On her way past the table, she glanced suspiciously at the card again—and it was red. Bright fire-engine red! It had been green before, hadn’t it? She stood swaying in shock, trying to remember. Had it? Yes, dammit, it had been green, bright apple green. There was no doubt about that.
Unfortunately, there was also no doubt that the card was now red.
Shakily, Judy sat down. One part of her mind was keeping up a stream of desperate speculation about dyes that faded from one color to another, perhaps depending on the length of time they’d been exposed to light, but that was so obviously a last-ditch—and rather ineffectual—defensive effort on behalf of Rationality that she didn’t pay much attention to it. Slowly, with immense trepidation, as if it were a venomous insect, she picked up the card again, this time with only two fingers, holding it as far away from herself as she could and still make out the words.
This time, in spangly gold letters, it said: SURE THE GULAG ARCHIPELAGO IS A GOOD BOOK, BUT WOULDN’T YOU RATHER PUT ON YOUR BLUE CHANEL DRESS—THE SLINKY ONE WITH THE GOLD GLITTER SASH—AND THE GOLD HOOP EARRINGS YOU BOUGHT AT THE CRAFTS FAIR, AND GO OUT ON THE TOWN FOR A ROMANTIC EVENING AT DELANEY’S OR KARISMA? INSTEAD OF STARTING ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE STUPID CROSSWORD PUZZLE MAGAZINES, WOULDN’T YOU RATHER BE OUT STARTING UP A “MEANINGFUL RELATIONSHIP”?
Her hand began to tremble, vibrating the card into unreadability. By the time she steadied it down again, it read: WE CAN FIND THE PERFECT MATE FOR YOU!
Moving with exaggerated caution, as if it might explode, she lowered the card to the tabletop. She wiped her hands on her thighs. Her mouth was dry.
The card changed to a soft chocolate brown, this time before her eyes. In urgent red letters, it now said: WE CAN HELP YOU FIND THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS! SATISFACTION GUARANTEED! MANY, MANY YEARS OF EXPERIENCE! STAFF OF EXPERTS!
That faded, and was replaced by: SEND NO MONEY!
Followed, after a pause, in a somewhat more subdued script, by: Magic Mates . . . a division of Elf Hill Corp.
To her own surprise, much of Judy’s fear was draining rapidly away, to be replaced by a drifting, dreamlike bemusement. Could this really be happening? Had someone sifted LSD into the grated parmesan cheese she’d used on the spaghetti? Her rational mind kept throwing up feverish high-tech speculations about wireless telegraphy and time-release invisible inks, but she no more believed them than she really believed that she was dreaming, or hallucinating, or crazy. Instead, she was beginning to feel a curious tranced calm, a bemused nonchalance. Oh, magic. Of course.
Can you guys read my mind? She thought, trying to project her thoughts at the card, the way they do in sci-fi movies, keeping her lips firmly shut. Do you know what I’m thinking? Hello? Hello in there . . .?
The card didn’t answer.
No mind-reading, then. Still, there was no way that the postcard could know all that stuff about her unless they had her under some sort of magical observation. Maybe they really could do what they said they could do . . .
“Well,” she said, aloud. “I don’t know. I don’t really need—”
COME NOW, MS. PENDER, the card said, brown letters on gold this time. WE KNOW YOU DREAM ABOUT YOUR PERFECT MAN ALL THE TIME. YOU CERTAINLY TALK TO YOUR GIRLFRIENDS ABOUT HIM OFTEN ENOUGH. DON’T WORRY. WE KNOW WHAT YOU WANT. TALL AND SLENDER, WITH GRAY EYES. WAVY BROWN HAIR, RIGHT? GLASSES. NO MUSTACHE. WITTY. ARTICULATE. SENSITIVE YET MASCULINE. DECISIVE YET UNDERSTANDING. NOT MARRIED. RIGHT? WELL, WE CAN FIND HIM FOR YOU! SATISFACTION GUARANTEED! THIRTY-DAY TRIAL PERIOD! SEND NO MONEY! DEAL’S OFF IF YOU DON’T LIKE HIM! GIVE IT A TRY!
“Well . . .” Judy said, feeling only a distant twinge of wonder that she was sitting here talking to a postcard.
OH, GO AHEAD, the postcard said. YOU KNOW YOU’RE AS HORNY AS A GOAT . . .
“Well,” Judy said weakly. “I really shouldn’t . . .”
The postcard went blank. Then, in large block letters, formal and somewhat severe, as though it were growing impatient with her, there appeared:
Hesitantly, feeling an odd little chill run up her spine, she checked the square for “yes.” The doorbell rang.
