Текст книги "The Land of the Silver Apples"

Автор книги: Nancy Farmer

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Chapter Twelve
ST. OSWALD’S HEAD

“Does he have fits?” a man said nearby. Jack opened his eyes on the wooden beams of a low ceiling. Bunches of dried herbs dangled here and there.

“Never,” replied Father. “Perhaps he’s coming down with a fever.”

“If anything, he’s too cold. Were you bringing him for a dip in the pool?”

“Just my daughter,” said Father.

“He probably only needs a hot meal. I’ll have a slave bring soup.”

Jack lifted his head. Pain shot down his spine. He saw a monk in a brown robe disappear through a door.

“Good, you’re awake. How do you feel?” said Father.

“Like a herd of sheep ran over me.” Jack found that any attempt to move swamped him with agony. “Where are we?”

“The monastery hospital. They’ve been more than nice to us! They moved us out of that smelly hostel and into the best guest rooms. We’ve been invited to dine with the abbot himself.”

Father seemed more interested in their new status than Jack’s health. But I’m being unfair,the boy thought. This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to him.“Why are we getting special treatment?” he asked.

“It has something to do with those pots of ink Brother Aiden brought. They’re made by a secret process known only to the monks of the Holy Isle and are as valuable as gold.”

A slave arrived with a pot of lentil soup. “I’m to feed the lad—unless you want to do it,” he said hopefully.

But Father was anxious to be off. There was a stained-glass window in the chapel, he said, and a fine herd of white sheep to see. An oak tree in the orchard had the face of St. Filian burned on it by a lightning stroke. Then they were going on a tour of the beer cellar. Imagine having so much beer that you needed a whole cellar to store it! A feast was being laid on that evening. It was a shame Jack couldn’t come.

“Listen,” said the slave after Father left, “I don’t know what kind of mooncalf you are, but if you try to bite me, you’re getting my fist for dessert.”

“I’m not crazy,” Jack said.

“That’s what they all say.” The slave spooned the soup into Jack’s mouth, not waiting to see whether it was swallowed before shoving the next dose inside.

“Wait! Wait!” sputtered Jack, jerking his head aside. His spine exploded with pain. He froze into position, fearful of any movement.

“What happened? Did you get thrashed?” the slave inquired. “They say thrashing cures everything. Got a sour marriage? Beat your wife. Got an idiot son? Knock sense into him. Father Swein says it works every time.”

“You can’t believe that rot,” said Jack.

“Who am I to judge my betters? In five or ten years they might even beat goodness into me, though I doubt it. Are you ready for more food?”

“If you don’t ram it down my throat!”

This time the slave was more careful, and Jack discovered that in spite of the pain, he was hungry. The stew was excellent, a thick pottage of lentils, leeks, and shreds of mutton. It had been days since he’d had anything so satisfying. “What’s your name?” he asked the slave.

“Hey You, most of the time,” replied the man. “My mother called me Brutus.”

“Brutus? Is that Saxon?”

“It’s Roman. And, yes”—the slave drew himself up to his full height—“the blood of conquerors flows in my veins. I am of the line of Lancelot, but as you see, I have fallen far from the glory of my ancestors. Father Swein says I’m fit only for pigsties.”

Jack wondered what crime Brutus had committed to get enslaved by a monastery. The man’s arms were scarred by whips, and his nose had been broken. But a hint of nobility lay in his wide, intelligent face and gray eyes. “Someone I once knew,” Jack said, “told me you should never give up, even if you’re falling off a cliff. You never know what might happen on the way down.”

Brutus laughed out loud. It was a surprising, joyful sound that completely transformed him. Suddenly, the scars and broken nose didn’t matter. “I’d like to meet that fellow! He sounds like a true knight.”

“You might not have liked him,” said Jack, thinking of Olaf One-Brow’s habit of chopping first and asking questions later.

“Might not have? Is he dead?” asked Brutus.

“He died in battle with a giant troll-bear. But he killed the bear,” Jack added.

Brutus looked at him sharply. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, mooncalf.”

“I’m not a mooncalf,” protested Jack, and provoked another laugh.

The meal continued pleasantly, except for Jack’s grimaces of pain when he moved the wrong way. Brutus was full of tales, and he was clearly in no hurry to return to his chores. “How came you by this affliction?” he said at last.

Jack told him about the beautiful woman who had materialized out of mist. “When she thrust her arm at me, I lost my senses until I woke up here,” he finished. “I’m not insane. I really did see her.”

The slave sat very still, as though listening to something far away. The sounds of monastery life—wood being chopped, orders shouted, feet stamping—filtered in from outside. Then Brutus shook himself and came back to the present. “You weren’t dreaming. You’ve been elf-shot.”

The door flew open, and in came the monk who had treated Jack. “You lazy swine!” the monk shouted. “The cook’s been waiting ages for his firewood. You deserve a double whipping!”

Brutus changed before Jack’s eyes. He hunched over, and a half-witted expression crossed his face. “Begging your pardon, master,” he whined. “You won’t be angry with poor Brutus? He’s such a poor excuse for a man.”

“Oh, be gone with you,” said the monk. The slave scuttled out the door.

