* * *
The ensuing days were much the same. While the children went about their chores in the fields or animal pen, Max worked to make the house habitable. When all the trash had been removed and burned and the blankets washed and hung to dry, he set to scrubbing away the layers of dirt that had come to cover the walls, floor, and even the ceiling. It was wearisome work but quickly yielded appreciable results as soot gave way to clean stone, dark wood, and faded yellow paint.
As Max worked, he noticed that some of the younger children had taken to watching him. They stood in the doorway or lingered on the porch, thrusting tousled heads indoors as he repaired furniture, scrubbed baseboards, and scoured the kitchen until its tiles gleamed.
It was Claudia—a stout, inquisitive girl—who was the first to work alongside Max. She never said a word but simply picked up a nearby rag and helped him clean the fireplace and surrounding mantel. Marco soon joined them, followed by a mischievous boy named Paolo. Within the hour, eight of the children had ventured indoors and were scrubbing the walls alongside him.
Isabella watched this development with some amusement, but she said nothing as she looked after Gianna and supervised the work outside. Max’s disdain for her was evident; he had spared her exile only because of her baby and the fact that the children would need a caretaker after he had gone. Isabella seemed to sense this and was polite but reserved as she prepared meals from grain and whatever eggs the six hens produced.
At twilight, Max would wash his face and hands and hike far out over the hills, getting a better sense of the landscape and whether additional dangers lurked nearby.
It was stunning scenery, and as Max whipped the old estate into shape, he could envision what must have been a prosperous farm and influential family. But Max realized that, despite his efforts, those days were ancient history, and it would take much more than rags, water, mops, and brooms to restore the place to a thriving, secure home that could support these children.
Security was his primary concern. The monster from the well was dead, but he wondered if its presence had kept other things away. For now, all was quiet in the valley, but certain details continued to trouble him.
He discussed them with Isabella the following morning as she roasted old coffee beans in the fireplace. To date, Max had addressed Isabella only when absolutely necessary, and when he spoke, the children abruptly ceased in their chores to listen.
“The coffee,” said Max, gesturing at the burlap sack. “The tea and sugar. Those don’t grow here, Isabella. Where did you get them?”
“Nix and Valya brought them,” she explained, a tinge of caution in her voice. “On their visit before Yuletide.”
“Yuletide?” said Max, looking sharply at her and blowing on his tea. “Do you remember Yuletide, Isabella? Do you remember life before the demons? Before Astaroth?”
But Isabella would not answer this. She merely gazed at the fire, tossing the beans about in a long-handled metal basket thrust over the coals. Her mouth was grim, and Max perceived a growing sorrow in her eyes. Turning to the children, Max asked them to work outside so he could converse with Isabella alone. They obeyed, even Christopher, the most willful among them. When they had gone, Isabella removed the basket from the flames and went to check on her daughter.
“The past is too painful,” she said, adjusting the baby’s swaddle.
“Your past is your business,” said Max gently. “But there are others who visit this place—this Nix and Valya, for one. And you’ve mentioned goblins. I’m asking because I want to ensure that the children will be safe with you after I’m gone.”
Isabella’s shoulders stiffened. “Gone?” she exclaimed, turning to him. “But where are you going?”
“There will be a day when I leave this place,” said Max quietly. “I have business of my own.”
“Oh, but you can’t!” Isabella protested, plucking at her baby’s blanket. “You are an angel sent to protect us! I prayed and prayed for deliverance from the evil and here you came!”
“I’m not an angel,” said Max. “I’m just a boy from across the sea.”
“But you perform miracles,” she declared.
“Listen,” said Max. “I can’t stay here forever. I will help with the spring planting and finishing up the house, but the most important thing I can do is deal with the goblins. They will come here again, Isabella, with more prisoners for the monster. But that monster is dead. The goblins will eventually learn this. Do you think they will simply leave you be?”
“So what will you do?” she asked.
