by S. Jae-Jones
“No, no, mustn’t touch.” One of them waggled an unsettlingly long finger at me. “His Majesty wouldn’t be pleased.”
I dropped my hand to my side. “His Majesty? The Goblin King?”
“Goblin King,” the other goblin girl scoffed. She was the size of a child, but proportioned like an adult, a little stocky, with shining white hair like a thistle-cloud about her head. “King of the goblins, feh. He’s no king of mine.”
“Shush, Thistle,” the first goblin girl admonished. She was longer and thinner than her counterpart, built like a slender birch tree. Her hair was branches wound with cobwebs. “You mustn’t say things like that.”
“I’ll say what I want, Twig.” Thistle crossed her arms with a mutinous expression on her face.
Thistle and Twig carried on as though I were nothing more than another fixture in the barrow. Even among the goblins, I faded into the shadows. I cleared my throat.
“What are you doing here?” My voice cracked through their conversation like a whip. “Who are you?”
“We are your attendants,” said the one called Thistle. She grinned, her smile row upon row of jagged teeth. “Sent to prepare you for the fête tonight.”
“Fête?” I did not like the way she said prepare, as though I were a kill for the feast, a roast to be trussed. “What fête?”
“The Goblin Ball, of course,” said the one called Twig. “We host revels each night during the days of winter, and tonight promises to be special. Tonight Der Erlkönig introduces his bride to the Underground.”
Käthe.
“I must speak with Der Erlkönig,” I said. “Immediately.”
Twig and Thistle laughed, branches rubbing against each other in a sudden storm. “And so you shall, maiden. So you shall. All in good time. You are his guest of honor at the ball tonight, and you shall meet with him then.”
“No.” I tried to impose my will upon them; I was bigger, after all, although not by much. “I must speak with him now.”
“All you mortals are so impatient,” Thistle said. “I suppose that’s what comes with feeling the hand of Death upon your neck at all times.”
“Take me to him,” I demanded. “Right now.”
But both Twig and Thistle were implacable, ignoring my words and circling me with curious eyes. I wanted to shy away from their scrutiny, from their judging eyes, from the sense that they were measuring me against some invisible mark.
“Not much to work with,” Thistle remarked.
“Hmmm,” Twig agreed. “Don’t know what we could do to improve her appearance.”
I bristled. Plain as I was, at least I wasn’t grotesque, not like these goblin girls.
“I shall address him as I am, thank you,” I said sharply. “My appearance needs no improving.”
They gave me a look of pity mingled with contempt. “It’s not your choice, mortal,” Thistle said. “It pleases our esteemed sovereign to have you properly dressed tonight.”
“Can’t this wait?”
Twig and Thistle exchanged looks, then laughed, another burst of branches in a storm.
“There are rituals, and there are traditions,” Twig said. “The Goblin Ball is a tradition. There is a time and place for boons and audiences, and the Goblin Ball is not the appropriate time or place for either. You are Der Erlkönig’s guest of honor; this night is for you. Enjoy yourself. All other nights belong to him. And to us.”
A shiver of foreboding ran up my spine. “Fine,” I said. “What do you need me to do?”
Despite my reluctance, a part of me tingled with anticipation. A ball, a beautiful gown. I had dreamed of such things once. I had dreamed of dancing with Der Erlkönig, a queen to his king.
Twig and Thistle gave me identical grins. Their teeth were pointed and jagged. “Oh, you shall see, maiden. You shall see.”
* * *
The goblin musicians struck up a minuet when I entered.
Thistle and Twig had pushed, prodded, pulled, and cajoled me into an elaborate construction of a gown. It was a little out of date from the current fashions of the world above, something a fine lady might have worn fifty or sixty years ago. The gown was a russet and bronze damask, lined with a stomacher of watered silk striped with cream and violet. It was trimmed with rosettes cunningly shaped like alder catkins. Little as I was, the waist of the gown was even littler, the stays pinching my lower ribs so painfully I could not draw a deep breath. Even more impressive was the décolletage the bodice was able to give me. Despite the yards of fabric, I still felt naked.
