by Nancy Farmer
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.
“I wonder what they intend for him, poor fellow,” said Father Severus, who was walking slowly and leaning on Pega’s shoulder.
“Noooo,” moaned Father Swein, attempting to flee. The elf guards at the hall door shoved him back. But Guthlac was unable to see his enemy, and so the abbot was able to edge past.
They found themselves in a vast courtyard under a starry sky crowned by a full moon. In the middle was an enormous bonfire, while at the sides were flower-filled gardens lit by lamps and torches as well as by the fire. Bright shadows competed with dark ones.
Elves were singing, dancing, feasting, playing games, and conjuring up monsters. A giant toad snagged fireflies with its tongue. Jack could see its belly glow as the creatures flew around inside. Then a monstrous black flower grew out of the ground and swallowed the toad. It croaked mournfully as the petals closed. The pet toddlers howled and tried to crawl away, but they were brought up short by their leashes. The elves laughed merrily at their antics.
It was a scene of swirling chaos, a feverish quest for more and more pleasure, and Jack realized suddenly that there was no joy in the celebration at all. It was a mad frenzy, such as came over sheep after they had eaten moldy grass.
“Something touched my face!” cried Pega. Jack whirled around, ready to do battle with whatever had frightened her. But there was nothing. He walked around her to be sure. The competing lights and shadows made it difficult to see. “There was something,” the girl insisted. “I felt it first in the hallway and now here.”
“Did it hurt you?”
“No.” Pega seemed unwilling to say more.
“It was probably a bat,” said Thorgil. Large, leathery shapes with bodies the size of puppies swooped above the bonfire.
Pega shuddered. “I’d know if one of those bumped into me. This was more like… a kiss.”
“Maybe it was tasting you to see if you’d be good.”
“Thorgil!” exclaimed Jack.
“There’s Lucy,” said Pega. And Jack saw Queen Partholis and his sister watching a lumpy seedling rising from the ground.
“No, no!” said Partholis. “Branches first, then honey cakes!” Lucy stamped her foot, and the seedling died. “I don’t know why I bother teaching you glamour,” complained the Elf Queen. “You have the brain of a flea.”
“Why doesn’t it do what I want?” Lucy whined.
“Because glamour needs concentration. Oh, very well. I’ll take over.” Partholis waved her hands, and the seedling revived, putting out branches, leaves, then flowers, and, last of all, honey cakes. Lucy began stuffing herself with the treat.
“There’s our guests of honor!” cried Gowrie, the huntsman who had danced with Thorgil at the party. Elf lords and ladies immediately swept Jack and his companions on to the queen.
“Oh, bother! What’s he doing here?” said Lucy, her mouth smeared with honey. Jack felt a pang of grief. After all he’d done to save her, she might at least be glad to see him. But he reminded himself that she might be under a spell. The silver necklace still gleamed around her neck.
“He’s here for the ceremony,” Partholis said. “He’s meant for the—you know.”
Lucy turned away, bored.
“Let the celebration begin!” cried Gowrie, clapping his hands. Thralls set out chairs, tables, and snacks. Partholis and Partholon seated themselves with Ethne—who threw Father Severus an anguished look—and Lucy.
“Nimue!” shrieked the queen. “Nimue! Come sit with us. This is going to be such fun!” The Lady of the Lake made her way from among a cluster of ladies draped in what appeared to be fish scales.
“I wish I could stay,” she gushed, “but I simply must get Brutie-Wootie out of harm’s way.”
Brutie-Wootie? thought Jack with a sinking feeling. And sure enough, he saw Brutus being fawned over by the same cluster of fishy ladies.
“He can’t go,” wailed the queen. “He promised to sing for me, and besides—”
“You have quite enough humans without him,” Nimue said tartly. “I promised to restore the water to Bebba’s Town, and I have to admit I miss the dear old swamps and marshes. Now that St. Filian’s power is broken, I can go and come as I please.”
“You are selfish as always,” sniffed Partholis. The Lady of the Lake yawned delicately.
Brutus extricated himself from the crowd of admiring ladies. “Has the sun risen? Have I wandered into the heart of a flower? Or are my eyes dazzled by your ravishing beauty?” he cried, bowing before the queen.