###
Early one Saturday morning, a month later, Judy awoke to the soft liquid trilling of birdsong. The sun had not reached the bedroom window yet, and the room was still in shadow, but hot bright sunlight was already touching the roof of the house across the street, turning tile and mortar and brick to gold. The wedge of sky she could see was a clear bright blue. It was going to be another beautiful day, more like May than March.
Mark snored softly beside her, and she raised herself up on one elbow to look down at him for a moment, smiling fondly. Even his snores were melodic!
Moving carefully, so as not to wake him, she got up and threw on a bathrobe, and quietly let herself out of the bedroom. She would make breakfast, a big weekend breakfast, and serve it to him in bed, along with maybe one or two other items . . .
The thought made her smile as she padded into the kitchen to start the coffee perking, but when she popped into the front room to pick up a sheet of newspaper to drain the bacon on, her smile died at once.
There was a little green postcard lying on the throw rug next to the front door, as though someone had ignored the box outside and pushed it through the mail slot instead.
She knew at once what it was, of course.
Judy and Mark had been dating for a month now, ever since his car had broken down outside, and he’d rung her doorbell to ask if he could use the phone. They’d been fascinated with each other at once. Mark was perfect. It was almost scary how perfect he was. Never had she jibed better with a man. They liked the same books, the same movies, the same music, the same foods, enjoyed the same kind of quirky humor, shared the same kinds of dreams and aspirations, disagreeing just enough to add a touch of spice to the relationship, but never enough to make them seriously squabble or fight. Physically, they couldn’t possibly have been more compatible.
The month had gone by for Judy in a blur of excitement and happiness. She had done her best to forget about the magic postcard, thrust it out of her mind, and deny its reality. That had been made easier by the fact that the postcard itself had disappeared right after that first evening, although at one point she tore the house apart looking for it. She sighed. Out of sight, out of mind. People were always willing to be lulled into forgetting about unpleasant or inconvenient facts, and she was no exception. For long stretches of time, she had almost managed to convince herself that it had never happened at all—or that, at most, it had been some strange sort of waking dream . . . But always, sooner or later, she would seem to hear a dry little voice in her head whispering THIRTY-DAY TRIAL PERIOD! and then she would know better, and she would feel a chill of apprehension.
And now here was the postcard—or another just like it—turning up again, right on schedule. She had had her month’s free trial, and now, having hooked her on the product, they were about to reel her in and scoop her up in a net and clean and gut her. Here came the price tag. Here came the catch. She knew it. In every sales pitch, behind every “free offer,” there was always a catch. There was always a price tag. Why hadn’t she remembered that? The sweeter and more generous the deal seemed, the higher the price tag was likely to be. They—whoever They were—weren’t in business for their health, after all . . .
Unsteadily, she sat down in one of her beat-up old armchairs, keeping her eyes riveted on that innocent-looking little postcard, as if it might slither sinisterly away under the highboy if she looked away for a second. She even knew who They were, had always known, really, although she’d tried to suppress that knowledge, too. Elves. Leprechauns. The Little People. The Good Folk . . .
Faeries, of course. Of course faeries. Who else?
The knowledge did not reassure her. Now that it was too late, she found herself remembering all the folktales and fairy stories she’d read as a child: the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen, Charles Perrault, Yeats’ collection of Irish fol
klore, The Blue Fairy Book . . . All of them agreed on one thing: faeries were worse than used-car salesmen. No matter how wonderful the service they performed, there was always a price, and it was usually far more than you were willing to pay.
With a sudden flurry of the heart, she even thought that she knew what the price would be . . .
Compressing her lips into a thin hard line, Judy got up and walked determinedly over to the front door. Hesitating only for the smallest fraction of a second, she picked up the postcard and held it up to the light.
In fine copperplate letters, it said: MS. JUDY PENDER, YOUR THIRTY-DAY TRIAL PERIOD IS OVER! DID THE SERVICE MEET YOUR EXPECTATIONS? ARE YOU SATISFIED WITH THE PRODUCT?
“No,” Judy said weakly, her voice lacking conviction even to her own ears. “No, I’m not at all satisfied . . .”
OH, COME NOW, MS. PENDER, the postcard chided in somehow tired-looking letters. She could almost hear it sigh. DON’T DISSEMBLE. WE KNOW BETTER THAN THAT.
Judy—who with Mark had found herself easily and naturally acting out several sexual fantasies she had never even thought of mentioning to any other man—began to blush.
