Bessie Bell and the Goblin King

by Charlotte E. English

  He could lose no time in discovering the identity of the imposter. From Somerdale, he travelled at once to Hyde Place, the manor house he had taken possession of in the previous year, and left his horse and equipage in the hands of a groom. He went directly to his study, a room he had not seen in some weeks, so occupied had he been elsewhere, and crossed to a large, verdant tapestry which hung in between two of the long windows upon the outer wall. He touched the fine silk fabric, and whispered a single word.

  The tapestry shimmered. Ordinarily, it depicted a flourishing, ancient forest carpeted in moss and ferns. Now those rich green colours swirled together into a confused morass of forestal hues, and then solidified into a door hovering in between two mighty, tall oaks.

  Grunewald reached out, took hold of the coiling bronze door handle, and twisted. The handle turned, and the door opened. On the other side, Grunewald saw not the rear gardens of Hyde Place over which the windows looked, but another room; one far away, over the border between Aylfenhame and England. He stepped through, his boots thudding dully upon the bare wooden planks of the floor, and shut the door behind him.

  The room was built entirely from wood of a dusty, silvery grey colour, and was but sparsely furnished. Grunewald did not consider it worth his while to render it comfortable, since he spent but little time in his chambers in the town of Grenlowe; the twin tapestries merely served as a convenient doorway from Hyde Place in England into the Ayliri lands of Aylfenhame. He left the little wooden fae house at once, barely cognisant of the film of dust which lay across every surface.

  It was market day in Grenlowe, which he had counted upon in his hurry to leave England that morning. The town was populous, and famed throughout Aylfenhame for its weekly market. It was said abroad that what one failed to find at the Grenlowe market was scarcely worth having; a sentiment with which Grunewald could not wholly agree. But his best chance of finding the goods he sought without the hassle and bustle of a Goblin Market lay in Grenlowe.

  But he did not go immediately into the throng of coloured stalls. He directed his steps instead towards a particular shop with which he had become very familiar in the past year. Its name was Silverling, and its proprietors were friends upon whose support he could always rely.

  He found Sophy seated alone in her favourite rocking chair, situated directly before the long shop window. A large pile of shimmering cloth lay in her lap, and her hands sought, with deft movements, to embroider some pattern into the surface. Her flyaway blonde hair escaped in lively curls from beneath the edges of her wispy lace cap. She greeted him with a delighted smile, and at once set aside her work.

  ‘Why, Grunewald!’ she said, rising to meet him. ‘What an unexpected pleasure! Is something amiss in Tilby?’

  He had long been in the habit of paying unannounced visits; indeed, he rarely found either opportunity or occasion for announcing his intentions beforehand. As such, this question surprised him. But she did not lack for perceptiveness; his manner, perhaps, or his expression had alerted her to the idea of trouble. ‘Not entirely,’ he said, with a return of her friendly courtesies. ‘Do not be alarmed, for all is well with Isabel! But I must speak with you at once, and Aubranael.’

  Sophy ushered him upstairs without a word of complaint or delay. They found Aubranael occupied at a small desk in an upper room. The tall, dark-skinned Aylir had married Sophy more than a year ago, and Grunewald had scarcely ever seen a more contented couple. Aubranael’s perception did not lag behind his wife’s; he, too, greeted Grunewald in the friendliest manner, but his dark eyes were sharp and alert as he looked at his friend. ‘Green! What’s afoot?’

  Grunewald accepted the chair that Sophy directed him to, and sank gratefully into its soft, well-stuffed depths. He recounted the full tale of Tatterfoal and his fetch, sparing no detail – save that he saw no occasion for mentioning Bessie. His friends listened with quiet attention, and exchanged worried looks once he had finished.

  ‘We have heard nothing of this,’ said Aubranael. ‘Word of your imposter has not yet travelled into Aylfenhame, I think.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Grunewald grimly. ‘That is part of my motive in coming, for I wished to warn you to be wary. If you should receive further visits from me, do take care to ensure that it is me. Until I can understand my imposter’s reason for adopting my image, I cannot guess at his intentions, and I would not wish to imagine that he may successfully impose upon my friends.’

  ‘We will take care,’ Sophy promised.

