Wintersong(30)

I wandered every inch of my barrow, searching for a window, a threshold, some means of escape. The barrow was well-appointed with little luxuries and creature comforts, outfitted like a graceful lady’s private quarters. An upholstered chair and table in the Louis Quinze style graced the hearth, and a beautiful rug woven with glittering threads covered the packed-earth floor. Above the mantel hung a large painting of a winter landscape, and scattered about here and there on side tables and dressers were delicate, decorative objets d’art.

At first glance, it was all harmonious elegance and feminine delicacy. Yet upon closer inspection, little grotesqueries revealed themselves. Instead of smiling cherubs, little hobgoblins leered from the carved furniture finials. The carpet beneath my feet depicted stylized spiderwebs and flowers dying on the vine. The pretty little objects decorating my room were not charming little china shepherdesses; they were demon-faced nymphs with a flock of hunchbacked goblins. Their shepherds’ crooks had been replaced with reapers’ scythes, their dresses torn and ravaged, revealing breasts and hips and thighs. Instead of pretty pouts, their lips were twisted into satyrs’ smiles. I shuddered.

The winter landscape above my mantel was the only bit of art in my barrow that did not reveal itself to be full of hidden ugliness. It showed a forest shrouded in fog, disconcertingly familiar. The mist seemed to move and writhe at the corners of my vision. I peered closer. With a jolt I realized it was a painting of the Goblin Grove. The painting was so skillfully rendered that its brushstrokes were practically invisible, more like a window than a work of art. My fingers reached to touch it.

Giggles erupted behind me.

I whirled around. Sitting on my bed were a pair of goblin girls. They stared at me, tittering behind their hands. With a twist of the stomach, I noticed they had too many joints in their long, twig-like fingers. Their skin had the greenish-brown tint of a spring wood just waking from its winter slumber, and their eyes had no whites about the pupils.

“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 Erlk?nig introduces his bride to the Underground.”

K?the.

“I must speak with Der Erlk?nig,” 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 Erlk?nig’s guest of honor; this night is for you. Enjoy yourself. All other nights belong to him. And to us.”