The Land of the Silver Apples

by Nancy Farmer

  “This is delicious,” Father said, licking his fingers. “Who knew onions could taste so good?”

  “It’s the spring air,” said the Bard.

  “And the crowds,” said Brother Aiden. “I love being surrounded by people. Look there. You can see the outline of the Holy Isle.”

  Jack squinted at the horizon and saw a pale shadow in the deeper gray of the sea. This was where Olaf and Rune, Sven the Vengeful and Eric Pretty-Face—and Thorgil—had slaughtered the innocent monks. It was hard to believe his friends had committed such atrocities, but they had. He must never forget it.

  “How can one forgive people who are evil?” he said aloud.

  If Brother Aiden was surprised by the sudden shift in conversation, he didn’t show it. “We must forgive our enemies. If someone strikes us, we must turn the other cheek. Eventually, God’s goodness will prevail.”

  That was all right if it only involved getting slapped, Jack thought. Northmen didn’t just slap people, they cut off their heads.

  “It’s better not to get hit in the first place,” the Bard advised. “Now we must find a place to spend the night. You may like crowds, Aiden, but thieves and cutpurses like them too.”

  “We can reach the hostel at St. Filian’s by afternoon,” said the little monk.

  “That’s fine for the rest of you. Priests aren’t happy when they see people like me on their doorstep,” said the Bard. “I’ll stay at Din Guardi. They don’t like me there, either, but they’re afraid of me.”

  The houses grew more humble as they walked. These were built low to the ground with sagging grass roofs. Small gardens huddled behind ramshackle fences. To the right the cultivated land gave way to sand, and beyond, rising from a rocky shelf jutting out to sea, was an enormous fortress.

  Its towers were of dark, distempered stone, and it squatted like a patch of night on the fair coast. Most impressive was a hedge of ancient yew trees standing between the pilgrims and the fortress. The trees massed together so thickly, they looked like a wall and gave Jack an unpleasant feeling, though he didn’t know why.

  The Bard frowned as though he, too, found the view distasteful. “That is the fortress of Din Guardi,” he said. “It has been there since time out of mind. They say one of the old gods built it.”

  “Old gods?” echoed Jack.

  “The guardians of the fields, the earth, the trees. The ones who were here before people came. Most of them are asleep and better left so.”

  “Who lives there now, sir?” asked Jack.

  “King Yffi.”

  “A real king?” said Jack, thrilled by the idea of a court with knights and horses and banners.

  “He’s a brute. Din Guardi is no place for children, and you’re better off at the monastery.” The Bard laughed. “But Yffi lays a fine table, and I like throwing him into a panic.”

  The road presently turned away from the coast and through a flowery meadow beside a rushing stream. They stopped to allow Bluebell to rest, and both Lucy and Pega waded into the water to wash the dust from their feet.

  “This is where we part company,” the Bard said. “I’ll meet you here on the morning of the third day. That’s more than enough time for Father Swein to winkle out a demon. And, Jack—”

  The boy looked up at the man’s sharp tone.

  “Don’t do anything foolish. Remember where your staff comes from and—well, you know what I’m talking about.”

  Jack understood, though he didn’t think the Bard had anything to worry about. His staff, a copy of the old man’s more powerful one, had called fire from the heart of Jotunheim. It still thrummed with power—faintly, to be sure, but still there. Jack had tried to do interesting things with it, such as lift a boulder into the sky or turn back the tide, but all he’d managed was to expel mice from a grain bin.

  “We should follow him,” Pega said as the Bard strode off.

  “He can take care of himself,” said Jack, annoyed that she’d thought of it first. “He battled Frith, Half-Trolls, and she was a lot more dangerous than this Yffi sounds.”

  “An adder is smaller than a wolf, but it can kill you just as dead,” the girl retorted.

  “There’s St. Filian’s,” called Brother Aiden, pointing at a patch of white beyond a grove of pines on a hill. Behind the dark green branches Jack saw a wall of dazzling brightness that lifted his heart. As they drew nearer, he realized that it was a collection of buildings, all of the same shining hue.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said.

