Jill’s mouth began to water. “Jack!” she cried. “We have to go to the fruit market!”
But Jack was already wandering in the direction of the ramp that led down into the earth.
Jill didn’t notice. She started toward the fruit sellers. They called out, their goblin voices straining:
Grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine!
Jill entered the fruit stalls. The goblin men watched her from beneath heavy brows. Their tables were loaded with sweet smelling fruit. Jill passed her hand over glossy apples and delicately fingered puckered raspberries. The goblin men smiled at her from their dark, hungry eyes. Their calls became louder, more insistent:
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye!
Come buy!
Come buy!
The goblin men watched Jill’s hand trail across their fruits. They whispered to one another, pointed, smiled.
Suddenly, a goblin called out: “Hello, my pretty!”
Then another said, “Good day, my lovely!”
“Hello there, beauty.”
“Darling girl, have a peach! Eat my peaches!”
“Or my pears, sweet one!”
“Red cherries for a beautiful girl!”
Young Jill looked up at the strange, leering men. Her heart beat an uncertain pattern in her chest.
“My lovely!”
“Pretty one!”
“Come eat my fruits!”
“Eat mine!”
“Eat mine!”
And then one goblin slid out from behind his stall, an apple in his hand. Jill stopped. He came toward her, closer and closer, until his body was brushing against hers, and his face was inches from her own. She could smell him. She felt strange.
“A lovely apple for a lovely girl?” he asked. And he raised its red flesh to her nose. Jill closed her eyes and drew the scent in. It was rich and tempting.
“Sweet, isn’t it?” he asked.
Her eyes still shut, Jill nodded.
The goblin said, “Take a bite.”
Jill opened her eyes. She saw the old goblin face, his skin so close to hers, his dark eyes drinking her in. And in those eyes, she saw her own reflection. She suddenly thought of other reflections she had seen—in her mother’s mirror, in the sea.
Something felt wrong.
“No,” she said, and she pushed the apple away.
But more goblins had come out from behind their stalls. They were moving closer and closer, watching the fruit seller and Jill. They began crowding in on her, with their heat and their smell. Soon they were pressing in upon her, jostling her, pushing her, holding her.
“Pretty girl! Eat my fruit!”
“No, mine!”
“Mine, my beauty! Mine!”
She felt confused. They were saying nice things, and yet . . .
“My lovely one!”
“My darling!”
“Eat! Eat!”
They licked their dry lips with muscular tongues and pushed in closer to Jill, and closer.
“Stop!” she cried suddenly. “Get away!” The goblins’ sweat clouded Jill’s nostrils. She could feel their thick, rough hands on her hair. “Get away from me!”
But they would not. They pressed closer and closer and closer.
“Jack!” Jill cried. “JACK!”
Jack stood in front of one of the dark entrances that led underground. He heard his name. He turned. A mountain of goblins seethed in the center of what appeared to be a fruit market.
“JACK!”
He squinted his eyes and took a step toward it.
“JACK!”
He saw one of Jill’s thin hands appear above the goblins’ heads.
He began to run.
Inside the scrum of goblins, Jill pushed and kicked and shouted.
“Pretty girl!” they cried.
“Beautiful one!”
“Come with us!”
“Be with us!”
“NO!” she shouted. “GET AWAY!” She turned her head this way and that as the goblins tried to push peaches and pears and plums past her lips. “JACK!” she screamed.
And just as she did, a muscular goblin with a vicious face shoved an apple into her mouth. She tried to tear her face away, but as she moved, her teeth pierced the apple’s flesh.
And Jill collapsed.
* * *
Jack pushed at the backs of the thronging goblins frantically, trying to shove his way to his cousin. But the goblins were surprisingly strong. An arm thrust Jack backward. He pushed into the scrum of goblins again. “Jill!” he shouted. “JILL!”
And then he saw Jill, lifted up by a dozen goblin arms, being borne aloft and carried away. She looked dead.
“JILL!” he cried. He tried to follow her. But he could not penetrate the iron cord of goblin arms. Jack watched, helplessly, as Jill was swept into one of the dark openings in the earth, and out of sight.
“We’ve got to follow her!” the frog screamed. “We’ve got to save her!”
The dust of the ground mingled with the acrid-sweet smells of the fruit market.
“I know,” said Jack. He squinted against the bright sun. “I know.”
* * *
Jack stood on a ramp that descended into the ground. He looked out over the rest of the Goblin Market—an underground market.
Stalls and huts of clanging metal stretched into the dark distance under a towering ceiling of black stone. The frog shoved his fingers in his ears against the incessant clang clang clang of the smithy stalls. The underground market was even more teeming with life and strangeness than its counterpart aboveground. A thousand stalls stretched out into the distance, and among them wove goblins with baskets and bags of goods. Beyond the market, far, far in the distance, were taller buildings.
There was no sign of Jill, or of the band of goblins that had carried her away. They had disappeared like the smoke of a forge into a low-hanging fog.
