The Land of the Silver Apples sot-2

by Nancy Farmer

  There were several caves hidden behind vines and trees. All but one were found to be blocked by rockfalls. The last one opened under the sea and was covered by water except at low tide. They had to wait for hours until it was revealed.

  It was an uninviting hole, choked with the litter of many storms. A small whale had wedged itself between rocks, and its bones were still draped with decaying blubber.

  “We must hurry,” the Bugaboo said. “We have to go down before we go up, and if the tide comes in…”

  We drown, thought Jack, eyeing the slippery rocks beyond. They had made torches for the journey, not good ones and not nearly enough. But the Bugaboo said there would be light farther on. Thorgil went first, brandishing a torch. Then came the hobgoblins, carrying Father Severus. Pega followed with Ethne, who breathed deeply of the odor of rotten whale.

  “So that’s what decay smells like,” she said in wonder. “Nothing like it has ever existed in Elfland.”

  “If you don’t move, I’m going to throw up,” said Pega.

  “But why?” said the elf lady in honest puzzlement. “It is a strong scent, to be sure. So is the odor of honeysuckle, but I find them both equally enjoyable.” And she probably did, Jack thought. How would she know the difference between nasty and nice when nothing in her experience had taught her? Pega shoved her roughly to make her go on.

  Jack came last, carrying both Thorgil’s knife and his staff. In his experience trouble usually showed up from behind. He looked carefully from side to side and listened for stealthy noises.

  The floor sank into pools of brackish, fetid water. Soon they were wading through the muck to their waists. The hobgoblins hoisted Father Severus’ litter over their heads, and he clung on grimly. Shadows danced along the walls from Thorgil’s torch.

  Waves echoed from behind, and now and then a fresh surge of water poured down. Jack’s legs itched with salt. His feet were frozen and the air reeked. He tried to appreciate the odor of rotten whale and failed.

  A whoosh and sudden rush of water made him stumble. “Run!” cried the Bugaboo. “The tide has turned!”

  They hurried as well as they could, sloshing and splashing with curses from Thorgil and even Pega. “What does ‘filthy #$@!!’ mean?” said Ethne.

  “Tell you later,” panted Pega. Both she and the elf lady were weighted down with baskets of supplies balanced on their heads. Fortunately, the path began to go up. The floor of the tunnel changed to sand and the ceiling rose until all could walk freely without fear of bumping into rock. They came at last to a level section. Everyone collapsed on the ground, and Thorgil jammed the torch into the sand.

  “I haven’t been here in ages,” said the Bugaboo after a while.

  “It’s the same old pest hole,” grunted the Nemesis. A breeze moved fitfully from ahead, pushing back the remnants of ripe whale.

  Jack looked around at the oddly bulbous rocks. They resembled balls of dough glued together. “What kind of pest?” he said.

  “Yarthkins, mainly,” said the Bugaboo. “The wraiths stick to their hall, except for Jenny Greenteeth. She wanders a bit.”

  “Why? What’s she looking for?” said Pega.

  “Don’t you worry, my little moss blossom,” the Bugaboo said, wrapping an arm about the girl. “Old Jenny’s learned a thing or two about bothering hobgoblins since she last—well, I won’t go into details.”

  “I’ve heard of yarthkins, but what exactly are they?” said Jack before Pega could ask further questions about Jenny Greenteeth’s habits.

  “They’re old gods,” said the Nemesis. “They keep themselves to themselves. If you don’t bother them, they don’t bother you.”

  Pega passed around cold, grilled leeks as a snack to keep up everyone’s spirits. She had smoked fish as well, but the Bugaboo said it would make them thirsty and shouldn’t be touched until they found freshwater. Thorgil’s torch had by now burned down to the ground, and she lit another one.

  The walk was almost pleasant. The tunnel grew larger until it was wide enough for ten men to walk side by side with their arms outstretched. Jack was glad of the space. Narrow, underground tunnels made him nervous. The sand changed to dirt. The air became fresher with a hint of growing things, although nothing green could have lived in such darkness. Still, if Jack closed his eyes, he could imagine walking through a field. There was a liveliness to the air, a feeling that at any moment a leaf might burst out of the soil.

