by M Sawyer
Copyright © 2017 by M. K. Sawyer
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com
www.mksawyerbooks.com
The Goblin’s Daughter/M. K. Sawyer. -- 1st ed.
ISBN: 978-1-64316-434-2
For anyone who has ever felt like an outsider.
The Goblin’s Daughter
M. K. Sawyer
“I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.”
-From “Morning Song” by Sylvia Plath
Prologue
STOP CRYING. STOP crying. Please, just STOP CRYING!
Nolin wailed from her playpen in the next room in high, desperate cries. Sometimes she screamed so hard that she fell silent as she struggled to inhale, squashy face red, toothless mouth gaping open. Melissa knew the difference between hungry or dirty cries and the ear-splitting, colicky ones that went on for hours no matter how much she tried to comfort her baby. Feeding, changing, swaddling, massaging, rocking, she’d tried everything. Four months of nonstop crying and she still couldn’t soothe her own baby.
Melissa could have sworn Nolin sensed her ineptitude. Those piercing eyes bore into her like termites. Nolin was unexpected, but throughout the rocky pregnancy, nausea, vomiting, the constant unease as the baby grew inside her, Melissa always told herself everything would get better. It had to. Once the baby came, everything would be all right. The mothering instinct would take over. Melissa would somehow know how to stop a baby from crying all day and night. She’d chanted it over and over—this will get better, it will all be better...as much a prayer for help as a mantra.
The messy living room darkened as the heavy autumn sun sank below the horizon. The sky glowed red through the trees outside the window.
Melissa wished Paul would hurry. The darkness made her nervous. When the sun went down, her wild imagination became downright unruly while the shadows of the trees curled up the walls and fireflies twinkled like eyes in the woods behind the house.
Melissa sprawled across the living room sofa and watched the ceiling with blank eyes, her head tilted back, the arch of her neck gripping the arm of the couch. She liked the way the room looked upside-down. It was easier to pretend she was somewhere else. The room was crowded with piles of laundry, stacks of diapers, forgotten books, and empty bottles clouded with dried formula. Paul often hinted that she should clean, but what was the point? The mess would come right back, like hurricane season.
Melissa tipped her head back farther, half-hoping her neck would snap. Glowing insects darted around the porch light out the window, bouncing against the glass again and again. The digital clock on the end table switched to 9:17 p.m. Melissa lifted her head from the arm of the couch. Paul would be home any moment. He’d make it all better. Melissa pictured how he’d sweep into the door and take her into his arms while the baby magically stopped crying. He’d tell Melissa she was wonderful, that he understood why she was so exhausted and that he’d handle it from there.
Go take a bath, babe. I’ll put Nolin to bed, then I’ll be back to give you a foot massage and you can tell me anything you want. I love you, and everything is okay.
Of course, it never happened that way. It was a nice fantasy, though.
The shrill wails faded as Melissa fought to tune them out, but then Nolin screamed so hard that she gagged. Melissa groaned and pushed herself off the couch to scoop Nolin up and hold her against her chest, patting her back, whispering half-forgotten fragments of lullabies, songs echoing from a childhood she barely remembered.
Nolin’s soft, dark hair brushed Melissa’s cheek. The shrieks softened to fussy whimpers, punctuated by sharp cries that rang in Melissa’s ears. Nolin’s hands twined in Melissa’s hair. Her little feet poked into her stomach, soft as a punctured balloon.
Melissa could feel the delicate bones in Nolin’s limbs. So fragile, she thought. So tiny.
Finally, the glow of headlights passed over the back wall. Melissa heard the groan of the station wagon lurching into the driveway. She stopped pacing, jiggling enough to keep Nolin’s cries at bay, waiting to hear his key in the latch and the creak of the door.
The rattle of the latch. The moan of the door opening, followed by a slam. Melissa felt the rush of fresh air scented with wood and dying leaves. Her heart leapt at the sound of his footsteps down the hall. Nolin let out a deafening wail.
