The Land of the Silver Apples sot-2

by Nancy Farmer

  “Oh!” cried Jack, delighted.

  “It is nice, isn’t it?” agreed the monk. “Those are all the bits we were able to save from the Holy Isle. The window in our chapel is bigger, but the colors aren’t as bright. There was nothing finer than that window on the Holy Isle. Here,” said the monk proudly, tapping one of the carved boxes, “are St. Chad’s sandals. He refused to ride horses on his pilgrimages, preferring to walk like a humble peasant.”

  “Perhaps he was afraid of horses,” said Jack.

  “Nonsense. Saints aren’t afraid of anything. Here we have a lock of St. Cuthbert’s hair. One of our monks had a dreadful tumor over his eye—big as a hen’s egg, it was. The brother held Cuthbert’s hair against his eyelid, and from that moment, the tumor began to shrink.”

  The monk held up one item after another, explaining their holy powers. Jack would have said magic powers, but he knew the monks were sensitive about that. Finally, the man brought out a chest made of sea ivory.

  The cover was stained with something dark, perhaps blood, Jack thought uneasily. He saw a carving of a man lying with his arms outstretched on a bed of leaves. Vines twisted around him like snakes, as though he were being devoured by foliage and would soon disappear altogether.

  “This,” the monk said reverently, “contains St. Oswald’s arms.”

  “His weapons?”

  “Oh, no. When the pagans chopped him up, the saint’s pet raven carried off his real arms and hid them in a tree. It was one of Oswald’s first miracles.”

  “You keep body parts in there?”

  “Relics, my boy,” corrected the monk. “Holy relics. Kings travel from far and wide to worship them. They pay us much gold for the privilege.”

  “How nice,” said Jack, thinking, Please don’t open that box.

  “I’ll take them to the chapel, and later we can burn a candle, to thank St. Oswald for his deliverance.”

  On the way the monk dropped Jack off at a small dining hall. Father, Brother Aiden, Pega, and Lucy were seated at a table laden with oatcakes and many other good things.

  “You’re cured!” cried Pega, jumping up to hug him.

  “I’m so glad,” said Brother Aiden, moving to make room.

  “You should have been here last night,” said Father, apparently forgetting that Jack had been paralyzed at the time. “We had mutton chops and chicken.”

  “And honey cakes,” added Lucy.

  “They flavored the meat with spices I’ve never heard of,” Father said enthusiastically. “A black powder called ‘pepper’, and a brown powder called ‘cinnamon’ from over the sea.”

  “They certainly eat well here,” observed Jack, spearing a slice of bacon with his knife. Or at least in Father Swein’s dining hall, he thought. He wondered what ordinary pilgrims got. Or slaves, for that matter.

  Monks came and went. All of them were taller, fatter, and better dressed than Brother Aiden, who looked like a drab little sparrow in his threadbare robe. They heaped their plates with bacon, ham, oysters, and sardines, and they mopped up the gravy with fine, white bread slathered in butter.

  “Was the food on the Holy Isle this good?” the boy asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Brother Aiden. “We had taken a vow of poverty. Our lives were simple. We hauled water, chopped wood, and tended fields. In our spare time we prayed. I was responsible for keeping order in the library. I fear the library here is neglected—manuscripts dumped on the floor, ink pots empty. I would not like to see the inks I brought dry up for lack of use.”

  Jack thought privately they would be sold to buy more bacon, ham, oysters, and sardines. “Did you own slaves?”

  “Why—no,” said the little monk. “Our abbot thought slavery was evil, as do I. But Father Swein is concerned with saving the souls of men who would otherwise have been executed. I would not criticize him.”

  A bell clanged in the distance. All the monks rose, some of them cramming a last oyster or oatcake into their mouths before bustling out the door. Kitchen slaves shambled in to clear the tables.

  “I believe,” said Brother Aiden, “that it’s time for the exorcism.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  SMALL DEMON POSSESSION

  Father fussed with Lucy’s hair. She was wearing her white Yule dress, which had been cleaned and brushed, and the silver necklace hung about her neck. “Is that necklace a good idea?” Jack said.

