by John Lenahan
I didn’t have to worry about convincing the apple tree that I was sorry, she knew as soon as I touched her and I knew I was forgiven–the sensation of it washed over me. She was happy I was not seriously hurt–she had never hit anyone so hard before. I learned that it was not uncommon for her to give a child a little smack, just to teach a lesson, but she had never had a poacher as old as me and let loose a good one. She told me (felt me?) that Fergal and I could each have a couple of apples with her blessing. The only part of the conversation that was almost in words, was when I thanked her and said goodbye. I could have sworn she said, ‘Good luck, little prince.’
We sat under the apple tree’s shade and ate and drank water from Fergal’s canteen. Who’d have thought that an apple and some water could make such a superb meal? It was so satisfying I felt as though I could live on these two things alone. I have since found out that many people in The Land do just that.
‘You still look pretty wrecked, Conor. The castle’s only an hour or so away and we don’t want to be too early. Why don’t you have a snooze? I promise I won’t steal your shoes.’
‘I won’t argue with that,’ I said as I put my head on the soft grass. Before I dozed off I raised my hand behind me and touched the apple tree. I asked her if she minded me resting here a little bit. She told me she would look after me as I slept. Next thing I knew, I was dreaming again.
I dreamt I was a child, maybe five years old. I was walking between my parents, holding their hands as we passed under huge yew trees. These yews were not menacing like the ones on the river. The trees moved out of our way and bowed to us as we passed. An arrow sailed through the air and hit my father in the shoulder. I was upset but my father told me not to be silly and pulled the arrow from his flesh, like he was dusting dandruff off his suit. Mom rubbed the wound and it healed.
We sat together under a tree. Mom pointed and I looked up. I saw that the yew we were sitting under was now an apple tree. I turned to ask my mother if I could have an apple but she and my father were gone. Next, the apple tree raised itself up on huge roots, pushing itself free from the ground and kicked me! I rolled like a ball into the base of another tree and that one kicked me as well. Soon all of the trees had gathered around me having a kick-about, with me as the ball! The funny thing was I liked it. They weren’t hurting me, it was fun. After a while I got bored with the game and I laid down under a tree. The tree kept kicking me but I refused to move.
I awoke with a tree root sticking in my back. I am sure it wasn’t there when I fell asleep. Fergal was snoring away to my left. I toyed with the idea of stealing his shoes as a joke, but I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t stab me first and get the joke second. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. That’s when I saw him approach.
He was close enough that I could see that he was short, but not slight. He was built like a brick outhouse–not fat, just a solid body with a head sitting directly on the shoulders. I got the impression that if I ran at him with all of my might I would just bounce off. Maybe that’s where they got the word bouncer from–‘cause that’s exactly what he looked like. If you got rid of the leather toga he was wearing and put him in a tuxedo, you could imagine him standing in the doorway of any night club. He was walking directly towards us.
I stood and said, ‘Hi.’
He didn’t even notice me. In his hand he held a thick wooden stick with a gnarled top and seemed to be heading for Fergal. ‘Ah, excuse me,’ I said, trying to be polite, ‘can I help?’
He walked straight at Fergal and raised his stick. I drew my sword and covered the ground between us. That got his attention at least.
‘If you are looking for your neck, I can assure you we don’t have it.’
I looked him in the eye but he gave me nothing back. I couldn’t read the face at all. I kicked Fergal and said, ‘We’ve got company’
Fergal opened his eyes to see the Incredible Hulk Junior and myself standing over him with weapons drawn.
He looked at Hulk, then at me. ‘For the love of the gods, Conor, haven’t you ever met anybody without drawing a sword?’
‘A friend of yours?’
Fergal nodded and I lowered my weapon. ‘Conor, meet Araf–Araf, meet Conor.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, offering my hand, ‘I’ve had a rough couple of days.’
‘That’s what he said when he pulled a sword on me,’ Fergal said.
‘That’s not fair–this time I was defending you.’
Araf shook my hand and almost broke it.
‘He was coming at you with a club.’
