The Maelstrom

by Henry H. Neff

  “If I must,” sighed the smee.

  Minutes later, the three made their way down the precarious slope. While Toby’s mule was sure-footed, David was an inexperienced rider and Max had to walk alongside and steady his friend as they navigated their way down the hill. It took the better part of an hour. When they finally reached the bottom, the sky had blushed to a pinkish blue and a sprinkling of fresh snow covered the ground.

  Max kept them to the road’s farthest edge so that they could shelter beneath rock ledges and leaning trees as they wound their way up the lonely passes. When they’d climbed to some new crest or vantage, he stopped and scanned the valley below with his spyglass. Snow was swirling about, weightless little flakes that danced before the lens. Squinting, Max saw no one on the road. Indeed, he saw no living thing but for a pair of circling hawks high above the vale and an elk trotting across a stream. The landscape was so quiet and peaceful; the riders of the previous night seemed naught but a bad dream.

  “The clouds are at play in the azure space,

  And their shadows at play on the bright green vale,

  And here they stretch to the frolic chase,

  And there they roll on the easy gale.”

  Max turned at the sound of Toby’s voice. The smee was staring down into the valley, looking meditative. “Life has its moments,” he reflected quietly. “This footsore misery would be worth it, if only for this moment, this view. It feeds the soul, boys. That it does.”

  “I didn’t know you were a romantic, Toby,” said David, smiling and patting his withers.

  “Then you know nothing about smees,” the mule retorted, flicking his ears. With a parting glance at the valley, he turned and pressed on.

  For the next hour, the three pushed steadily up the mountain, following the pass as it switched back or tunneled through a narrow cleft to rise again on the other side. As they climbed, the snowfall intensified, swirling about them as mist blew past like tattered shrouds. When the road finally began to widen, Max knew they were near the goblin caverns.

  “Toby,” he said. “Up ahead are the Broadbrim guardstones. Do you think you can become a bird or something small and scout ahead for us? I need to know if there’s a good spot where we can settle down unseen and keep an eye on the entrance.”

  “What do the guardstones look like?” inquired the smee.

  “You can’t miss them,” said Max. “They’re huge slabs of red granite.”

  “Very well,” said Toby as David climbed off. The mule disappeared and Max stared down at a plump gray jackdaw, hopping about the snow and letting the wind flutter through his feathers. A moment later he was gone, flying off on his black-tipped wings.

  “I hope Skeedle can help,” Max muttered, well aware that the goblin might be en route to or from some distant trade destination. And goblins tended to be greedy, grasping creatures quick to exploit those weaker than themselves. What if Skeedle had lost his cheerful bloom and adopted the harsh habits of his elders?

  “If he can’t, we’ll try something else,” said David with a sanguine air. “We’ve traveled to the Sidh, Max. I have every confidence we can make our way to Piter’s Folly and bluff our way in to see a smuggler.”

  Max grinned; David’s spirits were reviving.

  A moment later, Toby fluttered back and landed with an inexpert, skidding series of hops.

  “We’re in luck,” he reported. “There’s a small ledge across from the guardstones, some twenty or thirty feet above the road. Not an easy climb, but it should be manageable.”

  David glanced dubiously at his stump of a right hand.

  “Worst case, I can carry you,” Max offered.

  “Did you see any guards?” David asked Toby.

  “No,” replied the smee. “Just the stones, sealed tight as a troll hitch.”

  “At one point I knew the password,” Max reflected. “I made Skeedle and the others tell me, but that was a long time ago. I’ll bet they’ve changed it.”

  “I’ll bet they haven’t,” said David. “Let’s get settled. I want to try something.”

  Hurrying up the road, they finally got their first glimpse of the guardstones—two gargantuan blocks of granite that were joined so tightly that the door appeared to be little more than an incongruous slab of reddish stone. Max glanced up at the ledge Toby had reported; it would be a very difficult climb for David.

  But perseverance won the day. With Max giving him the occasional boost, David managed to scramble over the boulders and piled rubble, clinging to roots and rocks with fierce determination. In fifteen minutes, he reached the ledge, wheezing and coughing into his cloak. Shielding himself behind a boulder, he took a deep breath and caught a snowflake on his tongue.