  “Don’t touch it!” the little girl shrilled. “You only want to steal it!”

  “Dear child, he’s your brother,” Brother Aiden admonished.

  “He’s a thief!”

  Father merely shrugged and gathered up his cloak. He lifted Lucy into his arms.

  “I can whisk that necklace right off her,” whispered Pega to Jack. “One of my owners taught me how to pick pockets.”

  “It would only make her wild,” he replied. They followed Brother Aiden through the grounds of the monastery. A ragged line of people waited outside a door in a high wall, and for the first time Jack got a close look at those who came for St. Filian’s blessing.

  One boy drooled continuously—his tunic was soaked—and another twitched as though he had ants attacking his arms and legs. A thin, anxious-looking woman wept monotonously while her husband stroked her arm and murmured, “There, there.” Presently, someone started screaming, and the whole line woke up with moans and shrieks. Family members stolidly comforted or wrestled—whichever was necessary.

  Lucy shrank against Father’s chest. “I don’t like these people!”

  “You won’t be treated with them,” Father assured her. “Father Swein has assured us a special audience.”

  Slowly, the line filed through the door. A monk stood outside with a checklist. “Jocelyn. Night terrors. Fee: A brace of rabbits. Paid.” He checked the item off a list. Jocelyn, who squeaked every time someone got close to her, was held closely by her mother. “Erkbert. Falling sickness and small demon possession. Fee: Two laying hens. Paid.” Erkbert walked meekly past the recording monk, followed by his equally meek wife. “Guthlac. Large demon possession. Fee: One cow in milk. Paid.” Guthlac, who was large himself, never mind the demon, had to be dragged through the door by his father and brothers.

  “I want to go home,” wailed Lucy.

  “And so you shall, the minute you are cured,” soothed Father.

  “Just how do they exorcise people?” Jack asked.

  “Sprinkle them with holy water, I expect,” said Brother Aiden. “That’s what we did on the Holy Isle.”

  By now they were at the door. “Lucy. Possible small demon possession. Fee: Five containers of Holy Isle ink—ah! It’s you,” cried the recording monk, smiling at Brother Aiden. He signaled to a large slave lounging against the wall. “Please conduct our esteemed visitor to the relic room. They’re holding a small reception in your honor.”

  “But I wanted to observe the child’s exorcism!”

  “The abbot himself requested the celebration. It isn’t every day we have the esteemed librarian from the Holy Isle as a guest. He’d be delighted, let me assure you, to have you stay permanently.”

  “But—” protested Brother Aiden as he was steered away from the door. Jack watched in dismay. He didn’t trust these monks, and Aiden, small and humble though he was, provided some protection.

  “Where was I?” said the recording monk. “Fee: Five containers of Holy Isle ink. Paid. In you go.”

  On the other side of the door was a jostling, moaning crowd. Beyond them lay a yawning pit with only the faintest glint of water in its black depths. A ladder was propped against its side, leading downward. Guarding the pit were the evilest-looking thugs the boy had ever seen, including Northmen.

  “We’re supposed to have a private consultation,” protested Father. He turned back to the door, but it had closed. A gang of slaves positioned themselves before it.

  “Get back with the rest of the loonies,” snarled one of them.

  “This isn’t a place for a little child,�
�� cried Father, clutching Lucy to his chest.

  “I want to go!” she wailed.

  “You’ve got a choice, boss,” said the leader of the slaves. “Line up nice and quiet with the other mooncalves, or get a dose of my special headache medicine.” He smacked a cudgel against his meaty palm.

  Father worked his way through the crowd, with Jack and Pega in tow. In the far corner of the courtyard he found a willow tree growing next to the wall. It had been cut down to allow the growth of a small forest of slender, new branches. Inside was a natural hollow just large enough for Lucy.

  “It’s like when we were hiding from Northmen,” Jack whispered as she crouched inside. “You must be absolutely quiet.” She nodded, making herself as small as possible. She remembered being dragged up by the hair and having a knife held to her throat.

  “Can you climb that?” Father asked Jack.

  “Me?”

  “Get to the top and I’ll hand you Lucy.”