‘It’s a banta stick,’ Fergal said, ‘and Araf always wakes me with it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because once, and only once,’ Fergal said defensively, glaring at Araf, ‘I attacked him with my Banshee blade when he woke me up. I was having a bad dream–and it was a long time ago. Ever since then he always wakes me with a stick.’
‘Sounds sensible,’ I said, thinking that I was lucky not to steal Fergal’s shoes while he slept.
Araf nodded at me in agreement. It was the first true communication between us.
‘Come on,’ Fergal said, picking himself off the ground, ‘we’ve got a party to go to.’
‘Are you coming to the party, Araf?’ I asked.
‘Are you kidding?’ Fergal replied for him. ‘Araf here is a party beast!’
As we walked to the party I got Araf’s life story–not from Araf, I might add, but from Fergal. I was starting to wonder if Araf could speak at all. Araf and Fergal had grown up together in a place called Castle Ur in the Heatherlands. It was obvious they weren’t blood relatives. One look at the two of them told you that they came from different gene pools–hell, different gene oceans. It turned out that both had been raised by the same nanny, who was now dead. When I asked Fergal about his parents he seemed to sidestep the question.
And check this out–Araf is an Imp! I came very close to bursting out laughing and saying, ‘Isn’t he a bit big for an Imp?’ but I kept my mouth shut. The Land was going to throw quite a few surprises at me. If I wanted to look like a native, I would have to take stuff like this in my stride. I couldn’t help thinking what a funky couple of days I was having. How many people can say they’ve been in a sword fight with a Banshee and an Imp and then went off to a party with them?
The landscape changed the closer we got to Castle Muhn. The fields of grain changed into towering vineyards. Ancient trellises of black hawthorn were draped with vines producing grapes in bunches so large I was amazed that they could stay on the vine. Bees the size of hummingbirds roared through the white and pink blossoms. Castle Muhn was not like the imposing fortress of Castle Duir. It was huge–it must have taken up over an acre, with low walls, and I noticed a conspicuous lack of sentries. Actually, with the vineyards around it, it looked more like a sprawling French chateau.
We walked in silence for a while, which I was starting to realise was unusual for Fergal. Things had been so crazy, this was the first moment I had time to collect my thoughts. Jeez, I hoped Dad was alright. He looked bad when I left him but he was definitely alive. I felt guilty going to a party, but something in my mother’s voice back there made me think Dad would be OK. And then there was my dream. Was that a vision or just wish-fulfilment? Well, as much as I would like to be able to help him, there was nothing I could do about it. Still, that didn’t stop me from worrying.
I decided to look at the big picture. Right. My father is a prince or maybe a king. My mother is an outlaw sorceress, and everyone in this place (that shouldn’t even exist) wants to kill me. OK, let’s forget the big picture–that was just freaking me out. I needed a plan for the here and now. What should I do? I should get out of here, that’s what I should do. I needed to get out of The Land. If the prophecy was right, and everyone around here seemed to take it seriously–deadly seriously–then my parents’ plan was a good one. Let me live a long and happy life in the Real World and when I reach a ripe old age, I pass away in my bed. The son of the one-h
anded prince will die, and Tir na Nog will be saved. Good plan–I liked it. But how do I get back to the Real World? There had to be a way, after all my father and I had done it. The answer was Mom. She was the one that sent us in the first place. If I could find my mother, I could get out of here. OK, I had a plan–find my mother. Where? How? She said she was going to the Fililands, so now all I had to do was find out how to get there. I chuckled to myself–the fact of the matter was that I was lost and scared and the only plan I could come up was–I want my mommy!–real mature.
The approach to the outer wall of the castle was strange–eerie, in fact. The gate was wide open but there were no guards, no anybody. I could just about hear music coming from within but there was no one outside or inside the doorway as far as I could tell.
‘I’m not an expert on castles,’ I said, ‘but aren’t you supposed to, like, guard them?’
‘Gerard doesn’t need guards, he’s got a mountain of gold,’ Fergal said. ‘This place is crawling with snap spells. I’m sure if you were up to no good, you wouldn’t get in here.’
‘Gerard?’ I said. ‘Is this the same guy who built the huts?’