  “Aye, it is,” Brother Aiden said, pleased. “The brothers paint it with lime to give it that color.”

  Jack gazed at the buildings in wonder. The monastery was buzzing with activity. Family groups waited to be admitted, monks bustled around shouting orders, slaves carried firewood. Slaves? thought Jack, amazed to find them here. Very soon Brother Aiden had them settled in the hostel, which was divided into stalls by movable partitions. One of the monastery slaves laid down dried heather for beds.

  For all the beauty of the outside walls, the air inside was foul, no doubt due to the latrine at the far end of the building. The place was dank and cold, and the only light came through an open door.

  “I didn’t know monks were allowed to keep slaves,” Jack said.

  “Only ones who have lost their freedom through crime,” Brother Aiden said. “Serving the church is supposed to improve their souls.”

  From what Jack saw, it seemed the church had an uphill battle. All the men were marked from earlier punishments— whip scars, missing ears, slit noses. Two had withered hands, which Brother Aiden said had come from trials by ordeal. “They had to carry a glowing piece of iron nine feet or plunge their hands into boiling water to pick up a stone at the bottom,” he said. “Afterward the wound was bound up. If it didn’t fester in three days, they were considered innocent. These, clearly, were not.”

  Jack felt sick when he looked at the twisted flesh of those hands.

  “It’s a merciful punishment,” the little monk explained. “Most thieves are put to death.”

  “There’s nothing merciful about it,” Pega muttered under her breath.

  They joined a line outside the abbot’s office, to make an appointment for Lucy’s exorcism. A young monk sat at a table to write down names, the type of complaint, and the expected payment. Whole families accompanied sufferers, some to console them and others to restrain them. One man shouted obscenities and was tied into a blanket to keep him from hurting anyone.

  Father held Lucy in his arms to protect her from the sight of raving lunatics. When they got to the table, the recording monk said, “I can see why you brought this one. She’s ugly as sin.”

  “Not her,” said Brother Aiden, putting Pega behind him. “The little girl. We fear she’s possessed.”

  The recording monk smiled and reached up to touch Lucy’s hair. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “She sees things that are not there and has delusions of being a princess.”

  “I am a princess,” Lucy said, pouting.

  “It seems harmless enough,” the recording monk said, “but I’ll put you down for half past matins tomorrow. What do you barter for her treatment?”

  Brother Aiden brought out a small bag and withdrew delicate paintbrushes tipped with marten fur and bottles of brightly colored pigments. “I was the art master on the Holy Isle,” he said.

  “Oh! That means—oh, my! Father Swein will be so delighted. Are these the secret dyes?”

  “They are.”

  Jack looked at Brother Aiden curiously. This was the first he’d heard of him being famous.

  “I’ll see you’re admitted right away,” said the young monk. “Shoo! Go away! Come back later,” he told the waiting crowd. A pair of monastery slaves detached themselves from a wall and advanced menacingly on the patients and their families.

  “Come in!” cried the young monk, unlocking a door. Brother Aiden, Jack, Giles, Lucy, and Pega found themselves in a delightful courtyard
surrounded by high white walls and rosebushes. In the middle was a fountain bubbling noisily into a stone bowl. From there, the water spilled into a channel and disappeared through a hole in the wall.

  “That’s the real St. Filian’s Well,” the young monk informed them, “but it’s too small to treat the mobs who come here. We’ve diverted the water to a larger pool. We can treat hundreds during the peak season.” He disappeared through another door after bidding them to sit and enjoy the roses.

  Father put Lucy down, and she ran at once to the bubbling spring. He hastily scooped her up again. “You can’t play in it, dearest. It belongs to St. Filian,” he told her.

  “No, it doesn’t. It’s hers.” She pointed at a spot near the stone basin.

  “Hush, my lambkin, we don’t want to make the saint angry.”

  Lucy settled into Father’s arms and watched the spot. Jack wished the Bard were with them so they could trap whatever-it-was under the old man’s cloak. He was convinced Lucy really saw something.