  “Not bad,” said Max, crouching to peer at the guardstones. “You’ll be scaling the Witchpeaks next.”

  “So what’s the plan, gentlemen?” inquired the jackdaw, hopping from one foot to the other in an attempt to warm his tiny body. Giving up, he suddenly ballooned, his feathers smoothing to fur as he became a brown marmot.

  “Well,” said David, “we could sit here and watch for Skeedle. But that might take days and there’s no guarantee we’ll see him. But if Max knows the password, we might try sending him a message.”

  “How are we going to do that without stirring up the whole clan?” asked Max.

  “A little trick,” said David. “One that involves some magic, but just a very little. There doesn’t appear to be anyone on our trail. I think we can risk it.… Speak into my hand and tell Skeedle that you want him to come outside. Assure him that he’s not being haunted or going insane.”

  The sorcerer opened his hand and Max saw a swirling sphere of golden vapor materialize between his fingers. At David’s urging, Max leaned forward and spoke into it as though it were a microphone.

  “Skeedle, it’s Max McDaniels. If you can hear me, I need you to come meet me outside the guardstones right away. Come alone and don’t let anyone know what you’re doing. Trust me; this is not a ghost and you’re not going crazy. So put down your spicy faun tripe and come see your old friend.…”

  “Perfect,” said David, closing his hand about the sphere. “Now we just need you to try the password.”

  Leaning forward, Max cupped his hands and said, “Bitka-lübka-boo.” He braced himself for the expected tremor.

  Nothing happened.

  “Maybe a little louder,” David suggested. “You’re practically whispering.”

  Max tried again, but the stones remained as they were.

  Toby scoffed. “You sound like a ninny. What are you afraid of?”

  “Well, I don’t want to shout it,” Max snapped. “There could be sentries nearby.”

  “When bold hearts fail, send a smee,” Toby declared, brushing past Max and waddling down the steep ledge. Arriving at the bottom, he looked both ways before stealing across the road to the red slabs. Rising up on his hind legs, the marmot gingerly touched the doors.

  Again, nothing happened.

  Max could not hear the smee, but if his pacing was any indication, the creature was losing patience. Dropping to all fours, the marmot arched his back and bellowed.

  “Bitka-lübka-boo!”

  When the mountain shook, Toby panicked and came racing back, bounding up the rocky slopes to land beside them in a panting, trembling ball.

  “Good work,” David whispered. “Stay low.”

  Spreading his fingers, the boy sent the vaporous sphere snaking toward the guardstones, which were sliding apart to reveal a dark chasm beyond. It zoomed into the entrance, skimming past the head of a potbellied goblin that came clanking out in his iron-soled shoes to peer at the road. Lifting his broad-brimmed hat, the creature stood and scratched at his lumpish forehead before clutching his pelt closer and shuffling back inside. The mountain groaned as the stones slid shut.

  “Now what?” Max asked.

  “We wait,” replied David, spreading a woolly tartan over his legs. “If Skeedle’s inside, t
he zephyss will seek him out, slip inside his ear, and deliver our message.”

  “Maybe we should have sent two,” said Max, imagining the twitchy goblin’s reaction. “He’ll definitely think he’s going crazy.”

  “Have faith.”

  Within the hour, they felt the mountain shake once again. Peering over the ledge’s lip, Max watched as a caravan of five wagons emerged into daylight. A pair of goblins sat in the driver’s seat of each, one holding a tall spear and the other a whip. Yelling out to the mules, the drivers cracked their whips and urged the teams to turn the wagons west and head down the road from which Max and the others had come. As the stones were closing, Max saw a small figure slip outside. It paused, shielding its face from the flurries as it gazed about. Max stood and waved.

  The goblin waved excitedly back, hurrying across the road and climbing skillfully up the fallen rocks until he joined them on the ledge. When Max knelt and hugged him, the hideous little creature nearly danced a jig.

