Emma and the Banderwigh

by Matthew S. Cox

  “Emma,” said Father. “I need you.”

  “Leave them alone,” growled Emma.

  She leaned up and kissed her mother on the cheek. “I love you, Mother.” She went to the bed and tucked her siblings in, giving them each a pat on the head. “I love you, Tam. You too, Kimber.”

  Neither child so much as moved. Emma gasped at how still the boy was. She grasped his shoulders and shook him, harder than last time. He had always been a light sleeper. Not until she leaned over him and warm breath caressed her cheek did panic shrink away to anger. He was alive, but something was keeping him asleep.

  Magic…

  Emma balled her hands into fists and glared at the nearest window.

  With one hand on the dagger at her hip, she backed away to the alcove by the door. She lingered in the corner, watching her family sleep for a moment. The wind gave way to silence. Emma gripped the cold, metal handle and rushed outside before the dread of never seeing them again could change her mind.

  An unrelenting wind blew sideways across her path as Emma ran through the meadow. Patches of winter chill mixed with the summer air, until she passed the edge of the forest and everything became cold. Once inside Widowswood, she slowed to a brisk walk, keeping her gaze on the vines and roots crisscrossing her path. She knew enough to avoid stepping on the more painful bad plants. Every so often, her father would call out, keeping her moving.

  “Emma, this way…”

  Father’s voice led her deep into Widowswood. Emma gazed up through shifting branches at scraps of starlight leaking through the pines. Small shapes she hoped were birds zipped back and forth. Each time he called out, she turned a little towards where the sound came from. The wind blew warm and dry, rustling overhead. Anger and fear seesawed in her heart with each step. A fast-moving shadow made her jump. She scowled at it, lost her nerve, and shied away from the darkness around her.

  If the Banderwigh was back, it would have gotten me by now.

  Emma’s concern for her father had led her too far into the trees to see her way back home. In the night forest, every direction looked the same. A shiver ran through her at the realization she could not go back. All she could do was follow a disembodied voice that might or might not be her Father’s ghost. If not the monster, what had put her family in such a sleep she could not wake them?

  “Emma, please hurry,” said Father.

  She startled at the sudden break in the quiet; the time between his pleas had grown longer and longer. The voice was louder now―she hoped that meant she was close.

  “Da!” she yelled, breaking into as much of a run as the foliage would allow.

  Her pouch of potions bounced against her thigh as she cracked and crunched through the undergrowth. A glint flashed off to the left, making her change direction, raking her hands through the air to clear low-hanging vines and branches. Strange shapes, rounded huts too small to be real, emerged from the darkness, as if someone had made a village for children. They tilted at odd angles, looking almost spherical with misshapen windows and doors. The area was too bright to be illuminated by moonlight alone, given the thick trees overhead. An eerie glow hung in the air, a nightmare into which she had walked.

  Awful smells were everywhere, burned meat mixed with the stink of an outhouse at high noon. Emma slowed to a creep, covering her nose as she wandered among the squat dwellings. Her eyes widened at the sight of goblins, dozens of them―all dead. She stepped on something she thought was a thick branch, but it felt squishy rather than hard. She looked down.

  A severed goblin arm.

  Emma swallowed the urge to scream, backpedaling to get away from it until the warm dirt beneath her right foot changed without warning to cold, thick slime. She squealed as her leg sank up to the shin in the foulest-feeling substance she had ever touched. A tiny pit, concealed with a dusting of loose grass and dirt, held sticky purple ooze that squeezed between her toes. Shivers of disgust ran throughout her body. She flailed and fell, catching herself on her hands and one knee. The fragrance of rotting fruit and dead bodies washed over her.

  “Eww!” she wailed, clutching handfuls of dirt and coughing.

  A mass of tiny flies, which had dispersed at the disturbance of her stepping on their meal, settled back down on the jelly, as well as her leg. The sensation of bugs crawling on her, combined with the sticky ooze and the stench almost brought her dinner up. She tugged at her leg, gasping when the substance refused to release her foot. Emma hid her face in the crook of her elbow to guard against the awful smell, and struggled to back away from the hole.