“Oh, you,” Partholis said, giggling.
“I assure you, nothing could tear me away from your glorious presence except duty to my Lady,” exclaimed Brutus. “Alas, I am in thrall.”
“The sooner we get out of here the better,” urged Nimue.
“Then I fear I must bid you all adieu,” Brutus said, bowing again.
“Wait a minute,” said Jack, pulling him aside. “How can you abandon the rest of us?”
“I’m not abandoning you. I’m fulfilling the quest.”
“You, Brutie-Wootie, are a vile oath-breaker,” said Jack, falling back on Thorgil’s deadliest insult.
“You wound me deeply,” protested the slave. “My mission was to restore water to Din Guardi. This I shall do. Yet what do I receive for my loyal service? Base ingratitude. But I forgive you, because those of Lancelot’s line don’t hold grudges.”
“Those of Lancelot’s line can barely hold a thought for five seconds!” yelled Jack. “You’re deserting us! You’re leaving us to be dragged down to Hell! How noble is that?”
“Ah! But you have allies you are not aware of,” said Brutus with a mysterious smile.
“What allies? What are you talking about?”
“I wish I could say. Unfortunately, the very air in Elfland has ears. I can, however, pass on a gift from them.” Brutus fished in a pocket and removed a small leather bag.
Jack looked inside. There was a chunk of flint, a nail of bright metal, and a dried polypore, the sort of mushroom used for kindling. “Fire-making tools!” Jack said, beside himself with rage. “What do I need these for? We’ve got the biggest bonfire in Middle Earth over there!”
Brutus laid his finger across his mouth to caution silence. “That would be true if, in fact, we were in Middle Earth. Nothing in Elfland is what it seems.”
“You can’t leave us,” cried Pega, flinging herself against him. “You can’t leave him.” She pointed at Father Severus.
Even Thorgil unbent enough to tug at his sleeve. “True comrades stay together.”
“I have no choice in the matter. The Lady despises humans (except for me, of course). She will not take you,” said Brutus, hugging each of them.
“But—but—” said Pega, beginning to cry.
“At least give me Anredden,” said Thorgil. “I doubt you even know how to use it.”
“Trust me, no mortal sword can defend you. Pega holds the weapon you must use—but I dare not say more.”
By now the fishy ladies were calling for Brutus to join them. He blew them kisses. “Now I must go. Water nymphs are so impatient, the darlings!” He stroked Pega’s wispy hair. “Remember the gift I passed on to Jack, lassie. It is real. It does not come from Elfland.” Then Nimue took him firmly by the arm and led him away. The last they saw of him was his dark head bobbing among a cluster of fish scales in the distance.
“What did he mean, I have the weapon? What can I do?” Pega said. “I’m no warrior. I suppose I could sing.”
“Last time your singing got us thrown into the dungeon,” Thorgil said.
“Brutus meant nothing. He never does,” said Jack, thoroughly disgusted.
Chapter Thirty-seven
THE TITHE OF HELL
By now the elves ha
d ranged themselves in a wide arc around a grassy lawn, with Partholis and her consort at the center. The bonfire snapped nearby and sent a shower of sparks high into the air. They floated golden among the silver stars and did not dim. Will the demons drag us into the fire? Jack wondered. Can an illusion burn you? He guessed it probably could. The heat was certainly uncomfortable against his face. Gowrie clapped his hands for silence.
Partholis rose to her feet. “It is Midsummer’s Eve,” she said in a sweet voice. “The moon is almost at zenith, and our guests”—she wavered slightly here—“are soon to arrive. First we must have entertainment, and so I call upon the grim monk”—a titter ran around the gathering—“for one of his amusing sermons.”
Jack was startled, but Father Severus seemed unsurprised. He walked slowly, resting his weight upon Pega, until he faced the queen. “Foolish as ever,” he said. “You’ve been given an opportunity for salvation, but you close your ears to it. Time lies in wait for you, false queen. You may hide in this pretty bauble called Elfland, but someday it will be torn from you. You will be cast out on the cold roads to wander until you fade like mist before the rising sun. Not one of your lying tricks will call time back on that evil day. Repent!” His voice suddenly rose, and goose bumps came up on Jack’s arms. “Repent! For the hour is at hand when the keepers of houses shall tremble and the strong shall bow down to the earth. All the doors shall be closed and the daughters of music shall be brought low.”
