The Land of the Silver Apples - Farmer Nancy - Страница 57

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“I’ve been a petty thief. They won’t like me,” said Pega hopefully.

“They’d never be interested in you, child.” Father Severus attempted a smile. It only made him look more ghastly. “The amount of evil you’ve done would barely satisfy an imp.”

“I won’t be chosen,” declared Thorgil. “I serve Odin, not a thrall god who can’t keep order in his own hall.”

“You’ve done crimes and you will be called to account for them,” said the monk, “but not yet. For the Midsummer’s Festival the demons prefer the taste of guilt. They say it adds spice to the dish. You, shield maiden, are as shameless as a Roman alley cat. They won’t choose you either, Jack. In spite of your wizardry, you haven’t used it for evil.”

Jack felt a craven sense of relief. He remembered Father’s stories of demons with sharp claws. “What about him?” He nodded at the dark corner where Father Swein was mumbling.

“Already in the service of the Evil One. They’ll come for him one day, but they prefer to keep their servants on earth to lead others into sin.”

“That leaves only…” Pega faltered.

“Me,” said Father Severus.

“You’re not evil!”

“In my youth I committed an act of great cruelty. I won’t plead ignorance. I knew in my heart of hearts that it was wrong. Now my sin will drag me down to Hell.”

Everyone was shocked into silence. Finally, Pega said, “Did it have anything to do with a mermaid?”

“Be quiet,” hissed Jack.

“I must accept my fate, for it is deserved,” said Father Severus, ignoring the girl’s question.

“Well, we won’t let them take you,” Pega said. “We’ll stand up to those demons and tell them what a good man you are.”

The monk smiled slightly. “I take back what I said earlier, child. You wouldn’t even make an appetizer for an imp. Unfortunately, no one can look upon Hell without being struck dumb with terror. There is nothing worse. Nothing.”

“You mean, we’ll see right into—” Pega began.

Jack shook his head at her. He saw that Father Severus was struggling to appear calm. “Would you like to be alone, sir?” the boy asked.

“Yes! Yes! I must pray!” The monk walked unsteadily into the darkness, and soon there were competing sounds coming from different places: prayers from Father Severus, moans from the abbot, and “Ubba ubba”from Guthlac. They made the atmosphere in the dungeon extremely depressing.

But Jack wasn’t ready to give up yet. He told the others of his belief that they were close to the surface of the earth. “We must dig our way out,” cried Thorgil, seizing the initiative. She immediately dragged the table over to the wall, and the three of them lifted the heavy benches on top.

Jack climbed onto the unsteady heap and began digging a series of holes for them to use for climbing. When he was tired, Thorgil took over. It was slow and exhausting work. Rocks had to be pried out. Dirt fell on their faces. How they would make a tunnel once they reached the ceiling, Jack didn’t know. But they had to try.

Pega sat at the bottom and offered advice. “I think Father Severus is too weak to climb,” she pointed out.

“We’ll carry him,” grunted Thorgil, clinging to the wall.

“I don’t see how. I mean, it’s awkward enough hanging on to those holes.”

“I said we’ll carry him! He weighs no more than a dead dog,” said Thorgil. She attacked the wall with renewed fervor, and the knife clanged against a rock.

“If you’re not careful, you’ll snap the blade,” Pega said.

Thorgil dropped a fistful of dirt on her head. “Next time it’ll be a rock,” she said.

Jack slumped against the wall, resting. Something was different. Thorgil’s knife still hacked at the wall. Dirt pattered down. Father Severus prayed from the left. Father Swein moaned from the right. “Ubba ubba”was missing.

Jack jumped to his feet. The hall was full of tramping feet. The door flew open, and the heap of benches collapsed as Thorgil spun around. She landed easily like the good warrior she was, but the benches knocked the knife from her hand.

A mob of Picts swarmed into the prison. They forced Jack, Pega, and Thorgil into the hallway. They dragged Father Swein from his corner, and two more carried Father Severus between them as easily as a dry twig.

“You commmmme,” hissed Brude.

“I’d rather stayyyyy,” said Jack, dodging a blow, but there was no way he could resist.

It was time for the Midsummer’s Eve celebration.

“Are you all right?” Jack asked Thorgil. The bench had struck her a hard blow, and her wrist was beginning to swell.

“I’ve felt better. By Fenris’ fangs, I’m sorry to lose that knife! At least none of these hwatu shazzfound it.”

“Does that mean ‘troll droppings’?” said Jack. He guessed from the Picts’ scowls that it was an insult.

? Putridtroll droppings,” said Thorgil.

“I seem to remember Fenris. Wasn’t he the giant wolf Thor chained up?” asked Jack.

“Yes. Fenris refused to be bound unless the god Tyr placed his hand in the wolf’s mouth. When Fenris realized he’d been tricked, he chewed off Tyr’s hand and swallowed it. Hah! That was a merry tale!”

“If you say so,” Jack said. He remembered Rune telling the story on the morning the Northmen brought him home. They had camped on a fog-shrouded beach, and Thorgil had given Lucy the necklace of silver leaves. What an ill-fated gift that was! That moment of generosity had led to Lucy’s mischief at the need-fire ceremony, the destruction of St. Filian’s Well, Father’s injury, and now the danger of being dragged down to Hell. All from one little necklace.

Jack turned to get a glimpse of Father Severus. The monk was too weak to walk fast and so was being carried. One of the Picts noticed Jack’s interest and shouted, “Shooff hhahh!”

Thorgil laughed. “That means ‘dog vomit’.”

“You seem to know a lot of their curses,” said Jack.

“It’s the sort of thing you pick up at slave markets.”

Father Severus was right, Jack thought. She hadn’t a scrap of shame about the crimes she’d committed. Pega was walking next to the monk, holding Mother’s candle against her cheek. Jack hoped it comforted her. He couldn’t find anything good about their situation.

They trudged upward—or was it down? Jack closed his eyes and tried to guess. But the farther they went, the cloudier his mind became. He could feel the memories slipping away. A moment earlier Thorgil had reminded him of a fog-shrouded beach, yet now he couldn’t say where it had been. Then even that faded. There was only the sense of something gone.

The tunnel changed from a grim mine shaft to a hallway hung with rich tapestries. Torches blazed from jeweled sconces in the wall. The floor was a sheet of gold and made a sweet chiming sound as they walked over it. Glamour,Jack thought, both hating and desiring it. Well, why not be surrounded by beauty? Why live in a mine shaft when you could have a palace?

He knew something bad was going to happen, but he couldn’t recall what. He asked Thorgil, and she didn’t know either. “We’re being taken to the Midsummer’s Festival,” Pega said in a voice made high by fear. “There’re going to be demons.” Jack was mildly surprised by this outburst. How could she remember when he didn’t?

“We Northmen like to go troll-hunting on Midsummer’s Eve,” Thorgil said. “I hope demons provide good sport.” She lost the train of her thought and fell silent.

They came to a doorway, and here the Picts left them. Not for Brude and his warriors was this festival. Elf guards crossed spears to keep them from entering, but they urged Jack and his companions on. The Picts crouched in the hallway, searching one another for fleas.

Jack saw Guthlac in the custody of human thralls. He was wrapped securely in vines, and Jack was unpleasantly reminded of St. Oswald’s portrait. The coils around Guthlac rustled and slithered, and a thrall had dropped a hood over his head.

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