A Dreadful Fairy Book

by Jon Etter

  When the goblin bartender eventually turned his black- and brown-furred, limp-eared Rottweiler head in Shade’s direction (for, as you know, goblins are covered in fur and have animal-like heads), Shade sat up a little straighter and frowned, trying to look like a sprite not to be trifled with. The goblin rolled his eyes. “What’ll it be, miss?” he grumbled.

  “I’d like a room for the night.”

  The bartender spat in the glass in his hand and started polishing it. “Two silver.”

  “I’ll give you one,” Shade said resolutely.

  The bartender plunked the glass down on the bar. “Oh, hagglin’ are we? Fine. Three silver: two for the room, one for insultin’ the Crooked Rook by saying it ain’t worth two silver.”

  “What?” Shade asked. “No. You’re supposed to . . .”

  “And now it’s four silver. I’m tackin’ one on for continuin’ to waste my time.”

  “But, but—”

  “And another for the rude language.”

  “I didn’t mean that kind of bu—”

  “‘’Ey, why you pick-a on the little country sproot?” the brownie from the card game asked in a thick, musical accent filled with extra vowel sounds and trilled Rs. Like all brownies, this one had shiny golden skin like polished wood and dark brown hair poking out from every edge of the too small hat that sat on the back of his head. In fact, all of his chocolate brown clothes—jacket, vest, shirt, pants—seemed a size or two too small. The brownie leaned on the bar and gave Shade a wink. “If Snarlful don’t give-a you the house rate, I give-a you the directions to the Dirty Jerkin or the Boar’s Backside or—”

  “All right,” the goblin bartender interrupted. “Two silver . . . if I’ve got a vacancy. Now what do you want, Ginch?”

  “A couple more drinks for me and my partner,” the brownie said.

  “Four copper.”

  “Put-a it on my tab.”

  “Cash in advance,” Snarlful half-snarled, putting his hands on his hips.

  The brownie raised a finger. “How’s about I—”

  “Cash,” Snarlful fully snarled. “In advance.”

  “All right, all right!” The brownie slapped a silver coin on the bar.

  The goblin snatched up the coin and filled the glass he had just spit-polished with amber liquid. “I’ll put the change toward what you and the pixie owe.”

  “Fatcha-coota-matchca, gooblins!” the brownie cried, taking his drinks and heading back to the card game.

  “As for you,” Snarlful said to Shade. “Two silver for a room. In advance.”

  “Fine,” Shade muttered and put two silver coins from the money that Chauncey had given her on the bar. They quickly vanished into the goblin’s pocket.

  “I’ll let you know when it’s ready,” the bartender said. “Want a drink or some food while you wait?”

  Shade looked over at the noxious, bubbly stew pot. “No.”

  The bartender shrugged and went off to take orders from a couple dwarves. Shade took a worn, uncomfortable seat by the fire, pulled out Radishbottom’s book, and waited. And waited. And waited.

  “When will my room be ready?” Shade demanded after reading and holding her nose to keep the stench of the place at bay for over an hour.

  “Tomorrow night.” The goblin chuckled, elbowing the rat-faced hobgoblin he had been talking to. “Probably.”

  “You cheat!” Shade yelled at the goblin, who, at four feet tall, towered over her. “Give me back my dingle-dangle money, you crook!”

  Snarlful and his hobgoblin friend snickered. “Said ‘in advance,’ didn’t I? Never said anything about tonight.”

  “All right, you shifty slug-licker! You’ll be donkled four ways when I get the law on you!” Shade shouted as she stormed out of the bar as the bartender and his friend laughed heartily.

  Shade marched down the dirt street in the torchlight, not sure where to go or what to do. She was in a strange place where she knew nobody, she had no place to stay and didn’t know where else to go, and she had just been cheated and laughed at. She felt furious and humiliated and scared and miserable.