  Grunewald nodded. ‘Besides that, I wished to entreat your assistance. There is one means by which such an illusion might be penetrated, and that is fairy ointment. With it, I will be able to see through any Glamour, no matter how skilful its composition. But I need not tell you how rare that has become.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ Sophy agreed. ‘Do you attend the market?’

  ‘That was my thought.’

  She rose at once. ‘Then we shall assist you in the search.’ Aubranael was on his feet in an instant, and echoing his wife’s offer.

  Grunewald had known that he could count on them, but still a sense of gratitude swept through him. He had not, until recently, been blessed with the support of good, kind-hearted people, and he had forgotten how it felt. Indeed, he had despaired that he would ever know such felicity again. He shook both Sophy’s and Aubranael’s hands with fervent thanks, and attended them downstairs. Sophy recruited the rest of her household to his cause with a few brisk words, and soon a party of five set out into the streets of Grenlowe: Grunewald himself, Sophy and Aubranael, their friend and lodger Mary, and an unusually well-dressed brownie known as Thundigle.

  The search occupied the rest of the day. By the time the sun began to set and the market closed, Grunewald felt sure that they had, between them, inspected every single stall at least twice. But no trace of fairy ointment had been discovered, nor any of the rarer ingredients he required for its manufacture. He was left with the disappointing feeling of having wasted not only his own time, but that of his friends as well.

  His mood descended into a mixture of gloom, frustration and anger by the time he left Grenlowe. He would have to call the Goblin Market after all; no small undertaking, and fraught with some risk. No control whatsoever could be exerted over the wares offered in the Goblin Lands when the market took over the streets, and it attracted the attention of people even Grunewald would prefer to avoid.

  But a market there must be.

  As he left the darkening town of Grenlowe behind and sought passage into Gadrahst, his thoughts were sour. But at least he had taken the opportunity to warn Sophy and Aubranael, a measure which would protect them from harm and also, he hoped, limit the means by which his imposter might take advantage of Grunewald’s visage.

  And if there was to be a Market after all, he was gladder than ever that he had left Bessie safe behind at Somerdale, and out of the way either of harm or temptation.

  ***

  Bess rapidly discovered that not pleasant had been an understatement of near catastrophic proportions. She did not rightly know what it might feel like to be turned inside out, but the passage into Gadrahst gave her some inkling as to the probable sensations associated with such an experience. She suffered an excruciating minute, or perhaps ten, during which she felt that every part of her anatomy had been wrenched away, and afterwards hastily re-assembled in quite the wrong fashion. She could see nothing, but her ears were filled with a horrific jabber of voices pleasantly leavened with the sounds of high-pitched screams.

  She collapsed, eventually, onto something that felt solid, but her head swam as though she were being spun about at speed. It took her some time to appreciate that the aroma assaulting her nostrils was the smell of her own discomfort, given tangible form by way of the contents of her stomach. Indeed, some of the screaming had probably been her own efforts also.

  She lay still until her dizziness lessened, and then ventured to open her eyes.

  The first thing she saw was Idriggal, sta
nding not two feet from her. He looked wholly untouched by the passage; in fact he was dusting off his bright red waistcoat with an air of mild dissatisfaction.

  ‘Tis not easy to clean mud out of velvet,’ he informed her, when he noticed her scrutiny. ‘I am only relieved that you contrived to keep your digestive antics to yourself.’ He glanced askance, and added, ‘Or nearly enough.’

  ‘I can think of few worse happenin’s than the ruin of your clothes, indeed,’ agreed Bess. She raised herself shakily into a seated posture, and waited as her head swam anew. ‘When you said unpleasant, ‘twas no exaggeration.’

  ‘Oh, not in the least. But may I say that you are bearing it well?’ He grinned at her, flashing teeth.

  ‘A deal of shriekin’ and makin’ a mess of meself weighs nothing wi’ you, I suppose?’

  ‘Very little,’ he assured her. ‘I have seen far worse.’

  ‘Well, that’s reassurin’.’ Bess ventured to gain her feet, and shook out her dress. ‘I’ll need just a moment to remember how me legs work. Supposin’ them still to be attached at all.’

