They followed the stone path, which was sometimes dry, sometimes slimy, down to the level of the city. As they drew closer to the city, the path widened into a road, and Bindlepod and Violet climbed back onto the frog. As they hopped toward the city, they occasionally saw other travelers, goblins all. Some of them merely waved. Others, recognizing Bindlepod, greeted them with respectful bows. But all of them, even the goblins who bowed, stayed at the far side of the road, sniffing suspiciously.
Their reception at the court of the goblin king was no more encouraging than Violet’s last interview with her father had been. The goblin king—a huge creature with leering eyes, fantastical warts in several colors, and a tongue as long as his arm—was sympathetic, but disturbed. “I am glad to have you back, Bindlepod,” he said. “And your young lady friend is welcome to stay as well, of course. But really . . .”
With that, his voice trailed off, and his eyes rolled around, as if he was searching for exactly the right word.
The goblin queen, who had been plucking out a tune on the back of a strangely scaled creature, looked up and said, “Your father is troubled, son, on account of the princess’s smell.”
“Son?” asked Violet in surprise. “You didn’t tell me you were the prince of Nilbog!”
Bindlepod shrugged.
“And what’s wrong with my smell, anyway?” continued Violet indignantly. “My father thought I smelled too much like a goblin to go home. So I would think I would smell just fine for you.”
“You do smell of goblin,” said the king wearily. “But you also smell of the world above, of something lost and distant that it pains us to remember. We will give you shelter, of course. But I fear my people will not be jolly in your presence.”
“I fear not,” said the queen, striking a particularly melancholy chord on the back of the lizard-thing.
Time proved the queen to be correct. Though, everyone in Nilbog was polite to Violet and Bindlepod—at least, polite by goblin standards—no one seemed terribly comfortable in the presence of either of them.
The result, not surprisingly, was that Violet and Bindlepod spent more and more time alone together.
The result of that situation was surprising, at least to those who think goblins and humans are more different than they really are.
Bindlepod and Violet fell in love.
It happened—or, at least, they became aware it had happened—one afternoon when they were sitting beside an underground river, basking in the gentle light of the glowing fungus. Bindlepod had just caught a fish and was trying to convince the princess to try a bite.
“Princesses don’t eat raw fish!” she said tartly.
“You have done many things princesses are not supposed to do,” replied Bindlepod, speaking a little tartly himself.
Violet pursed her lips in exasperation but couldn’t think of a good answer for this. “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll try a bite. One. A small one.”
Bindlepod cut a bit of flesh from the fish with his knife, then took it between his fingers and held it out to the princess. As she bent forward to take it in her mouth, Bindlepod found himself, much to his own surprise, running his finger gently along her lower lip. Though he drew his hand back in shock, the bigger shock was the one that had passed between them, a jolt of recognition that made it impossible for them to ignore what their hearts had known for a long time.
From that moment on they knew that they were in love.
“I can’t say we were made for each other,” said Bindlepod, later that same afternoon. Violet was reclining in his arms, dreamily gazing at the waterfall. “Even so,” he continued, “I am glad we found each other.”
“And why weren’t we made for each other?” she asked, reaching up to pat his sallow cheek.
“Well, my stinky little sweetie, our smells are, to say the least, incompatible.”
“Oh, fiddle,” said Violet. “You smell fine to me.”
“And I’ve grown quite fond of your odor as well,” he replied—which was not what you would call a ringing endorsement, but it satisfied the princess nonetheless.
As the days and weeks wore on, Violet began to realize that Bindlepod was right. Though they were utterly happy in each other’s company, the world around them—or, to be more specific, the other goblins—were most uneasy with their relationship. And though Bindlepod claimed this did not bother him, Violet was perceptive enough to see that he missed the company of other goblins, missed their easy teasing, their wild energy, their bizarre games.
Finally she decided to seek help for their situation, and, after a bit of asking around, learned the whereabouts of the wisest of goblins, an incredibly ugly female of astonishing age. Her name was Flegmire, and she lived in a cave at the edge of Nilbog.
Violet did not tell Bindlepod where she was going, simply asked if she could borrow the frog for a time.
Bindlepod agreed, on the condition that she not be gone for long.
Violet and the frog hopped away.
Flegmire’s cave was deep and dank and hung about with moss. Snakes lounged around the entrance, as well as some other creatures that were like snakes, only stranger.
Standing at the front of the cave, Violet called, “May I enter, O Wisest of the Wise?”
“Yeah, yeah, come on in,” replied a gravelly voice.
Picking her way around assorted slimy creatures, Violet entered the cave.
Flegmire sat on the floor, which meant that her knees were considerably higher than her ears. She was playing with a collection of colored rocks that had been carved into various shapes. Violet recognized the game—she had seen the goblin children playing it fairly often—and wondered if coming to see Flegmire had been such a good idea after all.
Her doubts increased when the ancient gobliness held up her hands, cried, “Wait! Wait!” and then farted with such violence that it raised her several inches off the floor.
