Nancy Farmer
THE LAND OF THE SILVER APPLES
For Ruth Farmer
1916-2006
May the life force hold you
in the hollow of its hand
CAST OF CHARACTERS
HUMANS (SAXONS)
Jack: Age thirteen; an apprentice bard
Lucy: Jack’s sister; age seven
Mother: Alditha; Jack and Lucy’s mother; a wise woman
Father: Giles Crookleg; Jack and Lucy’s father
The Bard: A druid from Ireland; also known as Dragon Tongue
Pega: A slave girl; age fourteen
Brother Aiden: A monk from the Holy Isle
Father Sivein: The abbot of St. Filian’s Well
Brutus: A slave at St. Filian’s Well
Father Severus: A prisoner of the elves
Hazel: A child stolen by hobgoblins
HUMANS (NORTHMEN)
Thorgil Olaf’s Daughter: An ex-berserker; age thirteen
Olaf One-Brow: A famous warrior and Thorgil’s adoptive father; deceased
Skakki: Olaf’s son; shipmate of Thorgil
Rune: A skald
Eric the Rash: Shipmate of Thorgil
Eric Pretty-Face: Shipmate of Thorgil
Heimlich the Heinous: Nephew of King Ivar the Boneless
PICTS
Brude: Leader of the Old Ones
HOBGOBLINS
The Bugaboo: King of the hobgoblins
The Nemesis: The Bugaboo’s second-in-command
Mumsie: The Bugaboo’s mother
Mr. and Mrs. Blewit: Adoptive parents of Hazel
ELVES
Partholis: Queen of Elfland
Partholon: Partholis’ consort
Ethne: An elf lady; daughter of Partholis and an unknown human
Gowrie: An elf lord
Nimue: The Lady of the Lake; a water elf
UNCLASSIFIABLE
King Yffi: Ruler of Din Guardi and Bebba’s Town; half-kelpie
Man in the Moon: An old god; exiled to the moon
Forest Lord: An old god; ruler of the Green World
The Hedge: Aspect of the Forest Lord
Knuckers: They look like your worst nightmare.
Yarthkins: Also known as landvættir; spirits of the land. You really don’t want to meddle with them.
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor,
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name.
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
—William Butler Yeats
Chapter One
THE NECKLACE
It was the middle of the night when the rooster crowed. The sun had disappeared hours ago into a mass of clouds over the western hills. From the wind buffeting the walls of the house, Jack knew a storm had rolled off the North Sea. The sky would be black as a lead mine, and even the earth, covered with snow as it was, would be invisible. The sun when it rose—if it rose—would be masked in gloom.
The rooster crowed again. Jack heard his claws scratching the bottom of his basket as if he was wondering where his soft nest had gone. And where his warm companions had hidden themselves. The rooster was alone in his little pen.
“It’s only for a while,” Jack told the bird, who grumbled briefly and settled down. He would crow again later, and again, until the sun really appeared. That was how roosters were. They made noise all night, to be certain of getting it right.
Jack threw back the heap of sheepskins covering him. The coals in the hearth still gleamed, but not for long, Jack thought with a twinge of fear. It was the Little Yule, the longest night of the year, and the Bard had commanded they put out all the fires in the village. The past year had been too dangerous. Berserkers had appeared from across the water, and only merest chance had kept them from slaughtering the villagers.
The Northmen had destroyed the Holy Isle. Those who had not been drowned or burned or chopped to bits had been hauled off into slavery.
It was time for new beginnings, the Bard said. Not one spark of fire was to remain in the little gathering of farms Jack knew as home. New fire had to be kindled from the earth. The Bard called it a “need-fire.” Without it, the evils of the past would linger into the new year.
If the flame did not kindle, if the earth refused to give up its fire, the frost giants would know their time had come. They would descend from their icy fortresses in the far north. The great wolf of winter would devour the sun and light would never return.
Of course, that was the belief in the old days, Jack thought as he pulled on his calfskin boots. Now, with Brother Aiden in the village, people knew that the old beliefs should be cast away. The little monk sat outside his beehive-shaped hut and spoke to anyone who would listen. He gently corrected people’s errors and spoke to them of the goodness of God. He was an excellent storyteller, almost as fine as the Bard. People were willing to listen to him.
Still, in the dark of the longest night of the year, it was hard to believe in such goodness. God had not protected the Holy Isle. The wolf of winter was abroad. You could hear his voice on the wind, and the very air rang with the shouts of frost giants. Surely it was wise to follow the old ways.
Jack climbed the ladder to the loft. “Mother, Father,” he called. “Lucy.”
“We’re awake,” his father replied. He was already bundled up for the long walk. Mother was ready too, but Lucy stubbornly clung to her covers.
“Leave me alone!” she wailed.
“It’s St. Lucy’s Day,” Father coaxed. “You’ll be the most important person in the village.”
“I’m already the most important person in the village.”
“The very idea!” Mother said. “More important than the Bard or Brother Aiden or the chief? You need a lesson in humility.”
“Ah, but she’s really a lost princess,” Father said fondly. “She’ll look so pretty in her new dress.”
“I will, won’t I?” said Lucy, condescending to rise.
Jack went back down the ladder. It was an argument Mother never won. She tried to teach Lucy manners, but Father always undermined her efforts.
To Giles Crookleg, his daughter was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him. He was forever cursed with lameness. Both he and his wife, Alditha, were sturdy rather than handsome, with faces browned by working in the fields. No one would ever mistake them for nobility. Jack knew he would be just like them when he grew up. But Lucy’s hair was as golden as afternoon sunlight and her eyes were the violet blue of an evening sky. She moved with a bright grace that seemed barely to touch the earth. Giles, with his lumbering, shambling gait, could only admire her.
Jack had to admit, as he stirred up the hearth for one last burst of heat, that Lucy had been through much in the past year. She had seen murder and endured slavery in the Northland. He had too, but he was thirteen and she was only seven. He was willing to overlook most of her annoying habits.
He heated cider and warmed oatcakes on the stones next to the fire. Mother was busy dressing Lucy in her finery, and Jack heard complaints as the little girl’s hair was combed. Father came down to drink his cider.
The cock crowed again. Both Jack and Father paused. It was said in the old days that a golden rooster lived in the branches of Yggdrassil. On the darkest night of the year he crowed. If he was answered by the black rooster that lived under the roots of the Great Tree, the End of Days had come.
No cry shook the heavens or echoed in the earth. Only the north wind blustered against the walls of the house, and Jack and Father relaxed. They continued to sip their drinks. “I wish we had a mirror,” came Lucy’s petulant voice. “I don’t see why we can’t buy one from the Pictish peddlers. We’ve got all that silver Jack brought home.”