But Jack had to start somewhere. He descended into the darkness, asking goblins as he went, “Have you seen a girl? A human girl? Being carried by goblins? Have you seen her? Has anyone seen her?”
No one had.
Jack wandered on and on and on, past stalls with metal trinkets, axes of glowing iron, tiny daggers no bigger than Jack’s pinkie. And swords. Wonderful, deadly, beautiful swords.
Jack saw a two-handed broadsword that hung in front of one of the shops. It had a long thick blade and a rounded tip. He wondered how much it cost. Not that he had any money. But still, he was curious. He examined its cross-guard, and found, dangling from it, a thread of leather with a small piece of parchment at the end. One Hand, the parchment read.
“Jack,” said the frog, “come on. We need to find Jill.”
Jack let go of the cryptic message and backed away from the stall.
Just a few steps farther along, he saw another sword, with gold filigree all the way up the blade, and he thought, No, that’s the one for me. This sword had no parchment attached to it. So Jack said to the crook-backed goblin who stood nearby, conversing with another weapon-smith, “How much for this sword?”
“One hand,” said the goblin, as if this was obvious, and turned back to his conversation. Jack considered asking for an explanation. But he could not think of any possible explanation of the price “one hand” that would make him able to afford it.
“Jack!” cried the frog. “Come on!”
“Right,” said Jack. “Sorry. I was just—” But he stopped there, for hanging from a rack of daggers was a tiny dirk—a thin, steeply graded blade on a guardless handle. It was gorgeous.
A wooden, hand-painted plaque hung
above the rack of daggers. It read, ALL DAGGERS, ONE HAND. Jack stood before the sign.
The frog was about to shout at Jack again, but a goblin with a sallow, thin face and a little paunch of a belly asked Jack if he liked what he saw.
“I do,” said Jack. “But I don’t understand. What does this mean, ‘One Hand’?”
“What do you think?” said the goblin, his long goblin fingers tapping his sagging paunch.
“I don’t know,” Jack replied.
“Sure you do,” the goblin said. Jack, alarmed and confused, turned and moved on.
The frog was pleading now: “Jack, we have to find Jill.”
Jack shook himself as if he’d been asleep. What was wrong with him? He felt as if a fog were before his eyes. Jill had been stolen! Come on! he thought. Wake up! Go find her!
And then he saw a small clearing among the weapon-smiths. In the center of the clearing, on a stone altar, was a sword lying on a blanket of crushed velvet. Its blade was about the length of Jack’s arm. Its handle was iron wrapped in leather. Its cross-guard was simplicity itself, and its pommel was just an iron ball. It was neither long nor short, bright nor dull, new nor old.
And yet there was something about the sword that was different from the others that Jack had seen. There seemed to be nothing special about it, Jack thought, except that it looked exactly as he had always believed a sword should look. In fact, he suspected that he recognized it from somewhere.
Jack walked up to it. He circled the table. He reached for it. It seemed to leap into his hand, like metal filings to a magnet. Jack admired it. Then he recognized it.
It looked just like the sword he wielded in his dreams.
“It likes you,” said a goblin who was suddenly standing by his shoulder. “That is a good sign.”
Jack held it, and it felt like an extension of his arm. “It’s perfect,” Jack said.
“Jack!” hissed the frog.
“That’s right,” said the goblin. “It is the sword you’ve always dreamed of. Go ahead,” he smiled. “Give it a try.”
Jack nodded and stepped back from the table. He whipped the sword through the air. The wind seemed to sing with its passing. All the goblins at all the stalls nearby stopped what they were doing and turned to look at Jack. He swung it again. The goblins’ black eyes silently followed the motion of the sword.
The frog pushed his head out of Jack’s pocket. “Jack, can you hear me?”
Jack did not reply.
“What do you want to be, my boy?” the goblin asked.
And without hesitation, without even realizing he was saying it, Jack said, “I want to be respected.”
“With that sword, you will be feared by all,” the goblin assured him.
Jack thrust the sword again. “I want to be admired,” Jack said, more forcefully this time.
“You will be!” said the goblin. “You will be!”
“Jack?” cried the frog.
Jack spun with the sword and cut the air. He was shouting. “I want everyone to like me!”
“Oh, they will! They will!” cried the goblin. “Everyone will like you!” And then he added, “And it will only cost your hand.”
Jack saw himself stabbing a boy who looked quite a lot like Marie—when the sword point dipped. He let it come to rest on the ground. Slowly, he turned to the goblin. “What does that mean?” he asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Not a single gold piece. Not a single copper. Nothing but your hand.” Then the goblin added, “Your left one, of course! Not your sword hand!” And he smiled, like he was doing Jack a favor.
* * *
Okay, I’ve got a question for you.
If the goblin is lying, and the sword is just a normal sword, trading your hand for it is probably a bad deal. Right?
But I can tell you right now—and I know this from my extensive research on the subject—that the goblin is notlying.