  Jack approached the spring cautiously. He could see nothing except the sweet alyssum and lavender planted around the edge. The courtyard was heavy with perfume, and a haze of bees moved among the flowers. And yet something was there. He could sense a quickening in the air, a flicker of a creature too swift for him to see.

  Jack’s staff thrummed in his hand. His hearing caught at a murmur too low to understand but rising and falling as though it were speech. “Come forth,” he whispered. “Reveal yourself, spirit of this place. Leave shadow behind and walk in the light of day. I call you by wood, by water, by stone.”

  The air beyond the fountain shivered and faded, as a meadow dims when fog rolls in from the sea. It was very like mist, except that it occupied only a small area. It drifted in a lazy circle, growing more distinct until Jack was able to see a shape condensing in the middle.

  It was a lady dressed in white, an exquisite being whose feet made no impression on the flowers she trod. Her hair was pale gold and her skin was as fair as moonlight. She bent toward Jack’s companions, beckoning them with her hand. Father couldn’t see her, nor could Pega. Brother Aiden looked uneasy. Lucy watched with great attention.

  The lady turned and saw Jack. Instantly, she thrust out her arm, and pain shot through Jack’s chest as though he’d been struck with an arrow. The staff dropped from his hand. The sky arched overhead as he fell backward toward the ground.

  Chapter Twelve

  ST. OSWALD’S HEAD

  “Does he have fits?” a man said nearby. Jack opened his eyes on the wooden beams of a low ceiling. Bunches of dried herbs dangled here and there.

  “Never,” replied Father. “Perhaps he’s coming down with a fever.”

  “If anything, he’s too cold. Were you bringing him for a dip in the pool?”

  “Just my daughter,” said Father.

  “He probably only needs a hot meal. I’ll have a slave bring soup.”

  Jack lifted his head. Pain shot down his spine. He saw a monk in a brown robe disappear through a door.

  “Good, you’re awake. How do you feel?” said Father.

  “Like a herd of sheep ran over me.” Jack found that any attempt to move swamped him with agony. “Where are we?”

  “The monastery hospital. They’ve been more than nice to us! They moved us out of that smelly hostel and into the best guest rooms. We’ve been invited to dine with the abbot himself.”

  Father seemed more interested in their new status than Jack’s health. But I’m being unfair, the boy thought. This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to him. “Why are we getting special treatment?” he asked.

  “It has something to do with those pots of ink Brother Aiden brought. They’re made by a secret process known only to the monks of the Holy Isle and are as valuable as gold.”

  A slave arrived with a pot of lentil soup. “I’m to feed the lad—unless you want to do it,” he said hopefully.

  But Father was anxious to be off. There was a stained-glass window in the chapel, he said, and a fine herd of white sheep to see. An oak tree in the orchard had the face of St. Filian burned on it by a lightning stroke. Then they were going on a tour of the beer cellar. Imagine having so much beer that you needed a whole cellar to store it! A feast was being laid on that evening. It was a shame Jack couldn’t come.

  “Listen,” said the slave after Father left, “I don’t know what kind of mooncalf you are, but if you try to bite me, you’re getting my fist for dessert.”

  “I’m not crazy,” Jack said.

  “That’s what they all say.” The slave spooned the soup into Jack’s mouth, not waiting to see whether it was swallowed before shoving the next dose inside.

  “Wait! Wait!” sputtered Jack, jerking his head aside. His spine exploded with pain. He froze into position, fearful of any movement.

  “What happened? Did you get thrashed?” the slave inquired. “They say thrashing cures everything. Got a sour marriage? Beat your wife. Got an idiot son? Knock sense into him. Father Swein says it works every time.”

  “You can’t believe that rot,” said Jack.

  “Who am I to judge my betters? In five or ten years they might even beat goodness into me, though I doubt it. Are you ready for more food?”

  “If you don’t ram it down my throat!”

  This time the slave was more careful, and Jack discovered that in spite of the pain, he was hungry. The stew was excellent, a thick pottage of lentils, leeks, and shreds of mutton. It had been days since he’d had anything so satisfying. “What’s your name?” he asked the slave.