My face was also naked; I had declined the powder and rouge Twig and Thistle had offered. I did not think pinching my cheeks for color was necessary—with the heat, the constricting nature of my dress, and the excitement quickening my breath, I was flushed.
The main hall was cavernous—it was a cavern. A large one, formed from stone, unlike the dirt-packed barrow that was my room. Icicles of stone dripped from the ceiling, embedded with glowing, glittering chips. The same grew from the ground, atop which tables and boards laden with food were laid. Centerpieces were created from the antler horns of stags and cobwebs and gems, and bubbling springs rose up like fountains at intervals, giving off a faint, sulfuric, mineral smell.
A myriad of fairy lights twinkled against the inky darkness of the cavern ceiling, so high out of reach I could almost believe I was looking up at the night sky. Bare branches and dried leaves still vibrant with the brilliance of autumn were hung like chandeliers halfway above our heads. Bolts of silk and brocade cascaded down the walls, as well as tapestries depicting scenes of rapacious goblin men and virginal maidens. Gold, silver, and jewels were scattered like confetti, catching the light of dancing candle flame, of fairy lights, and of flickering torches, glittering like new-fallen snow. Bits of silvered glass and mirrors were embedded into the stone floors and walls of the cavern, reflecting fractured images: a sliver of a face, broken limbs, a million blinking eyes.
Everything was opulent, sumptuous, and excessive. I moved unnoticed among the partygoers, each fitted with a mask shaped like a human face. There was something sad and melancholy about this ghoulish gathering of goblins, playacting like they were humans in the world above. Each mask was modeled after the same face—the men incredibly handsome, the women incredibly beautiful. All the men looked like Hans; all the women looked like Käthe, their faces frozen into bland, personable smiles.
The goblin musicians started another minuet, their twisted hands gripping the oboe, the fife, the violoncello, and the violin awkwardly. The minuet, while adequately performed, sounded stiff and rote. None of the attendees danced, the music too dull to be much inspiration.
It was all wrong. Music of the rational, human mind with its rules and structure was all wrong in the hands of the goblins. It was lifeless, joyless, constrained. It did not breathe, take flight, or live. If only I could have taken their stacks of sheet music, I would have changed the tempo, the key, or else do away with the notes and paper altogether and let the music flow.
My skin prickled, my fingers twitched. I itched to join the musicians, but could not scrub away the hesitation of painful inadequacy that clung to me. I was unheard, uneducated, unpublished. Papa would say I was overreaching myself.
And yet … Papa was not here. Master Antonius was not here. Not even Josef was here. No one would judge me if I walked to the first chair, took his violin, and began to play.
As though sensing my intent, the violinist lifted his head and glanced at me. The goblin musicians were not masked; their queer, puckish faces were made uglier by concentration.
“What, maiden?” the violinist leered. “Think you could do better than me?”
“Yes.” The certainty of my reply surprised me.
My reply certainly surprised the musicians, who immediately stopped playing. I plucked the bow and violin from the first chair’s hands and tucked the instrument beneath my chin. The others gaped at me, but I ignored them. Instead, I touched my bow to the strings and bega
n a simple country air.
A Ländler, instantly recognizable to all assembled in the goblin ballroom. The musicians picked up the beat and the dancers picked up their feet. Once we were comfortable in the music, I began to embroider and expand the piece, adding a harmonic line to the melody. This was a game Josef and I had played when we were children: taking songs we knew and adding harmonies. The harmonies were usually simple thirds, but sometimes they were perfect fifths. This was how my little brother began to teach me the rudiments of theory.
The musicians looked to me once we finished the Ländler. As though they expected me to lead. As though I were the Konzertmeister. I swallowed hard. I had hidden for so long in my brother’s shadow that the light of their regard was almost too much to bear. Then I brought my bow to the strings and picked another song from my childhood, this time a simple canon. I began, then nodded to the flautist, the oboist, and the violoncellist as we played the melody as a round. The goblin musicians were enchanted by the web of sound, their unmasked, puckish faces made uglier with glee.
