Goblins and Snowflakes

by Melanie Karsak

  I turned and headed down the road. As I walked, I considered the gnomes. My mind was at war. There was no such thing as magic. But if there was no such thing as magic, how had all that work been achieved? Who had done it? Certainly, the sisters had not. And neither had I. And who had moved the gnomes? The little conductor seemed to motion to me but wouldn’t offer any proof of life. But still. He had a heart. I knew it. I had placed the heart within him.

  “Miss Rossetti?” a voice called, startling me from my thoughts.

  I looked up to find Annabeth walking toward me.

  “Missus Buckingham! How are you?”

  “I’m wonderful. Oh, Miss Rossetti, I’ve just come from Strawberry Hill. They’ve given me a position. I start on Boxing Day. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “That’s such great news. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks to you, Miss Rossetti. Thank you so, so much.”

  I smiled happily. “It was nothing.”

  “I need to go home and tell the children. What happy news.”

  “Give them all a hug for me.”

  “I will, and thank you again,” she said, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.

  We parted then. I looked ahead of me. The woods were not far away.

  “Annabeth,” I called back to her. “Are the merchants still camped in the woods?”

  “Merchants? No. I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Oh. All right. Happy Christmas Eve.”

  “And to you, miss,” she called then went on her way.

  I smiled, my heart brimming with joy at Annabeth’s news. I hurried along the path. I was midway through the woods when I slowed. Despite Annabeth’s words, there, deep in the forest, were the merchants. Smoke rose from their fire, and I could hear odd instruments playing, the notes strange and discordant.

  “Come buy, Miss Rossetti,” a voice called from behind me.

  I froze.

  My skin chilled to goosebumps.

  “Leave me alone,” I said, looking over my shoulder. But when I did so, no one was there.

  Frowning, I turned back only to find the little man who had sold me the hagstones standing in front of me.

  “You don’t want to buy?”

  “No. Now, move aside.”

  “But Miss Rossetti, didn’t you like the stones? Didn’t they work the way you wanted? Merry little chaps. We espied them through the window. All night long, they worked and worked, singing and working gleefully. Such sweet little creatures. They worked the whole night through until their little leader wound down to sleep.”

  I stared at the man. “W-what?”

  “I told you, we sell the things a person wants, the things a person needs.”

  “Enough. Move aside,” I said then moved to step around him.

  Effortlessly, he blocked me. “Won’t you buy again?”

  “Leave me in peace or next time, I’ll be back with the constable and a pistol.”

  “But we thought you might like to buy this,” he said, his gloved hand outstretched.

  His fingers were so long, too long, the hand looking deformed. There, in his palm, lay a windup key.

  But not any windup key.

  It was the key to my gnome. I recognized the engraving on the handle.

  “Where did you get that?” I whispered.

  “Oh, you see, we watched and watched. Funny little men. And when they slept, we took the key. Sadly, he will not be able to wake—or wake his friends—without it,” the merchant said, closing his hand around the windup.

  “You stole it,” I said, my voice full of venom.

  “Yes,” he answered with a dark hiss. “Yes, we did. And now you will buy it back.”

  “No, you will give it back. Now,” I said, sticking out my hand. I moved closer to the man.

  The wind blew, making the man’s hood flutter. In that single moment, I caught a glimpse of his face: yellow eyes, greenish, molted skin, and odd veins that were close to the surface. His face was…inhuman.

  “No, Miss Rossetti. Now, you will buy,” he said, his voice dark.

  My heart thumped hard in my chest.

  “You will buy. Or we will watch, and watch, and watch you until you cannot help but buy. We will make you buy.”

  “What do you want?” I asked, my voice a soft whisper.

  “A book.”

  “A book?”

  He nodded. “My master wants a book from the library,” he said, pointing one of his long fingers toward Strawberry Hill. “You will bring us the book. Tonight. Then we will give you your key and be on our way.”

  “What kind of book?”

  “You don’t need to know what kind of book,” he spat, glaring at me, his eyes flashing.

  He dipped into his pocket and pulled out a yellowed paper. He handed it to me.

  I steeled my nerve and took the slip. On it was written words I couldn’t read in a language I didn’t recognize.

  “You will find this book and bring it to my master tonight. And if you do not, we will make you buy. Perhaps Miss Annabeth will pass through the forest again. We watched her close, you know. We saw her, but she didn’t see us. We see many who pass. Young Boatswain. Mistress Quickly. We see them, but they do not see us. We will make you buy, Miss Rossetti. Do you understand?”

  I did. The merchant—the creature—had lured me into a trap. I knew deep in my heart I shouldn’t have taken those stones. But I had. I had, and now I had to comply, or they would find someone to hurt.

  The little man laughed again, a terrible hissing sound. “By midnight,” he said then turned and walked away. He passed a tall timber. I expected him to reappear on the other side, but he was gone. And along with him, the tents vanished from sight. Only a puff of smoke twisting upward through the leafless trees remained.

  I remembered Mistress Quickly’s words. They seemed to be gone.

  Seemed was right.

  Because even though I couldn’t see them, I could feel their yellow eyes on me. Watching and waiting.

  Chapter 9: It Doesn’t Look Like Anything to Me

  I rushed back to Strawberry Hill.

  This wasn’t possible. This couldn’t possibly be real.

  But it was.

  It was all real.

  As I moved quickly through the snow, I considered everything I’d seen. The tents. The merchants. The hagstones. The gnomes.

  But there was more.

