Goblin Moon

by Teresa Edgerton

  "We don't mind taking our turn and helping you to get on," he added. "Why should we? We are all Master Ule's beneficiaries, in one way or the other. Work hard and learn all you can—that will please the Master—and if you please him, you please us as well. But if you are too proud or too lazy to take the opportunity he has offered you . . . why then, you will disappoint us all."

  With the matter presented to him in that light, Jed could only conclude that he would be a bit of a scoundrel himself, did he refuse Master Ule's help. He went back to his ledgers with a good will, and a firm resolution that he would work hard, learn all that he could, and prove himself one of the deserving ones.

  When evening came, Master Ule took his hand and pumped it vigorously. "You are a hard worker, and a very good boy. I am pleased to employ you."

  Under the circumstances, Jed felt uncomfortable bringing up the subject of money—but gratitude, and good resolutions notwithstanding, he could not afford to work for nothing. "We never did come to no agreement on the matter of wages."

  "No more we did," said the dwarf. "I thank you for reminding me. Now, let me see—you have been out of work for some time now, so I think I may safely assume that your financial circumstances are . . . somewhat embarrassed?"

  There was no denying that, but Jed was still reluctant to take advantage of the dwarf's good nature. "There ain't been any talk of throwing me and Uncle Caleb out of our lodgings . . . not yet, anyways."

  Master Ule considered for a few moments more. "What do you say to fifteen shillings a week—the first fortnight in advance? In that way you may pay off some of your more pressing debts, as well as buy yourself garments of . . . rather more recent vintage."

  Jed was too dazed to answer. Fifteen shillings a week, thirty a fortnight—that was close to a season's pay for his gleanings on the river, except when the moon and the tides were particularly generous.

  Master Ule continued on: "In general, we begin our day here an hour after sunrise, but you needn't trouble yourself about that tomorrow. I expect you will wish to spend the morning settling your affairs and seeing to that new suit of clothes."

  When Jed arrived home that evening, he found Uncle Caleb waiting up for him, in the little room they shared above a grog shop, seated in the one good chair the room could boast of: a rocking chair pulled up by the tiny fireplace.

  Even at this season, nights by the river were often cold and damp, so Caleb had lit a little driftwood fire on the hearth and set Jed's evening bowl of porridge on the hob to keep warm.

  "We can save the porridge for morning and fry it up in grease," said Jedidiah, unwrapping a brown paper parcel he had carried in and arranging the contents on a little table by the fire: a side of bacon, six sausages, a pot of fresh cheese, and a loaf of bread.

  The room was not an elegant one, but it possessed a certain broken-down charm. Besides the rocking chair, there was a footstool and two or three less reliable chairs. The walls had been papered some fifteen years before—during a period of comparative prosperity following the sale of a jeweled brooch—in a pattern of blushing gillyflowers and curling green ivy on a cream ground, but the paper was scarred and faded now, and a large oak sideboard (the result of another windfall) was filled with mismatched china in blues and roses and antique golds, most of it chipped or broken.

  These amenities had been purchased to please Jed's mother, who had abandoned the family roof three years past, to live with Jed's sister and her sea-faring husband, declaring that neither the sideboard nor the wallpaper was conveniently portable, and she supposed young Belinda had equally nice things of her own, anyways. The other domestic arrangements consisted of two bunks built into the wall, two patchwork quilts in colors as faded as the wallpaper, a hammock suspended from the ceiling (which accommodated Jed's nephews when they came to visit), some pots, pans, tin cutlery, and a wash-tub which occasionally doubled as a second table.

  Jed took his chances with one of the chairs, sat down, and began to relate the events of the day. Much to his surprise and chagrin, Caleb greeted his new position and his prospects for the future, not with delighted approval, but with a burst of outrage.

  "A bottle factory? Blister me if the boy ain't gone and thrown his lot in with the d----d Glassmakers!" Caleb pounded his fist on an arm of the rocking chair. "Didn't I never warn you about the Glassmakers Guild and all their tomfool rituals and mummery?"

  "I guess you have," Jed replied, with a sigh. "I guess I remember it all pretty well, you being so particular about telling me. What I don't understand is what it—"

  But Caleb was not about to spare him another recital. He folded his arms, rocked his chair, and fixed Jed with a beady black eye, so fierce and full of fire, the boy knew there was no use continuing until Caleb had had his say.