‘Of course.’
We were actually inside the castle and still there was nobody around. There was definitely something going on. I could hear music but there was no sign of a party. I was startled when huge wooden doors at the end of the hallway opened and half a dozen servants with trays of dirty mugs and plates hurried past us without even a second glance. Music and the smell of food escaped from the room like a caged bird. The sound and the aroma were instantly intoxicating. I had been thinking that maybe going to such a public event was a bad idea, but after I got that nose–and earful–just try to keep me out.
Fergal reached the door first and then jumped when he heard a voice saying, ‘Name?’
To the right of the door was an alcove with a split door, the top half open. Behind the door was an old guy–and I mean an ancient old guy. Physically he didn’t look that old, but I could see the years in his eyes. It’s amazing how quickly I had gotten used to examining people’s eyes. This guy’s peepers had been around for a long, long time.
‘Name?’ he repeated.
‘Fergal of Castle Ur.’
‘Castle Ur?’ the old man questioned. ‘You don’t look like an Imp to me.’
‘He is with me,’ Araf said, in a beautiful bass voice.
‘My God!’ I said. ‘He can speak.’
‘Ah, Master Araf,’ the old guy said, ‘it is good to see you again.’
‘This is my kinsman, Fergal,’ Araf said. ‘He is indeed of Castle Ur, and this is Conor of…’
They all three looked to me for an answer–what could I say? ‘I am Conor of—the Fililands.’
They all looked at me like I was from another planet (which I guess I was) and then burst into laughter.
‘The Fililands!’ the old man repeated. ‘That’s a good one. Try not to eat any babies tonight, will you?’
Fergal and Araf laughed at this. So I did too.
‘I promise,’ I said.
‘Any friends of Master Araf are welcome in Castle Muhn,’ said the old man. ‘I’ll take your weapons now, if you please. That would include the one up your sleeve, Master…Fergal, was it?’
Fergal looked shocked but produced and unhooked his Banshee blade.
‘I was hoping to get into a banta match.’ Araf spoke again. ‘Can I not keep my stick?’
The doorkeeper held out his hand and Araf handed him his banta stick. The old man inspected it and placed it with a bunch of others behind the door. ‘There will be sticks provided if you wish to compete. And our sticks,’ the old man said with a wry smile, ‘have the added advantage of not being hollowed out and filled with lead.’
Araf nodded like a guilty schoolboy.
Fergal and I both handed over our weapons. He filed Fergal’s blade away, but looked at mine for quite some time.
‘This is an exquisite sword,’ the old man said, as he placed it alone in a narrow cupboard. ‘Does it have a name?’
‘Does what have a name?’ I asked.
‘Your sword–a weapon as superb as this should have a name.’
‘Oh, of course–I–I call it,’ I announced, “the Lawnmower!”
Chapter Nine
Essa
Since my first experience of a castle was inside a sewer-scented dungeon, I was expecting the other side of the door to be filled with disgusting barbarians in bearskins. I imagined them chomping on huge legs of animal flesh as they slapped the backsides of passing serving wenches, their greasy chins glistening in dim torchlight. How wrong can a boy be?
This place was spectacularly elegant. We were no longer strictly in the castle but in the Great Vineyard, a football-pitch-sized courtyard adorned with fountains and huge black and white marble statues. The statues were like oversized chess pieces strewn about in a haphazard manner–some upright, others on their side. It was as if the gods had just dumped out a giant chess set before they set up for a game. Roofing the courtyard was a black trellis that supported grapevines with fruit as big as plums. What was left of the day’s light filtered through the leaves, giving the room a majestic green hue.
Remembering the incident with the apple, the first thing I did was place my hand on a vine and ask nicely if I could have a grape. ‘NO YOU MAY NOT!’ The answer came back so clear it made my head hurt. These were proud plants.
Fergal whacked me on the back, ‘You weren’t thinking about plucking a grape from the Great Vineyard, were you?’
‘Who, me?’ I lied. ‘I wouldn’t be that stupid.’
‘Come on, let’s try Gerard’s new vintage.’