“Have a talk with them,” he said, eyeing the sword that hung upon the wall.
“But we need the goblins,” Isabella blurted. “They bring grain and livestock. We will die without them!”
Pacing about, Max mused upon this dilemma while Isabella began to methodically mix grains and milk for Gianna’s breakfast. At last he had an idea.
“When do the goblins visit here?” he asked.
“Every other month,” replied Isabella. “Around the quarter moon—they do not want to be near when the monster is active. They will be coming soon.”
Max nodded and stood up to stretch.
“What will you do?” she asked again nervously.
“Nothing to endanger you or cut off your supplies,” he said, putting on his boots and thrusting his hand out a window to gauge the chill. “Don’t mention this conversation to the children.”
But the children were particularly perceptive. If they had displayed a tendency to cluster around him before, they shadowed him with the same watchful diligence as Hannah’s goslings. They seemed to sense that Max might be leaving, and wished to keep him in their sight.
The children were not merely perceptive; they were resilient. Within days of the monster’s death and Pietro’s departure, Max heard them whispering to one another, studying him when they thought he was oblivious. Now they offered shy smiles at his approach, and the round lump of a six-year-old they called Porcellino had even taken to showing Max his muscle.
“Very impressive,” said Max, stooping to pinch the small, soft arm while its owner’s face blazed red with strain. “You’re going to be big and strong!”
Porcellino beamed while the others crowded around and followed suit, jostling one another aside to show Max their biceps or clamor for him to see the blackberry bushes or the stream where Claudia had caught a trout. When Max fashioned a crude soccer ball from old stuffing and shoe leather, any lingering reservations evaporated. Under Paolo’s precocious leadership, innumerable games and contests were hatched. Kicking games, throwing games, rolling games … Max was amazed at the ingenuity behind each and the enthusiasm that followed. Within days, Max’s ball was destroyed, and Isabella stayed up late one evening to craft another, sturdier version with triple stitching.
The only child who remained quiet and aloof was Mina. This was understandable. Of all the children, she alone had been left in the pen and had seen the monster, had heard it calling to her.
She worked alongside the others but still exhibited many of the dull, mechanical qualities that had marked the children when Max first met them. As the weather warmed, it broke his heart to see her linger indoors while all the rest played outside. Max took to bringing her with him on his chores, particularly those that would entice the little thing to get outdoors and soak up a little sunshine.
And there were endless chores to do. In addition to repairing the main house and storage sheds, there remained the daily business of tending the livestock, preparing the fields for spring planting, gathering firewood, and innumerable other tasks whose difficulty was compounded by few tools of poor quality. During the rebuilding of Rowan, Max had learned a fair bit of carpentry and masonry and now he bemoaned the lack of a good hammer or plane or even nails that were straight and free of rust.
But they managed to make do with what they had, and as the sun set on a beautiful spring day, Max put the door back upon its hinges and applied the last dab of
red paint. Isabella and the children gathered round to see this final touch, a cheerful splash of color upon the entrance of a large house whose rooms were swept and scrubbed. Clean water filled the barrels, fresh rushes lined the floor, and a cantankerous old goat was on the menu. Behind the proud assembly, the mountains loomed purple and the clouds drifted past like wisps of pipe smoke.
That night as the children sprawled on their blankets, Max told them a story. While the fire crackled, he paced about the great room, sharing the tale of a little girl who had fallen under an evil spell and forgotten who she was. Determined, she wandered the world to learn her identity. The girl was brave beyond measure and sought out all the forest’s creatures—the frogs and snakes and even the black bear deep in his den. But none could answer her, and so she sailed across the sea and spoke to the fish and the whales and the sleepy turtles that blinked from their hard green shells. But none could answer her questions. Undaunted, she strode off into the hills and climbed the snowy mountains until at last she stood at the highest peak and shivered in the cold. No animals lived at such a fearsome height, and the girl despaired that there was no one left to help her. But just at that moment, she noticed the stars twinkling in the night sky and stretched her hands toward their loveliness.