  "Them other guilds is mostly harmless," said Caleb. "Do they dress up in fancy robes on festival days and chant nonsense? Yes, they do. Do they carry on between times with secret handshakes and passwords, all real mysterious? They do that, too. But the difference is: it's mostly play-acting, just calculated to impress ignorant folk like you and me, to keep us in awe of the all-mighty guilds and their all-mighty craft mysteries, which even the guildsmen they don't hardly none of them know what they're about. The words and the rituals has all lost their meaning, and you ask me: 'tis all for the best. But them Glassmakers are different, they take it more serious than most. Yes, and they got good reason, because they know what the ceremonies is for, they remember the magic and the mystery at the heart of them."

  By now, Caleb was rocking his chair so hard that the floorboards creaked in protest, and the cups and plates on the sideboard rattled and jumped, 'til it seemed likely that the old man would bust them all.

  "What they don't know—or won't know—it don't make no difference," Caleb continued, "is the danger in what they do. They're dealing in mysteries they don't rightly understand, and I know for a fact them guildsmen has been tampering with things they had much better leave clean alone."

  But by this time, Jed's patience was wearing pretty thin. "Yes, but I don't see what none of that has got to do with me. I ain't been apprenticed to Master Ule or nothing like that."

  "They ain't all of them glassmakers—I told you that afore," thundered Caleb. "There's gentlemen . . . bookish gentlemen, joined the Guild as well, hoping to be let in on some of their secrets . . . think them guildsmen is some kind of magicians, and if'n they join the Guild, why, they'll become magicians, too."

  "I think you've gone plumb crazy," Jed told him frankly. It was not his way to give his granduncle any sass, but Caleb had pushed him beyond all endurance. "Magic! You're obsessed with it, you and Mr. Jenk. But I was there at the bottle factory all day long, and nobody said nothing about your magical rituals. They was all too busy making bottles or shipping them out—and there's naught mysterious or magical about any of that!"

  "Hmmph!" sniffed Caleb, though it was obvious Jed had given him pause. The old man became thoughtful; the rocking and the rattling gradually ceased.

  "Aye . . . well, I reckon not, not likely they'd make you a 'prentice nor let you in on any of their secrets, you being related to me and all," he sniffed resentfully. "But didn't it never occur to you, lad, that this Master Ule of yours took such a shine to you just because he knew you was my grandnevvy? Didn't you never think he might be curious to learn what Gottfried Jenk and I been doing at the bookshop?"

  Jed was aghast. "Here now . . . you don't think it was Master Ule and the Glassmakers who put that coffin with the wax dummy into the Lunn?"

  "Put the coffin . . ." Caleb did not immediately remember the story Jenk had concocted for the benefit of Walther and Matthias. "No, no, it ain't nothing like that. I meant to say that word might have got around, that Walther and Matthias might not be keeping mum the way they promised. There might be folks who got questions about the . . . wax figure . . . and what it all means."

  Jedidiah shook his head. "If Walther and Matthias blabbed we'd know it. And anyways, I j
ust remembered: Master Ule didn't have no idea who I was when he hired me. No, he never asked my name until the day was half done. And even then, why should he guess—or care—that I was your grandnevvy? There's hundreds of men named Braun in Thornburg."

  Jedidiah did not mention that Master Ule had taken a greater interest after Jed mentioned his connection with Gottfried Jenk. He knew that Caleb was bound to make more of it than was sane or reasonable. As for himself, Jed had no doubts in the matter at all; after spending a day in Master Ule's bottle factory and speaking with his clerks, he was firmly convinced that the dwarf was not capable of conceiving anything so sinister as an ulterior motive.

  "Aye . . . well, maybe so." Caleb began to rock again, but more gently this time. "And after all, this Master Ule of yours ain't nothing but a bottlemaker. That's a simple craft. I don't reckon he stands high in the counsels of the Guild."

  He rocked a little more and thought a little longer. "As long as the pay is good and he treats you well, I don't see no harm, if you want to go on working for him."