  Idriggal looked her over closely. ‘You look unchanged.’

  ‘That’s somethin’.’ Bess stretched, and shook herself. Her hair had tumbled down during the passage, and she felt the weight of it against her back. Not a respectable way to appear, at least in England. But she was far afield now.

  ‘And so, we are in Gadrahst?’ she enquired. Stable for the present, she found leisure to look about herself.

  They had come out in some manner of village, or perhaps a town; Bess could not immediately determine its proportions. She stood on a patch of purplish grass behind a row of houses of eccentric style. In general, the buildings were much smaller than the houses of England; they were sized, she supposed, for goblins of Idriggal’s stature. They were built with wooden frames, though she could see little of the timbers underneath the daub or plaster that covered them. They ranged in hue from muddy green to vivid purple, encompassing a range of earthy colours and some bright shades. Many small windows were fitted into the walls, and the doors were rounded in shape.

  But not every building was diminutive. Interspersed amongst these at haphazard intervals were much taller structures, the size Bess would expect to see in a house. They sat oddly among their smaller brethren, creating an uneven appearance which Bess found charmingly eccentric. The area was quiet; she saw no one at all, save for her companion, and heard little.

  Idriggal took a tiny, clear glass pipe from a pocket and put it to his lips. He made no effort to light it, or to activate it by any other means. Nonetheless, the pipe instantly changed colour to a fine raspberry hue, and began to spit bubbles of a similar shade from its bowl. Bess watched in some delight as a stream of them floated upwards into the cloudy sky. ‘That we are,’ he said around the pipe’s delicate stem. ‘Or in some small part of it. Gadrahst is on the large side, you understand. ‘Tis known as the Goblin Lands elsewhere. We have come out in the town of Gorrotop, which happens to be where I live.’ He took the pipe from his mouth and used it to point to one of the nearby houses. Bess had no trouble determining which he meant, for one stood out from the rest: it was diminutive in stature, like Idriggal himself, and painted the same bright red as his jerkin. ‘Sadly,’ he said with a wide smile, ‘I cannot invite you in. But there’s a wayhouse for folk of your size, not far away. I’ll be installing you there.’

  His pipe altered its hue, and began to produce watery-blue bubbles. Bess watched in some fascination. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  He bowed his head. ‘I might just ask. What is it you are planning to do in our fair realm?’

  Bess blinked. ‘I don’t rightly know,’ she admitted. ‘Gettin’ here was the difficult part. Though, wi’ that said, I would very much like to go to this Goblin Market I heard tell of.’

  ‘It has yet to be called, but if that happens I undertake to escort you.’

  ‘It will, I am fairly certain,’ Bess assured him. ‘Grunewald much desired it.’

  ‘Aye, well. If the Gaustin wishes it, it’ll come about.’

  Bess tilted her head. ‘What do you mean by that? The Gaustin?’

  Idriggal raised one dark brow. ‘Can you not guess?’

  ‘If I could, would I be askin’?’

  Idriggal puffed upon his peculiar pipe, his gaze thoughtful as he looked at her. ‘Interesting. What do you know of Grunewald, if I may ask?’

  ‘I met him as “Mr. Green”, only two days gone. He were bowlin’ about the lanes in his fancy wheeler wi’ two black horses. Dancin’ about in the middle of the night and in the worst fog I ever saw. I thought him naught but an ordinary fine gent, albeit wi’ odd habits, but then he talked to Tatterfoal like the beast was an errant pony, and sent him packin’.’ She shook her head. ‘He ain’t no typical gent, that I can see. But what he might rightly be, I dunnot know. Save that he is of Aylfenhame. It don’t take much to see that.’

  Idriggal nodded slowly. ‘I’ve risked his displeasure enough, by bringing you into Gadrahst. I’ll not risk it further by telling what he has chosen to conceal.’

  Bess nodded. ‘You’re showin’ sense there, Mr. Idriggal. I’d not like to cross Mr. Green neither.’ She was uncertain what to make of Grunewald, in point of fact. He had shown her kindness and expressed concern for her safety, which was more than anybody had ever done for Bess before, in the whole course of her life. For that, she was grateful. He had wit and liveliness, which she appreciated. But he could also be dismissive and autocratic, and there was that in his eyes at times which hinted at worse capabilities hidden behind his urbane manner.

