The Land of the Silver Apples - Farmer Nancy - Страница 51
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“She’s probably enchanted,” Jack said.
“Pooh! She’s no different than she ever was. And how did they get this feast ready so quickly? I know how long it takes to pluck swans. What’s this monstrosity?” Pega held up a pigeon with six drumsticks.
“Generally, if I don’t know what something is, I don’t eat it,” said Jack.
Thorgil took the pigeon, ate all six drumsticks, and pronounced them delicious.
Jack looked around the hall. He saw no old elves, and there were almost no elf children. About a dozen toddlers on leashes crouched at their owners’ feet. Jack turned away, sickened, and wondered if they still remembered their parents. He couldn’t think of a way to free them.
He saw that all the thralls were human, for the elves did nothing for themselves. They called a thrall to bring them a spoon on the other side of a table rather than reach for it. The humans toiled endlessly, carrying dishes, cleaning up spills, and running to do some peevish elf’s bidding.
Any one of them could have come from Jack’s village. They were ordinary folk who’d had the bad luck to fall asleep on an elf hill and follow strange music in the night. The Bard had said how dangerous that was. Once you were lured in, you might not reappear for years.
Brude and his followers had not been invited to the feast. They waited at a doorway, snuffing the air and jostling one another. Good dogs. Stay,thought Jack with grim satisfaction. The Picts weren’t even as important as the thralls.
His thoughts shifted to and fro, one moment despising the elves and then, turning to Lady Ethne beside him, enchanted once more. She asked him many questions about Middle Earth, of families, farming, and—most surprisingly—of monasteries. Jack knew little about monasteries, except for St. Filian’s.
Ethne had heard of the place. Wasn’t it awful how they had trapped poor Nimue in the fountain? Father Swein had sprinkled holy water around the outer walls. When Nimue had tried to cross it, she came up in the most dreadful rash.
Ethne’s voice was like a lively stream pouring down a hillside. Jack was enthralled by it. He barely noticed Pega on his other side.
“Now’s your chance,” said Thorgil, poking him with a drumstick. Jack looked up to see that Partholis and Partholon had left the dais. They were making a ceremonial tour of the hall, greeting their subjects and being bowed to in return. Brutus had completely engrossed Nimue’s attention. Lucy was unguarded.
Jack went to the platform and touched his sister’s foot to get her attention. “We’ve come to take you home,” he said in a low voice.
Lucy frowned. “Do I know you?”
“I’m your brother. Don’t play silly games.”
“I don’t have a brother.” Lucy kicked at him.
“Have it your way, but you do have a mother and father who miss you terribly.”
“Oh, them.”Lucy shrugged. “My real parents are here, or at least Partholis is. She can’t remember which one is my father.”
Jack wanted to slap her, but he held his temper. “We’ve come all this way to rescue you. You’re probably under a spell and can’t remember how nice it was at home.”
“Oh, I remember! Lumpy beds, ugly dresses, and the same oatcakes day after day after day.” Lucy leaned forward, and Jack saw, with a sinking feeling, the necklace of silver leaves.
“Can I see that?” he said, thinking that this might be the thing enchanting her.
“Don’t touch it! Thief!” Lucy jumped from her throne and ran to the Lady of the Lake, who gave Jack a venomous look before turning back to Brutus.
“Spoiled rotten” was Thorgil’s opinion when Jack returned. “I always said a good thrashing and a night outside with the wolves would have been good for her.”
“You may be right,” Jack said glumly.
Partholis and Partholon finished their tour and mounted the dais once more. “Now for an after-dinner treat,” announced the queen. “I would bid our dear visitors to give us a song or some such entertainment to repay us for our hospitality—not you, Brutus. We would not want to give Nimue cause for jealousy.”
Brutus grinned wolfishly. Thorgil cursed under her breath, and Pega looked terrified. “I’ll do it,” Jack offered. He knew the others weren’t used to performing, and he’d appeared before far worse audiences. He’d sung for bloodthirsty berserkers. At least these people weren’t going to hack him to bits if they weren’t amused.
The thrones were moved to one side. Jack climbed onto the dais, and the elves watched him intently. They seemed eager to listen, and yet Jack had a sense that there was something malicious about their attention. No matter. They couldn’t be nastier than Frith Half-Troll, who had the power to freeze a man’s blood in his veins. “I give you the saga of Beowulf,” he began.
Jack had a good voice and he knew it, but the effect was not what he expected. The elves seemed disappointed, although the queen was polite and Ethne smiled encouragement. When he was finished, everyone clapped halfheartedly. “I’ve heard that story before,” said Partholis, “from a mortal called Dragon Tongue.”
“The Bard?” said Jack, startled.
“Ah, he was a cheeky devil,” said the queen, smiling at the memory. “I quite adored his golden hair.”
Partholon stirred himself for the first time. “He was a scoundrel of the first order.”
“You didn’t like the attention he paid to me. You’re jealous,”said the queen, delighted.
“Nonsense. Everyone pays attention to you. It makes as much sense to worry about moths dancing around a light. Dragon Tongue made off with some of my best magic,” grumbled Partholon, and sank into silence again.
The elves clamored for another story. “By Odin’s eyebrows, don’t look at me,” said Thorgil. “I’d rather take a spear thrust than make a fool of myself.” But Gowrie led everyone in calling for the shield maiden. And so Thorgil, who wasn’t all that opposed to showing off, climbed onto the dais.
The problem was, Jack thought, she really didn’t know how to tell a story. She rushed through the action and had to go back and explain things. She had moments of poetry, but her voice was so harsh, you thought you were being sworn at. On the good side, she was better than Sven the Vengeful, who forgot the point of jokes, and Eric Pretty-Face, who always shouted. Other Northmen would have enjoyed her performance very much.
Thorgil spoke of Olaf One-Brow and his battles. It was a saga that could go on for a long time. Olaf had fought many battles. But partway through the first tale, about how the giant had rescued Ivar the Boneless from the Mountain Queen, someone burst out laughing.
Thorgil halted. This tickled the elves even more, and they began nudging one another. “Go on,” one of them called. The shield maiden continued, but the undercurrent of laughter returned, and soon everyone was infected with it.
“Isn’t she priceless?” an elf lady whispered.
“That voice.It just makes you want to howl,” said another.
Thorgil’s face turned red, and she yelled, “Listen, you toad-eating fops. I’m talking about the bravest man who ever lived, and if you don’t like it, you can take a flying leap!” The whole hall erupted with laughter. Elves pounded the tables and fairly wept with glee. The shield maiden drew her knife. Brutus leaped to his feet.
“I think that was a wonderful performance,” he cried, putting himself between Thorgil and her intended targets. “Let’s give this gallant warrior a hand.” The elves broke into a storm of clapping and cheers. Brutus swiftly steered Thorgil back to her seat.
“They likedit?” she said in bewilderment.
“Absolutely. Brought tears to their eyes,” said the slave.
“Of course they did,” said Jack, knowing that what the elves really enjoyed was Thorgil’s lack of talent.
“Let’s have the little hob-human,” Gowrie shouted. This was considered extremely witty, and everyone started laughing again.
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