The party was in full swing. The music was infectious. It instantly lifted me into a party mood and made my walk resemble a little dance. It reminded me of Irish traditional music–but not quite. I was starting to think that there must have been some cultural exchange between my world and this one, because so much of The Land was almost familiar. The couple of hundred guests were standing around with mugs or sitting at wooden tables. I noticed that no two tables were of the same wood and each one would have made an antique dealer drool.
It seemed that all were welcome here. The guests’ clothes ranged from farmers’ rags to elegant flowing gowns, and everyone was mixing. I was expecting to get that we don’t like strangers around here stare but everyone was smiling and nodding, especially to Araf. We got to the bar and Fergal ordered ‘three of the new stuff’. While we were waiting for our wine, Fergal noticed he was standing next to someone he knew and slapped him on the back. He was a tall, lean man with very straight, shoulder-length blond hair. I could see by his expression that he liked being slapped on the back almost as much as I did.
‘Esus! How the hell are ya?’
‘Ah, Fergal, this must be your first celebration at Castle Muhn.’
‘It is indeed.’
‘And good evening, Master Araf,’ the tall man said.
Araf bowed.
‘Esus,’ Fergal said, ‘I would like you to meet Conor. Conor, Esus.’
‘Good evening,’ I said, bowing in the same manner as Araf.
The tall man bowed back, but only slightly.
‘Esus,’ Fergal explained, ‘is the Elf that takes care of the trees around Castle Ur.’
‘You’re an Elf?’ I blurted before I could stop myself.
‘I have that distinction–yes.’
‘Well,’ I said, trying to recover my composure, ‘some of my best friends are Elves.’
‘Oh yes,’ Esus said, ‘who?’
What a stupid thing to say. What was I going to do now? This was the first person I had met in The Land that I hadn’t tried to stab–I was starting to miss my old method of greeting people.
‘Ah…Legolas. Do you know him?’
‘No,’ said Esus. ‘What clan is he in?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Hey, when I said best friends, I really meant acquaintances.’
‘Ah, my first taste of the new vintage. To Gerard and his vines,’ Fergal toasted, and we all clinked our mugs.
I’m not a real big fan of wine. Oh, I’ll have the odd glass at a posh dinner, but by and large I’d rather have a beer any day of the week, but this was wine I would sell my soul for. It was the nectar of the gods. I had an image of Bacchus, the Roman wine god, waltzing in and throwing a barrel of this stuff over his shoulder.
I don’t know why I was so surprised that this was the finest wine I had tasted, as everything I had tried in The Land had been the best thing I had ever seen or smelt or tasted–but surprised I was. ‘Wow! This is awesome!’ I shouted, so loud that everyone around the bar turned to look.
‘It’s alright,’ Esus said, dropping his voice to a whispered, ‘I think Gerard is skimping on the gold a bit this year–but so is everyone.’
‘You mean there is better wine than this?’ I said, between slurps.
That was a mistake. Esus went into a litany of vintages, giving detailed descriptions of each year’s colour, flavour and bouquet. He was a wine bore. I spotted it instantly and didn’t even try to keep up. While I pretended to listen to him, I contemplated meeting my first Elf. He didn’t look like an Elf. Here I was in a room full of Elves, Imps, Banshees and God knows what else and everyone looked so–normal. To be honest I was a bit disappointed. In the back of my mind I wanted this party to be like the Cantina scene in Star Wars, but it seems that the difference between an Elf and a Banshee is like the difference between a Norwegian and an Italian. Sure, you could tell the difference, but underneath they were all pretty much the same.
The sun had almost set, and the light shining through the vine trellis was waning. Just as I thought, We could use a little light in here, as if on cue about twenty of the waiting staff entered the room each holding a small pyramid of glowing gold wire balls. A handsome and distinguished man, also holding five glowing wire balls, strode into the centre of the room. The golden glow from his hands was brighter than all of the others–it illuminated his purple velvet outfit and his silver beard, and twinkled in ancient but still-mischievous eyes. He looked like a king out of a pack of cards. The crowd parted and applauded as he made his way to a small dais in the centre of the room.