The Land of the Silver Apples - Farmer Nancy - Страница 14

“Do it yourself, bedbug,” retorted the girl. Bedbugwas Pega’s worst insult. She absolutely hated the bloodsucking creatures, having been locked into a hut swarming with them by one of her owners.

The Bard explained about Lucy’s change of behavior since the need-fire ceremony and the anger that had spread from Giles to Alditha to Jack.

“She might be possessed,” observed Brother Aiden. “It’s well known that demons are attracted to children who are indulged by their parents. The souls of children forced to endure hardships are too tough for demons to get their teeth into. They go after the tender lambs.”

“Don’t say things like that!” begged Father.

“I’m sorry. That’s just the way things are,” the little monk said. “Exorcism might do Lucy a world of good.”

“She’s not possessed!”

“Call it madness or a demon or whatever you like, something happened at the ceremony,” the Bard argued.

“Oh, please stop,” Mother broke in, and Jack was aware of how tired she looked. For the first time he saw strands of gray in her hair and lines on either side of her mouth. They must have been there before, but he hadn’t noticed them. “Lucy draws away from us more each day. At first she only claimed to be someone else’s daughter—little did I know how true that was!—but now she talks to people I can’t see and repeats conversations I can’t hear.”

Jack saw that his little sister was talking to someone at that very moment. She was seated on the grass with the flowers she had picked scattered around her. She was looking at a spot just above Brother Aiden’s herb garden. Her face was filled with joy, and she clasped her hands as though she were watching the most delightful entertainment.

“You didn’t mention this before, Alditha,” said Father.

“How could I, with you going on and on about demons?”

There was nothing in the herb garden except rosemary, mint, and sage, and a few bees hovering over the flowers.

“Lucy,” said the Bard gently. “What do you see?”

She turned abruptly, her face contorted with rage. “Leave us!” she snarled. “You have not been given permission to speak.”

“Then I ask permission,” the old man said, and Jack wondered at his patience.

Lucy seemed confused for a moment. She turned toward the herb garden and back again. “You may speak,” she said.

“I fear I cannot see your friends.”

“That’s because you’re a commoner,” said the little girl.

“Lucy!” cried Mother.

“It’s all right. I’d like it very much, Lucy, if you’d give your friends my greetings.”

The little girl turned toward the herb garden and spoke earnestly. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. The Bard came closer and watched the garden intently. Finally, she replied. “They say you are a foolish old man with hair growing out of your ears.” Mother started to protest, but the Bard held up his hand.

“All true except the foolish part,” he said. “Tell me, do these friends have names?”

“They don’t like to give their names.”

“What are they doing now?”

“Dancing—oh!”

For the Bard had thrown his cloak over the herb garden. He held it down with his foot. “Quick, Jack! Get the other end!” he shouted, but before Jack could react, a sudden fierce wind whipped the cloak back over the old man’s head. The cloth wrapped itself tightly around his face. “Get it off me!” he cried in a muffled voice. Jack had to fight to peel the cloth away—it seemed to have a mind of its own!—but then it went limp and fell to the ground.

“I almost had them!” panted the Bard.

“You scared them off!” screamed Lucy. She threw herself down and rolled from side to side gnashing her teeth. When Father tried to pick her up, she struck him with her fists.

“They weredemons!” Father groaned.

“We aren’t sure of that,” said the Bard, tidying his beard. “Personally, I think ‘demon’ is a ragbag category. There’re sprites and boggarts, will-o’-the-wisps and pixies, spriggans and flibbertigibbets, not to mention yarthkins—wonderfully different beings. It makes just as much sense to refer to anything with wings as ‘bird’.”

Brother Aiden knelt by Lucy and laid a hand on her tossing head. He said nothing, but somehow his touch calmed her as a good farmer’s hand calms a frightened lamb.

“She’s possessed, isn’t she?” said Father.

“I’m not sure,” said the little monk. “There’s an abbot in Bebba’s Town who specializes in such things.”

“If you want my opinion, and of course you should,” the Bard said, “an abbot wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to handle Lucy’s problem.”

“What’s the harm in an exorcism?” Brother Aiden argued.

“An exorcism is like using a boulder to kill a gnat.” The Bard paced around the herb garden as he thought. “It could do as much harm to Lucy as the gnat.”

“We can’t leave her like this.” The little monk stroked Lucy’s hair, but her eyes were still bewildered and unseeing.

“Bebba’s Town is near the Holy Isle,” murmured Father with a faraway look in his eyes. Jack knew he was remembering his visit there long ago, when the kindly monks tried to mend his leg.

“There’s no one left on the Holy Isle,” Brother Aiden reminded him. “The abbot, Father Swein, lives at St. Filian’s Monastery. St. Filian’s Well is famous for cures.”

“Do you think it could fix my leg?” said Father.

“All things are possible with God, but the well’s better known for afflictions of the soul. It might be just the thing for Lucy.”

“It would be like going on a pilgrimage,” Father said, that faraway look still in his eyes.

“A pilgrimage?”echoed Brother Aiden.

“We could go on to the Forest of Lorn,” added Jack. All this while a strange feeling was uncurling inside him like a seedling reaching for the sun. He saw a ship leaning into a cold wind on a gray-green sea. Dark trees massed on the shore. I should have learned my lesson by now,he thought as the exhilarating sense of adventure grew. Last time this happened, I almost wound up in a dragon’s stomach.The feeling was too strong to suppress, however.

Despite his joy at returning home from the Northland, Jack had found living in the village somewhat dull—not that he enjoyed bumping into trolls or being carried off by giant spiders. Far from it! But looking back, the trip seemed nicer than it had, in fact, been. That’s the nature of adventures,Jack thought wisely. They’re nasty while they’re happening and only fun later.

“You could find my lost daughter,” murmured Mother.

“Oh, very well,” conceded the Bard. “I suppose I can be talked into a trip to the Forest of Lorn. It’s years since I talked to pookas.” He, too, had a distant look in his eyes.

All of them sat in a daze. A few hours before, their problems had seemed overwhelming. Now, in the bright spring sunlight with the swallows dipping and warbling, a plan unfolded in front of them. Father looked transported, and Jack realized he’d never traveled anywhere, except for that one trip to the Holy Isle. The Bard smiled, remembering things Jack could only guess at, and Jack saw himself walking through a magic forest full of little men.

“If we’re going, someone has to pack,” Pega said in her practical way, breaking into the reverie. Jack looked up. He couldn’t remember anyone inviting heralong.

“I’ll have to look after the farm,” said Mother. “I’ll ask the tanner’s wife and her two daughters to help me. They’ll welcome the chance to move out of their miserable cottage.”

“I wish you could come,” Jack said, sorry to leave her with the work.

“I’m a wise woman,” Mother said. “My place is with the fields, the animals, the bees, not a monastery. And besides, it will be a treat to have company to talk to of women’s things—only, don’t stay away too long!”

“It’s settled, then,” said the Bard. “I’ll bring herbal cures to trade for lodgings, Giles can contribute candles, and Aiden his special inks. You’re coming, aren’t you, Aiden?”