The Land of the Silver Apples - Farmer Nancy - Страница 28

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Darkness was falling swiftly as they rode out. It was not the gentle dusk of a seaside evening, for there was no mist to soften the air. No high, thin clouds caught the last rays of the sun, for there were no clouds. Night fell, rather, like an axe. By the time they reached the dense line of yew trees that stood between the fortress and the outside world, darkness was complete.

The trees spread out on either side in a thick, living wall. Only one iron gate formed an opening in that barrier, and it led to a long tunnel fringed with leaves. Jack had been too dazed on the trip to Din Guardi to react to it. Besides, it had been day. Now, with no light at all except the dim lanterns the king’s men carried, the tunnel seemed endless. Back, back,thought Jack as the branches closed in.

The air was dusty and still. It caught in his throat. But more than that, Jack felt a resentment in the trees massed around them. You think you’re the masters with your scurrying feet,the trees seemed to say. We were here first.

“Keep away,” the boy cried as a branch swept across his face.

“Don’t talk,” said the captain of the guard.

Then they were out into the clean night air. A thousand stars spread across a moonless sky, and the men began to speak quietly. Jack felt blood on his face where the tree had struck him.

“Not so nice, eh, little wizard?” said the captain.

“What was that?” asked Jack, striving to keep his teeth from chattering.

“That was the Hedge. It’s better than any wall.”

“It protects the fortress?” said Jack, anxious to keep talking.

“I don’t know about protect.” The man laughed harshly. “It keeps its distance from us, and we keep our distance from it.It has been there since time out of mind.”

“It grew up when the Lord of the Forest laid siege to the Man in the Moon,” came Brutus’ voice from out of the dark.

“What do you know, you sniveling wretch?” snarled the captain.

“Nothing, noble master,” whined the slave. “Brutus is as dumb as pig flop.”

“Now look what you’ve done! You’ve started him up,” complained one of the soldiers.

And for the rest of the journey Brutus moaned about how disgusting he was and how he was really, really, really sorry about it. It was extremely irritating, and more than once Jack heard a slap as someone attempted to shut the slave up, but nothing worked.

Burning torches outlined the black opening of the pit at St. Filian’s. Slaves were constructing a fence around it under the nervous eyes of the monks. Jack noticed that the monks had St. Oswald’s casket for extra defense. Against what?he thought. Yet he, too, felt a nameless dread. If the saint could repel whatever lurked below, he was all for it.

“Who’s that?” asked Pega, peering at the portrait carved on the stained, ivory box.

“Good old Oswald,” replied Brutus. “They always bring him out when the going gets tough.” The saint was portrayed lying outstretched on a bed of leaves. Vines twisted around him like snakes. “That’s a picture of his battle with the Lord of the Forest. Looks like the Forest Lord is winning.”

“Silence, you heathen!” roared one of the monks, aiming a blow at the slave’s head. Which, of course, set Brutus off on another fit of groveling.

A long rope with knots tied in it snaked over the side of the pit and disappeared into the dark. “How long must we stay down there?” Jack asked.

“You heard the king. Until you find water,” the captain of the guard said.

Jack, like any farm boy, had much experience with climbing trees and hills. He had a good head for heights.

But he’d never been down a mine. The very thought of going under the earth now made him dizzy. It had something to do with being enclosed on all sides. It was like being swallowed alive.

“I, uh, I—” He gulped.

“I’ll help you,” said Brutus. He swiftly dropped all the carrying parcels over the side. Then he slung the boy, staff and all, over his shoulder and started down the swaying rope ladder. It happened so quickly, Jack only had time to stifle a scream and cling to the slave’s arms like a cat trying to keep from being dragged out of a tree. At the bottom of the rope Brutus pulled the boy’s fingers loose, swung him out, and let go.

Then Jack did scream—he couldn’t help it. Almost at once he landed on soft sand and felt like an idiot. He looked up at the rim of torches and saw Brutus coming down with Pega in his arms. “If you’ve broken those cider bags, I’ll never forgive you,” she threatened.

“Don’t worry, lassie. It’s as soft as heather down there.” Brutus jumped with a soft crunch on sand, and the guards pulled up the rope ladder.

“Hey!” Pega shouted. “How are we supposed to get out?”

“When the water starts flowing, you can swim out!” The captain and his men guffawed heartily as Pega let fly a string of insults.

“Pay no attention,” said Brutus, gathering up the supplies. “They’re sitting around like tadpoles in an empty pond. Soon they’ll dry up and blow away.”

“What about us? We’ll dry up too,” said Pega.

Brutus struck flint and iron, and lit a torch. It flared noisily, having been dipped in pitch, and settled down to a reddish flame. “It’s true we may die on this quest, but there is honor in what we do, far beyond merely waiting for fate to overtake us.”

The ruddy light shone on his face, marking out his strong cheekbones. Gone was the sniveling slave, and in his place was a man—rough and doglike to be sure—who might almost be noble. Or at least until something scares him,Jack thought. “I suppose we’d better get started,” the boy said.

It was the hardest thing Jack ever did, walking into that long, black tunnel. Every nerve cried out to flee back to where he could see the ring of torches and the circle of stars beyond. But he would not show less courage than Brutus. He would not be outdone by someone who whimpered if a moth flew past his face.

So Jack walked ahead as though he hadn’t a worry in the world. He did, of course. The tunnel led deeper under the earth, and the mass of rock overhead became that much thicker and heavier. It could collapse at any moment, squashing them as flat as fleas. Jack saw no reason why it couldn’t.

They trudged for miles past dull limestone walls. Torches burned away and Brutus lit more. The ground was not only littered with discarded branches, but broken pottery, apple cores, fish bones, and mussel shells. Elves must have been trooping through the tunnel for years, and from the smell, Jack suspected they buried their waste in the sand like cats. They were, as Brother Aiden had said, extremely trashy.

After a long while Jack and his companions came to a place where the passage divided in two. One path went to the left and the other, equal in size, to the right. A faint breeze wafted from both of them, so it was impossible for Jack to choose between them. But for the first time something new appeared on the walls. Knobs of gleaming, black material jutted from the limestone of the right-hand tunnel. “What’s that?” said Jack, and was shocked by how loud his voice seemed after walking in silence so long.

“Some call it ‘jet’,” said Brutus. “The Romans made it into jewelry.”

Jack worked a knob loose. It was curiously warm and light. “Does it have another name?”

“My mother called it ‘dragon poop’.”

Jack dropped the knob and dusted off his hands.

“That means we should stay out of the right-hand tunnel,” Pega observed.

Jack unpacked the Y-shaped stick the Bard had given him. He held it out. Very faintly, he felt a stir in the wood and a corresponding tremor of energy in his hands. The water was far away down the right-hand tunnel. “Wouldn’t you know it?” Jack muttered.

“By my reckoning, we’ve walked a quarter of the night away,” said Brutus. “You and I could keep moving, but the lassie is clearly tired.”

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