The monk bustled about, fetching a threadbare blanket and tucking it around Jack. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up so I can give you medicine. You’re in luck. I happen to have soil from St. Oswald’s grave on my shelves. Well, oneof his graves.” He showed the boy a pot of dark dirt that could have come from anywhere.

“This is from where they planted St. Oswald’s head. The pagans buried parts of him all over the place after they martyred him. But the head ended up on the Holy Isle, so it’s doubly blessed. I always think head soil is the best.” The monk boiled water and picked odds and ends from the herbs hanging off the rafters. He finished by dropping a pinch of dirt into the cup. “There! If that doesn’t cure you, nothing will.”

He held the cup to Jack’s lips. The tea tasted of chamomile with a strange mineral background. Oswald’s head, no doubt.

“Why is Brutus a slave?” Jack asked when he’d choked down the last gritty bits.

The monk raised his eyebrows. “Has he been filling you up with tales about his noble ancestry? His mother was a miserable witch. When she lay dying of fever, she ordered her boy to drive off the priest with rocks. Refused the last rites, she did. Brutus set her body afloat in a little boat in the belief that it would take her to the Islands of the Blessed. He was condemned for witchcraft.”

“For obeying his mother’s last wish?” Jack said faintly. Choosing your afterlife seemed entirely reasonable to him. Not everyone was suited to Heaven—look at Thorgil—and the Bard always swore he would go to the Islands of the Blessed.

“No, no. Many fools believe in the Islands of the Blessed. Brutus was condemned for casting spells over women. They absolutely can’t resist him… young, old, married, single—even the ewes follow him around the fields. We’ve spent years trying to thrash the magic out of him, but he’s hopeless.”

Jack lay awake thinking long after the monk left. The room was lit only by coals in the fire pit, and the herbs hanging from the rafters looked like bats. In the shadows on the far side of the room Jack saw his staff. He could imagine the monk’s reaction if he knew how much magic it contained.

I have to be careful,Jack thought. No wonder the Bard preferred to stay with King Yffi.Jack’s stomach began to churn.

Perhaps Oswald’s head didn’t like finding itself in his gut. Very soon the boy realized he would have to get out of bed or vomit over the blanket.

Jack’s back exploded with pain as he rolled over and fell to the floor. He couldn’t move. Curse that lady,he thought. What business is it of hers to hang around the well? And why hurt me?

Was she an elf? Jack recalled her pale gold hair and moonlit skin. Her eyes were like forget-me-nots in a deep forest. Everything about her seemed muted, but perhaps that was because she was enveloped in mist.

When the pain died down, he began to inch his way toward the staff—for no reason, really, only that it made him feel closer to the Bard. Right now he needed someone’s friendship. The herb bundles looked like they were about to drop off the rafters and take wing. Oswald’s head burbled in his stomach.

Eventually, he reached the wall. The staff felt warm, as though, in spite of the darkness, it still lay in sunlight. “Ut, lytel spere, gif her inne sy,”he whispered in Saxon. Out, little spear, if it lies within.He knew all about elf-shot. Mother had taught him a charm to remove it: “Gif her inne sy, hit sceal gemyltan.” If it lies within, it shall melt.

He repeated the charm, and gradually, the warmth of the staff reached up his arm and flowed over his body. The pain withdrew until it was only a faint, glimmering echo. Then it went away altogether, and Jack fell into a dreamless sleep on the cold floor without even a blanket.

“Oh, blessed saints, he’s dead!”

The cry pierced Jack’s comfortable sleep. He leaped to his feet, blinking at the distraught man before him. The monk sprang back. “Praise God and all His angels! The boy lives! Forgive me, St. Oswald, for doubting your miracle!”

“What miracle?” said Jack crossly. He’d been torn from the best rest he’d had since starting out on this pilgrimage.

“You,”cried the monk. “On your knees, boy. We must thank Heaven.” He pulled Jack down, and together they prayed. Jack gave thanks willingly, for by whatever means, his pain had vanished. Sunlight spilled through a window. The smell of bacon roasting over a fire drifted through the door. It was good to be alive.

“Wait till the abbot hears about this,” said the monk, rising to his feet. “He’s always saying St. Oswald isn’t as powerful as St. Filian.”

Still chatting, he led Jack down a hall to a door that he unlocked. Beyond was a musty-smelling room with gray stone walls, and at the far end was a faintly lit alcove. Jack felt a presence, just as he had sensed one by the well. A distinct impression of hostility hung in the air. Oh no,he thought. I really don’t need another elf-shot.He grasped his staff and willed the creature to keep its distance. “This place isn’t haunted, is it?”

“Certainly not! We exorcised that demon ages ago,” said the monk, urging Jack on. “These holy relics are off-limits to ordinary folk, but as St. Oswald has chosen to favor you, I think he’d like you to see his.”

His what?thought Jack. The alcove was filled with boxes carved with designs. On one a man struggled with a pair of serpents that threatened to devour his head. On another a woman’s body ended in legs covered with scales. Instead of feet, she had fins.

In the alcove was a tiny window. Shards of colored glass—scarlet, apple green, and yellow—were fastened together with strips of lead. The morning sun lit them from behind, making them blaze like sparks of fire.

“Oh!” cried Jack, delighted.

“It isnice, 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 magicpowers, 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.