It was Ahab, ahead on the river and in the midst of some deviltry. The canoe cut through the standing mists as Jonathan, the Professor, and Dooly dipped their paddles as one, the grim sounds growing louder in their ears.
In the fog it was impossible for them to guess just how far they could see into the murk ahead. To the three in the canoe, the river water immediately around the boat was visible, but it was of the same pale gray color as the night air and two or three yards away the air and water blended so that no one could be sure what it was he was seeing. Jonathan feared they would run right up against the raft in their haste.
They saw the lights glowing in the mist when they were still some ten yards distant. The hooting and gonging and shrieking and laughing was not so much ahead of them on the raft as all around them – in the woods along the invisible shore.
The barking had ceased which Jonathan did not like by half. He felt like calling Ahab’s name, but the unlikelihood that he could be heard over the din – and his dread of whatever made that din – kept him silent. He looked over at the Professor, who simply shrugged, leaned forward, then whispered, ‘Goblins.’
Dooly seemed to shrink down even lower, if that were possible. Jonathan felt himself turning spongy. It was likely that they had already passed within the fringe of the vast, dark expanse of the Goblin Wood which separated the outposts of Willowood Station and Stooton-on-River from the upriver villages. It was a particularly bad place to be at night.
All of the running lights around the raft were lit, and, to Jonathan’s amazement, the masts were rigged and the raft was sailing with the breeze at a good clip, accounting for the extra hours the companions had paddled in search of her.
The glow of the torchlight reflected off the fog and stained the air a ruddy pink roundabout the raft. Strange shadows undulated against the fog on all sides as if the torchlight were shining against a dim gray curtain. On deck were a dozen capering little men, tilting this way and that and howling and cackling and pounding away with their feet and fists against anything handy.
Dooly cringed before this fearful drumming; Jonathan gave him an encouraging nod in an attempt to look stalwart and quell his fears. Because the three in the canoe were in the darkness and looking into the light, they could see the goblins clearly before the goblins could see them. But the stalwart looks were all for naught when they drew near enough to glimpse the hideous faces of the goblins on board.
Although each was smaller even than a dwarf and thin and bony like a skeleton with a skin of leather stretched over it, Jonathan found it hard to convince himself of the facts. The figures seemed to grow and shrink on the mist like their leaping shadows. One moment they looked like smiling, prancing elves and the next like grim shadows of death with sunken eyes and protruding teeth and ghastly, misshapen hands like the claws of crabs.
There was no order to their leaping about nor rhythm to their gonging and pounding, and though no fires save the torches burning on deck, were in evidence, their cauldron sent steam bubbling up into the fog. One great goblin, taller than the rest by a grisly head, howled and cursed as he stirred the contents of the pot, his eyes glowing like embers in a ruin of a face. His companions, seemingly without purpose, toppled past and dropped random objects into the bubbling cauldron: the sextant, a cheese, the keg of nails, a length of rope, and all manner of lunatic things. It was all done in a rout – all mayhem done for the ghastly pleasure of the thing. Jonathan, whose teeth were chattering, didn’t like the affair at all.
A cry like the wail of a marsh devil at sun-up went up from one of the leaping goblins. The three companions had been seen. The troupe of goblins lined the rail, pointing and beckoning and howling and laughing. Jonathan saw one rolling the dill pickle keg along the deck and off into the river, and it bobbed along near the canoe for a moment before the current took it and swept it on toward the sea.
Then one of the goblins yanked a torch from its fastenings and Jonathan was certain it was intent upon firing the ship. Instead, the creature set fire to its own hair and leaped blazing to and fro about the deck. Wild laughter issued from between its pointed teeth, and the fire seemed to melt the skin from its face and it ran down and left only a grinning skull with flaming hair.
Jonathan was caught between terror and disgust, but Dooly felt only terror as he sat curled up in the bow with his head buried in his arms. Then the goblins, each produced a long curvy-bladed knife and waved it about. Jonathan and the Professor backed water like sixty, both deciding without discussion to reconnoiter and consider strategies. But when a goblin lurched along carrying Professor Wurzle’s oboe gun and dropped it too into the cauldron, the Professor decided he’d backed water long enough.