  “I never thought I’d see you again!” Skeedle exclaimed, struggling to keep his voice low. The young goblin had grown since Max had seen him, having added another sharp tooth and perhaps twenty pounds to his short, plump frame. “What are you doing here?”

  “We need your help,” Max replied. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  Settling down next to his hero, the goblin listened attentively as Max and David relayed where they were going and what was needed.

  “So … two wagons and someone who’s traded with the Great Piter Lady,” confirmed Skeedle, twiddling his stubby claws as though brainstorming various options. “I’ve never been so far, but my cousin’s been three times and once with Plümpka himself. He never shuts up about it.”

  “We also need trade goods,” added David delicately. “Something the Piter Lady’s always eager to buy.”

  “Kolbyt would know, but he’s still passed out,” said Skeedle. “He got back last night from a caravan and swore there are ghosts on the road. Went straight to the casks and drank till he dropped.”

  “Do you think you can wake him up?” asked Max. “I know it’s a lot to ask, Skeedle, but we need you two to take us to Piter’s Folly. Realistically, I’m guessing it will be six weeks for you to get us there and come back.”

  The goblin frowned. “Longer if the passes get snowed in,” he mused. “Ravenswood Spur goes through rough country. Normally we’d need bribe money and a whole guard troop, but with you …”

  Skeedle sat talking quietly to himself in his native tongue while flakes collected on his belly. “I think … I think we can do it,” he said, brushing off the snow and standing up.

  “Don’t tell Kolbyt any more than you have to,” David cautioned. “But you have to convince him to accompany us. We need him.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about Kolbyt,” said Skeedle breezily. “Give me till dusk and I’ll be back with him and everything else.”

  “Skeedle,” said Max, “I really appreciate this.”

  The goblin blushed. “You fought that troll for me,” he said, raising his arms so Max could lift him over a particularly large boulder. “I was in a tough place and you helped me. No one’s ever done anything for me.” Set back upon his feet, however, the goblin glanced sideways at Max. “But just remember that as far as Kolbyt and the rest are concerned, it was Skeedle who took care of that troll. All by himself. Capisce?”

  “Perfectly.”

  The pair shook hands before Skeedle clambered down the icy scree like a little goat, clutching his beloved hat as a gust threatened to whisk it away.

  As promised, Skeedle returned just as the sun was setting, casting purple shadows that stretched across the snowswept road. Four sturdy mules pulled his wagon, a baroque-looking tank that appeared equal parts carriage and strongbox. Another team of mules followed behind, pulling a smaller wagon whose driver was nestled down between a pair of barrels. Waving to Max, Skeedle pointed east to indicate that they should meet him farther down the road.

  Hurrying down from the ledge, Max led the others along the shadowed gully to where Skeedle was waiting at a turnout that offered a spectacular view of distant valleys where the faint lights of distant settlements could be seen. One by one, the stars were coming out, little jewels scattered across a sky of deepening indigo. The goblin could barely contain his excitement.

  “Off to Piter’s Folly with Max and his friends!” he exclaimed, double-checking the harness before hastening over to doff his hat and stow their things. When the goblin unlocked the stout wagon’s doors, Max glimpsed a warmly lit, surprisingly spacious compartment, lined with crates, blankets, and pillows. He longed for a proper bite and a long nap.

  “Should you introduce us to Kolbyt?” wondered Max, eyeing the squat silhouette that was waiting for them.

  “Do you know how to drive a wagon?” inquired Skeedle, studiously avoiding eye contact.

  “I guess I can manage, but—”

  “Good,” chirped the goblin, quickly tossing their packs into the back. “Just introduce yourself when he wakes up.…”

  Horrified, Max walked over to the other wagon. An enormously fat goblin with a pronounced underbite was fast asleep in the driver’s seat, his broad chest heaving like a bellows. Belching, the creature muttered something unintelligible and rolled over to scratch his patched and lumpy breeches.

  “That is foul,” Max groaned, wafting the odor away. “Skeedle, you said you’d wake Kolbyt up—I don’t want to kidnap him!”