“Melissa, Nolin should have been in bed two hours ago,” Paul said before Melissa could even see him. “She needs to be on a schedule.” His voice sounded far away, underwater.
He emerged, his hair sticking up in the back from scratching the back of his head all day. He only did that on bad days. Something inside Melissa deflated.
The black briefcase bumped against his thin legs as he staggered into the kitchen. He slipped off his jacket, draped it over the back of a kitchen chair, and immediately opened the fridge.
Melissa wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him, but she knew Nolin would scream if she put her down. An embrace would be heaven.
Part of her couldn’t face another limp, one-armed hug, which was worse than no greeting or embrace at all. She stood her ground, rocking on the spot, watching him rifle around the fridge.
“She won’t sleep,” Melissa said quietly. “And I thought you might want to see her when you got home.”
“I’ll see her tonight when she wakes up.” Paul said tonelessly. He pulled a jar of raspberry jam from the fridge, then rifled through the cupboards. He hadn’t looked at Melissa yet. The creases in his forehead and under his eyes carved his face into that of a man much older than twenty-five. His dark hair, shot with gray, was already thinning on top. “Hopefully, she’ll grow out of this.”
Melissa nodded. Paul still hadn’t looked at her. He sat down at the table to eat.
“I love you,” she offered.
“Love you too.”
“How was your day?”
“Long.”
“You say that every day.” Melissa smiled, trying to prod some lightness from her husband.
“I deal with assholes every day,” he said flatly. He tore his sandwich in half and took a bite. “Why did I become a lawyer? Brightest idea of my life.”
“It’ll get better. Things will get easier as you get more established.”
He grunted in response.
Nolin tilted her head up and clamped her toothless mouth on the side of Melissa’s face, her slippery tongue testing her mother’s cheekbone. Melissa leaned away, offering her finger instead.
“I got an idea for an illustration today,” Melissa said, suddenly remembering. She hadn’t spent much time in her studio lately, but at least she was still getting ideas. The thought stirred a ripple of excitement in her chest.
“Yeah?” said Paul through a mouthful of bread.
“Yeah,” Melissa went on. “Nolin was crying, and I closed my eyes and I saw this...this creature. Kind of like a little elf or goblin. Like the sound was coming from it instead of her. I could illustrate a whole story of these little elfish creatures that live in the woods...”
“Sounds neat. She really should be in bed, though.”
Melissa chewed the inside of her lip. Her fist tigh
tened around a fold of Nolin’s jumper. “Okay.”
She shuffled across the room and up the stairs to the nursery. Nolin’s fussing slowed to soft whimpers. Melissa gently laid her on the changing table, stripped off the jumper, then changed her diaper. Nolin watched silently with piercing, dark eyes. Melissa felt a pang of guilt deep in her stomach. Her body felt hollow, transparent, her substance disappearing into this new little creature she was suddenly expected to care for, this tiny thing that stirred a deep, primal affection within her and terrified her at the same time. All she felt anymore was fear and exhaustion.
It’s not like HE helps much, Melissa thought bitterly, thinking of Paul. She yanked the tape of Nolin’s diaper across her slim tummy. Nolin cried out again.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry...” Melissa murmured as she undid the diaper and re-taped it, looser this time.
She slipped Nolin into a fresh pair of pajamas, a white sleeper with pink giraffes. Nolin sucked on her fist and flailed as Melissa wrestled her tiny feet into the pink booties.
The shoes were still a bit big, but the soft pink yarn kept Nolin’s little feet warm, and they were the only booties she didn’t pull off and throw out of her crib during the night. Melissa ran her thumb over the even knots and tiny flowers on the toes before lifting Nolin into her crib. Nolin kicked and started to cry again. Her tiny face scrunched up like a raisin.
“Shh, shh,” Melissa said. “It’s time to go sleep now. Can you sleep for me? Sleep for Mommy?”