‘By golly!’ he shouted, brandishing his paddle. His outburst seemed to send the goblins into a wild fit, and they stamped about as several others set themselves afire.
The canoe was in a pretty pass because Jonathan wasn’t quite as anxious to save the oboe gun as was the Professor, and he was still backing water as the Professor was dipping forward madly.
While the canoe hung there suspended, moving neither forward nor backward, Jonathan was amazed to see Ahab, huge in relation to the goblins, burst forth from the cabin door like a whirlwind. The goblins had clearly supposed he was secured within because he took them unawares and sent them into a mad caper.
It was a curious sort of rout altogether though. Howls of laughter rolled out over the water, and within the space of a moment, all the goblins were blazing like little upright bonfires. Ahab leaped up behind the great pot-stirring goblin and, unmindful of his grim, melting face and flaming head, picked him up by the seat of his trousers and, with a shake and a bit of prancing, flung him overside and into the river.
The thing shrieked as it fell, hissing and bubbling. When it finally sputtered to the surface, the goblin didn’t appear half so terrifying as when it went in. Now it looked simply like a very wet, evil, sorry little man. Its companions on the raft, however, remained flaming and ranting and took to throwing things at the floating goblin.
Ahab was pleased with his work and wasted no time before latching onto another and sending him riverward. Jonathan, bucked up at the sight of the courageous Ahab, and Professor Wurzle, fearing that his oboe gun would be lost in the river, shot across the final few feet of water between them and the raft and looped the painter around the bolt in the stern.
Then it was but a simple thing to climb up over the rail because the goblins – the six or so that were left – were dashing in a fiery circle about the deck, round and round the hold. It was impossible to tell whether Ahab, smack in the center, was chasing the goblins or the goblins were chasing Ahab.
What stirred the Professor into action was the sight of one of the goblins brandishing the dripping oboe gun above his head. The weapon had clearly been cranked up, for the whirl-gatherers were twirling and it seemed as if at any moment, the thing would wrench itself free and sail off on one of its lunatic journeys.
The Professor went for the goblin and grabbed at the gun, but the goblin held on, hooting and shrieking and tearing at Professor Wurzle with its talons. Old Wurzle, unmindful of the pain, flew into a very pretty rage when the oboe gun pulled free and sailed out over the river. Through a clear space in the fog the Professor saw the gun sail fifty feet or so, bury itself in the water, and emerge again a bit further on only to disappear into the swirling mists. His oboe gun was lost, and this time there were no handy trees to climb to fetch it back.
Professor Wurzle, in a fit of rage, dumped the clawing, flaming goblin, still laughing and hooting in a tiresome way, into the river.
Jonathan and Ahab pursued the last of the goblins around the deck. Finally, Dooly, plucked up enough courage to clamber up onto the raft and, emboldened by the sudden lack of goblins on board, collared the last one. Then, shutting his eyes so as not to have to look it in the face, Dooly pitched it into the river.
Goblin heads bobbed out of sight in the direction of the far sh
ore. Their laughter, now somewhat dampened, faded in the night. Besides the gallant Ahab, the three companions sat puffing on the bow, Jonathan tut-tutting over the loss of the oboe gun. If truth were told, however, he wasn’t as concerned as he seemed, for he had never been entirely convinced of the thing’s usefulness.
It must have been close to three in the morning when finally they sailed out of the bank of fog into the clear night again. The Goblin Wood was a dark, misty blotch on the hillsides behind, and the bright moon shined once again along the riverside. Hillocky grasslands ran away for miles on either side toward the sea.
It took an hour of puttering about for the crew to straighten the mess and tally the losses. The strangest thing was that the cauldron had entirely disappeared. Where it had been, or had appeared to be, was a heap of scrap and trash: several broken barrel staves, some rusted bits of metal, fragments of crockery, Dooly’s troll chain, and the skeletal remains of a half dozen oddly shaped fish no doubt caught, from the river by the goblins.
