R. Fergus Moirthe Quest for the Golden Apple

R. Fergus MoirThe Quest for the Golden Apple

Five

The Sheep and Sherpa was an L-shaped building between a blacksmith and a fletcher. It boasted a small dining area in the front and an open room in the back in which people could sleep on the floor on piles of straw. Not much of an accommodation, but better than being outside the village fence when night fell. The emerald purchased their lodging and dinner.

“What if the mapmaker wants something for his map?” Connor worried.

Wynne shrugged. “I might have a couple things we could trade. A few weeks back I camped in a swamp and there was a bumper crop of sugar cane. I used it to make paper—stacks so nicely in my pack. I’m sure any librarian and mapmaker worth his salt would be happy to trade for good paper.”

“Why are you being so nice to me, Wynne? You’ve already told me you don’t trust anyone. And you don’t even know me.”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe because you’re alone, like me. Or maybe because you’re only fourteen. Or maybe because you’re too nice to kill sheep.” She grinned wickedly and Connor tossed a piece of bread at her face.

“But I’m pure evil with the pigs,” he grinned back.

“For Elinor!” she whisper-shouted, eyes twinkling.

“I wish I hadn’t told you I did that,” he muttered through his bread. Suddenly, he yawned, overcome with the fatigue of the past few days, and lulled into a sense of peace by the fact that he was finally in a village, safe from the dangers of night, full of good food, and no longer alone.

“It’s hardly even dusk and you can’t keep your eyes open!”

“Give me a break. It’s been a rough couple of days!”

She cocked her head to the side and smiled crookedly. “You’re right. Why don’t you go to sleep?”

“I told the butcher I would pick up those last two cooked chickens.”

“I’ll get them. I’d like to take a look around the village anyway.”

“I thought you were here a few days ago.”

“No. I said I saw the village. I didn’t come here. I stay away from villages as a general rule.”

Already sleepy and content, Connor’s heart filled with warmth. She had come here just for him. He silently thanked Notch for providing a companion. “Thanks, Wynne,” he said with a smile.

“I’m just picking up chicken.”

“No,” he said, yawning again. “For everything.”

She shook her head and slipped out the front door.

Connor waved to the innkeeper and let him know they were through with their meal. He gathered his pack and crossed to the rear of the room, looking for a good spot to sleep. No one was resting this early, so he had his pick. He chose a straw mat at the very back, bunched his pack under his head, and was soon fast asleep.

The sky was just beginning to turn orange in the west as Wynne reached the butcher. She shivered in the evening cool. Or was it just nervousness at being around so many people? She kept glancing over her shoulder, certain she was being watched.

That’s ridiculous, she thought. I’m kilometers from home. There no way anyone here would know who I am. But she couldn’t shake the unease.

“Help you?” asked the butcher. “I was about to close.”

“Someone dropped off chickens earlier. A boy my age? Said you would have two cooked for him and sent me to get them.”

“I remember him, yeah. Just a sec.” He rummaged through a chest and pulled out two cooked chickens, handing them across the counter. “There you go.”

Wynne nodded curtly and turned to go.

“Not much on manners, then, eh?” grumbled the man.

Wynne paused. “Not much on people,” she said, and walked out. As she stepped back into the road, a furtive movement caught her eye. Someone was coming out of the back of the church, instead of the front, a hooded purple cloak hiding his face.

This is why I don’t trust priests, Wynne muttered to herself, immediately flattening against the stone wall of the church. She paused just long enough to be sure the priest would have headed out, and then followed the path she had seen him take. The streets were all but deserted at this hour. Few villages she had known had strict curfews, but most people felt safer indoors when the light began to fail. It was unusual for the village priest to be abroad after dusk. She caught a glimpse of purple rounding a corner up ahead and hurried to keep up.

Luckily, she had become a master of stealth in her years alone. It had served her well in her chosen profession, and saved her life on more than one occasion. Despite her height and strong build, she was silent on her feet and nearly invisible when she wanted to be. She had no fear that the priest would notice his pursuer.

He reached his destination, the local library, and slipped in the door without knocking. The library had unusually high windows, but Wynne always came prepared. She pulled several lengths of ladder from her pack and affixed them to the library wall, climbing soundlessly to a vantage point beneath the eaves, concealed from sight by the adjacent building, in case anyone else should happen by.

She peered through the window, straining her ears to pick up the conversation. The priest had seated himself at a table across from the librarian, a wiry man with sharp features and big ears.

“… find out …?” Procrit was asking. The glass blocked most of the sound. Wynne could only make out a few words.

