The Land of the Silver Apples - Farmer Nancy - Страница 10

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He circled three times three, paused, and began again. Boredom crept over him, and it seemed he had walked in this circle for years. He was hardly aware of movement anymore, only of the slow passage of images beyond the seeing tube. The room faded and suddenly—

Jack stopped. The bird was perched with its tiny claws fastened on to the cane. It had a grasshopper in its beak!

There had been no grasshopper before. Jack was sure of it. He couldn’t possibly have missed such a detail. A long sliver of light gleamed on the cane. Jack turned to see where it was coming from and saw a small fire on an expanse of sand. Beyond lay the sea. Two boys were rolling over and over in a fierce fight. One of them had a bloody nose, and he was mouthing words Jack was sure were curses. Nothing could be heard.

The other boy seemed to be winning the battle. He thrust the first one into the sand and put his foot on his throat.

A man ran up. Jack’s heart stood still. It was Eric Pretty-Face! No one else had those horrible battle scars.

Eric Pretty-Face pulled them apart like a pair of squabbling puppies and threw one in each direction. The boy with the bloody nose jumped to his feet and began screaming. The other one roared with laughter.

Turn, turn,Jack willed the boy who was jumping up and down and taunting his adversary. Then at last the boy did turn to show a triumphant, none-too-clean face.

Thorgil,thought Jack. He missed her—oh, heavens, how he had missed her!—and yet he hadn’t been aware of it till now. The gray-green sea stretched out behind her, and a wind ruffled her chopped-off hair. All the excitement of sailing to the north came back to him. He could almost feel the deck move under his feet and hear the timbers creak. Somewhere a wind blew off a glacier from an ice mountain folded into itself.

“Jack!” Someone was tugging at his sleeve. The vision collapsed, and he was back in the Roman house. Pega was there, yanking on his arm, her froggy mouth opening and shutting as she spoke.

Rage swept over Jack. To have finally achieved his goal and have it snatched away drove him into a fury. He struck Pega across the mouth and sent her spinning. She fell to her hands and knees and scuttled out of reach.

“Jack!” cried another voice. The boy swung around.

“Mother?” he whispered.

“This is very, very bad,” said the Bard, hurrying past Mother to lift up Pega. “Oh, my poor dear!” Her chin was dripping blood. She wasn’t crying, only staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“Mother,” Jack said again, dazed by what he’d just done.

“I came to fetch you home,” Mother said. “Lucy’s gone mad.”

Jack followed his mother down the path. He was shaky, as though he were coming down with fever. He remembered his hand striking Pega’s mouth and her spinning away. An ache in his arm told him how hard he had hit her.

“Why did you do that?” came Mother’s quiet voice.

Jack didn’t know why the rage had swept over him. It was just so wonderful to see Thorgil. He’d never expected to, not in this life or in Heaven. Girls like Thorgil didn’t end up in Heaven, not even close. And then Pega spoiled it, coming between him and the vision.

“I suppose I’m jealous,” Jack said.

“Of Pega?”said Mother, amazed. She had wanted to treat the girl’s injury, but the Bard had waved her away.

“Pega will recover more quickly with that boy out of here,” he’d said.

That boy.Jack cringed inwardly. “I know it’s wicked to be jealous,” he explained, “but she sings so well and the Bard likes her so much. I’m not sorry I freed her,” he went on hastily, “but I thought… somehow… she’d go away.”

“Pega worships you,” said Mother. “She tells everyone how wonderful you are.”

“She won’t now.”

They walked on in silence. The path descended from the sea cliff to meadows drenched in wildflowers—cowslips, marigolds, and daisies. Jack and Mother forded a stream buried in ferns. Skylarks called to one another from high above the ground.

As they drew near the farm, Mother stopped. “I must explain,” she said. “Ever since the need-fire ceremony, Lucy hasn’t been right in the head. Oh, she behaves well enough around others. She can feed herself and talk, but she’s become convinced she’s a real princess.”

“She went mad in the Northland too,” said Jack.

Mother gazed at the farmhouse with its thread of smoke coming from the smoke hole. “Lucy has always been fanciful. So has Giles.”

Jack could see it worried her to criticize Father.

“He knows what’s real and what isn’t,” Mother went on. “Lucy doesn’t. She orders us around like servants. She won’t let her father touch her, says he’s a peasant. It hurts him.”

“I hurt him,” Jack said. “What makes you think he won’t throw me out again?”

“Your father is sorry for what he did. He won’t admit it, but if you ask his forgiveness, he’ll give it.”

“He’ll also thrash me.”

Mother sighed. “He probably will.” And then she added with a hint of mischief, “You could always offer up your pain to God.” Jack was startled. Father went on and on about how pain was good for you and how you could offer it up to God. Mother had never contradicted him. It seemed she had her own ideas on the subject.

Why do I always have to be the one in the wrong?thought Jack as they continued on. But he knew he deserved a thrashing for striking Pega. What had possessed him to do such a thing?

Jack had not been home in months, and he was shocked at his father’s appearance. The man’s shoulders were hunched, as though he carried a heavy burden. His face was full of shadows. He crouched on a stool by the hearth and whittled a chunk of wood. It wasn’t normal for Father to be indoors at this time of day. A farm in springtime wasn’t a place you could ignore.

“What muck!” Lucy sneered, throwing a clumsily carved animal into the fire. “You’ll never be as good as Olaf One-Brow. Never, never, never! He made me beautiful toys.” She was dressed in her white Yule dress, now smudged with soot, and wore the necklace of silver leaves.

“Father?” said Jack, swallowing hard. Giles Crookleg looked up. “Father, I’ve come to apologize.”

“So you should,” said the man.

Jack forced down a surge of anger. “I was wrong to hide the money. It was disloyal and dishonest. I’m here to take whatever punishment you think fit.”

“I’d say you deserve it.” Giles reached into the heap of kindling and selected a birch rod. Jack mustered his courage. Father hit hard and thought anything less than six of the best was a holiday.

“You’ve been bad,” Lucy announced smugly, wiping her hands on her grimy Yule dress. “I shall enjoy watching you suffer.” Jack promised himself to take the silver necklace away the first time he got her alone. Father grabbed Jack’s hair and raised the birch rod. The boy braced himself.

But instead of striking him, Giles Crookleg hurled the rod away and sank to his knees. “I can’t do it! I can’t do it!” he cried. He began to howl.

Jack was horrified. He’d never seen his father so distraught. “It’s all right, Da,” he said uncertainly.

“I shouldn’t have lied,” the man wailed. “It’s my fault. Lucy’s my fault. It was the sin of pride.”

“You must lie down, Giles,” Mother said, kneeling beside him. “I think you have a fever—yes, I can feel it. Come to the loft. I’ll get you a healing drink.”

Jack and Mother walked Father to the ladder. He climbed slowly and painfully with Jack behind in case he fell. Giles crawled into bed, still sobbing, and Mother brought him a tea of lettuce and willow to make him sleep. Presently, he went off to whatever dreams awaited him.

Jack sat by the fire, too stunned to talk. What had Father lied about? What sin had he committed?

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