The smell caused Violet to gasp in shock, and she grabbed a nearby stalactite to keep from falling over. Flegmire, however, sighed in contentment and said, “Well, now that I can think again, tell me what it is you want.”
Eyes watering, the princess explained her difficulty.
“A sad story,” said the gobliness. “But I still do not know what you want of me.”
“You are the wisest of your kind,” said Violet. “Don’t you know anything I could do to rid myself of this smell?”
Flegmire hooked a curved green fingernail over her enormous lower lip. “You can’t think of anything yourself? No hints you’ve had along the way?”
The princess started to say no, then stopped. She swallowed nervously. “Well, Bindlepod’s frog did mention something about . . . Fire Lake.”
Flegmire spread her arms as if the whole thing had been the essence of simplicity. “Well, there you go! If you already knew about that, why did you come here to bother me? I’ve got games to play, you know.”
“But the frog said the lake would change me,” said the princess.
“There are worse things that can happen,” said Flegmire. “Not changing isn’t so good, either.”
“But how will it change me?”
“What do I look like?” asked Flegmire. “A prophet? You want to get rid of your smell, you go in the lake. How you come out, that’s no concern of mine.”
“Well, can you at least tell me how to get there?” asked Violet.
Flegmire smiled. “Sure,” she said. “That’s easy.”
That night—night and day being pretty much the same in Nilbog—Violet rose from her bed in the little stone cottage behind the palace grounds that the goblin king had given her to live in. She put on her riding clothes, then slipped out the door, intending to saddle up the frog and ride to Fire Lake. But she hadn’t gone more than ten paces from her door when Bindlepod stepped from behind an enormous mushroom and said, “Going somewhere, my darling?”
Violet jumped and gasped. “What are you doing here?” she cried. Then, spotting the frog, who w
as crouched on the far side of the mushroom, she hissed, “Blabbermouth!”
The frog merely shrugged.
“He does have his loyalties,” said Bindlepod. “As do I. If you are going to do this thing, then so am I.”
“You can’t!” cried the princess.
“Piffle,” said Bindlepod. “There’s no point in only one of us taking the risk. If we’re going to change, we might as well change together.”
And nothing the princess could say would dissuade him.
So together they rode to Fire Lake, a journey that took them ever deeper into the earth.
At the end of the second day, they crossed a field of bubbling hot springs, and the frog narrowly escaped scalding his rear quarters when a geyser erupted behind him. “You’re going to owe me a lot of june bugs when this is over,” he said bitterly.
At the end of the third day, the horizon began to glow. Nervously, they climbed to the top of a slippery hill. Ahead lay Fire Lake, its flaming waves lapping idly against its scorched shore.
Violet tightened her hand on Bindlepod’s arm. “I’m frightened,” she whispered.
“You should be,” croaked the frog, who was standing next to them.
“Whatever happens, we’re in this together,” said Bindlepod.
They started forward again.
In a few hours they were standing at the edge of Fire Lake. The blazing waves hissed and crackled as they rolled against the shore.
Bindlepod took Violet in his arms. He held her close, burying his nose in her neck.
“You know,” he murmured, “I like the way you smell.”
“And I like the way you smell,” she replied.
“Then what are you going to do this for?” cried the frog, who had been growing more alarmed as they approached the lake. “Are you out of your minds? What do you care what the others think? It’s none of their damn business! You love each other the way you are. Who are you going to change for?”
Violet blinked. Bindlepod stared at her. “Do you care if they think we stink?” he asked gently.
“I don’t care if you don’t care,” said the princess.
And they both laughed.
Princess Violet and Prince Bindlepod never did step into Fire Lake.
What they did do was build a home for themselves in a giant oak tree halfway between the gates of her father’s kingdom and the entrance to Nilbog. Part of the home was in the branches, and part beneath the roots. It smelled of sky and leaves, of stone and soil, and they loved it nearly as much as they loved each other.
Though they never went back to either kingdom, their home was always open to anyone who cared to visit, and who would take them as they were.
As the years passed Violet and Bindlepod had seven children, who brought a great deal of jolliness to the home in the tree. They were an odd group: goggle-eyed, pale-skinned, and full of mischief. They adored the frog, who taught them to swim, and always called him uncle.
The frog adored the children, too, and often said to visitors, “They’re really sweet.” Then he would chuckle deep in his throat and add, “For a bunch of little stinkers.”
The Japanese Mirror
I was bleeding the first time I saw the Japanese mirror. I had been cleaning the side counter in Mr. Colella’s Curio Shoppe, and an unexpected piece of metal had sliced open my fingertip.
Crying out in rage, I threw my rag to the counter, stuck my bleeding finger into my mouth, and stamped my foot. I probably would have stamped again, except I noticed Mr. Colella giving me a warning stare.
I took a deep breath and tried to get my temper under control. I knew I might lose my job if I didn’t watch myself, and I didn’t want that to happen. Not only did I really need the money, I actually liked working with the strange junk the old man kept in his antique shop.
I took my finger from my mouth to look at the cut. It went straight across my fingertip. And it hurt like crazy. All those nerves so close to the surface, I guess.