As the monk spoke, he straightened up and the marks of illness fell away. Jack had seen the exact same thing happen with the Bard. The old man was sometimes exhausted by the end of the day. Sometimes his fingers were stiff and clumsy. But when he took up his harp, he became a young man again, playing without flaw, with his voice strong.
It was the magic that lay in music. And here, Jack saw, was a different kind of magic. Pega’s eyes shone, and Thorgil listened with her mouth open. The shield maiden respected power. Here was power indeed!
But then Jack heard another sound that swelled and overwhelmed Father Severus. It was laughter! The elves roared and hooted and stamped and slapped one another on the back. Partholis was so overcome, Partholon had to signal a thrall to bring her wine. “Oh! Oh! That was good!” the Elf Queen wheezed. “It’s like pulling the string on a top. Whisk! And off it goes!”
Only Ethne was upset. “Stop it!” she cried. “Don’t make fun of him! He’s right. We must repent.”
“Ethne, you’re even more tiresome than usual,” said Partholis, wiping her eyes. “It’s that taint of humanity.”
“Half-human! Half-human! Half-human!” taunted Lucy.
“Now, now. That isn’t nice,” reproved the queen.
“But it’s fun,” Lucy said.
The queen put her arm around the little girl and hugged her. “You may be an obnoxious little flea-brain, but you’re all elf,” she said proudly. And then Jack knew, sure as sure, that Lucy was not under a spell. The necklace had not been responsible for her behavior. It had only awakened her heritage. Lucy was all elf, with the selfishness and cruelty that implied. She had never loved Father and Mother. She had never loved him. She was simply a creature of desire who would one day fade like a rainbow when the night comes on.
It made Jack extremely sad. It also freed him. He no longer needed to worry about her or try to save her, for restoring her to Father and Mother would only bring sorrow to all of them.
Meanwhile, the laughter had drowned out Father Severus’ voice. He seemed to shrink before Jack’s eyes, becoming frail and sick again. “You beasts!” cried Pega, her eyes flashing.
“Beasts would have more honor,” Thorgil said.
“La, la, la! Time for the next event,” mocked Gowrie. He seemed to be the master of entertainment. He signaled thralls to take Father Severus and the others to one side. A low fence was tricked up out of air, to mark a playing field. Elf lords and ladies stood around the edge armed, Jack noted uneasily, with what appeared to be long tongues of fire. They writhed in the air as though alive, and the elves’ eyes gleamed in the light.
Father Swein was tethered to a block of wood in the middle of the field. He stood there, blinking owlishly at the gathering. A gang of thralls dragged Guthlac out, whisked off his hood, and ran for safety. The vines slithered off Guthlac’s arms and legs.
For a moment the man simply stood there. A whisper of excitement went round the crowd. “UBBA UBBA!” roared Guthlac as he recognized his enemy. He launched himself at Father Swein. The abbot was a strong man, but he was no match for someone possessed by a large demon. He dragged the block of wood to the edge of the field, all the while fending off blows and bites from the frenzied Guthlac. But when he got there, he was driven back by the burning whips.
Back and forth they went, with both of them screaming at the top of their lungs and Father Swein getting the worst of it. He got in a few blows. Guthlac shook them off like fleabites. The abbot’s robe was in tatters. He bled from a dozen wounds and was beginning to stagger. Whenever either of the men got close to the edge, the elves drove them back.
Everyone was cheering. Partholon stood on his chair and clapped. Lucy danced madly around the edge. Even Ethne looked flushed and excited. “Stop them! Stop them!” shrieked Pega.
“Shall we throw the little hob-human in too?” cried Gowrie.
“Yes! Yes!” shouted a dozen voices. “Hob-human! Hob-human! Hob-human!”