  She refused to shout, fearing there might be more goblins waiting in the darkness. Her free foot slipped over grass as she tried to push herself away from the gummy snare, leaving her crawling around in a circle looking for something solid to grab. Growling, she clawed fistfuls of dirt out of the ground, still unable to overpower the awfulness that held her foot. If there had been any goblins, they would have made short work of her by now.

  Emma collapsed, out of breath and close to giving up and screaming for help. When she rolled onto her back to sit up, the dagger’s handle jabbed her in the ribs. A wide grin spread over her face as she got an idea. She wobbled as upright as she could with one foot in a pit, drew the ten-inch blade from its sheath, and held it in both hands over her head. After a confidence-building breath, she jumped forward. Her flight cut short as the glue held her fast, sending her flat to the ground on her chest with the dagger buried to the hilt in the dirt. Emma wheezed and gasped to recover from the landing. After a few hard slaps on the pommel to seat the blade deeper in the earth, she laced her fingers on the other side of the handle and pulled. Grunting became yowling as the foul substance peeled away from her skin, but she kept pulling, determined to free herself.

  She lurched forward when the adhesive let go, and lay still for a moment, paralyzed by pain and gagging on her own bile. Involuntary tears leaked from her eyes; it felt like the goo ripped all the skin off her foot. It took her a moment to build up the courage to look. Aside from bits of errant grass and a thin layer of purple slime, her leg looked unhurt. She stood, easing her weight onto the tender foot and cringing as her toes unstuck from each other. The awful smell followed her. She limped, trying to wipe the stickiness off on the grass.

  A short distance away, a boot that looked like it belonged to one of the town watch stuck out of a similar hole. She wobbled over to it, relieved to find it did not look like Father’s. She knew better than to waste her strength trying to pull it out.

  Traps?

  Emma looked around, now testing any patch of earth with a stick before she put her foot there. She moved around chunks of goblin, internal parts as well as severed arms and legs. Her last meal churned and flipped in her gut as the fragrance of dead things filled the air. A thought came to her as she made her way through the carnage, hitting her like a bucket of early morning river water. What if what she’d been hearing was her father’s ghost? Had their patrol found this goblin village and been killed? Was he wounded somewhere?

  What if it wasn’t the Banderwigh? Oh, no… Mother…

  “Father!”

  The shout startled some birds airborne, but other than its echo, there was no reply. She repeated the call several more times as she explored the goblin village. Near a hut that still smoldered, a human’s broadsword lay abandoned. She ran to it and squatted, unable to tell if it was Father’s, or one of the guardsmen’s blades. Swords were never of interest to her, and she could not recall if his was different from the others. Tam had rattled on to no end about how much nicer Father’s was. This one seemed plain and functional―she wished for that to be a good sign.

  Dread gripped her heart as she touched her fingers to the bare steel. The blade was unstained by green or red blood, dirtied only by a clod of soil. Several flies chased the smell and landed on her foot, but she did not care.

  “Daddy!” she yelled.

  No voice responded.

  I’m too late.

&
nbsp; Crouched in the dark, alone and lost, Emma covered her face and wept.

  hat your leaky eye?” snapped a voice, high-pitched and gurgling.

  Emma jumped, falling from squat to sit and wiping her tears. “Who’s there?”

  “Mealy bits talks.”

  She stood, creeping around the edge of a hut. About fifteen paces from where the broadsword lay, a goblin sat with his back propped up against a stack of firewood. Were he standing, the creature would have been about the same height. His potbellied body was easily twice or three times her weight. Uncountable wrinkles and swollen pustules covered his dark green and leathery skin. A leather sash crossed his chest, supporting an empty shortsword-sized scabbard dangling around a skirt made of animal furs. Green blood leaked from cuts all over him and one of his burlap boots was missing. More hair grew upon his eyebrows and toe-knuckles than atop his head.

  She peeked around the edge of the crude building made of bundled sticks.

  The goblin sniffed the air, licking at his teeth. “Mmm. Smell like eats.”

