by Nancy Farmer
“And I’d say that beating knocked the sense out of you—if you’d had any in the first place,” the Bard said. They all turned to look at Bebba’s Town, now falling behind, and the empty stretch of rock where once Din Guardi stood. They had said their farewells that morning, and Jack wondered if he would ever see Brutus again. The king had promised to visit the village, but you couldn’t trust anything he said.
He and Thorgil had put on their old clothes and packed the beautiful gifts of the Lady of the Lake. There was a small but very good well a half-day’s journey from the town. Attached to it was a copper cup on a long chain. No one knew who had put it there—perhaps Lancelot or King Arthur himself. It was for weary travelers to refresh themselves, for the well water was too deep to reach easily. They camped in a small beech wood, and in late afternoon two figures materialized from the trees.
The Bugaboo and the Nemesis were draped in motley wool cloaks and resembled patches of dappled shade. “Welcome,” called the Bard. “We’ve brought chanterelles especially for you.” Jack and Thorgil laid out a cloth with the various delicacies they had packed for this farewell feast. Pega, for once, did nothing. She sat by herself looking strained and miserable.
The Bugaboo went at once to her side. “Dare I hope? Are you going to make me happy beyond my wildest dreams?” he cried, grasping her hand.
“Oh, Lord,” she said, looking down.
“Do you need more time?” said the hobgoblin king. “I don’t mind waiting—well, yes, I do, but I understand if my little moss blossom is feeling shy.”
“This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. You’ve been so good to me, and I know your people want me as their queen. Saints above! They gave up their immortality for me.” Pega drooped still farther and wiped at her eyes. “I feel so guilty.”
“It was their decision,” the Bugaboo said.
“I always wanted to be beautiful. I went out every May Day morning and washed my face in dew. I even paid a wise woman for a charm, but nothing worked. Finally, I knew it would never happen. But then you came along and you liked me—”
“Loved you, dearest,” corrected the king.
“The thing is…” Pega stopped and looked at Jack.
He was trying not to eavesdrop, but the air was too still. No one else was talking. The night before, Father Severus had gone on and on at her about the suitability of this marriage. He was capable, as Brother Aiden put it, of making a wolf drop a lamb. The mere sight of Father Severus was enough to make the rascally monks of St. Filian’s chop wood, haul water, and thank God on their knees six times a day. But he had not been able to move Pega, small and humble though she was.
“The most important event of my life,” Pega went on, “was when Jack freed me. ‘Freed me for what?’ I asked myself. ‘For work,’ I answered. Just that. To do the simple tasks of everyday life, to care for others, to belong. The Bard once told me my spirit craved a family and warmth. And I replied, ‘I’d be happy staying here—and doing chores forever—and just being a fly on the wall.’
“That’s pretty much it. I’m not suited to be a queen. I’m most sincerely sorry to disappoint you, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I also don’t want to live in a cave full of mushrooms. Don’t offer to move here!” she said, putting her finger to her lips in warning. “You have a duty to your people. The plain truth is, you belong there and I belong here. I’m sorry.”
The Bugaboo’s eyes blinked rapidly and erratically. Jack had never seen a hobgoblin weep, and he didn’t know whether they could do it, but this probably came close. “I’ll visit every summer,” he said in a husky voice. “I’ll ask whether you’ve changed your mind. And I’ll bring Hazel with me.”
“That would be extremely kind,” said Pega.
The hobgoblin king rose and bowed to the other members of the group. “It was nice of you to bring chanterelles,” he said in the same husky voice, “but I’m not feeling hungry just now.” Then he was too overcome to say any more and rushed from the glade.
The Nemesis hurried after him, pausing only to bend over Pega and whisper, “Thank you.”
They sat under the trees, recalling adventures and telling stories. When night came, Jack built a fire and Brother Aiden brought out a flask of his special heather ale. Thorgil declaimed gloomy poetry. The Bard entertained them by luring a family of owls to hoot mournfully as a background to her verse. Then Pega sang, and the very trees stopped rustling to listen.
Jack wished the moment could last forever, but time stood still only in the Land of the Silver Apples. And that was a curse rather than a blessing. It was enough to be in the stream of life, to be with good friends and have good cheer. He stretched out on the grass, watching the stars scattered among the leaves overhead.
FB2 document info
Document ID: dfd3300d-c163-44f3-94d9-0a6633bfe44a
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 8.2.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.17, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
OCR Source: Undead
Document authors :
Namenlos
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