  Which was just as well, Jed thought. He knew he was on to a good thing working for Master Ule, and he was not about to toss it all aside just to satisfy Uncle Caleb and his wild suspicions.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wherein Gottfried Jenk accomplishes the Miraculous.

  Not far from Venary Lane, where Dr. Mirabolo held forth at the Temple of the Healing Arts, was a street lined with seedy little thatched-roof shops: apothecaries, herbalists, and chemists for the most part, though an occasional taxidermist, lensmaker, or purveyor of scientific instruments lent a little variety, while maintaining the philosophic "tone" of the neighborhood.

  To that part of Thornburg came Gottfried Jenk, one breezy afternoon, late in the season of Leaves. Plainly but meticulously dressed, from his carefully powdered wig to the highly polished brass buckles on his blunt-toed shoes, the bookseller walked briskly, displaying a nervous energy quite remarkable in a man of his years.

  He entered a shop meaner and dingier than any of the rest. It resembled a taxidermy shop: the shelves displayed a collection of pelts and bones, fins, feathers, antlers, tusks, and horns, and other odd bits and pieces of brute creation in various stages of preservation. And it had something of the barber-surgeon's establishment as well: yellowing teeth (human, and dwarf, and gnome) collected in glass jars, hanks of braided hair suspended from the beamed ceiling. But it smelled like nothing so much as a slaughter-house.

  The proprietor, one Mr. Prodromus, was no more prepossessing than his establishment. A big man with a mane of wild dark hair, he wore a dingy red kerchief around his neck and a gold ring in one ear.

  "Back so soon, Mr. Jenk?" he inquired, with an insolent grin. "Hope you ain't got no complaints against the goods I sold you. Or was it more of the same you was wanting?"

  "I wish," said Jenk curtly, "to purchase more of the same."

  The shopkeeper's leer became considerably more pronounced, and he winked broadly. "That's the way, Mr. Jenk—no need to be specific. No need for you to go naming out loud what I shouldn't have nor you shouldn't want. I like a man as knows the value of discretion."

  He led Jenk into a grimy little room at the back of the shop where he opened a tall cabinet so deep and narrow that it reminded Jenk of the coffin back at the bookshop.

  "Well, now, ain't that a shame and a pity?" said Prodromus, after searching the shelves for several minutes. "Seems I sold the last of that lot, and I can't rightly predict when there'll be a fresh supply." He shook his head mournfully. "It's these new laws Mr. Jenk, they'll be the ruin of me yet. There ain't near so many private executions as there once was, and bribes to the hangman is very dear. But look here . . . I got sommat else as might please you.

  Prodromus dived back into the cabinet and emerged holding a glass jar. "The hand of a Farisee, pickled in brine. A rare item and a fine specimen."

  Jenk eyed the bloated contents of the jar with extreme distaste. The hand was losing its shape; the brine had acquired a yellowish tinge. Either it was very old, or it had been inadequately preserved. "Thank you, but I have no use—"

  "It don't matter," said the shopkeeper, with unimpaired good humor. "Just take a look at this." He returned to the cabinet, replaced the jar, and came out holding something shriveled and leathery, about the color and size of a dried apricot. "The mummified ear of an Yndean prince. Forty wives, this one had, and two hundred little 'uns."

  "Mr. Prodromus!" The bookseller could not contain his outrage. "I am a widower these seven and thirty years, and a man of sober habits. If you cannot provide what I ask, I must bid you good day."

  Jenk left the building in some little haste; he was not sorry to emerge into the light and air. He made several more calls that afternoon, and a few small purchases—as could be seen by the odd bundles, wrapped in brown paper, which distorted the pockets of his full-skirted coat—but his energy dissipated as the day wore on and he trudged back to the bookshop in the early evening with a grey face and a discouraged step.

  As Jenk walked through the door, a silver bell tinkled to announce his presence. The shop was dimly lit. The diamond-paned windows were filled with glass so old and dark they permitted no light to enter from without, and the smoky old lanthorns hanging from the beamed ceiling did little to penetrate the gloom. In a corner at the back of the shop, in a chair tipped backward against the wall, sat Caleb Braun, with his cloth cap pulled down over his eyes and his stubbled chin resting on his breast, snoring lustily.