As Max told his tale, he conjured colorful images of creatures, from a bloated bullfrog to a great whale spouting a spectrum of lights from its blowhole. The children lay spellbound, every mouth agape. By the time the girl stood upon the mountaintop, little stars floated just above their heads, twinkling against the ceiling’s stout rafters.
With her hands outstretched, the girl asked the stars if they could answer her questions. Who was she? What was her name? As she waited in the cold, the stars seemed to come closer, as though they were as curious about this little girl as she was of them. Lower and lower they came until it seemed they were swarming all around her.
The children shrieked with delight as the sparkling lights descended lower like inquisitive pixies, zooming about the room and pausing periodically at each eager face. When they arrived at Mina, however, the lights lingered and began to orbit around her head like a crown.
Because the girl was brave and had climbed such fearsome heights, the stars would help her. The girl was royalty, they said, a beautiful princess who was wise and beloved by her people. They missed her terribly. Could she not guess her name?
At this, Mina’s impassive face gave way to a hesitant smile. “Is her name Mina?” she whispered. “Princess Mina?”
“That’s right,” said Max. “Princess Mina’s people missed her and needed her and have been searching for her all this time. Is she ready to go home?”
Isabella put down her needlework, and the children ceased their squirming. All eyes focused on Mina, who was nestled in the far corner. She glanced up at the stars orbiting her head and then across at Max, who repeated the question.
Was the little princess ready to go home?
Mina nodded, and her crown’s stars burst into tiny lights that zoomed about the room before rocketing up the chimney like a comet’s tail. It was a fitting finale, and the other children clapped and scooted aside to make a place for her in the center. Grinning shyly, Mina gathered up her blankets and joined them.
While Mina laughed and joked with the others, Max settled back into his chair and mused upon the show’s finale. It had been a truly dazzling conclusion to the tale, one that had required an accomplished Mystic’s talent and control. There was only one problem.
The Mystic had not been Max.
He pondered this in silence while the children fell asleep. When the room had been silent for some time, Isabella motioned for Max to follow her upstairs.
“That was a very good thing you did,” she said. “I did not think Mina would smile again. You did not know her, but she had so much life before that terrible night. It makes me happy to see her smile.”
“It’s nothing,” said Max, feeling awkward under Isabella’s close gaze.
“How old are you?” she asked, setting down her lantern.
The simple question stumped him. His birthday was the fifteenth of March, and he imagined it had recently passed without his noticing. By a conventional calendar, Max should have been fifteen, but he had spent many days in the Sidh, where time ebbed and flowed in mysterious ways. He could not be certain.
“Sixteen,” he guessed. “Maybe seventeen? It’s hard to say.”
Isabella nodded at this, then unlatched the shutters to peer out the window at the windy evening.
“Do you still think I’m such an evil person?” she asked.
“I never did,” replied Max. “I thought you made an evil choice.”
“Sometimes every choice is bad,” she said.
Max thought back to past conversations with Ms. Richter and Nigel. They were good people. What sacrifices might Ms. Richter make on behalf of Rowan, or Nigel on behalf of his unborn child? Had Mrs. Bristow already given birth? Max wondered at this and at many things. In his heart, he knew that Isabella was a good person. Max was not a parent; he could not imagine the choices he might have made in her position.
“I’m not angry at you, Isabella,” he said wearily. “There’s no point to it.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Before, I did not care so much. But now I do.”
An awkward silence ensued and Max fidgeted. He did not know where this was going or why Isabella needed to have this conversation so far from the sleeping children.
“The goblins will come,” she said hastily. “It has been nearly two months and the moon is right. They will visit tonight or tomorrow.”
“Then I need to get ready,” said Max, relieved. “Where do they usually come from?”