Scanning the countertop, I found what had snagged me—the top of a screw Mr. Colella had used to make a repair and hadn’t wound deeply enough into the wood.
I was still hunting for a Band-Aid when Mr. Colella shouted, “Jonathan, come here. I need your help.”
Pressing thumb against fingertip to stem the bleeding, I went to the back room.
Mr. Colella was standing in front of a large wooden crate. “Open this,” he said, handing me a crowbar. “Gently.”
The mirror inside the crate—a Japanese mirror, according to Mr. Colella—was nearly eight feet tall. The glass was surrounded by a wooden frame carved with interlocking designs and finished in black lacquer. I couldn’t help but imagine strange messages hidden among those whorling symbols. Though the silvering behind the glass had worn thin in two or three places, for the most part the reflection it gave was clean and pure.
“Not bad, eh?” said Mr. Colella, once I had all the packing pulled away. He pulled at the ends of his gray mustache, always a sign that he was pleased with an item.
“What do you think you’ll get for it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s in good condition; it’s a little unusual. Given its age, it could go for maybe three thousand. Maybe a little more, if I find the right buyer.”
My heart sank. For a moment I had considered trying to buy the mirror myself.
Either Mr. Colella didn’t see my disappointment or he chose to ignore it. “Here,” he said, handing me one of his seemingly endless supply of rags. “Polish.”
“Probably wouldn’t have fit in my room anyway,” I muttered as I went to fetch a stepladder so I could reach the top.
Half an hour later I stood back to admire my work but got caught up examining my reflection instead. You could have talked to me all you wanted about inner beauty; I preferred having it outside, where it counted. Not so handsome it scared people off, but definitely good-looking. A little too much like my father, though. Sometimes it startled me when I glanced in a mirror and found myself staring at someone who looked just like the guy in the old army photo on our mantelpiece.
Suddenly I noticed a small streak of blood on the mirror. Glancing down at my finger, I saw that the cut had reopened while I was working. I rubbed the rag over the blood, but the mirror wouldn’t come clean. I spit on a different finger and tried to rub the blood away. No luck.
I was starting to get angry when the tinkle of the bell above the door announced a customer.
When I came back an hour later, the stain was gone.
Guess Mr. Colella took care of it, I thought, hoping he wouldn’t be angry with me for doing an incomplete job. It wouldn’t be fair, of course. But like my late father, Mr. Colella tended to yell at me for things that weren’t my fault.
I could hardly complain, given my own temper. The thought caused me to scowl at my reflection. Big brown eyes and a try-to-catch-me smile might make it easy to get girls; my sudden bursts of anger sure made it hard to keep them. I rolled my eyes as I remembered yesterday’s argument with Gina, which had ended with her slapping me and shouting, “I don’t care how cute you are, Jonathan Rawson, I won’t be treated this way!”
I put my fingers to my cheek, remembering the slap. Last night I had figured it was time to move on. But Gina was special. Maybe I should apologize for a change.
Looking in the mirror to practice my rueful expression, I noticed the beginnings of a pimple beside my nose. I prodded the spot with my fingertips but couldn’t feel any bump. Maybe if I was careful it would go away without blossoming into a full-fledged zit.
That seemed to be the case, for when I checked myself in the bathroom mirror at home that night, my skin was smooth and clear.
Whoa! I thought. Could this be the beginning of the end for zitosis? What a relief that would be!
I called Gina to apologize. She was cautious but finally agreed to go out with me on Saturday. I don’t know who was more surprised by my apology: Gina, or me.
Humming contentedly, I returned to m
y desk, where I was building a miniature room for my little sister, Mindy. It was mostly for her birthday. But it was also a way of apologizing to her for all the times I had yelled at her over the last year.
The project had turned out to be a bigger time-sink than I expected. But Mindy had been wanting one of these rooms for years. Our father had promised to make her one several times, but (as usual) he hadn’t come through. And now he was gone.
Despite how tricky it was, I found I actually enjoyed the work. And I was really proud of it. I loved seeing each piece come to its final polished perfection. That was one good thing about my job at Mr. Colella’s: I had learned a lot about working with wood.
I spent an hour carefully sanding and staining the chair I had finished assembling the night before. When I finally grew so tired I was afraid I would botch the work, I threw Beau, our golden retriever, off the bed and climbed between the sheets.
The next morning my mother overcooked the eggs.
“Sorry, Jon,” she said, as she placed the rubbery henfruit in front of me, “I’m not functioning on all cylinders yet. I don’t think they’re making the coffee as strong as they used to.”
“No problem,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. “I can manage a tough yolk every now and then.”
“Is this my kid?” she asked, widening her eyes and putting a hand on my forehead. “The one who used to have a tantrum if his eggs weren’t runny enough to use up all his toast?”
“For Pete’s sake, Ma,” I said, ducking away from her hand.
School went well, and I had a good time with Gina during art. So I was in a good mood when I got to Mr. Colella’s shop.
Mr. Colella, unfortunately, was not. He was standing in front of the Japanese mirror—which was now in the display area—rubbing a rag almost violently over the glass.
Odds Are Good Page 19
