by Nancy Farmer
Jack wanted to run and could not. His feet were rooted to the ground. All will, all rational thought fled. He could only stare at the fire and watch the shapes arising within.
They were worse than anything Father had described to him. Father had never seen a real demon. It wasn’t only their claws and teeth that were dreadful, but their loathsome bodies half hidden by the flames. Their eyes shone with awful knowledge. They had seen the worst, been the worst. Hate radiated from them like the foulest stench. And stench there was as well. A thousand odors of corruption mixed and mingled in their breath.
Jack covered his nose, but there was no escaping it. Pega clasped her hands. Father Severus fell to his knees. Thorgil bent over and vomited, and she was not the only one. Utter terror swept over the onlookers, elf and human alike. Father Swein lay where he had fallen, gibbering with fear.
A tall shape within the fire reached out a long, long arm and pointed a charred finger, first at Jack, then Pega, then Thorgil. It hesitated at Thorgil. Shield maiden, said a voice like thunder rolling from a distant storm.
Thorgil stared back, unable to move. She had met her match, but even here, where all others were paralyzed, she managed to speak. “I am Odin’s shield maiden,” she gasped. Jack could see that it hurt her to speak. “I’m not yours.”
The Being laughed, shaking the ground. That remains to be seen, it said, but what have we here? The finger moved and pointed at Father Severus. I remember you. Do you remember me, when I whispered in your ear about the mermaid?
The monk was speechless. His hands clutched his tin cross and his lips moved, but no sound came out.
Ah! The exquisite flavor of guilt. The aroma of shame. Other voices hissed and burbled with appreciation in the bonfire.
“Leave … him … alone,” Jack managed to whisper. The finger hesitated.
Defiance. I like that, but it is not as tasty as shame.
“Go … away,” Pega moaned.
And loyalty. The voice sounded faintly surprised. Then, giving no warning, Thorgil suddenly lunged. She had no weapon, so she brought her fist crashing down on the finger. Lightning flashed. Flame engulfed Thorgil’s right hand. She screamed, frantically rolling on the ground to put out the fire. But it clung like a live thing. The Being turned its attention to her, laughing and shaking the earth.
The evil spell holding Jack and Pega wavered. “Pega,” gasped Jack. “Hold out your candle.”
He understood what the Bard had been trying to tell him in the vision. He is guarded by the need-fire, the old man had told the swallow. No illusion, no matter how compelling, can stand against—
Can stand against the simple fact of one true thing. He grabbed the fire-making tools and struck a spark onto the dried mushroom. A tiny flame appeared, pale against the roaring energy of the bonfire. Pega shoved her candle into it.
The candle ignited. Its light was small and humble, but it was real where all else was illusion. It came from the need-fire, drawn by the efforts of the villagers on the darkest night of the year. It was pure life force.
The light gently pushed away the sickly dreams of Elfland and the lies that gave Hell its deadly power. First it enveloped Thorgil and dowsed the fire that consumed her hand. The shield maiden groaned and drew herself up into a ball.
The light moved on—it was wonderful how such a little thing could overwhelm such a large space. The bonfire died. The grass and gardens of Elfland faded. The moon blinked and went out. Now the light reached the elves.
Their glorious robes and jewels melted. Their perfect faces grew gaunt; their ever-youthful bodies became what they truly were: the dry husks of beings whose time was nearly gone. Partholis turned into a hag. Partholon was a grasping scarecrow. Gowrie became a weasel-like thug with shifty eyes. Even Lucy, genuinely young, became the crude, selfish creature she really was. The silver necklace had turned to lead.
The whole elfin kingdom was a dirty cave full of rubbish and bones. But most amazing of all, where the bonfire had been was a gaping hole. Creatures crawled and slithered at its edge like giant sow bugs or the half-decayed things thrown up on beaches after storms.
The Being still inspired terror, though. It was a mass of tentacles boiling out of the hole, the knucker of all knuckers. And it still hissed and bubbled threats. I will have my tithe, it said in a deadly voice.
