-please-please-please-please?” She cocked her head like a bright little sparrow, and Jack’s heart sank. She was so adorable, all golden hair and smiles.
“You can
’t wear the necklace,” Jack said. Lucy’s smile instantly turned upside down.
“It’s mine!” she spat.
“Not yet,” Jack said. “It was given into my keeping. I decide when you get it.”
“You thief!”
“Lucy!” cried Mother.
“What harm can it do, Alditha?” said Father, entering into the argument for the first time. He put his arm around the little girl, and she rubbed her cheek against his coat. “Brother Aiden says this is St. Lucy’s Day. Surely we honor the saint by dressing her namesake in the finest we have.”
“Giles—,” began Mother.
“Be still. I say she wears the necklace.”
“It’s dangerous,” Jack said. “The Bard says metal can poison the need-fire because you can’t tell where it’s been. If it’s been used as a weapon or for some other evil, it perverts the life force.”
Father had treated Jack with more respect since his return from the land of the Northmen, but he was not going to be lectured by his son. “This is my house. I am the master,” Giles Crookleg said. He went to the treasure chest with Lucy dancing at his side.
Father took the iron key from the thong around his neck and unlocked the chest. Inside were some of the things Mother had brought to the marriage: lengths of cloth, embroidery, and a few items of jewelry. Underneath were a heap of silver coins and a gold coin with the face of a Roman king that Father had found in the garden. Wrapped in a cloth was the necklace of silver leaves.
It gleamed with a brightness that was strangely compelling. Jack could understand Lucy’s desire for it. It had been looted in a Northman raid, claimed by Frith Half-Troll, and had come to Thorgil the shield maiden. Thorgil fell in love with it, and this was most unusual because she scorned feminine weaknesses such as jewelry and baths. Then Thorgil, who valued suffering even more than silver, had given her beloved necklace to Lucy.
From the very beginning, the little girl had reacted badly to this generous gift. She claimed it came from Frith, who—Lucy insisted—had treated her like a real princess. And she became hysterical when Jack reminded her of the truth, that the evil half-troll had kept her in a cage and planned to sacrifice her. Jack had taken charge of the necklace then.
“Ooh!” cried Lucy, putting it on.
“Now we really have to go,” said Father, locking the chest. He had lit two horn lanterns for the journey. Mother had packed several of her precious beeswax candles in a carrying bag. Jack poured water over the hearth, and smoke and steam billowed up. The light in the room shrank down to two brownish dots behind the panels of the horn lanterns.