  Presently, they came to a spring bubbling up from the ground. It flowed into a brook, and huge, pale mushrooms as tall as a man grew along its banks.

  The Bugaboo called a halt. “We’ve been walking for hours. I’d guess it’s already dark outside.” Jack realized, with surprise, that it was true. He’d been so interested in this last part of the journey, he hadn’t noticed how tired he was.

  “You can douse the torch,” the Nemesis said. “We won’t need it here.”

  With some misgivings, Jack saw Thorgil reverse her torch and extinguish it. The light went out, and for a moment all was dark. Then—here, there, far, and near—a gentle glow rose like mist. Jack couldn’t make out the source at first, but after a few moments it had strengthened enough to cast his shadow on the ground.

  It was the mushrooms. Pale green and misty pearl, they shone like veiled moons. Along the ground by their massive trunks crept glowworms. A spark of greenish light flashed from the ceiling and was answered by another flash. Fireflies suddenly filled the upper air.

  “We can drink the water here,” the Bugaboo said. They were all extremely thirsty by now, and all knelt by the spring with cupped hands. The water was cold and clean with a hint of something green in it.

  “If it were not blasphemy, I would say this is the water of life,” Father Severus said.

  “You wouldn’t be wrong,” said the Bugaboo. “This was the heart of the old gods’ kingdom before people invaded the land. It is this that nourishes the roots of the forest and sweetens the waters welling from the earth. Ancient things still abide here that care nothing for the affairs of mankind. We hobgoblins were once part of it before St. Columba gave us souls.”

  “God gave you souls,” the monk gently reproved him. “St. Columba only awakened you to their existence.”

  Now they could eat the smoked fish and the pignuts and garlic steamed in seaweed by Pega. It was a jolly gathering in spite of the weird surroundings. Thorgil told several tales of bloodcurdling battles, each ending with everyone getting killed and being devoured by ravens.

  “Why don’t you give us a poem?” said Jack, hoping to divert her from her depressing sagas. He knew Thorgil was proud of her poetic ability.

  “All right,” she agreed, smiling.

  The battlements crumble, the mead-halls decay.

  Joyless and still, the warriors sleep

  Where they fell, by the wall they defended.

  The bright ale cup lies trampled underfoot

  And only the gray wolves drink deeply

  Of the lifeblood so carelessly spilled—

  “What?” said Thorgil, halting her recitation. The hobgoblins were staring at her in horror, Father Severus was shaking his head, and Pega looked ready to cry.

  “Are those men dead?” Ethne said earnestly. “I need to know because I’ve never seen a dead man.”

  “It’s a poem!” shouted Thorgil. “You’re supposed to enjoy it!”

  “It’s very good,” Jack said quickly, “but I think everyone’s tired after such a long walk. Perhaps we need something less stirring.”

  “I’ll tell a story,” Father Severus said. Jack had no great hopes for the gloomy monk’s offering, but he surprised everyone with a tale called:

  THE BEST AND THE WORST NAIL IN THE ARK

  Long ago (began Father Severus) Noah set out to build the ark, but he was a busy man. He had to gather two members of every creature on earth, and that took time and a great deal of money. So he gave the task of ark-building over to a drunken carpenter. The carpenter nailed a boa
rd here and a board there. He worked only when Noah’s sons—Shem, Ham, and Japheth—threatened him.

  Finally, the ark was done, but there was one flaw. The carpenter had left out one nail at the very bottom of the ship, and so there was a hole for the water to come in.

  Now the clouds gathered, the thunder rolled, and the rain came down in buckets. Shem, Ham, and Japheth herded the animals into the ark. Two by two they went, but Noah’s sons made a mistake. There were not two, but three snakes. The Devil had decided to sneak aboard in the shape of a serpent.

  Noah went around to check all the supplies and animal pens. The Devil hid here, he hid there, because Noah had very sharp eyes and knew the difference between a real serpent and a fake. Finally, there was no other place to hide but that one hole at the bottom of the ship. The Devil went in, and—oh, my goodness!—he was stuck. He could go neither in nor out. He couldn’t even wiggle. So there he stayed, plugging up the leak until the Flood was over.