  Ducking into a narrow alleyway, she leaned against the wall and tried to calm herself down. Just as she started to feel a little bit better, a window high above opened and dirty, smelly water splashed down, soaking her dress. After shouting things that I don’t dare repeat (much to the relief of your parents), Shade kicked the side of the building hard, forgetting that stone walls always beat bare toes. As she hopped around on one foot, hands holding the injured one as she did so, she wondered what more could happen to her.

  In which more happens to her . . .

  The pain in Shade’s foot subsided, and she began to calm down. I’ll find a place to stay first, she decided. What did that brownie say? The Jerkin? The Boar’s something? I’ll find one of those and get situated and—

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a cry of “In-a here!” followed by two small figures crashing into her, sending all three tumbling to the ground.

  “Hey!” Shade cried as she disentangled herself from the other two. “Watch where you’re going. You’re—”

  “’Ey! It’s-a the little country sproot!” cried one of the two as he stood up and brushed off his too-tight brown suit. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Professor, you still got-a the sproot wings from the job we pull-a in Upper Swinetoe?”

  The other figure sprang up on his two very long legs (which, in spite of the baggy pants, Shade could see bent the opposite way of her own, like the legs of a grasshopper) and nodded vigorously. His pale, pinkish-white skin and blond curls almost glowed in the moonlight as he rummaged deep in a pocket inside his oversized jacket before pulling out a battered and bent pair of fake butterfly wings that seemed far too big to fit in the pocket they had just come from. The brownie grabbed them and strapped them to his back. “That’s-a fine! And the wig?”

  The pixie reached back into his jacket and pulled out a shoulder-length red wig and plopped it on the brownie’s head. “Okay, now you!” the brownie said.

  The pixie made a frenzied search of the many pockets in his jacket and pants before shaking his head.

  “You no got-a the other disguise?”

  The pixie shook his head.

  “Okay . . . you put-a you jacket over you head and look-a sad. You’ll-a be the sick old granmama.”

  The pixie nodded then threw his jacket over his head and made a sad, sick face. It was very similar to the one you tried to use to stay home to avoid that spelling quiz that you forgot to study for, but the pixie’s was much more convincing.

  “Great! Now the three of us will—”

  “What the dingle-dangle donkle is going on here?” Shade demanded.

  The pixie opened his mouth wide and covered it with a hand and pointed at Shade with the other. “’Ey, you kiss-a you mother with that—” the brownie began.

  “What’s going on? And what do you mean ‘the three of us’?”

  “Well, it’s-a like this,” the brownie explained. “My partner and I, we play-a the cards with those Sluagh red caps back at the Rook—”

  “What’s a ‘red cap’?” Shade asked.

  “What’s-a the red cap?” The brownie looked at her incredulously. “Ha-ha! Boy, you really are-a the little country sproot! After the last war, a lotta the Sluagh run-a around in the red caps to look-a tough and let-a everybody know they the big, tough Sluagh. So like I say, we play-a with the red caps and there was-a the little misunderstanding and now they wanna kill us.”

  “What misunderstanding?”

  “They think-a we cheat! I no know why. You know, Professor?”

  The pixie shrugged and about twenty cards fell out of his sleeve, all of them the Ace of Hearts.

  “He no know either. I think-a they just the sore losers. Anyway, you’re-a gonna help us sneak away from ’em.”

  “And why would I do that?” Shade asked, crossing her arms.
/>
  “You wanna be responsible for somebody getting murdered?” the brownie asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, they gonna kill us if you no help,” he replied before he and the pixie each grabbed one of her arms and started pulling her out of the alley with them.

  “Wait! No! I never said I’d—Oof!”

  Shade’s objections were cut short as she bumped into the legs of the gigantic human she’d seen at the bar. He growled and put his hand on the handle of an immense knife strapped to his belt.

  “Excuse me,” Shade squeaked.

  “Yeah, ’scuse her,” the brownie said, pushing her gently back behind him. “She’s-a the clumsy—always she’s-a bumpin’ and-a boompin’ and-a—”

  “What have we here?” asked a bat-faced hobgoblin who walked beside the human. He was soon joined by another hobgoblin, weasel-faced and equally hairless (but then, since I’m sure you know that hobgoblins look just like goblins but shorter and hairless, the “hairless” part really doesn’t deserve any mention, does it?), and a short, leathery fairy with large feet and hands, spindly arms and legs from which its skin hung slack and wrinkled, crooked teeth, and rocks adorning his clothes. All of them wore dark red caps on their heads.