  The willow branches were covered with fluffy yellow catkins that spilled pollen on Jack’s face and made him sneeze. “Quiet,” whispered Father. Jack swallowed and tried to ignore the tickle that rose in the back of his throat. He wormed between the willow and the wall, looking in vain for footholds. Every gap in the stones had been covered with white plaster. The branches bent beneath his weight and sprang up with a whoosh of pollen whenever he stepped off them. Any minute one of the slaves would notice. Jack paused halfway up, panting with exertion. “Hurry,” urged Father.

  He wriggled his way up the last stretch of wall and was relieved to see it was wide enough to lie down on. Through the catkins he saw a group of slaves approaching. Father and Pega crouched in the gap next to the wall while Lucy curled up in the hollow. The slaves trudged by, heading for the ladder in the well. They climbed down, one after the other. From the splashing and coughing, Jack guessed the water was deeper than it looked.

  “Take this. The Bard said you must never be without it,” whispered Pega. She carefully lifted Jack’s ash wood staff through the branches. “It tingles,” she gasped as he took the other end. It most definitely did. Jack almost dropped it in surprise. It was the strongest feeling of power he’d had since leaving Jotunheim. Several monks suddenly appeared and sat down on the grass in front of the willow.

  What rotten luck! Jack couldn’t possibly take Lucy now. Go away, he ordered them silently. But the men settled themselves comfortably for a stay.

  Jack lay on the top of the wall, racking his brains for a plan. On the far side he saw the original St. Filian’s Well, with its rosebushes and orderly flower beds. No lady in white, fortunately. She must have been an elf, thought Jack, remembering Brutus’ remark about elf-shot. Jack had heard about elves all his life, about their beauty and eerie powers. Christians weren’t supposed to believe in them, but Christians didn’t believe in trolls, either, and Jack had seen those with his own eyes. He wished the Bard were here. The old man said that nothing was more enchanting than elf song at dusk. No bard could match it.

  St. Filian’s Well rose from a natural spring and was funneled through a hole in the wall to the black pit on the other side. Originally, Jack guessed, the water had meandered through fields. Or perhaps it had emptied into a lake. What must the elf lady think of having her water stolen? Jack thought. Maybe that’s why she’s in such a bad mood.

  The slaves were herding the patients to one side, sending the families back out the gate. If only we’d waited, Jack thought regretfully. We could have taken Lucy with us. But the slaves might have forced her to stay, alone and unprotected.

  The monks passed around a skin full of wine. “Good stuff,” one of them commented.

  “Spanish,” another replied. “From that earl who asked St. Oswald to help pillage his neighbor.”

  “Did he help?”

  “Of course. The neighbor was a pagan.”

  To Jack’s amazement, the patients were being blindfolded. All submitted meekly except Guthlac, he of the large demon possession. He had to be thrown to the ground and tied up with rope. He twisted and roared and cursed and snapped, but the slaves soon had him done up as neatly as a caterpillar in a cocoon. Brutus was set to watch him.

  Brutus. Jack didn’t know what to make of him. He was admirable for obeying his mother’s last wishes. On the other hand, he whined and groveled like a worm. As he was doing now before that tall monk in the spotless white robe.

  “Afflicted ones!” cried the monk as a silence fell over the courtyard. “Your deliverance is at hand! St. Filian will lay his blessing upon you and drive forth those imps that bedevil your minds. They will resist. They will shriek into your ears and torment you with their filthy claws to gain mastery of your souls. But have faith. We shall be victorious. Sit on that one, Brutus,” he added in a lower voice. “I swear, Beelzebub himself has taken up residence there.”

  “Yes, beloved master,” said Brutus, planting himself on Guthlac’s chest.

  That must be the abbot, Father Swein, thought Jack.

  The slaves led Jocelyn, she of the night terrors, to the edge of the pit. She moaned piteously. They stood her on the edge with her back to the water. “No, no, no, no,” she wailed.

  “That’s only the demon talking,” Father Swein assured the other patients, who were blindfolded and could not see what was happening.