They threw the whole mess overboard with the exception of Dooly’s chain which they hung once more on the mast. Jonathan swore he’d seen a cauldron and the Professor agreed. Dooly was too baffled even to know he was baffled until the Professor told him it was all an illusion.
‘Enchantment!’ cried Dooly, familiar with goblin trickery due to the tales of his old grandpa.
The Professor explained that that was exactly the case. Coming out of the cabin door, Jonathan stated that the case was that the goblins had drank half the rum and ruined the rest. Sure enough, floating in the half-drained rum barrel were another dozen or so partially consumed fish. There was nothing to be done but dump the stuff overboard, keg and all.
This was a disappointment to say the least, because both Jonathan and the Professor had been keen on the idea of a mug or so of hot buttered rum. But they’d see precious little of it, at least for awhile.
So the pickles were gone and the rum ruined, and all the remaining loaves of bread had their centers eaten out and looked more like hats or helmets than bread. The Professor said that he, at least, didn’t too much rue the loss of the rum which was pretty clearly responsible for the goblins having been in such a state. Sober goblins, it seemed certain, would have been a bit more dangerous. Everyone agreed that they had gotten off easily, all things considered. Just then Jonathan remembered the port that Mayor Bastable had laid in, and he went off to fetch a bottle and three glasses.
It seemed that the moon no sooner sank behind the Elfin Highlands than the sun came peering up over the White Mountains and it was morning. As the Professor had predicted, they had gotten little sleep that night; but they had gotten their raft back and could feel a hint of honest pride in having set to flight a party of marauding goblins.
7
Magicians and Axolotls
The river carried them along toward the sea, and for three days they did little else but eat, sleep, and throw out an occasional fishing line.
Professor Wurzle found that his arms and chest had been scratched fairly thoroughly during his tussle with the goblins, and the long red scrapes insisted upon becoming infected, swelling to nasty-looking welts. The Professor hobbled along gritting his teeth each time he moved, but demanded to be allowed to take his turn at watch with the others.
They were miles from Willowood Station when it became clear that something had to be done for the Professor. He had, finally, taken to bed, and food and water were brought to him. He was so thoroughly sore that he even ached, he explained, when just blinking his eyes.
‘I’m afraid, Jonathan,’ he said that afternoon when they were but a few short miles above Willowood, ‘that I’ll need more than rest to make a recovery from these scratches. The goblin must have had some filthy substance on his hands.’
‘Ah, yes,’ agreed Jonathan, who was at a bit of a loss. The only disinfectant on board was a sort of salve that smelled of eucalyptus and didn’t prove to be of much benefit. ‘Between Stooton-on-River and the sea there’s not even an outpost. What with Willowood gone and Stooton, according to old Gosset, gone too, I’m not sure where to find any medicines. I’ve been thinking, though, that whoever looted Willowood no doubt made off with valuables, but probably not with medicines. There might still be a few lying about the old apothecary. What thief would steal medicines?’
‘What thief indeed?’ asked the Professor. ‘But I don’t believe that it will matter much anyway in this case. When do we pass Willowood Wharf?’
‘In about an hour.’
‘Then put in, boy, put in. Have you any knowledge of herb lore?’
‘Only in making tea.’
‘Then I’ll have to explain a bit. Fetch up that pen and paper and write this down. I’ll need arrowroot first off and the flowers of oxalis, about a handful, and a good deal of spearmint. Can you find such?’
‘So far, so good, Professor.’
‘Then,’ the Professor continued, ‘I’ll need a half dozen of those yellow tree fungi – the ones that look like clam shells and have the pink dots all up and down one side. I shouldn’t wonder if you have a difficult time finding them. Look on the underside of old, fallen hemlocks.’
Old, fallen hemlocks,’ Jonathan wrote dutifully, ‘underside. How large are these fungi, Professor?’
‘About the diameter of a man’s head, when they’re ripe. If you find them much larger they’re useless. They go all to slime when you touch them. Slimy ones are no good at all.’