Anyone who gives up his hand for a goblin sword will gain all the power of the sword. This sword will give Jack what he has always most desired. Quite truly.
And it will only cost his left hand.
Think of what you most desire. Really think of it.
Okay.
Would you give your hand for it?
* * *
Jack stood and stared at the goblin man. It had felt like a game, playing with the sword, until now.
Until he knew that he could have it.
And that it had a price.
“Uh, Jack . . .” said the frog. “Jack . . . is this a joke?”
The goblin man said, “You will be admired by everyone . . . everyone . . .” Then he said, “You could give your right hand, if it’s easier to part with.”
“Everyone would like me . . . everyone . . .” Jack murmured.
“Jack, can you hear me?” the frog pleaded. “Jack, this is crazy! It’s just a sword . . . Let’s find Jill and get out of here . . .”
But Jack did not hear him. He was saying, “They will like me. They will love me. They will fear me . . .” He knew it was true. He could feel the sword’s power humming up his arm.
“Jack! JACK!” The frog shouted.
Jack gripped the sword firmly in his right hand.
He looked levelly at the goblin.
Jack nodded.
“Get the apothecary!” the goblin shouted. In a moment an apothecary appeared, a short squat goblin with a black carrying case. He came and took some bottles and bandages from his bag.
The frog was screaming, “STOP IT, JACK, STOP IT!”
Jack paid no attention. “Put your left hand on the velvet,” said the goblin sword-smith. Jack placed his left hand on the velvet.
“With your right hand, raise the sword into the air,” said the goblin. With his right hand, Jack raised the sword into the air.
“When you’re ready, you may cut off your left hand,” said the goblin.
Jack’s heart caught.
“Don’t do it,” the frog whispered frantically. “Jack, you will be sorry. So, so sorry.”
Jack thought of Marie, laughing at him. He thought of his father. It’ll prove that you’re a man. He held his breath.
The blade began to sing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Death or the Lady
Once upon a time, a girl—limp and unconscious—was carried through the underground darkness of the Goblin Kingdom. She was brought to a massive black palace. It had tall, spindly towers that seemed to have been shaped by the slow drip-drip-drip of underground water. Wings and annexes extended from its center like great black spiders’ legs. Banners of many colors flew from the ramparts and towers—but in the darkness of the earth, each looked merely like the fluttering shadows of colors. In each of the thousand windows, an orange flame flickered.
But Jill did not see the towering black castle. She was, as I said, unconscious.
She did not feel herself passed from the strong hands of the fruit merchants into the even stronger hands of the goblin guards. She did not know that she was being carried through dark hallways deep in the belly of the castle that stood deep in the belly of the earth. She did not see the goblin with the careworn face and the deep, old eyes examining her. She did not feel the heat of his skin so near he could have kissed her, nor did she smell the stale breath of his mouth. She did not hear him call to a dour goblin who waited in a corner; she did not hear the latches of an ornate case snap open; she did not see the long, strange instrument withdrawn from the case; she did not see its sharp end slowly, so slowly, approach her closed eyelids.
If she had, she doubtless would have screamed.
She did not perceive—either by feeling or by sight—the gentle application of makeup to her face with the long, strange instrument. Not of blue to her eyelids nor blush t
o her cheeks nor red to her lips. She did not know that her hair was being brushed by gentle goblin hands. She did not feel the coolness of the dank air on her body as she was undressed and redressed in the finest silks. She did not feel herself lifted again.
The first thing that Jill did feel was a pinching tightness on her wrists and ankles. Her eyes were still closed, and she felt woozy. The second thing she felt was that she could not open her mouth. Her eyes flew open.
She was sitting on a high throne in the center of an enormous hall. The ceiling towered overhead. The black stone walls were decked with enormous tapestries thirty feet high. Before her, twenty goblins, clad in plate metal and carrying spears, stood with their backs toward her, and beyond them, in single file, stood a line of goblin men so long it wound straight out of the enormous hall.
Jill tried to open her mouth again and discovered that a broad bolt of fine silk had pinned her lips shut. She tried to lift her hands to remove the gag and found that they were tied with the same fine silk to the arms of the throne. She tried to stand up and found that her ankles were tied to the throne, too.
“She is awake!” announced a goblin with a rich voice, a careworn face, and deep, old eyes.
The long line of goblins began to move. Jill watched in mute fear as the first came before her throne. He wore a bright green velvet suit which clashed hideously with his pale green skin. He swept a giant green hat with an enormous yellow feather from his head. He smiled up at Jill and said, “Your Majesty, you are beautiful.”
Jill felt very confused. Your Majesty?
The goblin smiled more broadly. “You are bright like the moon and beautiful like a flower. I see you, and my heart aches.”
Despite herself, and despite everything else—the bonds, the gag, the apparent kidnapping—Jill blushed.
The next goblin, festooned with silver fabric, announced, “My Queen, you shine like a diamond.” He gazed up into her face. Under his breath, he said, “I have never seen anyone so beautiful.”
Jill’s cheeks grew hot, and she looked away.