“For all the love I had for that place, those people, it was never my home. They were not unkind, but they were not my family. They had a name for me, but it was not my name. It all felt wrong, like a waking dream. I had been stolen. I did not want to be a mother in that place. I did not want my child to be born never knowing her real home. I did not want that for you, Fable. That place was not what my mother had wanted for me.”
Fable looked down at the waves. “Can you still remember her?”
“I remember the sound of my mother’s voice when she said my name.” The queen’s eyes drifted beyond the dimming sunset. “And I remember a good-night kiss.” She bent down and kissed Fable on the forehead. “I wish that I had more of her to remember.”
Fable held her mother’s hand beneath the cloak. “What did your fair gentleman think about you coming back to Earth?”
“I think it made him sad, but he promised me that he would take me back across the veil. Our child would know the Earth. He promised.”
“Did he keep his promise?”
The queen took a deep breath and then gave Fable a smile that almost reached her eyes. “We’re here, aren’t we? And do you not know the Earth, child?”
Fable nodded, satisfied. “Did you ever get to see your mother again?”
The queen’s gaze darkened as she stared out into the sea. The reflections of angry waves rolled across her eyes. She did not answer.
Fable tried another question: “Do you ever miss the other side?”
“No.”
“Not even a little bit? Not even the part about being their princess?”
Her mother’s jaw tightened. “I am no one’s princess,” said the queen.
“It was the old woman who changed my mind,” Chief Nudd said. He poured Tinn another mug of chocolate. It was the last of the pot, thick and warm, and it made Tinn’s whole chest feel hot as he sipped it. “My father was still chief when I met her. The old queen. The first queen. Yer witchy friend outside would be her spittin’ image if she had a few more gray hairs and wrinkles. Anyway, she used ta have a wee little cabin in these woods, right on t’other side of the mire.”
“I think I’ve seen it,” said Tinn.
“She was a sad, sweet old thing,” said Nudd. “Tried ta kill me several times. She had spirit, that one.” He chuckled at the memory. “In the end we came ta understand each other. She gave me something I didn’a even know I needed, and in return I gave her a promise.”
“What did she give you?”
“Forgiveness,” he said, “for what my kind had done.”
Tinn nodded. “What did you promise her in return?”
“I promised her that when I was chief,” he said, “I would ne’er let another mother weep over an empty crib on our behalf. I meant it, too. So, when ya was born, with magic leavin’ the Wild Wood an’ the horde gettin’ nervous, I found myself with quite the dilemma.”
“You had to either risk your whole horde and keep your promise, or save your horde by stealing a child,” said Tinn.
Nudd nodded. “Two bad options, neither fit fer the chief I’d swore I’d be. I thought I had a year ta make my choice. That’s tradition. A changeling is always reared fer one year before the exchange, prepared ta take on its sacred role, taught how ta wield its powers, bonded ta the horde so it can find its way home. There are all manner o’ rituals and ceremonies in that year.”
“I don’t remember any of them.” Tinn shook his head.
Nudd winced. “That’s because none of them ever happened. Ya met Kull, yes?”
Tinn nodded. “In the forest.”
“Well, Kull’s the one who muddled up the whole affair to begin with—but that’s chaos magic fer ya. Iffin he hadn’a nudged the universe by stealin’ ya, I might ne’er have found the third option.”
“Third option?”
Nudd cackled. “When the veil between worlds is thin, magic can filter through. Just a little. Just enough. Every thirteen years, the barrier pulses and the veil gets a wee bit thinner. Goblins call this time the Veil Moon. At the height of the Veil Moon, a powerful goblin can slide into the fabric of the veil itself, inta the thin place in between, and give it a nudge. Iffin we nudge it just right, the universe gives us what we need.”
“So, why don’t you just do that? Why do you need me?”
“Generation by generation, the ceremony has become less effective. I performed it myself thirteen years ago, the year that you were born.”
“What happened?”
“I just told you. You were born.” Nudd gave Tinn a wink. “The universe didn’t give us any magic, but it gave us a changeling—the most powerful o’ our kind in a generation, but also the most human o’ our kind in history. More than a goblin. More than a man. Ya belong ta both worlds, boy. Yer neither here nor there. A goblin can push, a human can pull, but maybe—just maybe—a child o’ both worlds can do both. If ya can do this, it’d mean we could all survive, lad. It’d mean na more children stolen from their cribs. Magic could live in the Wild Wood again.”
Tinn swallowed. It was precisely what the Thing had said to him within the shell of shadows. “You need me because I’m neither here nor there,” he whispered.
Nudd seemed to read his thoughts. “Yer no less goblin for being one of them,” he said. “An’ yer no less one of them fer being a goblin.” He put a hand on Tinn’s shoulder. “We need ya, lad. They need ya. The whole Wild Wood needs ya . . . ta be both.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Night had fallen thick by the time Tinn stepped out onto a creaking platform. He could hear waves breaking against the cliff below, and above him the stars twinkled in a blue-black sky. The goblin balcony jutted out over the ocean, suspended from the cliff by rusty chains. The landing was only as wide as the bed of a hay cart, and on either side, familiar faces lined the platform. Candlebeard and Kull stood to one side, Fable and the Queen of the Deep Dark to the other. At the end, his mother and brother waited.
All eyes turned toward Tinn as he emerged, and he was suddenly aware that he had no idea what face they were looking at. He still had not seen his goblin face—his real face. His whole life, he had only ever seen a reflection of his brother staring back at him from the mirror. His whole life, he had only ever been a reflection of his brother. Tinn’s stomach turned. He had no idea who he really was. The stars blurred as the salty air stung his eyes. He blinked, trying not to cry. His legs felt weak, and Chief Nudd reached for an arm to steady him. Was the platform swaying? Tinn looked down. He felt like he might be sick. When he pulled his eyes up again, his mother was kneeling in front of him. She brushed her hand along his cheek.
“I guess this is me now,” said Tinn, weakly. “I’m a goblin.”
Annie wiped the tears from his face and pulled him close. “Oh, Tinn. You were always my little goblins, right from the start. My little goblin boys—both of you—and there’s nothing in this world or the next that could ever change that.”
“It’s time,” said Chief Nudd. Annie squeezed him close one last time, and then gradually stood and allowed the goblin chief to lead Tinn to the end of the platform.
Tinn glanced over his shoulder as they walked. The cliffs towering behind them were speckled with caves and tunnels. Copper pipes and wooden awnings had been bolted to the sheer rock face—and from every nook and cranny, atop every creaking, groaning structure, hung goblins. Anxious faces of gray and green and pallid yellow peered down at the platform, hanging from rusty scaffolding and leaning out skinny windows. None of them spoke a word as he crossed the wobbly boards. Tinn swallowed. The only sounds were the splash of the waves and the thud of his heart.
“Stand here, lad,” Nudd said. “Ya’ll only have a few moments. When the time is right, step through.”
“Wait. How will I know when the time is right? What do I do when it is right? Are there words? A spell or something? I . . . I don’t know how to do what you want me to do.”
Nudd winked. “The universe knows how. You just g
ive it a nudge.”
“What does that—”
And then the air in front of Tinn crackled with electricity, and he could see it, a glimmer of an opening hanging in midair, right in front of him. Tinn could feel a tug, as if an invisible string was tied to his ribs, pulling him forward. He took a tentative step and then another. The hair on the backs of his arms stood on end. The sound of the waves swelled to a roar in his ears—and then everything went abruptly silent.
Tinn turned. His family was gone. The goblins were gone. The cliffs, the sea, the whole world was gone. There were no stars, Tinn realized, nor any light of any sort—but neither was there darkness.
Tinn tried to close his eyes and breathe deeply, but there was no air to fill his lungs, nor, he realized with horror, did he seem to have eyelids to close or lungs to fill. He could not feel sharp teeth in his mouth anymore, nor could he feel lips or a tongue. He could feel nothing but the persistent, gentle tug, like a current drawing him in.
Tinn concentrated, forcing himself to focus on Nudd’s one instruction. With arms that weren’t there, he reached out into the void. The fabric of the universe billowed and swayed around him. And Tinn gave it a nudge.
Cole’s eyes were fixed on the place where his brother had vanished. One moment Tinn had been there, and then the next he was gone. Cole stared at the empty air until his eyes hurt. He could see it, rippling ever so faintly, the place where Tinn had crossed over.
The queen and the girl and the hinkypunk and the countless goblins all watched, too, and their collective silence made Cole’s ears ache. It was as if the whole world was holding its breath.
And then, slowly, the platform grew brighter—not lighter, exactly, but more colorful, more vibrant. Cole shook his head to be sure he wasn’t imagining the change. The dull, faded wood became a rich, mahogany brown. The rocks themselves shifted from slate gray to marbled blue. All around, the faces of countless goblins flushed from pale drabs to emerald greens. Their eyes shone like jewels as they smiled their toothy grins and laughed cackling laughs. With the color came a tingling warmth. It was the warmth of happy stories by the fire, a contented cat’s purr, and fresh marmalade tarts. It was the summer sun on the branches of an old, knotted climbing tree. Cole stared until his eyes were watering.
The goblin chief held out his arms and closed his eyes, soaking up the sensation. The cardinal feathers in his hat were so brilliant, they might have been a little fire. Candlebeard’s flame swelled. Up and down the cliff face and through the tunnels and caves erupted a joyful murmuring. The goblins cheered and laughed and danced. It was working. Whatever Tinn was doing, it was working.
Gradually the shimmering spot where Tinn had vanished began to shrink.
“Is it . . . closing?” Cole said.
Chief Nudd opened his eyes. His smile faltered.
“It’s closing!” Cole yelled. “The gap is closing! Get him back!”
Nudd’s shoulders fell. He looked at Cole miserably and shook his head.
“What are you waiting for?” Cole screamed, and then launched himself toward the shrinking spot at the end of the platform. “He’s still in there! Tinn! TINN!”
THIRTY-FIVE
The first thing Tinn felt was heat. It was not unpleasant, a bit like reaching a hand into a hot bathtub, the warmth swirling around his fingers. The second thing Tinn felt was that he had fingers. He looked down. Everything was indistinct and blurry, as though he were engulfed in a heavy fog, but he had a body again! A goblin body, sure, but it was his.
Somewhere, just beyond his reach, he began to hear the rhythmic lapping of the ocean once more, and then a voice—his brother’s. He drifted forward. They were there, just ahead, he could feel them, but he couldn’t move any closer. The invisible string that had drawn him so gently inward had now gone taut. He pulled against it, straining to get back to his family, but the magical tether held him.
He glanced over his shoulder. Where there should have been nothing but open ocean, indistinct silhouettes loomed. Gradually they took the shape of valleys and hills. On the hills, strange creatures lumbered, bounded, flew across the alien terrain. With dawning clarity, Tinn realized he was looking into the Annwyn.
For a brief moment, Tinn felt himself drifting toward the fantastical landscape, but then came the jolt again, this time in the opposite direction. The invisible string holding him back from his world did not seem to want him to get too close to the world of magic, either.
“Tinn! TINN!”
The voice was muffled, but he could hear Cole calling him. He watched as if through frosted glass as his brother rushed forward toward him.
“I’m here! Cole, I’m here!” Tinn reached out his hand, stretching toward his brother—but Cole was thrown roughly backward, out of view. Tinn redoubled his efforts, frantically pulling against his bonds, but the harder he tried, the farther away the Earth seemed to drift. And then a grim thought occurred to him.
This was where it had lived. This was where the Thing had been born, trapped for an eternity in the thin place between places, a prisoner without a home in either world. His breath came in anxious, shallow gulps.
The landscape before him began to fade, as if ice were spreading over the windowpane. The cliffs vanished into mist, then the queen, Kull, and finally Tinn’s mother slipped away.
“No!” Tinn cried.
Cole was thrown backward, his fingers numb where they had touched the shimmering gap. Chief Nudd caught him before he could tumble clear off the platform and down into the choppy waters below. Cole felt like he had been run over by a bull.
“What happened?”
“Ya canna go after him,” Nudd said soberly. “That’s the fabric o’ the universe itself.”
“Well, the universe just took my brother! Get him back!”
“I’m sorry, lad. ’Tis na possible for even the best o’ us. The veil gave that changelin’ ta the horde those many years ago, an’ it seems it’s takin’ him back today.”
Cole shook. His mouth opened and closed, but he could not speak.
“Nuts to that!” a voice cried.
Chief Nudd turned his head. Cole looked up.
At the end of the platform stood Fable, her jaw squared and hands clenched in fists.
“Fable, no!” the queen yelled.
And then Fable punched the universe.
When the last of the goblin cliffs had vanished from view, Tinn sagged. He could feel the gentle ebb and flow tugging him toward the Annwyn, then back toward Earth. He closed his eyes and let himself hang in the empty space, swaying like a broken puppet.
The tug at his chest grew more urgent. He wondered if it would be like this for all eternity, the push and pull fighting against each other. Except it was more than just a tug now—something had changed. He felt his whole body being wrenched forward. Tinn opened his eyes.
A hand, a real hand, had him by the shirtfront. The mist faded and a pair of brilliant hazel eyes peered straight at him. Fable grinned, her grip tightened, and she yanked him toward her. Tinn could feel the magical current redoubling its efforts, the invisible string squeezing his ribs until he thought they would burst. Fable pulled.
The thin place shook.
Tinn grimaced against the pain. His bones felt as though they were rattling apart. He clutched the girl’s arm tight with both of his goblin hands. Fable pulled again.
And then, with a clap like thunder, the unnatural fog vanished and the two of them landed on the goblin platform in a gasping, panting pile.
The cliffs exploded in noise as hundreds of goblins cheered and whooped and threw things into the air. Fable pushed her dark curls out of her eyes. “Take that, universe,” she said. “Hi, Tinn!”
“Hi.” Tinn laughed. “You—you saved me!”
“Of course I did.”
Tinn had only just gotten to his feet when he was bowled over again by Cole, and in another moment they were both scooped up by their mother. Tears once more fell from Tinn’s eyes, and when he r
eached a hand up to wipe them away, he froze, staring at his arm.
“Hey! You look like you!” said Cole.
“I look like—” Tinn turned his hands over and over and wiggled his fingers. They had lost their drab gray and were back to their usual dirty pink. “I look like me! I mean—I look like you!”
“We look like us,” said Cole.
Tinn glanced up at the goblin chief. “How?”
Nudd shook his head, bewildered.
Kull clapped his hands. “Kin an’ kind! That’s what it says! The scroll says a changelin’ will turn back ta kin an’ kind when the magic has run its course. Doesn’a say goblinkind. That’s you lot, then. Yer the lad’s—” He paused. His eyes met Tinn’s and then dropped to the ground. “Yer the lad’s true family.”
Tinn stood, dumbstruck. “Does that mean I can—I can go home?”
Chief Nudd put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Aye, lad. I believe it does.”
“Well. What’ya say?” Kull smiled a crooked, toothy grin that, for all its horrifying angles, Tinn was beginning to find rather endearing. “I took a midnight trip wi’ ya once, a long time ago, back when I started all this mess. What’s say I take ya back again, one last time, an’ see it done?”
THIRTY-SIX
Perhaps it was the glow of the predawn light just beginning to peek through the trees, but the Wild Wood did not feel quite as foreboding as the group traveled back through the forest toward town. Kull led the way, this time sticking faithfully to the old goblin paths. He said very little during the journey. Occasionally he hazarded a glance back. Although he smiled each time, his eyes were rimmed with red.
The goblin bridge was a narrow, winding strip of earth. As they crossed it, lights twinkled through the mist and reflected in the murky waters of the Oddmire. The hinkypunks kept their distance, but something told Cole that they were saying goodbye in their own way. Candlebeard separated himself from the procession, bowed low, and hopped across the water to join them.
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