As we grew accustomed to each other, the musicians and I began to improvise, taking the sounds and turning them inside out, upside down. A game. Music was just a game. Somehow, I had forgotten.
A seed began to unfurl deep within me. Long ago, I had planted my music in the dark places of my soul, away from the light. There was Josef, the gardener of my heart, but not even his gentle encouragement had been enough to coax that little seed into life. I could not let it grow. Not in the world I lived in. Not in the world above. That world needed Liesl, dutiful daughter and protective sister. To let that seed bloom would encourage a weed to grow, choking out the other lives that needed my care.
But now I was free. The music inside grew into a weed, a wildflower, a meadow, a forest. I spread my roots out, feeling the rush in my limbs. My breathing was erratic, my bowing languid.
A bright laugh shattered my concentration. My bow stuttered and stumbled over the string. At once everyone paused, heads turning one by one toward the ballroom entrance. There, atop the great staircase that seemed both carved and grown at once, stood the Goblin King.
With my sister Käthe on his arm.
EYES OPEN
“Liesl!”
My sister found me straightaway. If we had been in the world above, I would have marveled at how quickly she discovered me in this sea of faces. But in the Underground, I understood. I was mortal, and so was she, and here among the goblins, our lives pulsed with intensity. I had sensed Käthe before I saw her.
But even without the telltale beat of our hearts that marked us human, I would have sensed my sister’s presence. Her beauty was polished like a gem, every facet of her sparkling appearance enhanced by the dress she wore, and the aura of glamour about her. Unlike the rest of the ballgoers, dressed in earthen shades and jewel tones, my sister was in summery pastels. She wore a sky-blue gown that shimmered with gold where the light hit it, and her own sunshine curls were piled high atop her head, dressed with pale pink roses and other spring flowers. Her face was powdered and rouged, and she looked like a painting, a portrait, a porcelain china doll.
Käthe had come in on the Goblin King’s arm, but she dropped it at the sight of me. She ran down the steps, parting a path between the sea of identical Käthe faces, holding out her arms to embrace me. In her hand she carried a mask fashioned into the shape of a goblin’s face.
“Liesl, my darling!” My sister wrapped her arms about my waist.
“Käthe!” I hugged her tightly, feeling the thud of her heart against mine.
“I was so afraid you wouldn’t come,” she said.
“I know, I’m sorry.” Tears clotted my throat. “I’m sorry I took so long. But I’m here now, my dear, never fear.”
“Wonderful!” Käthe exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight. “Now we must dance.”
“What?” I drew back to give her a proper look. “No, no. We must leave. We must go home.”
She screwed up her face in a childish pout. “Don’t be such a spoilsport, Liesl.”
Beneath the maquillage, Käthe’s complexion was wan and pale. No amount of powder could disguise the bruised hollows beneath her eyes, no amount of rouge distract from the bloodlessness of her lips. Only her eyes were bright and brilliant: the shine of fever. Or enchantment.
I believed I had abandoned my sister to the goblins’ untender mercies. I had imagined her in torment or agony, crying out for the world above. I had thought I would find her, and we would run back home, back to the inn, back to safety.
My gaze met the Goblin King’s over my sister’s head. He leaned against the entrance, his arms crossed, his smile mocking. Even from where I stood, I saw the tips of his pointed teeth gleaming in the fairy lights.
Did you think I would make it so easy? his smile seemed to say.
I had won the second round. I had made my way to the Underground. This was the third and final round of our game: getting Käthe back to the world above.
Well, I thought. I would drag my sister back to life, even if I had to drag her out by her hair. The Goblin King had his tricks, but I had my stubbornness. We would see who prevailed in the end.
“All right, then,” I said to Käthe. “Let’s dance.”
On cue, the goblin musicians struck up a tune. The violinist took back his instrument with a sour expression. The musicians played another old air from my childhood, a fast-paced Zweifacher. Even Käthe stirred when she heard it, and I smiled at her.