“There,” Isabella said, thrusting her arm out the window. Max’s gaze followed her outstretched finger to the dark road that ran toward the mountains.
“How many?” Max asked.
“I don’t know,” said Isabella. “Pietro would go out and speak with them. I tried to spy, but I was too frightened to get very close.”
Max nodded and began piecing together his plan.
“What will you do?” Isabella asked cautiously.
“Go out and wait for them,” he said simply.
“Please be careful,” she said, clutching his sleeve. “If they know the monster is dead … I’ve heard terrible stories of the goblins! Th-they’ll make you a prisoner and take you away!”
“Goblins are dumb, Isabella,” said Max, “but they’re not that dumb.…”
As the moon rose higher in the spring night, Max waited in the boughs of a sycamore whose budding branches overhung a bend in the road. There was wind in the valley. It rustled the leaves but not so loudly that Max would be unable to hear the sound of wheels. As he watched the bats skim and dart in search of food, he tried to recall everything he knew about goblins and their ilk.
Goblins in all their forms were miserable creatures—cruel, tyrannical, and bullying whenever they could manage the upper hand. The dryads hated them and would not live in groves near a goblin den. These dens were usually underground or in deep mountains where clans formed a loose confederacy under the absolute rule of a chieftain, who was often chosen by virtue of his size. In many ways, the all-male goblins and all-female hags shared a common culture, and Max wondered if the two species were not distant kindred. Unlike hags, however, there was considerable variety in goblin size and appearance. While some of the smaller hobgoblins might stand a mere three feet, a true goblin chief might look a grown man in the eye and exceed three hundred pounds. With his rope and his sharp sword, Max was prepared for either.
Goblins were active traders and were liable to have considerable news of other creatures—or even demons—that resided in the surrounding area. Based on the farmhouse’s basic supplies and livestock, these goblins were both wealthy and active. They would know of any trade routes and might even have a map to share if Max could be persuasive.
It was very late when he final
ly heard the clopping of hooves. Blinking the sleep away, he peered into the darkness as a team of mules and a wagon pulled into view, followed by a small herd of sheep. Atop the wagon sat five squatty goblins, the largest snapping the reins and barking at the mules. Their eyes shone through the darkness, tiny pinpricks of light that peered from beneath the wide brims of their oversized hats.
When the cart had nearly reached the sycamore, Max dropped from the branches and stepped into the road.
“Misch-misch!” hissed the driver, pulling hard on the reins. The other goblins sat up to peer at Max, who stood calmly in the road.
“Hrunta, e nugluk a brimboshi? Ilbrya shulka nuv klunkle,” hiccupped the smallest goblin.
His comrades laughed at this, but the driver scowled and leaned over to snatch away the speaker’s flask.
“Where is Pietro?” croaked the driver, removing his hat to scratch his head.
“Pietro is gone,” Max replied. “I’m in charge now.”
“Did you hear that?” exclaimed the goblin, turning to his companions. “He said he’s in charge! Tell us, maggot, what exactly are you in charge of?”
“I’m in charge of this farm,” Max explained. “And that lake and this valley and the mountains beyond. I would rule the sky, too, but that is beyond my reach.”
“He must be a drunk like Pietro,” chuckled the goblin, his eyes glittering. “Enough with this drivel—we are already late. Unload the cart and be gone before we peel your skin for sport!”
“Yes, sir,” said Max, snapping off a salute. Trotting around to the back of the cart, he found three children bound there, along with several crates. Untying their bonds, Max asked if they were able to walk. The eldest—a girl of eleven or twelve—nodded, and Max told her to herd the flock up to the farmhouse and knock on the door. She should call for Isabella and then ask Mario and Claudia for help with the animals. Could she manage that? She could. The younger children, siblings judging by their similar appearance, then helped Max unload the crates before following the girl up the hill.
“That’s the spirit!” laughed the driver, waving his whip at Max. “Put ’em to work before they go down the well!”