  ‘You may call me Drig,’ said her goblin friend. ‘Seeing as we are to be such excellent friends.’

  ‘Then you may call me Bess. I prefer it to “baggage”, all told.’

  Drig grinned. ‘I can see that you might. Well, so. Are you right and proper again, and stable on those long pins?’ He made a show of looking all the way up at Bess, rather exaggerating her height, for she was not so tall by the standards of England.

  ‘That I am,’ said Bess firmly. She took a few experimental steps, and when she did not promptly fall upon her face, she added, ‘For certain. Lead on, Drig.’

  Drig turned and sauntered away. He kept one hand upon the stem of his peculiar pipe – which was now producing sunny yellow bubbles – and tucked the other into a pocket of his jacket. Bess followed along as he wandered between two houses and entered a wide street laid down in dark cobblestones. She saw other goblins going about their business, none of them in any greater hurry than Drig seemed to be. They were predominantly of similar stature, though she saw an occasional rather taller goblin. They wore clothes in a surprising variety; the concept of particular, accepted fashions for attire did not seem to apply in Gorrotop.

  Drig guided Bess down some few similar streets, and stopped at last outside of an unusually tall, narrow building in the midst of a long row. It towered three storeys higher than its nearest neighbours, though in width it could be barely more than fifteen feet. Its front was set with myriad windows, none of them matching in size, shape or colour, and it had multiple doors: one at ground level, through which Drig clearly proposed to take her, and others stranded at intervals all the way up the building. One of them, a round, wooden door painted crimson, had a staircase which wound its way around the outside of the building and ended outside the door. Others bore no apparent means of access at all.

  Bess was instantly enchanted by it.

  A large sign over the narrow ground-level door proclaimed simply: “The Motley.” A fitting name, considering the patchwork appearance of the place. The grass-green door helpfully bore three brass knockers: one large one placed high up, though within Bess’s reach; one a little further down; and one only a foot or so from the floor. Drig went up the pair of steps, took hold of this last and pounded mightily upon the door. The sound produced was not the dull thump Bess was expecting, but a burst of shrieking laughter.

  The door open
ed immediately. Revealed in the entrance stood a goblin taller than Drig – almost Bess’s own height. She was of comfortable proportions, with deep brown skin and a mass of greying hair. She wore an earthy-brown dress with a neat apron, a long coat of riotous patchwork, and a large hat of soft purple velvet. ‘Aye!’ she shouted. Her eye fell upon Drig and then upon Bess, and her generous mouth stretched into a beaming smile. ‘Driggifer! Ye’ve brought me a customer! What a fine fellow ye are.’ She bent down to bestow an appreciative salutation upon Drig, and then stepped back, opening the door wide. ‘Whishawist, then. ‘Tis a fine, cold morning and no doubt ye’ll be wanting big fires and warm chocolate and all the what-not.’

  ‘Morning, Maggin,’ said Drig cheerfully. ‘All the what-not and more, if you please!’

  These prospects cheered Bess, and she lost no time in following Drig into the inn. The hall was as mad in character as the building’s exterior, with mismatched furniture sized for goblins of all proportions. It was cheerily lit up with curious lamps in many hues, and strewn with rugs and cushions. Bess felt at home at once, and could not reproach herself for having accepted Drig’s offer.

  Drig tucked his bubble pipe into a pocket of his jerkin, and smiled up at Bess. ‘The Motley’s the best spot for miles, especially if you’re one of the leggy folk.’

  Bess could well believe it. Maggin led them to a staircase at the rear of the hallway and disappeared up it. Bess had some difficulty following, for it spiralled tightly and was not so roomy as she might wish; she was obliged to duck her head to keep from hitting it upon the next stairs up. She emerged two storeys farther up onto a small landing. Its ceiling was higher, to her relief, and she was able to stand fully upright. Its walls were painted dark green and crammed with pictures, embroidered cloths and other knick-knacks hanging from large brass hooks. Directly ahead of her, a glass door was set into the wall. At least, it appeared to be fine, clear glass, but Bess could see nothing through it.