“Just like when we were little,” I said. “Come!”
Käthe fitted her goblin mask over her face, and we clasped our arms together. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two, one-two, our bodies followed the turns and pivots in the music. The other ballgoers took up the Zweifacher, and soon the entire cavern was filled with twirling, whirling dancers.
My sister and I laughed as we stumbled over each other’s feet and collided into other dancing pairs, out of breath and giddy. As we turned about the dance floor, I tried my best to maneuver Käthe toward the exit. My eyes kept darting to where the Goblin King was standing. He alone did not join the throng, apart and untouchable.
“Do you remember,” I said, breathing hard, “when you, me, Sepperl, and Hans used to dance the Zweifacher while Papa played his fiddle?”
“Hmmm?” Käthe seemed distracted, her eyes wandering over to the tables laden with food. “What did you say?”
“I said, do you remember when you, me, Hans, and Sepperl danced to this when we were young?”
“Who’s Hans?”
A laugh stuck in my throat. “Handsome Hans, you used to call him,” I said. “Your betrothed.”
“Me, betrothed?” Käthe giggled. “Whyever would I do a thing like that?” She cut a glance at a tall, slender goblin man and gave him a coquettish wink.
Cold pins of guilt pricked me. Whyever would she do a thing like that, indeed? “Yes, betrothed,” I said.
She raised her brow. “And who is Sepperl?” Another goblin man caught her hand and dropped a quick kiss as we spun past.
“Käthe.” Despair slowed my limbs, weighing them down. “Sepperl is your brother. Our younger brother.”
“Oh,” Käthe said indifferently. She blew a kiss to yet another goblin man.
“Käthe!” I stopped dancing, and my sister stumbled. Another swain was there to catch her before she fell.
“What?” she asked irritably. A goblin server offered us a platter of hors d’oeuvres. Käthe smiled at him and grabbed a few grapes. To my horror, the “grapes” on the platter were staring eyeballs, the chocolate bonbons beetles, and the luscious bloody peaches that had been my sister’s downfall were putrid and rotten, their split flesh looking like spilled guts in the goblin’s hands.
“Käthe.” I grabbed her wrist, and she dropped the food in her hand. Her blue eyes behind the goblin mask were startled, and behind the fever-spell, I caught a glimpse of my sister, my real sister. “Wake up. Wake up from this dream and come back to
me.”
Her gaze wavered, and for a moment, flesh and life returned to her face. But her eyes turned glassy once more, and her color faded.
“Oh, come off of it, Liesl,” she said gaily. “Let’s enjoy ourselves. There are men to dance with and men to flirt with!”
With that, one of the goblin swains hovering over her shoulder whisked her away.
“Käthe!” I cried, but a press of bodies suddenly swarmed in front of me. I reached out for my sister, but there was always another person, another goblin in my way. I pushed through the dancing crowd, following the flash of sky blue through the revelers. But each time I thought I drew near, it was another woman, another lady wearing Käthe’s face, those humanlike masks ghoulishly realistic in the flickering fairy lights of the ball.
In the tumult of heated bodies, a sea of identical faces stared back at me. But they no longer looked like Hans or Käthe; they looked like the Goblin King. And me. My face, reflected back at me, a million little mirrors. His face, many of his faces, laughing and mocking me. His face, more human than the others, sharp, languid, and cruel. A beauty that cut like a blade. A dozen knife wounds slashed me to the heart.
“Why are you not partaking of my generosity, Elisabeth?”
A cool breath upon my neck. It smelled faintly of the wind before a snowstorm.
“There is a feast laid before you, yet you touch nothing.” The Goblin King came into view. In the shifting, mercurial fairy light, he was even more beautiful than he was in the world above, and even more frightening. “Why?”
“I am not hungry,” I lied. I was starving. I was starving for food, for music, for gluttony.
“Does the food not tempt you?”
I thought of the “bonbons” on the table. “No, mein Herr.”
“A pity.” His smile was a snarl. “Well, I did promise that your eyes would remain open, but my gifts do have consequences, my dear.”