The cries faded to soft grunts like a puppy’s whine. A faint smile tugged at Melissa’s mouth. She leaned down to gently kiss Nolin’s forehead.
She flipped on the baby monitor and left the room, closing the door behind her. The muffled screams started as soon as the door clicked shut.
***
Melissa stared at the back of Paul’s white tee shirt. She’d pulled the edge of the down comforter up to her eyes, wrapped around herself like a cocoon. Static crackled on the baby monitor. She listened for the sound of Nolin gurgling or even breathing, but she heard nothing except soft cracks and pops of the speaker.
Then, whispering.
Melissa bolted upright, her heart in her throat.
Strange, hissing sounds and hushed fricatives emanated from the monitor. Words she didn’t understand. Soft taps and the hush of wind. The scrape of the window opening or closing.
Melissa’s insides froze. Throwing the covers off, she leapt from the bed, nearly tripping over the pajama pants twisted around her legs. Paul groaned as she ripped the bedroom door open and sprinted down the hall to the nursery.
The window over Nolin’s bed stood wide open. The sheer, white curtains billowed into the room like ghost hands. Melissa’s breath caught in her throat as she slowly stepped toward the crib, terrified of what she would find. She closed her eyes, gripped the edge of the crib, then looked down.
The baby gazed up at her with curiosity, dark eyes wide and toothless mouth open in what might have been a smile. The giraffe sleeper was streaked with dirt.
Melissa picked up the baby, raised her to her face, and stared. The baby stared back just as intensely, silent and still.
Something was different.
Melissa held Nolin to her chest and pressed her face into its curly hair. It smelled of wood and earth and was gritty with dirt. Melissa shivered. Ice filled her veins. Her arms went slack, and the baby dropped back down into the crib with a thud, but it didn’t cry.
The baby flailed, squealing joyfully. Melissa noticed Nolin wore only one of the pink booties; the other foot was bare, with the toes curled like little pink mushrooms.
Melissa cried out, drawing sharp breaths as her heart raced and her mind whirled in a tornado of half-formed thoughts. She dropped to her knees and peered under the bed, around the floor, looking for the missing baby shoe, anything to prove her fears were irrational. She reached under the crib and into the corners, pawed under the mattress and through the blankets. Nothing.
Paul’s footsteps pounded in the hall, and he burst into the room.
“Melissa, what the hell is going on?”
She didn’t answer. The trees outside howled and swayed in the wind, the top of the forest dancing. The baby looked at Melissa as it played with its own bare foot, poking its toes into its mouth. Melissa stood, her shoulders slack and her hair plastered over her pale face. She stared out the window into the woods and blinked, sure she saw something moving in the trees.
Part One
Ten Years Later
Chapter 1
NOLIN CROUCHED AND clawed at the dirt, unearthing pebbles and rendering a few insects homeless. Minuscule, shining beetles scurried out of their dark hiding places and over her fingers. She didn’t bother to brush them off. The damp soil felt good in her hands, moist and cool like pudding. The dark smell enticed her, reminded her of some distant place she’d never been but wanted to go. Nothing in the world smelled better than good soil.
A wild brown curl fell on her face, and she brushed it away. Her white tee shirt was streaked with dirt, and the knees of her purple leggings were soaked through and filthy. She didn’t mind. She dug deeper, squeezing the clay and watching it squish through her fingers in clumps.
Nolin glanced over her shoulder to make sure the teacher was still on the other side of the playground. Far away behind the monkey bars, Mrs. Carson paced slowly, watching a group of children playing kickball, edges of her brown coat flapping in the breeze. Nolin turned back to her digging, drinking in more of the soil’s aroma.
The other children sometimes glanced at Nolin, but quickly looked away as if she were something indecent that shouldn’t be observed. Nolin noticed, but tried not to.