“…won’t believe …,” the librarian responded, gesturing to the large book sitting between them. “… think I found … looking for …”

“… ancient,” Procrit said, running his hand over the leather cover.

“…older… Book of Notch. …right about the boy?”

“…course I’m right!... age…redstone torches…”

“…question… legend… Herobrine.”

Wynne’s started, losing her footing on the ladder for a moment, inwardly swearing as she knocked against the wall. She instantly flattened herself as two pairs of eyes flew to the window.

“…nothing… wind.”

“…really Herobrine… do?”

“…no choice… kill him… before it’s too late.”

Wynne’s head was spinning. What were they talking about? Herobrine? What did Connor have to do with that old myth? She hadn’t the time to stand there and figure it out. It sounded like they were going to kill Connor! She held her breath as the front door opened and she heard their tread on the gravel road.

“They’re staying at the Ghast and Galleon. Redmund will let us in at the back, even after dark. He can arrange for an accident that won’t raise any suspicions. The boy will have left in the night and had an unfortunate run-in with a creeper.”

“You said the boy isn’t here alone.”

“Redmund will know whoever his friend is. He’ll make sure there’s never any word of this again.”

Wynne would have thanked Notch she had insisted on the Sheep and Sherpa if she believed in Notch. As soon as she was certain the priest and librarian had gone, she slipped to the ground, not even stopping to retrieve her ladder, and launched headlong into the road back to the inn. Back to the hapless stranger who was suddenly in terrible danger!

By now it was full night, but the multitude of torches lit the way. How long did she have before they reached the Ghast and Galleon and realized Connor wasn’t there? It was a sizeable village, but not that big.

She rounded the corner and flung herself through the door of the inn, causing the innkeeper to jolt to his feet with a stifled cry.

“What in the world are you doing?” he whispered loudly. “Have you no manners?”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that today,” she muttered, then added, “I just heard that my mother is gravely ill. I need to wake up my friend and be off.”

“At dark? Are you mad? You won’t make it half a kilometer into the grasslands!”

“I’ll take my chances,” she hissed. “I can’t stay here!”

The innkeeper’s expression remained incredulous, but he did not further attempt to detain her. She shook Connor awake roughly, shushing him as he groaned.

“Get up,” she hissed. “Now.”

“Is it morning?” he murmured.

“Connor, please.”

The urgency in her tone caught his attention and he rubbed his eyes, sitting up sharply. “What is it?”

“We have to go. Right now.”

“Wynne, it’s full dark! Are you crazy?”

“Do you trust me?” she whispered, staring him straight in the eyes.

“I’m starting to think I can’t possibly trust anyone else.” And with that, he shouldered his pack and wordlessly followed her out into the street. Her ears picked up the sound of crunching gravel to the northeast.

“This way,” she whispered, grabbing his hand. “As quietly as you can.”

Connor had no experience with stealth, and his lanky figure made him tend toward clumsiness. He tried everything to keep his feet silent, but felt like some lumbering iron golem behind Wynne’s soundless steps. She pulled him off the gravel and into the narrow strip of grass beside the road, which helped enormously. Putting a finger to her lips, she slipped around behind the blacksmith, where two horses were tethered.

Fingers flying with skill that surprised Connor, Wynne quickly and silently saddled both horses and gestured Connor to mount. His eyes goggled.

“We can’t steal these horses!” he hissed.

“We don’t have a choice.”

“We always have a choice!”

“Stop arguing with me,” she growled, her face pale with desperation. “Your life depends on it!”

That brought Connor up short. He had no idea what could possibly have led her to believe his life was in danger. Maybe she was imagining something. Maybe she was completely insane. But now was not the time to figure it out. She had been kind to him. Saved his life once before. He chose to trust her again.

Without another word, he swung his long leg over the saddle just as she did, and the two of them raced off into the torch-lit lane. The sound of the horses’ hooves rang through the street and there was a shout from somewhere behind them. Not looking back, they galloped for the fence that kept the hostile mobs at bay. Connor hoped his horse was a good jumper as the fence grew closer and closer. He dug his heels into the animal’s flanks and with a mad whinny, it leapt into the air and cleared the fence. Beside him, Wynne landed her mount nimbly and galloped off to the northwest, back toward the spruce forest that had sheltered them only a night before.

As they flew across the grassland, Connor was aware of the dangers all around them. In the bright moonlight, he could make out zombies, giant spiders and skeletons scattered in every direction. He caught sight of the purple sparks surrounding an Enderman, and the mottled green of creepers everywhere he looked.