“And I will give it to you!” Guthlac, whose bonds had vanished in the candle’s light, seized Father Swein and hurled him into the midst of the tentacles. The abbot shrieked once and disappeared into the seething mass. Guthlac laughed. “A fit feast for my master!” he cried.
You fool, said the Being. He was mine already and no more toothsome than a crust of dried bread. Come forth and receive your punishment. Guthlac opened his mouth as if to scream, but a giant sow bug forced its way out instead. It oozed horribly, prying the man’s jaws apart until Jack heard them crack. The creature dropped to the ground and was swept up by one of the seething tentacles.
I guess you’d call that large demon possession, thought Jack wildly. He saw Guthlac’s eyes clear, and for the first time the man looked sane. And joyful. Then he keeled over and died.
I will have my tithe, howled the Being, rising out of the hole. One burned-out sinner is not enough. You elves know the pact. If I’m not satisfied, I take one of you! And with that, it swept up Gowrie.
The elf’s screams echoed horribly as the Being sucked him down the hole. The teeming hordes of sow bugs hurried after, throwing themselves into the darkness. Rocks groaned and clashed as they came together again. Thunder shook the earth, going deeper and more distant until at last it died away.
Chapter Thirty-eight
FREEDOM
Elfland was dark. Only the light of the candle revealed the elves huddled in the shadows. They seemed stunned. Jack saw Thorgil curled up in a ball. He hurried to her side and tried to rouse her. “Thorgil,” he said, “I don’t think your hand is burned.”
She turned her face away. Her hand was hidden from him.
“The fire wasn’t real,” he said, falling to his knees beside her. “Everything was an illusion.”
“The fire was real,” she said.
“You’re in shock. Take hold of the rune of protection. It can heal you.”
“I already tried that, stupid, and it didn’t work.”
“Let me see.”
“Go away,” Thorgil said, curling up more tightly.
Jack saw Father Severus praying over the body of Guthlac. The monk placed his tin cross on the man’s chest and gently closed Guthlac’s eyes. Pega was still holding the candle, her eyes wide with shock. At her feet were two almost invisible bulges in the ground. “I really, really don’t want to go through that again,” said one of the bulges.
“If you’d listened to me, Your Noble Nit Brain, we wouldn’t have got into this mess in the first place,” said the other. Jack’s head jerked up. That voice sounded like the Nemesis!
“I had to save Pega,” the Bugaboo said.
“I was a fool to come with you,” growled the Nemesis.
“A very decent fool,” agreed the hobgoblin king. “Oh, Pega! I’m so glad to see you! Mmm! Let me kiss your dainty little feet.”
The girl jumped as though she’d been stung. “Stop that!” she yelled.
All around the cave Jack heard movement as the elves began to recover. “We’d better go,” said the Nemesis, standing up. “Once they re-create the glamour, we won’t know up from down.” Jack could see the hobgoblin’s shadowy outline in the light of the candle. He was wrapped from head to toe in motley wool and looked like a collection of smudges hanging in the air. Another collection of smudges was trying to hug Pega, but she was keeping it at arm’s length.
These were the secret allies Brutus had hinted at—the Bugaboo and the Nemesis had crept into Elfland to rescue Pega. They must have given Brutus the fire-making tools, but how had they known what to do?
Meanwhile, the elves had gathered themselves together. They held
hands and began to sing—softly at first, but gaining strength until their voices rose with heart-stopping power. Jack was spellbound. He had heard that music before, in another world.
It was on the way to Bebba’s Town. The tiny band of pilgrims had camped in a wood, and the Bard had played his harp. Father had delighted them with hymns he’d remembered from the Holy Isle. Afterward, they had stretched out under stars shining between the branches of an ash tree.
That night Jack had dreamed of music so beautiful and yet so full of longing and despair, he thought his heart would break. It was the voices of the elves. It was the voices he was hearing now. The music was a distant memory of Heaven, even as the elves themselves were but a fading memory of angels.
Vines curled up from the ground. Flowers blossomed from arbors rising from the earth. Stars reappeared in the sky, and the moon—
The moon!
A wail of anguish rose from the elves. Partholis screamed. Partholon shouted. Even Jack felt afraid. The moon had a bite out of its side! Time had cast its shadow on the Silver Apple.