A fat earthworm wrapped around her finger. She paused, studying the slick, writhing creature, its body cool and pleasant on her skin. What would it be like to be blind and limbless? Does a worm think? Does it have any sort of mind, or does it just slither through the soil because that is what it was meant to do? She thought of an earthworm in the first chapter book she learned to read by herself in preschool, about a boy and a giant peach. The worm in that story wasn’t a happy character at all. Were all earthworms so sad?
She closed her eyes and plunged her hands into the soil again. She wished she could bury herself.
A shriek of laughter shattered her trance. Nolin looked up at a clump of sixth-grade girls. They peeked over their shoulders at her, giggling with their hands over their mouths, speaking in hushed voices. Nolin heard her name but couldn’t make out the rest. Surely nothing new or important. She loathed their stupid magpie chatter and would dearly have loved to grab their blond ponytails and rub their faces in the dirt.
Most of the time, she pretended she didn’t care what they said, but their words stung. They sank into her bones, echoed through her head when she was sad. Freak. Sicko. Disgusting. Goblin girl.
The giggles grew louder. Then one of the girls shouted, “Teacher! Nolin’s digging holes again!”
The girl met Nolin’s eyes and sneered. Her friends snickered. Nolin clenched her jaw and shoved the dirt back into the hole. She heard a thudding sound approaching and looked up to see a pair of brown suede boots marching toward her.
“Nolin, we’ve been through this before,” said Mrs. Carson. Fatigue hung in her voice like wet laundry on the line. “We don’t dig up the lawn. If you want to dig, go in the sand.”
Nolin stared at the torn patch in the grass and nodded. She hated sand—dry, scratchy stuff. No insects in the sand. No winding plant roots or tiny rocks to examine. Sand felt dead in her hands while soil teemed with life, every handful ripe with new things to discover. Soil and sand were like silk sheets and a gunnysack; different as two things could be.
“And please, put your shoes back on! You’re ten years old, Nolin. Why can’t you follow directions?” The boots turned and stomped away. Nolin sat in the damp grass and stretched her bare, calloused feet in front of her. Gritty black dirt lined her toenails. The seat of her legging
s would be wet when she got up. The girls would make fun of her again, that was certain. Maybe she had time to swipe a few more worms to hide in the Ponytail Girls’ desks if they gave her any trouble.
She’d only have a few minutes until Mrs. Carson blew the whistle to return to the windowless classroom for their math lesson. The thought made her stomach hurt. Nothing tortured her like sitting at a hard desk in a stuffy room listening to a teacher’s babbling. She gazed longingly at the edge of the woods on the other side of the chain link fence and wished she could climb the fence when no one was looking.
“Hey shrimp, why were you digging in the dirt?” A stocky sixth-grade boy with a ketchup-stained shirt tossed a football between his hands as he approached her. The two boys he was playing with stopped to watch. The larger boy, his twin, snickered and hopped up from where he sat to join his brother while the other, a skinny boy with a mess of dark hair, hung back.
“Max, we only have a couple minutes...” the thin boy called. Max ignored him.
“Why are you so dirty?” he sneered. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the dirt!” He checked over his shoulder at Mrs. Carson, who patrolled the perimeter of the sandbox at the opposite end of the playground.
“You know, my cat digs like you do. But you know what? She only digs when she’s burying her poop. Did you leave a little surprise in that hole, String Bean?” His brother shrieked with laughter. Max grinned, his mouth stretching to reveal a row of crooked teeth.
Nolin scrambled to her feet. Her shoulders and jaw tightened. Anger sizzled in her veins, built up over weeks of relentless teasing and disapproving teachers staring at her down their long noses.
“You probably wouldn’t bother to bury it, though, would you?” Max jeered. “You were probably looking for a snack. Do you eat bugs, Shrimpy? Do you eat worms?” He grinned at her. Come on, Shrimpy, say something, that smile dared. He turned and tossed the football to the dark-haired boy, who caught it and sat cross-legged in the grass, staring at the ball in his hands.