  That is why the Devil is called the best nail and the worst nail in the ark.

  “That’s a fine story,” said Pega, laughing.

  “I must remember it for the other hobgoblins,” said the Bugaboo.

  “What kind of seafarer puts out to sea without checking for leaks?” argued Thorgil. “And what were his shiftless sons doing, letting that drunken carpenter slack off? I would have thrashed the lot of them and hired a good shipwright.”

  Jack realized she had missed the point, but he kept silent. He knew she was still smarting over the reception of her poem.

  Last of all, Pega sang. That was how it had been in the dungeons of Elfland and on the beach as well. No one wanted to perform after Pega because she was so extremely good.

  Jack had to admit it. He was jealous of her, which he knew was unworthy. After all, she had nothing else but this talent. I suppose I’m not any different from Thorgil, wanting everyone to admire my poetry, he thought. He didn’t pay attention to Pega’s voice, brooding as he was, until she screamed.

  Jack leaped to his feet, staff at the ready. Everyone else was huddled in a group. The light was suddenly brighter—now the mushrooms really did look like moons. All around Jack saw that the lumps in the wall, the lumps that had reminded him of bread dough squashed together, had changed. Each one was wrapped in long, silky hair the color of wheat, and inside these cocoons were little curled-up bodies as brown as freshly turned earth. The faces were old beyond imagining, masses of wrinkles so deep, you could hardly believe they were real. And in the middle of each face were two bright black eyes watching Pega intently.

  “Yarthkins,” whispered the Nemesis. “They’re fine as long as you don’t upset them.”

  “What should we do?” Jack whispered back. There were so many of them, all squashed together like cells in a honeycomb. Each one was no larger than a year-old child, but together they might be dangerous.

  “Keep quiet,” advised the Bugaboo. “If we do nothing, they might go back to sleep.” Everyone sat very still. A sigh, soft and high like a little bird twittering, passed over the walls. One of the lumps oozed out of its place and landed with a soft thump on the ground.

  Jack saw what appeared to be a tiny man wrapped head to toe in a long beard. He looked as harmless as a pussy willow, but Jack wasn’t fooled. He’d had too much experience of otherworldly creatures to trust anything.

  Sing, murmured the yarthkin in the same high twittering voice.

  Pega cast a worried look at Jack. “I think you’d better do it,” he said in a low voice. So Pega repeated the hymn she had just given them. She went on to a ballad and then to a song about gathering flowers in May. She stopped to catch her breath.

  Sing, repeated the yarthkin.

  “I need some water,” said the girl. The yarthkin dipped his long beard into the brook, and it curled up like a fiddlehead fern.

  He hopped over to Pega, and she recoiled against the Bugaboo.

  “It’s all right, dearest. I think he means no harm,” murmured the hobgoblin king.

  “Yet,” added the Nemesis.

  Put out thy hands, said the yarthkin. Pega cupped her hands, and he squeezed the tip of his beard. A cascade of water flowed out and splashed over her fingers. Drink.

  Pega made a face, but she was too frightened to disobey. She drank the water in her cupped hands, and a delighted expression crossed her face. “It’s delicious!” she cried.

  The yarthkin nodded. Sing, he said. So Pega gave them “The Treacherous Knight” and “The Jolly Miller” and “The Wife of Usher’s Well.” She was beginning to tremble slightly, and Jack realized she was tired. How long would these creatures demand to be entertained? They weren’t like anything in Middle Earth—or, rather, they were what lay under Middle Earth. They were part of the stones, water, and soil.

  Sometimes, when Jack had cast his mind down to the life force, he had felt, among the roots and burrowing creatures, other presences he could barely comprehend. This was one of them. Jack suspected they might want to listen to music for a very long time.

  Pega reached the end of a song, and Jack knelt before the yarthkin and said, “She is but mortal, spirit of the earth. She wishes to obey you, but her strength is small.”

  The creature observed Jack with its bright eyes, and a twittering rustle passed over the walls of the tunnel.

  Sing, said the yarthkin wrapped in his cocoon of beard.

  “I’ll sing,” Jack said. “My voice may not be what you’re asking for, but Pega can’t go on forever.”