“Quick! Quick!” bellowed Partholon. “We must repair the damage!”
“And blow out that candle!” shrieked Partholis.
“Run!” ordered the Nemesis, throwing off his cloak. He grabbed Jack’s arm and the Bugaboo took Pega’s.
“I won’t leave Thorgil,” Jack cried. The Nemesis cursed him but made a detour and yanked the shield maiden up by her hair. It was brutal and Jack wouldn’t have done it, but it had the desired effect. Thorgil stopped moaning and joined the escape.
“Where’s Father Severus?” shouted Pega.
“I have him,” panted Ethne. She was supporting his weight on her shoulders and was urging him to make haste. The Bugaboo quickly lifted the monk in his arms and carried him along. Jack saw, to his surprise, that Ethne’s face in the light of the candle was still beautiful. She was older and her hair had lost some of its brightness, but Jack thought she looked nicer that way.
The elves were too distracted to pursue them far. Jack raised his staff, ready to do battle with the Picts, but he needn’t have worried. The Picts were completely undone. They howled like dogs. They frothed at the mouth. The candlelight had aged them dreadfully, and it was a wonder such withered creatures were alive at all. Frail, bent, toothless, they mourned the passing of the time when they had been young and had killed Romans.
Jack found himself climbing up, not down, so the direction of the hallway had indeed been an illusion. But presently, the ground seemed to shift and go down. Tapestries sprouted from the walls, gilded tiles spread across the floor.
“Faster! Faster!” snarled the Nemesis. Try as Jack would to imagine himself climbing up, the magic was too strong. All his senses told him they were fleeing into the heart of the earth with a mountain of rock overhead. His senses dulled. He stopped, wondering why he was running, but the Nemesis kicked him and forced him to go on.
After a while the walls reverted to dirt again and the floor to gravel. “You can rest,” panted the Nemesis. “Glamour doesn’t reach here.” They all collapsed on the ground. The Bugaboo propped Father Severus against a wall, and the monk gazed at the hobgoblin in utter amazement.
“You aren’t—you wouldn’t happen to be—an imp?” he said.
“See, that’s the kind of slander we have to live with,” complained the Nemesis. “Mud men!”
“We’re honest hobgoblins,” explained the Bugaboo, “not to be confused with devils, imps, demons, unclean spirits, or fiends. Or, indeed, with full-blown goblins,” he added, warming to his subject. “They’re fond of dining on monks, but we’d never do that.”
Father Severus felt for his cross and realized he’d left it behind with Guthlac.
“We’re good Christians, too,” said the Bugaboo.
“You are?” the monk said doubtfully.
“We like nothing better than a good sermon—by the way, I thought your speech to the Elf Queen was excellent.”
“It wasn’t as good as the one Columba gave the Picts,” the Nemesis argued.
“True, but he was a saint,” the Bugaboo said. “What a glorious chase! And what a rescue! I imagine they’ll be making poems about us for centuries, eh, Pega? ‘The Hobgoblin King and His Bride.’”
“I’m not your bride,” said Pega.
Thorgil was sunk in gloom, but Ethne looked radiant. “I’m free,” she exulted. “I can hardly wait to become a nun, to wear hair shirts, go without food, and endure public floggings.”
“You don’t have to go as far as that,” Father Severus said.
“Oh, but I want to suffer! I will strive for Heaven like a martyr, welcoming each new pain with joy!”
The monk frowned slightly. “People do better with ordinary goodness—feeding the hungry, caring for orphans. That sort of thing. You shouldn’t take pride in suffering.”
“Oh, I won’t,” cried Ethne, clasping her hands. “I’ll never be proud again. I’ll be the most humble servant God has ever had!”
Father Severus sighed. “We’ll work on humility later—if we get out of here.”
“No problem,” said the Bugaboo. “There’s an excellent way out via your old cell. We tried to get to you earlier, but the door was too closely guarded.”
They went on, more slowly this time. Thorgil continued to hide her hand, and Pega tried to keep Jack between her and the hobgoblin king. They found the prison door open. To one side was the chain that had been used to tether Guthlac. “If ever I’m tempted to feel sorry for those wretched elves,” said Father Severus, “I’ll remember what they did to Guthlac.”