  “Please, oh, please,” she begged. A slave shoved her brutally. She fell backward, screaming, into the pit. Jack leaped to his feet. Her cry was broken by a loud splash, and at once howls arose from below. It sounded as though all the fiends of Hell had risen from the depths and were fighting over the poor girl.

  Jack, from his new height, could see down into the water.

  The slaves were throwing Jocelyn around like a bundle of clothes. They submerged her, pinched her, pulled her hair, and slapped her face. Jack clutched the ash wood staff. He couldn’t do a thing to help her.

  “Pay no attention,” intoned the abbot. “Satan is difficult to cast out, but St. Filian will overcome.”

  Jocelyn must have fainted, because Jack couldn’t hear her cries anymore. She was carried, dripping, up the ladder and laid out on the grass. She seemed dead until a spasm shook her body and she vomited on the ground.

  “Take her to the orchard and bind her to a tree,” ordered Father Swein. “Her mother can collect her in the morning.” There was not a scrap of pity in his voice. He might have been talking about a mangy dog.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE EARTHQUAKE

  One after another, the patients were backed up to the pit and shoved in for the slaves below to torment. Jack hated them, but he realized they were, after all, condemned felons with no experience of mercy. The monks were different. They cheered as though they were at a ball game and made bets over which patient would last the longest before passing out. Jack absolutely despised them.

  The last to go was Guthlac in his cocoon of rope. No one had blindfolded him. It was far too dangerous to get near his snapping jaws. Two men dragged him to the edge and rolled him in. “Whuuuuuh!” roared Guthlac like an enraged bear as he went down. Not a bit of the fight was taken out of him.

  Jack was delighted to see him sink his teeth into the first man who approached.

  But then it went horribly wrong. The slaves dragged him under the water and continued their devilish howling while holding him down with their feet. Jack watched in stunned horror. He was seeing cold-blooded murder! Even the monks were shocked. “Father Swein! He’s been down too long!” one of them cried.

  The abbot slowly approached the edge of the well. He gazed over the pit, contemplating the scene below. “Bring him up,” he said at last. The men swam aside. Guthlac rolled to the surface like a dead seal. He was too heavy for the ladder, so he was pulled up by rope. Brutus bent down to untie his bonds. “No need for that,” Father Swein said.

  “Master, he’s dying,” said Brutus, not stopping. “I can save him if I press the water out of him.”

  “You will step back.”r />
  “No, master,” said Brutus. He turned Guthlac onto his stomach and began pushing on his ribs.

  “You will step back.” The abbot signaled to other slaves, and they pulled Brutus away. “This happens occasionally with the larger demons. Sometimes only death will drive them out. We have saved this man’s eternal soul.”

  Brutus, as he had in the hospital, changed from a hero to a buffoon in the blink of an eye. “Begging your pardon, beloved master. Brutus is a half-wit, always was. He doesn’t know dung from a dewdrop.”

  “That’s true,” said Father Swein as the slave proceeded to cower in a most nauseating way.

  Jack felt dizzy with rage. These monks were as bad as Northmen. Worse, for they had no honor. They pillaged those who believed in their goodness and lived like kings with their fried oysters and sacks of Spanish wine.

  “Who’s that standing on the wall?” said the abbot. Too late Jack realized his mistake. In his attempt to see into the pit, he’d come out into the open.

  “That’s the lad St. Oswald cured!” said the monk who had cared for him in the hospital. “You’re looking at a miracle, Father. Last night he could barely wiggle. I always said St. Oswald was powerful—”

  “Be still,” said Father Swein. “I remember he had a sister. Small demon possession or something. I haven’t seen her yet.”

  “She left with the families. Father changed his mind,” said Jack.

  “You lie,” the abbot said. “I can see your father hiding behind the willow.”

  At that, Giles Crookleg emerged. “I’ve changed my mind,” he declared. “You can keep the Holy Isle ink. I’ll take Lucy home.”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” said Father Swein, smiling to hide the menace Jack saw in his eyes. “We can’t have a demon trotting around, even a small, pretty one.”

  “Begging your pardon. Your treatment isn’t suitable for a little child.”

  “Oh, but it is,” the abbot said, amusement quirking his thin lips. “She’ll feel so much better with that nasty imp out of her.”