  “Forever is what these creatures are about,” the Nemesis muttered.

  Jack cast his mind back to all the Bard had taught him about animals, men, trolls, and elves, but he found nothing about yarthkins. Then, unbidden, he saw an image of his mother. In early spring, when the soil was warm enough to plow and the sky had turned from gray to blue, she walked in the fields. And as she walked, she sang:

  Erce, Erce, Erce eorþan modor,

  Geunne þe se alwalda, ece drihten…

  “Erce, Erce, Erce…” repeated Jack, giving the ancient call to earth in a language so old, no one knew its origin. Perhaps it was what the Man in the Moon spoke. Jack went on in human speech:

  Mother of Earth, may the all-powerful

  Lord of Life grant you

  Fields growing and thriving,

  Green leaf and tall stem,

  Both the broad barley

  And the fair wheat

  And all the crops of the earth.

  Erce, Erce, Erce…

  As he chanted, Jack saw his mother in his mind, bending over each furrow, praising it and planting it with seed. The charm was long, and he repeated it nine times. When he had finished, he looked up to see a whole host of yarthkins. They had all dropped out of the walls. To Jack, they looked like a mass of little haystacks, and his heart leaped to his throat. What had he done? One yarthkin had been difficult to entertain. What was he going to do with hundreds?

  But the first creature, who stood apart from the rest, spoke: Thou art a good lad, Jack, to bless the fields. And thou art a fine lass, Pega, to sing as the earth did at our beginning. What shall we do to reward thee?

  “Best not to answer,” whispered the Nemesis. But Jack thought that would be ungracious. Besides, he liked the little haystacks, strange though they were.

  “We were but thanking you for the kindness you have shown my mother’s fields. We ask your permission to travel on to Din Guardi.”

  A twittering hiss blew through the gathering, like the wind rattling ripe wheat. Din Guardi is a place of shadows. A ring of Unlife lies about it.

  “It is nasty,” Jack agreed, “but, you see, my father’s there, and the Bard, my master. I’ve got to make sure they’re all right. Don’t worry, we’ll leave as soon as possible.”

  The yarthkins conferred among themselves with many a sigh and hiss and a vague rumble like thunder in the distance. Jack wasn’t happy about the thunder. It sounded like anger. Finally, the chief yarthkin replied: We will not hol
d thee, but we will not forget thee.

  “Thank you,” Jack said uncertainly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be remembered. The yarthkins crept back to the walls and fitted themselves in. It was difficult to see how they managed this without using hands or feet, but they did. Soon they were all tucked into their beds, as snug as peas. The straw-colored hair faded into the wall until it became a collection of brown lumps again.

  “I think we should go now,” said the Bugaboo, and Jack was surprised to see he’d turned bright green with alarm. It was the first time he’d seen the hobgoblin king afraid, and it made him realize that the little haystacks weren’t quite as harmless as they looked.

  Chapter Forty-three

  THE KELPIES

  The tunnel changed abruptly from brown dirt and glowing mushrooms to a harsher landscape of rock. The air had a cold mineral smell, and water dripped from the roof. Jack relit Thorgil’s torch.

  “Let me take that,” said the Nemesis. Thorgil reluctantly handed it over. It was but another reminder that she had only one useful hand and couldn’t protect the flame. She fell back to walk with Father Severus, who was looking surprisingly vigorous.

  “I don’t know what happened,” he said, wondering. “I’m feeling extremely well, like a man half my age. Perhaps I only needed time to recover.” But Jack thought, privately, that the water in the land of the yarthkins had something to do with it. He felt immensely better since drinking it. The depressing apathy of Elfland had lifted, taking with it the sorrow over Lucy.

  Everyone looked happier, even Thorgil. Ethne, of course, was always radiant, finding each new experience fascinating, no matter how disturbing it was to the others. “Those yarthkins are so cute,” she gushed. “I could just cuddle them!”

  “Never, ever, attempt to cuddle a yarthkin,” said the Bugaboo.

  The Nemesis walked ahead, waving the torch back and forth to avoid drips. “We’re near the sea,” he called. “Can you feel the waves?”