The Land of the Silver Apples - Farmer Nancy (книги бесплатно txt) 📗

“And we love it there, too,” said Mrs. Blewit. “We are creatures of Middle Earth, not the Land of the Silver Apples. Sometimes we long to visit the mountains of our youth even though it means we shall age.”

“Many hobgoblins refuse to leave their homelands,” added the Bugaboo. “Kobolds, for example, are perfectly happy in the dark forests of Germany, and brownies cannot be lured from their hearths. We are the only ones who have come here.”

Jack watched Hazel, his mind numbed by the reality of her. She looked human, but she behaved exactly like a hobgoblin. She hopped like one, hooted like one, and gleeped like one. “Gleeping” was a particularly nasty sound the hobgoblins made when they were happy, halfway between a croak and a belch. Hazel was doing it now. “We’ll have to get used to each other,” Jack said.

“Fortunately, we have lots of time,” Mumsie said.

“All the time in the world,” added the Bugaboo.

“No, we don’t,” said Pega. “I asked for Jack’s sister to be returned so we could take her home.”

“You can’t take my baby!” Mrs. Blewit suddenly burst out. “I’ve cared for her all her life and I love her so! Oh, no, no, no, you can’t be so cruel.”

“We can wait a few days,” said Jack.

“A day, a month, a year—it won’t make any difference,” wailed Mrs. Blewit. “I’ll love her just as much then as now. Oh, my darling, my tadpole, my wuggie-wumps, they’re going to take you away!” She hugged Hazel, and the little girl began to cry.

“You can’t have her and that’s flat,” growled Mr. Blewit, smacking his fist against his palm.

“She’s mysister,” cried Jack.

“Stop it right there,” said the Nemesis, coming between the two. “Great toadstools, Blewit, you’re acting like a mud man.”

“I’m sorry, Nemesis, but it goes against the grain,” apologized the hobgoblin. “When we lost our little one, Hazel was the answer to our prayers. I can’t give her up.”

“Let’s all take a deep breath,” the Nemesis advised. “It’s almost time for bed, and I’m sure we’ll see things more clearly in the morning. Mumsie? Did I see a basket of apples in the kitchen this morning?”

“You did indeed,” the Bugaboo’s mother replied. “They’re from the Forest Lord’s best trees (he was busy with the rock slide at the other end of the valley). They’ve been roasted and dipped in honey.”

“Excellent! I’m sure it will do Hazel good to see everyone friendly again. It’s very bad for sproglings when their elders quarrel.” The Nemesis’ eyes were as deep and tranquil as forest pools, and he had a calming effect on everyone.

Jack wondered who actually ruled this kingdom—the Bugaboo, Mumsie, or the Nemesis? Or did they work together at the jobs they did best?

Hazel stopped sobbing and settled down in Mrs. Blewit’s lap. She stuck her tongue out at Jack.

Chapter Twenty-eight

ST. COLUMBA

They sat around the tables drinking cider. The taste was slightly vinegary, but Jack found it deeply satisfying because it came from Middle Earth, not the Land of the Silver Apples. It had come from trees that had slept all winter and were wakened by boys and men shouting waes hael.The chopped-up apples had been fermented in vats of ordinary water. But they had been left slightly too long, and the cider had turned just that little bit sour. It was this imperfection, the evidence of change and time, that Jack relished.

The Bugaboo was gazing moodily at will-o’-the-wisps, and Pega was playing peekaboo with Hazel. The little girl had worked herself into a state of hysteria, bouncing up and down like a sprogling and gleeping when Pega uncovered her eyes. Dear Heaven,thought Jack, how am I ever going to get used to her?

Turning to the Bugaboo, he asked why there was such enmity between hobgoblins and elves. “The elves hate us because we have souls,” the king explained.

Jack listened in fascination as the Bugaboo retold Brother Aiden’s story of the war in Heaven and of how God cast out the angels who wouldn’t take sides. “For long years we lived peacefully with elves,” the Bugaboo said. “Or, rather, they ignored us and we stayed out of their way. They built the Hollow Road to avoid the Forest Lord. He wasn’t above trapping an unwary elf caught hunting in his realm.

“Then the Picts landed in boats and straight off began chopping down trees. The Forest Lord took a terrible vengeance. He asked his brother, the Man in the Moon, to rain madness on their women. Some hurled themselves off cliffs, others drowned themselves in the sea. The men fled underground, where, in the secret places of the earth, they encountered elves.

“They were awestruck,” continued the king. “Or, I should say, they were enthralled,which is a much more serious affair. Most of the Picts came out of hiding and bartered for wives from the Irish across the sea. A few stayed behind.”

“The Old Ones,” said Jack.

“They worship the elves like gods and bring them slaves.”

Jack and Thorgil exchanged a startled look. Jack remembered the slave market so long ago, when the Northmen had tried to sell him and Lucy. He remembered the small men who had seemed like shadows from the forest. Their bodies writhed with painted vines, and their voices hissed like the wind through pine needles. Their leader had wanted Lucy, but Olaf One-Brow had protected her.

“I thought they ate their captives,” said Thorgil.

“Once they did,” the Bugaboo said. “Now slaves unsuitable for elf service are sacrificed to the Forest Lord. The Old Ones seek his friendship, but they delude themselves. The Forest Lord will never be their friend. His hatred is eternal. Slaves are taken under the trees in the dark of the moon. What happens to them there is something I don’t care to describe.”

“I think I know,” said Thorgil, who had turned deadly pale.

“Who wants a roasted apple?” said Mumsie. The hobgoblins eagerly held out their bowls. Mumsie ladled out the steaming fruit drizzled with honey, and a helper topped them with cream. The warm and spicy smells raised Jack’s spirits after the depressing history of the Picts. There had been a gloomy monk among the slaves they had bought from the Northmen. Jack wondered what his fate had been.

The hobgoblins competed to see how many apples they could stuff into their cheeks. The winner managed ten—hobgoblin cheeks were amazingly stretchy. Hazel had to be pounded on the back because she tried to mimic them. My stars, even I think of her as a sprogling,Jack realized. He tried to lure her to him by holding out a roasted apple. She fled at once to Mrs. Blewit’s arms, and he felt both sad and jealous.

“The Picts were followed by the Celts, Britons, Romans, and Saxons,” continued the Bugaboo, tossing the apple cores over his shoulder. “You never saw anything like the Roman army! They swarmed over the hills, clanking and stamping and bawling orders. They cut down trees, built roads, and heaved up walls. If the Forest Lord got a few of them, there were always more behind. He was left only a few untouched stretches of trees, and it weakened him. He draws his strength from them, you see.”

“Now we’re coming to the good part,” interrupted the Nemesis. “The arrival of St. Columba.”

“My ever-so-great-grandparents saw him arrive,” the king said. “He came over the sea from Ireland.”

“In a little coracle,” added the Nemesis, his eyes blinking in a soothing rhythm. He clearly liked the story of St. Columba. “The waves should have dashed it to pieces, but it floated along as peacefully as a gull. Columba spoke to the Picts of strange things called ‘mercy’ and ‘pity’. The Picts laughed merrily and tried to murder him, but Columba blew a wisp of straw into the air.”

“He was a bard!” cried Jack. “That’s how they drive people mad.”

“Whatever he did, it scared the living daylights out of the Picts. They fell on their knees and begged him for this new thing called mercy. So Columba poured water over their heads, and they all became as docile as lambs.”