THAT’S BETTER, the card said, in florid purple ink this time. IN FACT, WE KNOW PERFECTLY WELL THAT THE PRODUCT MORE THAN FULFILLS YOUR EVERY EXPECTATION. YOUR EVERY DREAM, FOR THAT MATTER. WE’RE EXPERTS. WE KNOW WHAT WE’RE DOING—IT’S OUR BUSINESS, AFTER ALL. SO LET’S HAVE NO MORE EVASIVENESS, MS. PENDER. MARK PROPOSED LAST NIGHT, CORRECT? AND YOU ACCEPTED. SO IT’S TIME, AND PAST TIME, TO ENTER INTO A BINDING AGREEMENT CONCERNING PAYMENT FOR THIS SERVICE . . .
“All right,” she said through tight lips. “Tell me. Just what is it you want?”
FOR SERVICES RENDERED . . . said the card, and seemed to pause portentously . . . YOUR FIRST-BORN CHILD.
“I knew it!” Judy cried. “I knew that’s what it was going to be! You’re crazy!”
IT’S THE TRADITIONAL PRICE, the card said. NOT AT ALL EXCESSIVE, REALLY, CONSIDERING ALL WE’VE DONE TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE FOR THE BETTER.
“I won’t do it!” Judy said.
YOU DON’T HAVE MUCH CHOICE, the card said. YOU HAVE TO PAY YOUR DEBT TO US AT ONCE IF YOU DON’T WANT THE PRODUCT . . . SHIPPED BACK, AS IT WERE.
“Mark loves me,” Judy said fiercely. “It’s too late for you to change that now.”
DON’T KID YOURSELF, MS. PENDER, the card said. IF WE CAN’T FINALIZE A BINDING AGREEMENT RIGHT NOW, YOU’LL HAVE AN EXTREMELY BITTER FIGHT WITH HIM THIS VERY MORNING. NO MATTER HOW HARD YOU TRY TO AVOID IT, IT WILL HAPPEN. HE’LL WALK OUT OF HERE, AND YOU’LL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN. WE GUARANTEE THAT.
“But, my first-born child . . .” Judy whispered.
A HIGH PRICE INDEED, the card gloated. AH, YES. A VERY HIGH PRICE. BUT THINK . . . REMEMBER . . . BE HONEST WITH YOURSELF. DO YOU REALLY WANT TO GO BACK TO “DARK SHADOWS” AND COLD SPAGHETTI? NOW THAT YOU’VE MET MARK, COULD YOU REALLY LIVE WITHOUT HIM?
“No,” Judy said, in the smallest of voices.
WE THOUGHT NOT, the card said smugly.
Judy groped behind her for a chair, and sank into it. She dropped the card on the coffee table, and buried her face in her hands. After a moment or two, she raised her head wearily and looked over at the card again. It said: COME, COME, MS. PENDER. IT’S NOT REALLY SUCH A TRAGEDY. BABIES ARE NUISANCES, ANYWAY. THEY SQUALL AND STINK, THEY CRAYON ON YOUR WALLS AND VOMIT ON YOUR CARPET . . . THEY WEIGH YOU DOWN, MS. PENDER. YOU’LL BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT IT, REALLY. YOU OUGHT TO BE GLAD WE’LL BE TAKING IT OFF YOUR HANDS. ALL THE MORE TIME YOU’LL BE ABLE TO SPEND WITH MARK . . .
There was a long pause, and then, in tacit surrender, Judy said, “Why in the world did you guys ever get into this mail-order scam?” Her voice was flat and weary, bitter and dull. “It doesn’t seem your style, somehow . . .”
MODERNIZATION IS A MUST, MS. PENDER, the card said. THE OLD WAYS JUST AREN’T VERY EFFECTIVE ANYMORE. WE HAVE TO KEEP UP WITH THE TIMES, TOO, YOU KNOW. It paused. NOW . . . ENOUGH SHILLY-SHALLYING, MS. PENDER. YOU MUST DECIDE NOW. IF YOU AGREE TO PAY THE PRICE FOR OUR SERVICE—TO SPECIFY: YOUR FIRST-BORN CHILD—THEN SIGN HERE . . .
A dotted signature line appeared on the postcard.
Judy stared at it, her face haggard, and then slowly, hesitantly, reluctantly, with many a stop and start, she picked up a pen and leaned forward.
She signed her name.
After a moment, the card vanished, disappearing with a smug little pop.
Everything was quiet. Everything was still.
Judy held her breath for a few moments, then slowly let it out. She wiped her brow. Slowly, she began to smile.
She had had her tubes tied two years ago because it was the cheapest and surest form of birth control. It was a good thing that the Wee Folk didn’t really keep up with the times . . .
Whistling cheerfully, she strolled into the kitchen and finished making breakfast.