  The goblin gave a cheerful shrug and removed the barrels that he’d used to keep his cousin propped in place. “You said you were in a hurry,” he reasoned, tottering under their weight as he stowed them. “He might not stir till tomorrow or the day after. Kolbyt’s a mighty deep sleeper and the cask was almost empty. Just follow me and don’t drive over the edge!”

  And with that, Skeedle ushered David and Toby into the back of the larger wagon where the pair stretched luxuriantly amid the fleeces and blankets. The smee was already nosing at a fat tin of chocolates when Skeedle closed the doors and the snug, jewel-like interior vanished from view like a happy dream. Unspeakably bitter, Max swung up into the driver’s seat and unceremoniously shoved Kolbyt over, tossing a wolf pelt over the bloated goblin to dampen his smell and snoring. Shaking the reins, Max felt the wagon lurch into motion as the mules clopped dutifully after Skeedle’s wagon, which was already descending the steep decline.

  Throughout the night, Max drove the wagon down the far side of the mountain in what was one of the more terrifying experiences of his eventful life. Every ledge appeared narrower than the wagon’s base; every crevasse seemed a bottomless abyss as the wagon lurched along, bouncing over fallen rocks and shattered icicles thicker than his arm. Whenever gales came screaming through the passes, Max shut his eyes while the heavy wagon seemed to roll and pitch like a storm-tossed glider. He counted eleven near-death moments throughout the night, but Kolbyt never stirred, much less awoke to offer any expert guidance. By dawn, Max had abandoned all pretenses at driving the team. Sitting bolt upright, he merely clutched the reins with frozen hands and croaked halfhearted pleas to the oblivious mules.

  At last the terrain leveled out and Max descended yet another pass to find Skeedle’s wagon stopped at the cusp of some shallow foothills that fed down into another frostbitten valley. Max heard whistling and spied the goblin’s absurd hat peeking from behind the bush where he was relieving himself.

  As Skeedle stood on tiptoe, his face emerged. “Perfect night for driving, eh?”

  The goblin’s grin evaporated when he noted Max’s expression. Saying nothing, Max lumbered stiffly to the other side of the bush. The doors to Skeedle’s wagon burst open and Toby came hopping out, still wearing the marmot’s guise.

  “Fair enough, fair enough,” he called pleasantly. “But next time we play by my rules, you knave! You saucy rapscallion!” Shaking his head, the marmot chuckled until he caught Max staring at him. “Your roommate is quite the poker player,”
he explained.

  “That’s perfect,” Max muttered, staring off into the hazy distance. “While I’m teetering over chasms, you two are playing cards all night.”

  “Not all night,” said the smee. “We did other things, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “We ate chocolates,” sniffed the unrepentant smee, waddling over to wash his face in a nearby stream. “And we talked. David needed my advice.”

  “On what?”

  “Girls.” Toby shivered as the icy water touched his nose. “How to woo the fairer sex. How to ply a blushing maid with wit and sweet nothings until she fairly melts with desire.”

  “And so he asked … you?”

  “And I suppose he should have asked you?” laughed the smee. “Ha!”

  “What’s wrong with asking me?” said Max. “I’ve had a girlfriend—”

  “Julie Teller?” chortled Toby. “Are you honestly citing Julie Teller as the basis for your expertise on love? Isn’t she the very girl you were dating when you sailed away from Rowan without even saying a proper goodbye? The same young lady who was left to wonder whether you were alive or dead for over a year? I’d imagine she must be the same Julie who is now dating one Thomas Polk, a steady young man who bores her to tears and yet she still finds him infinitely preferable to you.…”

  Turning fire red, Max opened his mouth for a furious retort. But nothing brilliant occurred to him and he shut it again. Everything the smee said was technically true. Leaning heavily on a wagon wheel, he knocked a clump of mud from his boot.

  “It was complicated,” he muttered. “There were lots of other factors.”

  “There always are,” Toby observed wryly, jumping back onto the wagon’s rear platform while Skeedle fed and watered the mules. His voice softened. “But don’t feel too bad. Why would you know anything about courtship?”