  “I’m not food. I’m a girl.”

  He laughed, spewing green slime and blood through rotten teeth. “Girl food gooder.” Evil gleamed in yellow eyes. “Sweeter is meat when it cooked scared!”

  She cringed. “You’re awful!”

  The goblin inhaled through an elongated, narrow nose. Nostril flaps puffed out with three distinct breaths. His voice weakened to a hissing half-whisper. “Smell scared. Smell tasty.” He clawed a three-fingered hand in a beckoning motion. “Me die soon.” He coughed. “Come, let smell tasty before go dark.”

  “No. You’re horrible!”

  She glared at the wounded creature, confident he couldn’t even stand. Emma inched around the hut into view, clenching the dagger handle at her hip. The goblin waved his head back and forth, eyes sliding half closed as he sniffed. He bit his lower lip, inflating a blister, tears of joy welled in his eyes as bony, green hands drew together.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “So sweet! Me not ever see such yummy!” He squealed. “Best than maggotberry pie!” He poked one finger to his chin. “Even best than cowhorn custard.”

  The goblin struggled to reach forward, tongue thrust from his mouth in an attempt to lick her despite the distance. Emma cringed, halting a few steps away and yanking her dagger from its sheath.

  “Hey!” He leaned back into the firewood, a trace of voice returned to his whispery rasp. “No sharp! No sharp!”

  “I’ll not let you eat me. I’m a person, not food.” She furrowed her brow. “I didn’t know goblins could talk.”

  The goblin grasped his cheeks, mouth agape. “Food! It talk!”

  Emma fumed. She considered stabbing him, but did not want to get close enough. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a spear and put the dagger away. The goblin-made weapon, much smaller than human spears, was the perfect length and balance for a ten-year-old. She hefted the weapon, pointed the tip at the nauseating creature, and stomped over.

  “No!” he wailed.

  “You eat children!” she yelled. “You’re horrible!”

  “Not want!”

  She let the point droop, giving the creature a distrustful glower.

  “Have to! Bigs too hard to catch.” The goblin offered a cheesy smile, shrugged, and chuckled slime through his teeth.

  Emma pulled the spear back and closed her eyes.

  “No! Begs. No sharp!”

  “If you were not mostly dead, you’d be trying to kill and eat me,” she snapped. “Why should I feel the least bit sorry for you?”

  Not that she would admit it, but she did feel a little sorry for the pathetic thing. He would have to make her much angrier to be able to kill a defenseless creature, even if he was a goblin.

  “Me hurted. No danger.” He pointed at her pouch. “You brings magics. I smells.”

  The goblin reached towards her again and she slapped his arm aside with the spear. “Those are for someone else. Do you think I’m stupid? You’ll just try and hurt me after.”

  “Promises!” The goblin clutched at the leather weapon harness across his chest. “Promises, no!”

  She held the point to the goblin’s chest. “I don’t trust goblins. Father said only barristers lie worse’n goblins.”

  He grabbed the end of the spear as she went to shove it forward, but her lack of conviction and his advantage in strength made the gesture futile. For a moment, they played tug of war. Emma’s hair thrashed wild about her face as she struggled. She raised a leg to brace a foot on his chest, but leapt back with a high-pitched squeal when he tried to grab her ankle.

  “You wants father?” The goblin narrowed his eyes. “Me having the knows.”

  “What do you know?” She pulled at the spear, toes digging into the dirt.

  He let go without warning, causing her to fall on her rear end. “Me knows where.”

  Emma scrambled upright, jabbing at the air around the goblin’s head. “Where is my father? What happened here?”

  “No says.” The goblin folded his arms. “Magics first.”

  She glanced down at the pouch, at the healing elixirs she had brought in case Father was hurt. “He might be hurt. Tell me if he was hurt.”

  “You having the pigs?” The goblin’s right eye widened into an amber pool. “Food’s food?”

  “I am not something to be eaten!” She swung the spear over his head, more to vent anger than hit him.

  “Does you knowing one pig from da other?” The goblin coughed up blood. “Alls sames.”

