Table Of ContentTHE LAND OF THE
SILVER APPLES
Sea of Trolls - 02
Nancy Farmer
(An Undead Scan v1.5)
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For Ruth Farmer
1916-2006
May the life force hold you
in the hollow of its hand
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.”
“It’s for hard times,” Mother said patiently.
“Oh, pooh! I want to see myself! I’m sure I’m beautiful.”
“You’ll do,” Mother said.
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In fact, Jack had more silver than his parents knew. The Bard had advised him to
bury half of it under the floor of the ancient Roman house, where the old man lived.
“Your mother has good sense,” the Bard had said, “but Giles Crookleg—excuse me,
lad—has the brain of an owl.”
Father had spent some of his share on Brother Aiden’s altar and a donkey for
Lucy. The rest was reserved for that glorious day when she would marry a knight or
even—Father’s hopes rose ever higher—a prince. How Lucy would meet a prince in
a tiny village tucked away from any major road was a mystery.
The little girl climbed down the ladder and twirled to show off her finery. She
wore a long, white dress of the finest wool. Mother had woven the yellow sash
herself, dying it with the pollen-colored washings from her beehives. The dress,
however, had been imported from Edwin’s Town in the far north. Such cloth was
beyond Mother’s ability, for her sheep produced only a coarse, gray wool.
Lucy wore a feathery green crown of yew on her golden hair. Jack thought it was
as nice as a real crown, and only he understood its true meaning. The Bard said the
yew tree guarded the door between this world and the next. On the longest night of
the year this door stood open. Lucy’s role was to close it during the need-fire
ceremony, and she needed protection from whatever lay on the other side.
“I know what would go with this dress—my silver necklace,” Lucy said.
“You are not to wear metal,” Mother said sharply. “The Bard said it was
forbidden.”
“He’s a pagan,” Lucy said. She had only just learned the word.
“He’s a wise man, and I’ll have no disrespect from you!”
“A pagan, a pagan, a pagan!” Lucy sang in her maddening way. “He’s going to
be dragged down to Hell by demons with long claws.”
“Get your cloak on, you rude child. We’ve got to go.”
Lucy darted past Mother and grabbed Father’s arm. “You’ll let me wear the
necklace, Da. Please? Please-please-please-please-please?” She cocked her head like
a bright little sparrow, and Jack’s heart sank. She was so adorable, all golden hair and
smiles.
“You can’t wear the necklace,” Jack said. Lucy’s smile instantly turned upside
down.
“It’s mine!” she spat.
“Not yet,” Jack said. “It was given into my keeping. I decide when you get it.”
“You thief!”
“Lucy!” cried Mother.
“What harm can it do, Alditha?” said Father, entering into the argument for the
first time. He put his arm around the little girl, and she rubbed her cheek against his
coat.
“Brother Aiden says this is St. Lucy’s Day. Surely we honor the saint by dressing
her namesake in the finest we have.”
“Giles—” began Mother.
“Be still. I say she wears the necklace.”
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“It’s dangerous,” Jack said. “The Bard says metal can poison the need-fire
because you can’t tell where it’s been. If it’s been used as a weapon or for some other
evil, it perverts the life force.”
Father had treated Jack with more respect since his return from the land of the
Northmen, but he was not going to be lectured by his son. “This is my house. I am the
master,” Giles Crookleg said. He went to the treasure chest with Lucy dancing at his
side.
Father took the iron key from the thong around his neck and unlocked the chest.
Inside were some of the things Mother had brought to the marriage: lengths of cloth,
embroidery, and a few items of jewelry. Underneath were a heap of silver coins and a
gold coin with the face of a Roman king that Father had found in the garden.
Wrapped in a cloth was the necklace of silver leaves.
It gleamed with a brightness that was strangely compelling. Jack could
understand Lucy’s desire for it. It had been looted in a Northman raid, claimed by
Frith Half-Troll, and had come to Thorgil the shield maiden. Thorgil fell in love with
it, and this was most unusual because she scorned feminine weaknesses such as
jewelry and baths. Then Thorgil, who valued suffering even more than silver, had
given her beloved necklace to Lucy.
From the very beginning, the little girl had reacted badly to this generous gift.
She claimed it came from Frith, who—Lucy insisted—had treated her like a real
princess. And she became hysterical when Jack reminded her of the truth, that the
evil half-troll had kept her in a cage and planned to sacrifice her. Jack had taken
charge of the necklace then.
“Ooh!” cried Lucy, putting it on.
“Now we really have to go,” said Father, locking the chest. He had lit two horn
lanterns for the journey. Mother had packed several of her precious beeswax candles
in a carrying bag. Jack poured water over the hearth, and smoke and steam billowed
up. The light in the room shrank down to two brownish dots behind the panels of the
horn lanterns.
“Be sure it’s out,” whispered Mother. Jack broke up the coals with the poker and
poured on more water until he could feel only a fading heat in the hearthstones.
Father opened the door, and a blast of icy wind swept in. The rooster groaned in
his pen, and a cup rolled along the floor. “Don’t dawdle!” Father commanded, as
though Jack and Mother had been responsible for the delay. Snow lay everywhere,
and they could see only a few feet ahead by the dim lantern light. The sky was
shrouded with clouds.
Father fetched the donkey for Lucy. Bluebell was an obedient, patient beast,
chosen by Brother Aiden for her good character, but she had to be dragged from her
pen on this night. She fought until Father smacked her hard and seated Lucy on her
back. The donkey stood there, shivering and blowing steam from her nostrils.
“Good old Bluebell,” crooned Lucy, hugging the animal’s neck. The little girl
was covered in a heavy woolen robe with a hood, and the robe hung down over
Bluebell’s sides. It must have given the donkey some warmth because she stopped
resisting and followed Father’s lead.
Jack went ahead with a lantern. It was slow going, for the road was icy where it
wasn’t covered with snow. Jack had to keep trudging to the side to find the posts that
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