“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 under Middle 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:
As he chanted, Jack saw his mother in his mind, bending over each furrow, praising it and planting it with seed. The charm was long, and he repeated it nine times. When he had finished, he looked up to see a whole host of yarthkins. They had all dropped out of the walls. To Jack, they looked like a mass of little haystacks, and his heart leaped to his throat. What had he done? One yarthkin had been difficult to entertain. What was he going to do with hundreds?
But the first creature, who stood apart from the rest, spoke: Thou art a good lad, Jack, to bless the fields. And thou art a fine lass, Pega, to sing as the earth did at our beginning. What shall we do to reward thee?
“Best not to answer,” whispered the Nemesis. But Jack thought that would be ungracious. Besides, he liked the little haystacks, strange though they were.
“We were but thanking you for the kindness you have shown my mother’s fields. We ask your permission to travel on to Din Guardi.”
A twittering hiss blew through the gathering, like the wind rattling ripe wheat. Din Guardi is a place of shadows. A ring of Unlife lies about it.
“It is nasty,” Jack agreed, “but, you see, my father’s there, and the Bard, my master. I’ve got to make sure they’re all right. Don’t worry, we’ll leave as soon as possible.”
The yarthkins conferred among themselves with many a sigh and hiss and a vague rumble like thunder in the distance. Jack wasn’t happy about the thunder. It sounded like anger. Finally, the chief yarthkin replied: We will not hold thee, but we will not forget thee.
“Thank you,” Jack said uncertainly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be remembered. The yarthkins crept back to the walls and fitted themselves in. It was difficult to see how they managed this without using hands or feet, but they did. Soon they were all tucked into their beds, as snug as peas. The straw-colored hair faded into the wall until it became a collection of brown lumps again.
“I think we should go now,” said the Bugaboo, and Jack was surprised to see he’d turned bright green with alarm. It was the first time he’d seen the hobgoblin king afraid, and it made him realize that the little haystacks weren’t quite as harmless as they looked.