  Emma trembled with anger. Her pity faded fast. “So, you’re saying you don’t know which one of the humans was my father?”

  “Tasty smart.”

  She shrieked and charged with her spear aimed low. The goblin wailed as he swung an arm sideways, deflecting the point into the firewood pile. Emma stalled in a forward lean, enough weight supported by her grip on the spear that to release it would cause her to fall onto the goblin. She let her knees go forward, dropping her on her backside into a roll. The goblin swiped at her, one fingernail claw tearing a scrap of cloth from the hem of her dress. Her heart pounded in her head as she sprawled wordless, watching him sniff and lick the tatter as though it were an expensive chocolate. The pleased moans and whimpers coming from the hideous thing made her sick.

  Her hand closed around the dagger, drawing it while the creature was distracted. She stood up and took a single step before yellow eyes as big as her fist shifted to gaze at her.

  “Wants father, gives magics.” The goblin put a hand on the spear, pushing it to the ground. “No sharp.”

  Frustration, anger, and worry kept her silent. The woods chirped with the sounds of night: insects, birds, and the occasional rustle of something small moving about. Emma stared at the ooze of green leaking from dozens of minor cuts.

  “Promises. Give magics, me gives father. Me no cooks.”

  “You just tried to grab me!”

  “Closes. Too tasty. Hads to. Me not promises then.”

  She squeezed the dagger handle. “Y-you w-won’t cook me if I help you?”

  “Food having the knowing!”

  She scowled. “I am not food!”

  Her scream echoed through the trees, but made the goblin chuckle. Pea-green blood leaked around teeth the color of moldy butter.

  “Wants your bigs? Yes?”

  Emma reached a hand into the pouch, grasping one of the two flasks. Against her instincts, she took a step closer. The goblin’s eye twitched. Drool leaked from the corner of a widening smile. Another step. The goblin lunged forward, grabbing her with man-sized hands that looked out of place on such small arms. He pinned her elbows to her sides and lifted her on tiptoe.

  “Me gots!”

  “Y-you’re not really hurt!” Emma screamed and squirmed, her kicks only made him laugh louder. “You said you wouldn’t cook me.”

  “Me won’ts.” He pulled her closer so she couldn’t kick, and wipe
d his nose across her chest to inhale her scent. The shudder of joy through his body made her heave. His eyes gleamed as they flared open. “Me eats raw.”

  “You promised!”

  He lifted her off the ground, bouncing her like a favored treat. “Goblin promise!”

  She writhed, kicking at his legs. “You lied!”

  The yellow grin widened. “Goblin promise!”

  Emma grunted and gasped, unable to wriggle out of the creature’s grip. He was as strong as Father, perhaps stronger, and his claw-like fingernails came close to drawing blood at the small of her back. Twice, she tried to stab him in the belly with the dagger still in her right hand, but could not reach. The goblin looked around, trying to figure out how to stand without letting go of her.

  “Help!” she yelled.

  The goblin cackled and tried to lick her face. Emma leaned back as far as she could. She couldn’t get her foot up to push him away, and had nowhere to go. Dread won over disgust and she swung her head forward, smashing the flailing tongue against the goblin’s four remaining teeth. She wanted nothing more than to wipe the horrid slime off her forehead, but he kept her arms pinned. The goblin wobbled, dazed. He let loose an eerie howl, trying to pull his tongue off the fang now sticking through it. A single tear ran down his rough, green cheek as he strained. At long last, the writhing tongue popped loose and he sagged with relief. More green blood leaked out of his mouth. After two breaths, a terrifying anger warped his face.

  “Now me eats legs first! Makes food watch!”

  Emma wrenched herself to the left, stabbing across her chest to put an inch of blade in the creature’s forearm. He yelped and let go with that hand. She landed on her feet, and tried to pull away. The goblin held on, squeezing so hard she expected her arm to snap. She swapped the knife to her free hand and slashed in wild strokes at the huge hand still gripping her from armpit to elbow. The goblin recoiled in time to avoid a cut. She traded the dagger back to her right, backpedaling while using her dress to wipe tongue-slime from her forehead.