  “Hey You, most of the time,” replied the man. “My mother called me Brutus.”

  “Brutus? Is that Saxon?”

  “It’s Roman. And, yes”—the slave drew himself up to his full height—“the blood of conquerors flows in my veins. I am of the line of Lancelot, but as you see, I have fallen far from the glory of my ancestors. Father Swein says I’m fit only for pigsties.”

  Jack wondered what crime Brutus had committed to get enslaved by a monastery. The man’s arms were scarred by whips, and his nose had been broken. But a hint of nobility lay in his wide, intelligent face and gray eyes. “Someone I once knew,” Jack said, “told me you should never give up, even if you’re falling off a cliff. You never know what might happen on the way down.”

  Brutus laughed out loud. It was a surprising, joyful sound that completely transformed him. Suddenly, the scars and broken nose didn’t matter. “I’d like to meet that fellow! He sounds like a true knight.”

  “You might not have liked him,” said Jack, thinking of Olaf One-Brow’s habit of chopping first and asking questions later.

  “Might not have? Is he dead?” asked Brutus.

  “He died in battle with a giant troll-bear. But he killed the bear,” Jack added.

  Brutus looked at him sharply. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, mooncalf.”

  “I’m not a mooncalf,” protested Jack, and provoked another laugh.

  The meal continued pleasantly, except for Jack’s grimaces of pain when he moved the wrong way. Brutus was full of tales, and he was clearly in no hurry to return to his chores. “How came you by this affliction?” he said at last.

  Jack told him about the beautiful woman who had materialized out of mist. “When she thrust her arm at me, I lost my senses until I woke up here,” he finished. “I’m not insane. I really did see her.”

  The slave sat very still, as though listening to something far away. The sounds of monastery life—wood being chopped, orders shouted, feet stamping—filtered in from outside. Then Brutus shook himself and came back to the present. “You weren’t dreaming. You’ve been elf-shot.”

  The door flew open, and in came the monk who had treated Jack. “You lazy swine!” the monk shouted. “The cook’s been waiting ages for his firewood. You deserve a double whipping!”

  Brutus changed before Jack’s eyes. He hunched over, and a half-witted expression crossed his face. “Begg
ing your pardon, master,” he whined. “You won’t be angry with poor Brutus? He’s such a poor excuse for a man.”

  “Oh, be gone with you,” said the monk. The slave scuttled out the door.

  The monk bustled about, fetching a threadbare blanket and tucking it around Jack. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up so I can give you medicine. You’re in luck. I happen to have soil from St. Oswald’s grave on my shelves. Well, one of his graves.” He showed the boy a pot of dark dirt that could have come from anywhere.

  “This is from where they planted St. Oswald’s head. The pagans buried parts of him all over the place after they martyred him. But the head ended up on the Holy Isle, so it’s doubly blessed. I always think head soil is the best.” The monk boiled water and picked odds and ends from the herbs hanging off the rafters. He finished by dropping a pinch of dirt into the cup. “There! If that doesn’t cure you, nothing will.”

  He held the cup to Jack’s lips. The tea tasted of chamomile with a strange mineral background. Oswald’s head, no doubt.

  “Why is Brutus a slave?” Jack asked when he’d choked down the last gritty bits.

  The monk raised his eyebrows. “Has he been filling you up with tales about his noble ancestry? His mother was a miserable witch. When she lay dying of fever, she ordered her boy to drive off the priest with rocks. Refused the last rites, she did. Brutus set her body afloat in a little boat in the belief that it would take her to the Islands of the Blessed. He was condemned for witchcraft.”

  “For obeying his mother’s last wish?” Jack said faintly. Choosing your afterlife seemed entirely reasonable to him. Not everyone was suited to Heaven—look at Thorgil—and the Bard always swore he would go to the Islands of the Blessed.

  “No, no. Many fools believe in the Islands of the Blessed. Brutus was condemned for casting spells over women. They absolutely can’t resist him … young, old, married, single—even the ewes follow him around the fields. We’ve spent years trying to thrash the magic out of him, but he’s hopeless.”