The Land of the Silver Apples - Farmer Nancy - Страница 68
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“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:
Long ago (began Father Severus) Noah set out to build the ark, but he was a busy man. He had to gather two members of every creature on earth, and that took time and a great deal of money. So he gave the task of ark-building over to a drunken carpenter. The carpenter nailed a board here and a board there. He worked only when Noah’s sons—Shem, Ham, and Japheth—threatened him.
Finally, the ark was done, but there was one flaw. The carpenter had left out one nail at the very bottom of the ship, and so there was a hole for the water to come in.
Now the clouds gathered, the thunder rolled, and the rain came down in buckets. Shem, Ham, and Japheth herded the animals into the ark. Two by two they went, but Noah’s sons made a mistake. There were not two, but three snakes. The Devil had decided to sneak aboard in the shape of a serpent.
Noah went around to check all the supplies and animal pens. The Devil hid here, he hid there, because Noah had very sharp eyes and knew the difference between a real serpent and a fake. Finally, there was no other place to hide but that one hole at the bottom of the ship. The Devil went in, and—oh, my goodness!—he was stuck. He could go neither in nor out. He couldn’t even wiggle. So there he stayed, plugging up the leak until the Flood was over.
That is why the Devil is called the best nail and the worst nail in the ark.
“That’s a fine story,” said Pega, laughing.
“I must remember it for the other hobgoblins,” said the Bugaboo.
“What kind of seafarer puts out to sea without checking for leaks?” argued Thorgil. “And what were his shiftless sons doing, letting that drunken carpenter slack off? I would have thrashed the lot of them and hired a good shipwright.”
Jack realized she had missed the point, but he kept silent. He knew she was still smarting over the reception of her poem.
Last of all, Pega sang. That was how it had been in the dungeons of Elfland and on the beach as well. No one wanted to perform after Pega because she was so extremely good.
Jack had to admit it. He was jealous of her, which he knew was unworthy. After all, she had nothing else but this talent. I suppose I’m not any different from Thorgil, wanting everyone to admire my poetry,he thought. He didn’t pay attention to Pega’s voice, brooding as he was, until she screamed.
Jack leaped to his feet, staff at the ready. Everyone else was huddled in a group. The light was suddenly brighter—now the mushrooms really did look like moons. All around Jack saw that the lumps in the wall, the lumps that had reminded him of bread dough squashed together, had changed. Each one was wrapped in long, silky hair the color of wheat, and inside these cocoons were little curled-up bodies as brown as freshly turned earth. The faces were old beyond imagining, masses of wrinkles so deep, you could hardly believe they were real. And in the middle of each face were two bright black eyes watching Pega intently.
“Yarthkins,” whispered the Nemesis. “They’re fine as long as you don’t upset them.”
“What should we do?” Jack whispered back. There were so many of them, all squashed together like cells in a honeycomb. Each one was no larger than a year-old child, but together they might be dangerous.
“Keep quiet,” advised the Bugaboo. “If we do nothing, they might go back to sleep.” Everyone sat very still. A sigh, soft and high like a little bird twittering, passed over the walls. One of the lumps oozed out of its place and landed with a soft thump on the ground.
Jack saw what appeared to be a tiny man wrapped head to toe in a long beard. He looked as harmless as a pussy willow, but Jack wasn’t fooled. He’d had too much experience of otherworldly creatures to trust anything.
Sing,murmured the yarthkin in the same high twittering voice.
Pega cast a worried look at Jack. “I think you’d better do it,” he said in a low voice. So Pega repeated the hymn she had just given them. She went on to a ballad and then to a song about gathering flowers in May. She stopped to catch her breath.
Sing,repeated the yarthkin.
“I need some water,” said the girl. The yarthkin dipped his long beard into the brook, and it curled up like a fiddlehead fern.
He hopped over to Pega, and she recoiled against the Bugaboo.
“It’s all right, dearest. I think he means no harm,” murmured the hobgoblin king.
“Yet,” added the Nemesis.
Put out thy hands,said the yarthkin. Pega cupped her hands, and he squeezed the tip of his beard. A cascade of water flowed out and splashed over her fingers. Drink.
Pega made a face, but she was too frightened to disobey. She drank the water in her cupped hands, and a delighted expression crossed her face. “It’s delicious!” she cried.
The yarthkin nodded. Sing,he said. So Pega gave them “The Treacherous Knight” and “The Jolly Miller” and “The Wife of Usher’s Well.” She was beginning to tremble slightly, and Jack realized she was tired. How long would these creatures demand to be entertained? They weren’t like anything in Middle Earth—or, rather, they were what lay underMiddle Earth. They were part of the stones, water, and soil.
Sometimes, when Jack had cast his mind down to the life force, he had felt, among the roots and burrowing creatures, other presences he could barely comprehend. This was one of them. Jack suspected they might want to listen to music for a very long time.
Pega reached the end of a song, and Jack knelt before the yarthkin and said, “She is but mortal, spirit of the earth. She wishes to obey you, but her strength is small.”
The creature observed Jack with its bright eyes, and a twittering rustle passed over the walls of the tunnel.
Sing,said the yarthkin wrapped in his cocoon of beard.
“I’ll sing,” Jack said. “My voice may not be what you’re asking for, but Pega can’t go on forever.”
“Forever is what these creatures are about,” the Nemesis muttered.
Jack cast his mind back to all the Bard had taught him about animals, men, trolls, and elves, but he found nothing about yarthkins. Then, unbidden, he saw an image of his mother. In early spring, when the soil was warm enough to plow and the sky had turned from gray to blue, she walked in the fields. And as she walked, she sang:
“Erce, Erce, Erce…”repeated Jack, giving the ancient call to earth in a language so old, no one knew its origin. Perhaps it was what the Man in the Moon spoke. Jack went on in human speech:
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