  “Just the three country sproots come-a to the town for the market,” the brownie said offhandedly.

  “That so?” the hobgoblin asked, eyeing him closely. “Well, you look an awful lot like a cardsharpin’ brownie we’re lookin’ for.”

  “I get-a that a lot. I just got-a one of those faces.”

  The hobgoblin pointed at the pixie, who frowned sadly. “And this looks an awful lot like his silent pixie partner.”

  “Well, that’s-a my granmama. I get-a my face from her, so we look a lot alike other people.”

  The hobgoblin leaned forward and sniffed. “I think you two are the brownie and the pixie we’re lookin’ for.”

  The brownie waved his hand dismissively. “Aw, that’s-a crazy! We’re-a sproots! See-a the wings? Plus, you say-a the pixie, he no talk?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey, granmama, can-a you talk?”

  The pixie nodded.

  “See, she can-a talk, so she no can-a be the pixie!”

  The leathery fairy, a spriggan, began to grow and swell, making the noise a balloon makes when it’s being inflated, until finally it towered over even the human. It pointed a filthy, cracked fingernail at the pixie. “If that’s a sproit, where’s ’er wings, eh?”

  “Yuh!” the human grunted. He drew his large, iron knife and held it close to the brownie’s face. The brownie leaned away as if it were red-hot, which is exactly how it would have felt if the iron had touched him. “Whure?”

  “Well . . uh . . . the thing is. . . eh . . .” the brownie stammered.

  This whole time, Shade, terrified of the Sluagh goons, had considered telling the red-capped gang the truth about the situation to save herself, but said nothing for fear of what they might do to the brownie and the pixie, who seemed dishonest but harmless enough. Plus, she wasn’t sure they would let her go even if she did give them the other two. Seeing the brownie finally at a loss for words, she leapt into action, crying her most convincing fake tears. “No, please don’t hurt us!” she wailed. “Ever since mama was devoured by a screech owl and grandmama’s wings were shredded by that badger, we’ve been ever so heartbroken. We thought that the goblin market would be a rare treat that might lift our woeful spirits, but now we’re going to be killed because my father looks like some crooked, ugly brownie—”

  “I no think-a anyone say he was-a ugly,” the brownie said.

  “He was,” the hobgoblin replied.

  “Yuh,” agreed the human.

  “—and because my poor, wingless grandmama looks like some smelly pixie!”

  The pixie raised an arm, gave his armpit a sniff, and shrugged.

  “I’d try to fly away,” Shade continued, extending and giving her wings a half-hearted flap to show they were real, “but I’m sure I’d have no chance of escaping such fast, strong, and clever fairies—and human—as yourselves!”

  “Darn roight we is!” the spriggan growled.

  “Yuh,” the human agreed.

  “O woe is me! If only we could have been as quick and as lucky as that blabbermouthed brownie in the tight clothes and the mute pixie in the baggy green outfit who ran past just a little while ago!”

  The fairies and human looked at each other. “Which way did they go?” the bat-faced hobgoblin barked.

  Shade pointed past the Crooked Rook. “That way. Into the country where we just came from.”

  “Come on, boys!” the hobgoblin cried, waving his bronze sword in the air. “Let’s get ’em!”

  The rest, brandishing their weapons and shouting, ran off into the darkness of the country. The brownie laughed, and the pixie clapped his hands. “Ha-ha! That’s-a the good one!” the brownie said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “You know, you’re-a the pretty clever little sproot!”

  “I know,” Shade said, shrugging off his arm.

  “I tell-a you what,” the brownie declared. “You help-a us out, so now we help-a you out. We show-a you around the town, give-a you the hand—”

  At that, the pixie reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wooden hand that he held out to Shade.