“Look out!” cried Wynne, and Connor swerved just as an explosion split the air and opened a chasm in the ground in front of him. The horse howled in pain, having taken the brunt of the hit, but kept on running. They were not far from the forest, now, though it would not be much safer than the open plains. The only advantage was the cover afforded by the trees, which would hopefully buy them enough time to fashion a crude shelter. No one from the village would pursue them while it was night, but in the morning, they would have to fly.

And where to? Connor wondered dismally. They had no map. No information about Beatha. Why couldn’t they have waited until morning? What was so terrible that they had had to flee for their lives?

No time for questions yet. Wynne pulled her horse to a halt and swung down, yanking shovel and pickaxe from her pack. “Dig,” she commanded, and Connor obeyed, cutting a hole into the earth first through dirt and then stone. They closed it completely behind them and Wynne set torches to light the small space.

“What about the horses?”

“The hostiles won’t bother them. It’s only humans they attack.”

“But if they wander off—”

“They won’t go far. They’re stupid creatures. And yours is wounded. It will need to graze all night to regain its health.”

They dug a little deeper, to give themselves more room, storing the loose rock in their packs, and then finally sank down to rest, both too shaken to speak at first. Connor pulled a loaf of bread out of his pack and offered it to Wynne. She accepted gratefully. “You eat, too,” she said. “You need to be fully nourished—I’m sure that creeper did some damage to you, as well as the horse.”

“I’m a bit scorched about the leg,” Connor admitted, digging into the last of his pork.

They ate in silence.

Finally, Connor couldn’t stay quiet. “What happened back there, Wynne? What is going on?”

Wynne sighed. “I’m not completely sure myself. But the priest and the librarian… I heard them. Well, I sort of heard part of what they were saying. But what I am absolutely certain of is that they were planning to kill both of us while we slept and make it look like an accident.”

Relief turned to garrulousness and the story spilled out of her. How she had gone for the chickens and seen the priest slipping away. How she had overheard bits and pieces of a conversation that made no sense, but had led to the unmistakable threat to their lives.

“Herobrine? He’s just a myth!”

Wynne shrugged. “I know. They seemed to think—well I don’t know what they thought. I could hardly make anything out. But they were surely convinced you had something to do with Herobrine that was worth killing you over.”

Connor slumped over his knees, overwhelmed and exhausted. “And I thought I was going to get help to get home. What a rotten day.”

“You are getting help to get home,” Wynne reminded him with a smile. “From me. Your new best friend.”

Connor winced, and tears filled his eyes.

“What?” Wynne demanded. “What did I say?”

“And that’s another thing,” Connor growled. “That stupid Thom and his stupid golden apple!”

Wynne waited, saying nothing, seeing that haunted look come back into her companion’s eyes.

“My best friend, Calvin. He… he was out of the gates past dark. And he never came home. Two nights later I was at the fence, fixing a broken torch, and I heard a zombie coming toward me. I knew I was safe. That it couldn’t get past the fence. So I kept working, figuring it was better to finish the job and keep the area lit. And all of a sudden I looked up, and there was the zombie, right at the fence.” His voice had grown hoarse with the effort of not dissolving into sobs. He could not continue.

“And it was Calvin,” Wynne finished for him, as he composed himself.

Connor nodded miserably, breathing deeply and deliberately. At length he said, “Do you think… do you think there really is a cure?”

Wynne didn’t want to get his hopes up. “I don’t know. This is the first I’ve heard of one. Don’t you think someone else would know about it? If it were true?”

“Maybe not. Not if everyone always gives up on the people the zombies turn. And Calvin is only the second person in the history of my village to be turned. We’ve never had much reason to look for a cure.”

Wynne sighed. “Add it to the pile of mysteries we need to solve,” she said philosophically. “What you’re doing here. How to get you home. Why some village priest wants to kill you. How to cure a zombie. Maybe someone will have all the answers.”

“Maybe rabbits will fly out of my butt.”

She burst into laughter. “Connor!” she cried, “Was that an attempt at sarcasm? Because I know you know rabbits can’t fly!”

Connor’s weariness, combined with relief following the terror of their mad flight from the village, made him suddenly punchy, and he started giggling uncontrollably. “Why am I laughing?” he choked out between guffaws. “None of this is funny!”

“I don’t know,” Wynne replied breathlessly. “I think we’re just both beyond rational thought at this point.”

Connor grew quiet at last as Wynne dug into her pack for her bed and set it along the wall. He felt a small twinge of jealousy, but there was something weighing more heavily on his mind than temporary comfort.