  Jenk stood for a moment looking down at him. In his faded and patched blue coat, with his bearded cheek and his grizzled pigtail, Caleb little resembled the brisk, ambitious young footman who had entered the Jenk household fifty years before. Memories of that younger Caleb made the bookseller gentle as he touched the old river man on the shoulder and softly spoke his name.

  Caleb pushed back his cap, opened his bleary eyes. "Had ye any luck in obtaining the tinctures?"

  Jenk shook his head, drew up a high stool, and sat down with a weary sigh. "No, Caleb, I had no luck today. The prices Koblenz and Jakob demanded were beyond all reason, and Mistress Sancreedi—who might have lowered her prices had I offered a convincing plea of poverty—was unwilling to sell me the tinctures at any price, unless I would reveal to her my entire purpose."

  At the name of Sancreedi, Caleb shuddered elaborately. "I'd as soon we had no dealings with that woman. There's sommat uncanny about her . . . them big yellow eyes like a cat or an owl, and never a sound when she enters a room."

  "Uncanny indeed; 'tis said the Sancreedi's have Farisee blood," Jenk agreed. "And yet they are not to be despised on that account—far otherwise. Like all fairies, they have an exaggerated sense of justice. And it is just because Mistress Sancreedi is so painstakingly scrupulous in all her dealings that I was unwilling to confide in her now."

  Caleb removed his cap and rubbed his grizzled head. "We're in too far to back out now."

  Jenk took a watch out of a pocket in his waistcoat, opened it up with a flick of his thumb, and stared numbly at the time. The watch case was skull-shaped, done in white enamel, with pansies and Spagnish lilies painted on the dial. It was one of the few fine and fanciful things Jenk still owned; he expected to be buried with it. "I have no desire to beggar myself a second time, either by ill-conceived actions or by a failure of nerve. I have considered (and really, I do not know why I should be so reluctant—for pride is a vice I can ill afford), I have considered writing to the Duke. His antiquarian leanings are as well-known as his generosity. The books from the river are old, and the mysteries they treat of even older; I believe they might serve to pique his interest. In truth, had I not been too proud and too secretive to accept his help before, I might be a wealthy man today."

  Caleb grunted. "Zar-Wildungen? I thought him dead and buried these ten years or more "

  Jenk smiled thinly. "Buried, in a manner of speaking, but not yet dead. He lives much retired at the Wichtelberg, his country estate, having abandoned all
but the quietest and most scholarly pursuits, for his health is not good—indeed, I believe he must be well past ninety—while his Duchess remains in town leading a life of fashionable excess. Yet even Marella Carleon could not exhaust the Zar-Wildungen fortune, and if we can gain her lord's patronage, why then . . . we should have no difficulty meeting Jakob's price."

  Jenk closed his watch, put it back in his waistcoat pocket. "It grows late," he said. "You may close up shop if you wish. And when you are done you may join me in the laboratory. I have something to show you which may prove of interest."

  While Caleb barred the front door and shuttered the windows, Jenk took down one of the lanthorns, went to a low door at the back of the shop, and drew out his iron ring of keys. The door was padlocked with an ancient brass lock. Jenk sorted through his keys, found the one that he wanted, and opened the door.

  The airless room on the other side boasted but a single window set high in one wall, and that was shuttered and barred. The furnishings were sparse: a chair, a bench, a stool, and two long tables constructed of scarred planks. A fireplace in one corner had been bricked in to form an athenor, or alchemical furnace, and a copper still was joined to the furnace by a bulb and a glass pipe. The rest of Jenk's laboratory equipment was arranged on one of the tables: flasks and retorts; aludels, crucibles; and balaenium, and the monstrous bronze mortar in which the alchemist ground his herbs and his powders with a great iron pestle. On the second table rested the long ebonwood coffin.

  Jenk hung his lanthorn from a hook in the beamed ceiling and lifted the lid of the casket. When the coffin first arrived, it had smelled of the river, damp and weedy, but as the wood dried the river odor faded, to be replaced by another that was dark and pungent, like a mixture of camphor and hemp. The odor was not precisely unpleasant, but it was pervasive, clinging to Jenk's skin and to his clothes long after he left the room.