“Where is he now?” Jack asked.
“Called to judgment, as all of us shall be. I hope Heaven is kind to him, for he suffered much.” Once inside, Father Severus lit a lamp and Pega blew out her candle. The light became dimmer, and some of the warmth went out of the room.
“It’s so small,” mourned Pega, for barely half of the candle remained.
“But it did great service,” said the Bugaboo.
Jack found Thorgil’s knife under the fallen benches. He handed it to her, certain it would revive her spirits, but she turned away. “You take it. I can never use it again.”
“The fire was an illusion,” Jack insisted.
“Then how do you explain this?” Thorgil held out the hand she’d been hiding. It was an odd, silvery color. “I can’t move my fingers. I’m paralyzed.” She laughed bitterly. “Once, Frith Half-Troll threatened to cut off my right hand so I could be a warrior no more. It seems she got her wish.”
“We’ll find a wise woman. Someone will know how to cure you.”
Thorgil looked at him scornfully. “One thing a Northman never indulges in is false hope.”
“What in blazes were you doing?” said the Nemesis, looking at the holes hacked in the wall.
“Trying to escape,” said Jack. “We figured there was only a short distance between the ceiling and the outside.”
The hobgoblin chuckled. “There’s an even shorter distance from that spring at the back of the dungeon. Trust mud men to get it all wrong.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you for the longest time,” said Jack. “Why do you keep calling us mud men?”
“Because God made Adam from the dust of the earth, idiot,” said the Nemesis. “Honestly! Some people never go to church.” He started digging by the spring and soon uncovered a stone circle with a ring in it. He and the Bugaboo moved it away to reveal an opening.
“We go down?” said Jack. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does when you’re at the top of a mountain,” said the Nemesis. “Elfland lies deep. The tunnel went up until it was high above the earth, but you didn’t know it because of the glamour. You’ll drop from here into a stream. Then it’s a hop, skip, and a jump to Middle Earth.”
“I can hardly wait!” said Pega, her eyes shining.
“Me neither.” The Bugaboo swept her up in his arms and jumped into the hole. Jack heard a splash no
t far below and a shriek from Pega.
“I forgot to mention the water’s cold,” the Nemesis said with an evil grin.
Ethne insisted on going next. “I abandon Elfland,” she said solemnly. “I forswear all pleasures and embrace the sorrows of mortality, the better to gain entry into Hea—”
“Enough nitter-natter,” grunted the Nemesis, dropping her down the hole. Jack heard a splash and a scream an instant later. Then Jack and Thorgil went.
“Troll spit!” swore the shield maiden. “He wasn’t joking about the cold!”
The water was like liquid ice and so was the air. Jack’s breath came out as a plume of fog. “Up you go,” said the Bugaboo, lifting them onto the bank. Pega and Ethne were already there, teeth chattering and bodies shaking. The hobgoblin king waded into the stream, and the Nemesis lowered Father Severus into his arms. “Can’t get you wet, can we?” the Bugaboo said cheerfully. “You’re so skinny, you’d freeze like an icicle.” The Nemesis came down last.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he demanded of the humans huddled on the bank. The cold didn’t seem to affect either him or the king.
The water rushed past stalactites of ice. Blue light came from an opening not far away, where the stream ended in a waterfall. They edged along a slippery path until they came out onto a shelf of black rock.
“It’s daytime,” murmured Jack. “It was the middle of the night in Elfland.”
“That’s how it is when you leave Elfland,” said the Nemesis, scowling. “Time is an illusion there. For all we know, they celebrated Midsummer’s Eve after breakfast, or even last week. Don’t think about it too long,” he advised, noting Jack’s bewildered expression. “It’ll only give you a headache.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
THE FOREST OF LORN
Below was a valley flanked by tall mountains. Its trees were not emerald green. Its fields were not filled with giant flowers, nor was the lake they bordered the brilliant blue of the waters of Elfland, but it was closer to the human heart.
Jack loved every lopsided tree, crooked stream, and marshy meadow of it.