Nancy Farmer - The Land of the Silver Apples

There were several caves hidden behind vines and trees. All but one were found to be blocked by rockfalls. The last one opened under the sea and was covered by water except at low tide. They had to wait for hours until it was revealed.

It was an uninviting hole, choked with the litter of many storms. A small whale had wedged itself between rocks, and its bones were still draped with decaying blubber.

“We must hurry,” the Bugaboo said. “We have to go down before we go up, and if the tide comes in…”

We drown, thought Jack, eyeing the slippery rocks beyond. They had made torches for the journey, not good ones and not nearly enough. But the Bugaboo said there would be light farther on. Thorgil went first, brandishing a torch. Then came the hobgoblins, carrying Father Severus. Pega followed with Ethne, who breathed deeply of the odor of rotten whale.

“So that’s what decay smells like,” she said in wonder. “Nothing like it has ever existed in Elfland.”

“If you don’t move, I’m going to throw up,” said Pega.

“But why?” said the elf lady in honest puzzlement. “It is a strong scent, to be sure. So is the odor of honeysuckle, but I find them both equally enjoyable.” And she probably did, Jack thought. How would she know the difference between nasty and nice when nothing in her experience had taught her? Pega shoved her roughly to make her go on.

Jack came last, carrying both Thorgil’s knife and his staff. In his experience trouble usually showed up from behind. He looked carefully from side to side and listened for stealthy noises.

The floor sank into pools of brackish, fetid water. Soon they were wading through the muck to their waists. The hobgoblins hoisted Father Severus’ litter over their heads, and he clung on grimly. Shadows danced along the walls from Thorgil’s torch.

Waves echoed from behind, and now and then a fresh surge of water poured down. Jack’s legs itched with salt. His feet were frozen and the air reeked. He tried to appreciate the odor of rotten whale and failed.

A whoosh and sudden rush of water made him stumble. “Run!” cried the Bugaboo. “The tide has turned!”

They hurried as well as they could, sloshing and splashing with curses from Thorgil and even Pega. “What does ‘filthy #$@!!’ mean?” said Ethne.

“Tell you later,” panted Pega. Both she and the elf lady were weighted down with baskets of supplies balanced on their heads. Fortunately, the path began to go up. The floor of the tunnel changed to sand and the ceiling rose until all could walk freely without fear of bumping into rock. They came at last to a level section. Everyone collapsed on the ground, and Thorgil jammed the torch into the sand.

“I haven’t been here in ages,” said the Bugaboo after a while.

“It’s the same old pest hole,” grunted the Nemesis. A breeze moved fitfully from ahead, pushing back the remnants of ripe whale.

Jack looked around at the oddly bulbous rocks. They resembled balls of dough glued together. “What kind of pest?” he said.

“Yarthkins, mainly,” said the Bugaboo. “The wraiths stick to their hall, except for Jenny Greenteeth. She wanders a bit.”

“Why? What’s she looking for?” said Pega.

“Don’t you worry, my little moss blossom,” the Bugaboo said, wrapping an arm about the girl. “Old Jenny’s learned a thing or two about bothering hobgoblins since she last—well, I won’t go into details.”

“I’ve heard of yarthkins, but what exactly are they?” said Jack before Pega could ask further questions about Jenny Greenteeth’s habits.

“They’re old gods,” said the Nemesis. “They keep themselves to themselves. If you don’t bother them, they don’t bother you.”

Pega passed around cold, grilled leeks as a snack to keep up everyone’s spirits. She had smoked fish as well, but the Bugaboo said it would make them thirsty and shouldn’t be touched until they found freshwater. Thorgil’s torch had by now burned down to the ground, and she lit another one.

The walk was almost pleasant. The tunnel grew larger until it was wide enough for ten men to walk side by side with their arms outstretched. Jack was glad of the space. Narrow, underground tunnels made him nervous. The sand changed to dirt. The air became fresher with a hint of growing things, although nothing green could have lived in such darkness. Still, if Jack closed his eyes, he could imagine walking through a field. There was a liveliness to the air, a feeling that at any moment a leaf might burst out of the soil.

Presently, they came to a spring bubbling up from the ground. It flowed into a brook, and huge, pale mushrooms as tall as a man grew along its banks.

The Bugaboo called a halt. “We’ve been walking for hours. I’d guess it’s already dark outside.” Jack realized, with surprise, that it was true. He’d been so interested in this last part of the journey, he hadn’t noticed how tired he was.

“You can douse the torch,” the Nemesis said. “We won’t need it here.”

With some misgivings, Jack saw Thorgil reverse her torch and extinguish it. The light went out, and for a moment all was dark. Then—here, there, far, and near—a gentle glow rose like mist. Jack couldn’t make out the source at first, but after a few moments it had strengthened enough to cast his shadow on the ground.

It was the mushrooms. Pale green and misty pearl, they shone like veiled moons. Along the ground by their massive trunks crept glowworms. A spark of greenish light flashed from the ceiling and was answered by another flash. Fireflies suddenly filled the upper air.

“We can drink the water here,” the Bugaboo said. They were all extremely thirsty by now, and all knelt by the spring with cupped hands. The water was cold and clean with a hint of something green in it.

“If it were not blasphemy, I would say this is the water of life,” Father Severus said.

“You wouldn’t be wrong,” said the Bugaboo. “This was the heart of the old gods’ kingdom before people invaded the land. It is this that nourishes the roots of the forest and sweetens the waters welling from the earth. Ancient things still abide here that care nothing for the affairs of mankind. We hobgoblins were once part of it before St. Columba gave us souls.”

“God gave you souls,” the monk gently reproved him. “St. Columba only awakened you to their existence.”

Now they could eat the smoked fish and the pignuts and garlic steamed in seaweed by Pega. It was a jolly gathering in spite of the weird surroundings. Thorgil told several tales of bloodcurdling battles, each ending with everyone getting killed and being devoured by ravens.

“Why don’t you give us a poem?” said Jack, hoping to divert her from her depressing sagas. He knew Thorgil was proud of her poetic ability.

“All right,” she agreed, smiling.

“What?” said Thorgil, halting her recitation. The hobgoblins were staring at her in horror, Father Severus was shaking his head, and Pega looked ready to cry.

“Are those men dead?” Ethne said earnestly. “I need to know because I’ve never seen a dead man.”

“It’s a poem!” shouted Thorgil. “You’re supposed to enjoy it!”

“It’s very good,” Jack said quickly, “but I think everyone’s tired after such a long walk. Perhaps we need something less stirring.”

“I’ll tell a story,” Father Severus said. Jack had no great hopes for the gloomy monk’s offering, but he surprised everyone with a tale called: