by Nancy Farmer
Jack knew he’d get angry if someone kept taunting him like that, but the Bugaboo sailed on blithely. His people really seemed to like him. Now and then someone yelled, “Go for it, Nemesis! Give us your best curses.” And the Nemesis would bow in return. They were a very odd folk.
The returning mob fanned out, going off to different houses until only the Bugaboo, the Nemesis, and the children were left. They arrived at a large hall with a forecourt enclosed by an earthen wall covered with mushrooms. The mushrooms had obviously been planted with an eye to color, for they formed patterns in red, yellow, purple, and white.
A flock of hobgoblins streamed into the forecourt, shouting greetings and hopping up and down with glee. A large woman grabbed the Nemesis and kissed him soundly on both cheeks. “So you’re back, you old rapscallion! I suppose you didn’t think of me once,” she said.
“Why should I? It was a relief to get away,” replied the Nemesis, kissing her back. He produced a dainty bouquet of violets from his pocket.
“I suppose these are crushed,” she sniffed.
“I hope so,” her husband said, although Jack thought the flowers looked fine.
An older woman fussed over the Bugaboo. “You didn’t run into trouble, did you, Buggiekins?” she asked.
“No fear, Mumsie! The Forest Lord is as predictable as moonrise. He was busy getting tree roots to work on the rock slide.”
Mumsie suddenly noticed Pega. “Now I know why you were so late!” she cried. She whisked Pega into an enthusiastic hug, which the girl struggled to escape. “Feisty little darling, aren’t you? Come along with me. We’ll get you out of those rags and into something nice.”
“Jack!” wailed Pega, fighting desperately.
“Please, sir,” Jack appealed to the hobgoblin king, “she’s afraid.”
“Is my little forest flower shy?” crooned the Bugaboo fondly, extricating her from his mother’s arms. “Is she a dear little fledgling peeping over the edge of her nest?”
“I’m not a flower! I’m not a stupid bird! You’re strangling me!” Pega shouted.
The king put her down and stood back, grinning widely—a hobgoblin could grin very widely indeed, Jack observed. Pega immediately ran and flung her arms around the boy so tightly, he could hardly breathe.
“I see I have shown a lack of courtesy,” the Bugaboo said, bowing formally. “I had not realized you were her brother. I would never have associated such beauty with—well, you mud men can’t help how you look. The point is, I should have asked your permission first. Dear boy—Jack’s the name, isn’t it? Dear Jack, would you grant me the sublime honor of courting your adorable sister and of hopefully winning her hand in marriage?”
“Marriage?” shrieked Pega.
Jack looked from one face to another. Everyone was smiling, and the women were giving soft little hoots of encouragement. “Um… er…” Jack said, his mind racing wildly.
Pega sank to the ground and burst into tears as though her heart would break. The hoots vanished instantly. A flock of will-o’-the-wisps darted down to watch. “I thought,” she gasped between racking sobs, “I thought I’d overcome it. All my life I’ve feared to look into a stream, to see my face staring back. I’ve seen everyone turn aside and spit when they saw me. No master kept me if his wife became pregnant, for fear I would mark the child. I tried not to care. I prayed for understanding. Why? Why was I cursed with such ugliness? What had I done to deserve it?”
She rocked back and forth. No one moved. Jack, Thorgil, the hobgoblins, even the will-o’-the-wisps seemed paralyzed by such grief.
“Brother Aiden told me I had a beautiful soul and that in Heaven I would shine like the morning star. And then Jack freed me from slavery.” Pega looked up, her blotchy face transformed by adoration. “I vowed to serve him all my days and never, never to indulge in self-pity again, but I did not dream of such cruelty! I’m not a flower. I’m not a baby bird. No one could want to marry me except as a joke.”
The Bugaboo hunkered down next to Pega and attempted to take her hand. She pushed him away. “Please don’t cry, my little toadstool. I meant no joke. I don’t even have a sense of humor.”
“He’s right. He couldn’t get a cackle out of a jackdaw with the stories he tells,” said the Nemesis.
“I was drawn first to your voice,” said the Bugaboo. “I thought it was the Elf Queen invading our land and went out to—um, well, never mind what I was going to do. We’ve never got along with elves. But when I saw your face, I fell in love at first sight. ‘It’s the moonlight,’ I told myself. ‘In the daylight she’ll look like any other mud woman.’ But the sun only revealed more loveliness.”
Pega looked up. Her face was wet with tears, and she wiped her nose on her sleeve. She was trembling with emotion. “You’ve been spying on me all this time?”
“Yes! And who would not?” cried the Bugaboo.
Pega laughed weakly. “I guess—to you—I look pretty appetizing.”
The hobgoblin king grinned, stretching his rubbery mouth to its widest. His speckled face beamed with joy.
“Oh, Lord,” said Pega, looking down again.
Jack decided it was time to step in. “I may not be her brother, sir,” he said, “but I’m most definitely her guardian. In our lands courtship proceeds slowly. The lady needs time to get used to her suitor.” Jack knew this wasn’t true in real life, but he’d heard of such things in stories.
“Marriage is a trap,” Thorgil interrupted. “The minute any girl gets tricked into it, she loses everything. She loses the sweet joys of battle and of braving wild storms in search of good pillage. She spends her life doing degrading tasks—cooking, weaving, sewing, scrubbing—all the while chasing after smelly little brats. There is no honor in this. You and I need to have a talk, Pega.”
Everyone stared at the shield maiden. Finally, the Bugaboo said, “The Forest Lord should have taken this one. But I do understand the rules of courtship. Forgive me for being impulsive, my darling mugwort.” He took Pega’s hands, and this time she was too dispirited to reject him. “I will wait for you as long as it takes. For the rest of my life, if necessary.”
All the women present hooted with pleasure, and one or two wiped her eyes. Pega merely looked depressed.
“And now it’s time for dinner!” cried the Bugaboo to cheers and applause.
“Finally,” grumbled the Nemesis.
The hobgoblins scurried around, setting up trestle tables and hauling out trenchers, knives, and spoons. They set out what appeared to be giant acorn cups, flattened on the bottom so they would not tip over. Jack picked up one and examined it.
“From the Forest Lord’s own oak tree,” explained Mumsie.
“Without his knowledge, of course,” said the Bugaboo.
“You keep talking about the Forest Lord,” said Jack. “Who is he?”
“One of the old gods,” replied the hobgoblin king. “He was here first, with the Man in the Moon, the Wild Huntsman, and the yarthkins.”
“He hates men for their slaughter of his children,” Mumsie said. She looked very solemn, and Jack saw that she was not the ridiculous creature she seemed, but someone deep.
“His children?” the boy asked.
“The trees, the grass, the moss, as well as the beasts and birds. The Forest Lord rules the green world. For those who harm his subjects, he has an abiding hatred. That’s why he tried to take your friend Thorgil.”
“What’s that? What are you saying?” Thorgil said, suddenly waking up.
“You killed the fawn that trusted you,” the Bugaboo’s mother replied, not in the least cowed by the shield maiden’s anger. “No one hunts the Forest Lord’s creatures in the heart of his kingdom, not even us. What the animals do with each other is according to his laws. The fawn would have fled from a wolf, but not from you. Such a betrayal of trust sent a shudder through the forest. All the animals became a little less trusting. It was like an assault on the Forest Lord’s realm.”
“You k
new Thorgil was in danger, and you left her to die?” Jack had begun to like the hobgoblins, but to leave someone helpless to be slowly eaten by moss… that was barbaric.
“She had earned her fate.” Mumsie’s eyes, so like pools of dark water, showed no trace of regret.
“We saved the other one,” said the Bugaboo, perhaps wanting to lighten the grim mood that had overtaken the festivities.
“One of your stunning examples of stupidity,” declared the Nemesis. “He was being dragged into the river by vines—served him right for trying to hack through them. He thanked us by complaining that we were being too rough.”
“Wait,” said Jack as a happy thought occurred to him. “His name wouldn’t be Brutus?”
“I see you know him,” said the Nemesis.
“Know him?” said Pega, for the first time moved from her moody silence. “He’s my friend.”
“Oh, dear! I wish we’d kept him,” said the Bugaboo.
“What did you do with him?”
“Nothing bad,” the hobgoblin king replied hastily, attempting to put his arm around her. Pega wriggled away.
The Nemesis laughed nastily. “We gave him what he wanted. Be careful what you ask for, I always say. Brutus wasn’t a bit grateful. ‘Oh, no, no, no. Brutus doesn’t like this, no, he doesn’t,’” the hobgoblin said in a credible imitation of the slave’s voice.
“You’ve hurt him,” accused Jack, rising to his feet. He’d been driven frantic by the man’s complaints and incessant whistling, but he didn’t wish him harm.
“Never! We saved his life!” cried the Bugaboo.
“I was the one who sent him packing,” the Nemesis gloated. “His Royal Idiocy wanted to keep him as a guest, but it’s my job to make sure order is kept in this kingdom. You could see the havoc Brutus was going to cause. He’s a descendant of Lancelot, and every man of that line knows how to cast spells over women.”
“Please tell us where he is.” Jack saw the Bugaboo glance at the Nemesis and the latter shake his head.
“He wanted to get out, so I put him out. Heaven knows where he ended up,” said the Nemesis.
“The food’s going to be spoiled if we wait much longer,” Mumsie interrupted. She signaled to her helpers to bring food. Jack thought about protesting, but he was extremely hungry and poor Pega looked ready to faint.
The dinner was better than Jack had hoped: creamy lentil soup with dense slabs of bread flavored with dill. Fire-roasted turnips swam in fragrant, melted butter, and great wheels of cheese were passed around. Most notable of all were the mushrooms. Boiled, deep-fried, pickled, baked in pies—there seemed no end to their variety. Jack hadn’t known so many existed or were safe to eat. “Are you sure—” he began as a purple fungus was plopped onto his trencher like a massive steak.
“Sure of what? That it’s delicious? Yes!” said the Bugaboo, tucking into his fungus.
“Mud men are always afraid of our mushrooms,” the Nemesis observed. “Mind you,” he added, “mistakes have been made.”
Jack sipped his drink from the giant acorn cup. It tasted faintly of pine needles, but it seemed to be water. Unusually fresh water. It was cold—a welcome thing in a courtyard surrounded by many torches. It didn’t make Jack sleepy—not exactly—but he felt his thoughts slow. He studied the acorn cup. It was handsome indeed, a bright brown you could sink your gaze into, going deeper until you could see into the heart of it.
“I think you’ve had enough,” said Mumsie, taking the cup from him. Jack was surprised to find himself lying facedown on the purple fungus. He sat up, confused. Mushroom juice dripped off his chin.
“Hah! Can’t hold his water!” crowed the Nemesis.
“Now, now. Mud men—excuse me, humans—often have trouble with it,” the Bugaboo said. He ordered Jack’s cup refilled. “You’ll do better with ordinary cave water,” he said kindly.
Jack tasted it. It was chalky and not especially good, but it didn’t send him into a trance.
“The other was meant as a treat,” Mumsie explained. “We take it from the Forest Lord’s own pool, when he’s busy elsewhere, of course. It makes you think long, slow thoughts like a tree does. Quite refreshing, like having a holiday.”
“I drink nothing that comes from the Forest Lord,” said Thorgil, pushing her cup away. Her face was pale, and Jack guessed that she was remembering the moss.
“Easily remedied,” said the hobgoblin king. He ordered both Thorgil’s and Pega’s cups refilled with cave water. Jack noticed that several creatures at the table were staring fixedly with small smiles (small for hobgoblins, that is) on their faces.
“It is not wise to drink something that renders you defenseless,” observed Thorgil, also looking at them. “Your enemies could creep up on you.”
The Bugaboo wriggled his ears with mirth. “Dear me! We have no enemies.”
“Everyone has them,” said Thorgil.
“Not us. We’re universally liked.”
“Then why do you post guards at your gates?” the shield maiden persisted. “Why do you secure your doors with many locks? And why do you go about invisibly?”
The laughter died away. The torches at the edge of the courtyard flared, and a pair of will-o’-the wisps darted down to explore the sudden silence. “There are elves,” the Bugaboo said.
Chapter Twenty-five
FROG SPAWN OMELET
“The elves steal our children,” explained the king. “You have to understand that elvish life is centered on pleasure. They cannot bear to spend one minute without entertainment, and they have to keep coming up with new amusements because they’re so easily bored. Once, long ago, they decided it was fun to switch our babies with human ones. I believe you call them ‘changelings’.”
Jack remembered the Bard talking about such things. Changelings, the old man had said, are always terrified because they’ve been torn from their rightful place. They fall into terrible rages and scream until everyone is driven mad. Jack thought, Well, why wouldn’t they? A human baby suddenly waking up surrounded by hobgoblins would go wild with terror. It must be just as frightening the other way around. “Do the elves give you our children?” he asked.
The Bugaboo sighed deeply, and the hobgoblin women cooed in response. It sounded like a flock of pigeons whispering to one another. “They turn human children into pets. It’s considered stylish to have a toddler on a leash. He can be dressed up in funny costumes or trained to do tricks. Toddlers are more clever than dogs, but they’re not as durable. Eventually, they fall into despair—lack of love does that. When a child is no longer entertaining, he’s left in a forest for wolves to dispose of.”
“How terrible!” gasped Pega.
“My father once left me out for wolves to devour,” Thorgil remarked.
“I’m not surprised,” said the Bugaboo. “The greatest sorrow of our lives is the loss of our sproglings—that’s our word for ‘children’. There’s not a family here who hasn’t lost one or two little ones. We try to plug up the tunnels. We post guards and lay traps, but the elves always find a way in.”
Hobgoblins had an unnerving habit of blinking their eyes one at a time, not both together as humans did. When they were upset, as the Bugaboo was now, they not only blinked rapidly, but erratically. Jack got dizzy watching him.
Something was hovering at the back of Jack’s mind, something important he had to remember, but the warmth, the rich food, and perhaps the effects of the Forest Lord’s water had dulled his wits. He was also extremely tired. Pega was nodding off, and even Thorgil jerked her head up in an effort to stay alert.
Dessert was an enormous steamed pudding wrapped in cloth. Jack vaguely remembered eating some. What he’d taken for plums were purple mushrooms.
After dinner the hobgoblins cleared the tables. Jack watched them in a kind of daze. He knew it would be polite to help, but all he wanted was to sleep. Soon a pack of hobgoblin youths led him off, and Pega and Thorgil were taken in another direction.
The sleepin
g hutches were hollows scraped into the earthen floor of a small side cave. There was one cave for boy hobgoblins, he was told, and another for girls. The adults slept in their own houses, along with the sproglings. The hollows were lined with the softest imaginable wool, and the youths curled up inside them like bunnies.
Jack found he couldn’t stretch his legs without sticking his feet out over the edge, but this was a minor problem. He was so tired, he could have slept on a bed of stinging nettles. The sound of snores filled the cave like the grunts of bullfrogs in a summer pond. The wool smelled strongly of mushrooms and perhaps hobgoblins.
Jack sat up and rubbed his eyes. Giant frogs were leaping around him, belching the way frogs do when they are happy. Then he saw that they were hobgoblin youths. A cluster of will-o’-the-wisps hovered near the top of the cave.
“It’s morning! It’s morning!” cried a youth, landing near Jack’s hutch. “Time to sing and dance and make merry!”
Jack crawled out of the nest. His head ached, and he was in no mood to dance. The hobgoblin youth bounced up and down invitingly, making him queasy.
When he stood up, he was at once the center of attention. He was patted and prodded with sticky fingers until he wanted to punch the next creature that touched him. “Where’s my staff?” he said, searching the ground next to his hutch. It was second nature for him to carry it at all times. It was the most important thing he owned, and he knew he’d had it when he went to sleep. “Where’s my staff!” he repeated.
Instead of answering, the hobgoblins grabbed his arms and legs and soared away in a series of ecstatic leaps. “Sing and dance and make merry!” they shrieked. Jack struggled to get free, but their hands were surprisingly strong.
“Let me go!” Jack yelled.
“Mud men need to play,” one of his captors told him. “They’re far too gloomy, always talking about sin. They must enjoy life!”
“With singing and dancing and making merry!” warbled the others.
“Put me down!”
A horn sounded in the distance, not the thrilling hunting horn John the Fletcher sometimes winded, but a nasty blatting noise.