‘No slime,’ wrote Jonathan.
‘And then I’ll need a jar of cobweb – dusty cobweb if you can manage – and a half dozen little axolotls, preferably speckled ones.’
Jonathan shook his head as if amazed. ‘Will this accomplish the cure, Professor, all this vegetation and such?’
‘I hope so. I got the recipe from a wandering bunjo man who came through town years ago. Claimed he had beans that would grow into houses. A lot of foolery I told him.’
Of course,’ said Jonathan. Of course.’
‘But I couldn’t argue with his poultice. No one can deny the curative properties of fungi and axolotls.’
‘No one would dare,’ Jonathan assented.
No sooner had they settled on the recipe list than Willowood hove into view on a distant headland. The wharf, which had once been the center of most of the valley’s river trade, was smashed to bits. Broken pilings jutted through the shallow river water but supported nothing but birds. Only a small section of dock remained whole, and it had been hacked up and was leaning in such a way as to make it of doubtful use. But it was the only place to dock so Jonathan angled in toward it. Dooly perched on the bow with the painter, ready to leap ashore and tie up.
For a moment Jonathan considered the possibility of tieing up to one of the pilings twenty or thirty feet off shore and paddling the coracle ashore. The raft would be a bit safer from deviltry that way. But then it was true that whatever sort of fiends were likely to be lurking about the station could just as easily steal the coracle and paddle out to the raft, so Jonathan figured it wasn’t worth the trouble. They tied up at the dock.
The Professor lay on the bunk covered with several blankets against the chill. He had a mug of tea, some cheese, and a wrinkled apple for lunch. Beside the bunk was a good, stout oak truncheon should there be uninvited guests. Dooly and Jonathan stuck their heads in at the door and waved goodbye, then tromped off along the path toward the remains of the station.
The boathouse beyond the dock was a wreck. The roof had caved in and it looked as if someone had set in to build a cabin and then slipped up and put the roof of a lean-to on it. The windows were absolutely gone. There were only a few shards of glass laying about. Planks of ship-lap had been torn out of the walls and dashed to bits; they lay scattered outside. All in all, the boathouse wasn’t much good any longer.
The several buildings that had been Willowood Station were in much the same condition as the boathouse. Roofs had collapsed, doors were broken and dangling from ruined hinges
, walls were caved in, and the wind blew along through everything as if it were meant to. Nothing remained in the houses but broken furniture and ragged curtains. Food and clothing and everything of value had disappeared. Dark weeds sprouted through collapsed stoops and stairways, and forest vines crept in and out of broken windows and chimneys as if the forest were reclaiming the town for its own. And over all hung a dreadful silence that was broken only by the cries of an occasionakbird. Dooly was certain ghosts were about but didn’t let on to Jonathan for fear that he would agree.
‘What do you suppose, Mr Cheeser, sir, about this here wreckage? Was it a hurricane that came through?’
‘I don’t believe so, Dooly,’ Jonathan replied. ‘Although I rather wish it were. But what confounds me is that everyone is gone. I don’t want to be morbid or anything of the sort, but one would suppose that there might be such a thing as a body or two left lying about, if you see what I mean?’
‘Maybe the storm blew ’em all away down the river. Just sent ‘em flying like bugs.’
‘That’s one possibility, surely,’ Jonathan said. ‘But something, as they’d say at Seaside, is fishy here. What storm knocks the corner posts out of a house simply to allow the roof to cave in? And what sort of wind pulls entire planks out of walls and takes the time to smash them against things and break them into splinters? Craziness is what it is. And the worst of craziness, too.’
‘Like them goblins all burning up and shouting,’ Dooly offered by way of illustration, ‘even after we put ’em in the drink.’
‘Exactly like that,’ Jonathan agreed.
‘Pah!’
‘Excuse me?’ Jonathan sounded surprised.
‘I didn’t say it,’ said Dooly. ‘I thought you did.’
The Elfin Ship Page 8