  “Not that kinda hand, partner,” the brownie said. The pixie put it back in his pocket. “I’m-a Ginch—Rigoletto Ginch—and this is-a my partner, the Professor.”

  Shade arched an eyebrow at this. “He’s a professor?”

  “Well, he no talk, so I no know his name, so I call-a him the Professor. Doesn’t he look-a like a professor?” Rigoletto Ginch asked.

  Shade looked at the pixie. The pink tip of his tongue stuck out slightly from the goofy grin on his face. “No.”

  “Yeah, I no think-a so either,” Ginch agreed. “So like I say, you help-a us, so we take-a you under our wing.”

  The Professor pulled out the waistband of his pants, and a white bird fluttered into the air. He flapped his arms as it flew away, then pointed at Shade.

  Shade looked from Ginch to the Professor and then back to Ginch. “I’ll pass. I think you’ve gotten me into enough trouble already.”

  “But you no know how the gooblin market work,” Ginch objected.

  “I’ve read all about them. I know how they work,” Shade said.

  “Oh, you read-a the book so you the expert!” Ginch threw up his hands.

  Shade turned her back on the two and walked toward the town center. “No, but I’m sure I know more than enough to take care of myself,” she said with the exact sort of confidence that usually gets people into profoundly deep trouble.

  In which Shade takes a trip to the

  market, which may sound boring but

  is much more eventful than the ones

  your parents force you to go on . . .

  Now, I’m sure that such a literate and worldly person as yourself, dear Reader, has at some point visited a place you read about in a book. When you did, no doubt you found that, regardless of how well the author described the place to you, it wasn’t quite the same as what you pictured. For example, if you’ve ever visited Toad Hall, you may have found it a bit darker and smaller than you envisioned. Or perhaps the opposite was the case and, when visiting the mountains of Mordor, they were even bigger and more imposing than what you had expected.

  Shade had the same experience as she walked into Gypsum-upon-Swathmud’s town square and into her first goblin market. She found an unoccupied patch of wall on the edge of the market and took out Radishbottom’s book. She found the section on goblin markets (“named thus for the exceptionally mercenary goblins that organize them and provide ‘protection’ for participating merchants” the book explained) and skipped to a part labeled “Tips for a Successful Visit,” which read:

  Prices for all goods are negotiable. Only a fool pays the
asking price.

  Everything has a price. Never take anything offered to you without first establishing what is expected in payment.

  Thieves are known to prey on unwitting marketgoers. Be vigilant and, if possible, attend markets with at least one friend.

  If you find yourself the victim of theft or another crime, raise a cry. If you are in luck, an officer of the Seelie Court may be present. If not, goblin-hired security will.

  Shade closed the book and took a deep breath. Okay, she told herself. You can do this! You’ve reformed a troll, stopped killer púcas, and tricked a goblin gang! Plus, you’ve read Radishbottom’s book cover to cover many times, so you know how to handle a goblin market. All you have to do is go in there, look around, and . . . and then what? Puckernuts!

  Shade closed her eyes, moaned, and banged the back of her head against the wall behind her, hoping to knock some idea loose. Eventually she had one: I’ll look for someone who’s selling books. If they have books, then maybe they’ll know where more are. And maybe . . . maybe they’ll have a copy of the book Mom and Dad gave me. Shade’s pulse raced at the thought. If I can just find a copy of my book, then I’ll know everything will be all right.

  Buoyed by the hope of regaining what she had lost as well as the assurance that comes from reading a book about whatever situation you are about to face, Shade plunged into the teeming hordes of the goblin market, scanning the carts and stalls for any sign of books. Everywhere she went, merchants tried as best they could to hock their wares.

  “Finest of silks for the finest of sprites,” an elegant elf said, holding out shimmering green cloth. “I’ll give you a good price.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll—ugh!” Shade reared back as a smelly fish was thrust under her nose.

  “Fresh fish, I’ve got,” declared the wolf-headed man holding it. “Und tasty rarebit. Maybe ve get you some voodchuck?”