The Hob
By Judith Moffett
Although Judith Moffett is the author of two books of poetry, a book of criticism, and a book of translations from the Swedish, she made her first professional fiction sale in 1986. Since then, she has won the John W. Campbell Award as Best New Writer of 1987, the Theodore Sturgeon award for her story “Surviving,” and her first novel Pennterra was released to critical acclaim. She has since completed a second novel. Born in Louisville, Kentucky, she now lives with her husband in Wallingford, Pennsylvania, and teaches a science fiction course and a graduate course in twentieth century American poetry at the University of Pennsylvania. She has also taught for four summers at the prestigious Breadloaf Writer’s Conference and was given a National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship Grant for her poetry—which she then used to finance the writing of her first novel.
Here she gives us a compassionate, lyrical, and compelling look behind one of the oldest bits of English folklore.
* * *
Elphi was the first of them to wake that spring, which meant he was the first to catch, almost at once, the faint whiff of corruption. Feeling ghastly, as always upon just emerging from hibernation, he dragged himself out of his bunk to go and see which of the remnant of elderly hobs had died during the winter.
He tottered round the den in darkness, unable as yet to manage the coordination required to strike a light. Nor did he really require one. Hobs were nocturnal. Besides, this group had been overwintering in the same den for nearly a hundred years.
Tarn Hole and Hasty Bank lay together, deep in sleep. Hodge Hob seemed all right . . . and Broxa . . . and Scugdale . . . Ah. Woof Howe Hob was the dead one. Elphi checked on Hart Hall, just to make sure there had been only one death, then wobbled back to his own bed to think.
They would have to get Woof Howe out of the den: he thrust that thought, and the necessity for fast action, into the forefront of his mind to blank out the yawning hollowness, the would-be grief. Every decade or two, now, another of them was lost. The long exile seemed to be coming inexorably to an end, not by rescue as they had gone on expecting for so long, but by slow attrition. Only seven were left of the fifteen stranded in this place, and soon there would be none.
Elphi rolled out again; these thoughts were unproductive, as they had ever been. He needed a drink and a meal.
The great stone that had sealed the den all winter posed a problem. By human standards the hobs were prodigiously strong for their size, even in great age, but Elphi—feeble after his month’s-long fast—would ordinarily not have attempted to move the stone unaided. But he managed it, finally, and poked his head with due caution out into the world.
Outside it was early April on the heather moors of North Yorkshire. Weak as he was, Elphi shuddered with pleasure as the fresh moorland wind blew into his face. The wind was strong, and fiercely cold, but cold had never bothered the hobs and it was not for warmth’s sake that Elphi doubled back down the ladder to fetch forth something to wrap around himself, something that would deceive the eyes of any unlikely walker still on the tops in the last f
ew hours of light. That done, he dragged the heavy stone back across the hole, sealing in the scent of death, and set off on all fours stiffly through the snow-crusted heather.
He followed a sheep-track, keeping a weather eye out as he trotted along for any farmer who might be gathering his moor ewes to bring them down “inside” for lambing now. Those years when the hobs slept a bit later than usual they sometimes found their earliest forays cramped by the presence of farmers and dogs, neither of which could be easily fooled by their disguise. When that happened they were forced to be nocturnal indeed.
But the sheep Elphi saw had a week to go at least before they would be gathered in, and he began to relax. Walkers were always fairly few at this uncomfortable season, and the archeologists who had been working at the prehistoric settlement sites on Danby Rigg the previous summer were not in evidence there now. Perhaps getting rid of old Woof Howe would not be quite so difficult as he had feared—not like the year they had woken in mid-April to find Kempswithen dead and the tops acrawl with men and dogs for days. The only humans he was at all likely to encounter this late afternoon would be hauling hay up to their flocks, and since their tractors and pickups made a din that carried for miles in the open landscape he had no fear of being caught napping.
The local dogs all knew about the hobs, of course, as they knew about the grouse and hares, but they rarely came on the tops unless they were herding sheep, and when they were herding sheep they generally stuck to business. The problem dogs were those the walkers allowed to run loose, whether under good voice control or no. They could be really troublesome. In August and September, when the heather turned the moorland into a shag carpet of purple flowers forty miles wide and a tidal wave of tourists came pouring up to see and photograph them, the hobs never showed their noses aboveground by day at all. But it was a bother, despite their perfect ease at getting about in the dark; for except from November to April hobs didn’t do a lot of sleeping, and they always had more than enough essential work to see to. Then there was the grouse shooting, which started every year on August twelfth and went on till long after Elphi and his companions had gone to ground for the winter . . .
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