Gowrie, his handsome face shining with mirth, reached for the girl, and Jack struck his legs out from under him with his staff. Gowrie fell over with a look of absolute amazement. “He hurt me!” he exclaimed. The other elves roared with laughter.
“Go on, Gowrie! Get the hob-human!”
The huntsman rose painfully to his feet, and Jack braced for battle, but Father Severus put himself between them. “I’ll take the girl’s place,” he said.
Oh, this was rare sport, indeed! The elves were beside themselves with glee. “Throw the gloomy monk in! Two monks against one demon! What sport!”
“No!” shouted Ethne, jolted from her pleasure in the fight.
“Oh, shut up, you sorry excuse for an elf,” said Partholis. “But it really is time to stop. Separate those men,” she commanded. “At this rate we won’t have anyone left to offer our visitors—and we all know what that means.”
That sobered up the elves at once. They dragged Guthlac away from Father Swein and tied him up with vines again. The abbot collapsed where he was. The magic fence disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. The elves withdrew to their seats.
Then all fell silent except Guthlac. He shifted from foot to foot, murmuring softly. The bonfire rustled and snapped. The moon moved just that bit closer to zenith. Everyone waited. Jack put his arm protectively around Pega. Thorgil stood with the barely controlled energy of a Northman warrior about to do battle. Father Severus prayed.
From the heart of the bonfire came a distant groaning and grinding of stone being torn apart. The fire brightened. It climbed to the very roof of the sky, licking at the stars. In the distance Jack heard cries that made his heart falter for the fear and pain that lay in them. It was the voices of the damned.
Jack wanted to run and could not. His feet were rooted to the ground. All will, all rational thought fled. He could only stare at the fire and watch the shapes arising within.
They were worse than anything Father had described to him. Father had never seen a real demon. It wasn’t only their claws and teeth that were dreadful, but their loathsome bodies half hidden by the flames. Their eyes shone with awful knowledge. They had seen the worst, been the worst. Hate radiated from them like the foulest stench. And stench there was as well. A thousand odors of corruption mixed and mingled in their breath.
Jack covered his nose, but there was no escaping it. Pega clasped her hands. Father Severus fell to his knees. Thorgil bent over and vomited, and she was not the only one. Utter terror swept over the onlookers, elf and human alike. Father Swein lay where he had fallen, gibbering w
ith fear.
A tall shape within the fire reached out a long, long arm and pointed a charred finger, first at Jack, then Pega, then Thorgil. It hesitated at Thorgil. Shield maiden, said a voice like thunder rolling from a distant storm.
Thorgil stared back, unable to move. She had met her match, but even here, where all others were paralyzed, she managed to speak. “I am Odin’s shield maiden,” she gasped. Jack could see that it hurt her to speak. “I’m not yours.”
The Being laughed, shaking the ground. That remains to be seen, it said, but what have we here? The finger moved and pointed at Father Severus. I remember you. Do you remember me, when I whispered in your ear about the mermaid?
The monk was speechless. His hands clutched his tin cross and his lips moved, but no sound came out.
Ah! The exquisite flavor of guilt. The aroma of shame. Other voices hissed and burbled with appreciation in the bonfire.
“Leave… him… alone,” Jack managed to whisper. The finger hesitated.
Defiance. I like that, but it is not as tasty as shame.
“Go… away,” Pega moaned.
And loyalty. The voice sounded faintly surprised. Then, giving no warning, Thorgil suddenly lunged. She had no weapon, so she brought her fist crashing down on the finger. Lightning flashed. Flame engulfed Thorgil’s right hand. She screamed, frantically rolling on the ground to put out the fire. But it clung like a live thing. The Being turned its attention to her, laughing and shaking the earth.
The evil spell holding Jack and Pega wavered. “Pega,” gasped Jack. “Hold out your candle.”
He understood what the Bard had been trying to tell him in the vision. He is guarded by the need-fire, the old man had told the swallow. No illusion, no matter how compelling, can stand against—
Can stand against the simple fact of one true thing. He grabbed the fire-making tools and struck a spark onto the dried mushroom. A tiny flame appeared, pale against the roaring energy of the bonfire. Pega shoved her candle into it.