  The merchants weren’t human. They looked like monsters…like goblins.

  That wasn’t possible.

  Opening the latch on the front door slowly, I hoped to slip into the house unseen. I would go to the library, find the book, and undo all this mess. Immediately.

  “Scarlette?” a voice called.

  I turned to find Archie standing there, a footman helping him on with his coat.

  “I was just about to come looking for you.”

  “Oh. I just ran into town for a moment. I…” I paused. What should I do? Should I tell him? I looked down at the slip of paper in my hand then up at Archie who was smiling at me, his green eyes shimmering. But the more he studied me, the happy expression faded from his face.

  His brow furrowed. “Is everything all right?”

  I shook my head. Pulling off my coat, I crossed the room and took Archie by the arm. “I need your help,” I said in a low whisper.

  “You look upset. What is it? Can I help?” he replied.

  I nodded. “Come with me.” Leading Archie in the direction of the library, I handed him the paper. “Can you read that?” I asked.

  He studied the paper. “What language is this?”

  “That is an excellent question.”

  “What is it?”

  “Apparently, it’s the title of a book.”

  “A book?”

  I nodded. “One I need to find at once.”

  Slipping down the narrow hallway, Archie and I arrived at the library.

  “Scarlette, what’s going on?” Archie asked.

  “It’s hard—
no, impossible—to explain. I just need that book. You check foreign languages,” I said, pointing to a shelf. “I’ll check folklore.”

  “Scarlette,” Archie said, giving me a pleading look.

  “Please, Archie. I must hurry.”

  “All right.”

  Sliding the ladder to the folklore section of the stacks, I slipped up the steps and began scanning. My fingers danced across the spines of the books. I couldn’t find it. I looked at row upon row. As I did, my anxiety rose. It wasn’t here.

  “Anything?” I called to Archie.

  “Not yet.”

  I checked the entire folklore and fairy tales section. It wasn’t there. Climbing back down, I moved the ladder along its rails to the books on religion.

  “Scarlette, do you want me to fetch Earl Walpole? Surely, he will know where the book is to be found. And maybe even the language.”

  “No, not yet.”

  I checked every book on religion. Nothing.

  “Not here,” Archie said. “Do you know what the book is about?”

  “Maybe…maybe, magic?”

  “Magic?”

  I nodded.

  Archie looked at me, stroking his chin as he considered the issue. “Scarlette, you must tell me what you have seen.”

  “I…well, I don’t know exactly,” I replied.

  “Does this have something to do with those merchants you’ve seen in the woods?”

  “Yes.”

  “The ones that aren’t there anymore.”

  “They are there. They just aren’t…”

  “Aren’t what?”

  “Aren’t what they seem.”

  “You mean, they aren’t human,” Archie said. His tone was so matter-of-fact, I didn’t know what to say.

  “Why don’t you look surprised? Or confused. Or alarmed. Or…”

  Archie looked over his shoulder. He tapped the pin on his lapel, the R.M. encapsulated by a circle. “No one in this house who would be surprised. It is an issue that concerns all of us.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That we know. Now, tell me what you saw.”

  “I’m not sure. If I had to pick a word, it would be goblins. A goblin market. I thought they were just merchants, traveling vendors. They were so insistent. I avoided them until…”

  Archie inhaled and stiffened. “Please don’t tell me you bought something.”

  “I…”

  “Please don’t tell me you tasted any of their fruits, their sweets—“

  “No, no. I didn’t. But I did buy.”

  “What did you buy?”

  “Hagstones.”

  Archie’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “My gnomes. I must be going mad. Archie, I sewed the hagstones into the gnomes, gave them heart, just as your grandfather said. And they…they came to life. I didn’t see it with my own eyes, but all the work at the Two Sisters was done overnight. The gnomes did the work. They came alive because of those stones. But the goblins have taken my windup key, and they’ve threatened to do more, do worse, unless I bring them the book.”

  “Scarlette, you must never bargain with goblin men.”

  “Who would believe such a thing exists?”

  He nodded stoically then looked at the yellowed paper in his hand once more.

  I glanced around the room then considered the problem once more. Why would goblins want a book? What rare piece of information could it hold?

  I gasped. “Rare books,” I said then ran to the other side of the library. Fingering through the shelf, I finally discovered a very small book with brittle binding. Along its edge was written the name of the title in the unfamiliar language.

  “Is that it?” Archie asked.

  I nodded. Gently removing the book, which was so small it could fit in the palm of my hand, I set it on the table. The paper was thin, the binding so old, that flakes of the cover came off. Turning the pages gently, and keeping in mind that Uncle Horace always wore white gloves when handling his rare tomes, I looked inside.

  Archie came and stood beside me, watching as I turned the pages.

  “I don’t know this language,” he said.

  I shook my head. “Nor do I. The…goblins—I still cannot believe I’m saying such a thing—but do goblins have their own language? Is such a thing possible?”

  “Yes,” Archie replied, certainty in his voice.

  His answer chilled me. “But what is this book? Why do they want it so badly that they entrapped you just to get it?” Archie said.

  “I don’t know,” I eyed the writing, small loops and dots marked the letters which were otherwise unfamiliar. I exhaled heavily. “What if this book contains something very wicked. There is no way to know. How can I hand over such a book not knowing the content?”

  I turned to the very last page. There, at the end, was a signature. The name was almost impossible to read, but the letters took on a familiar shape. “Chri—something. Marl—something. I can’t make out the rest.”

  Archie nodded. “If only we knew what it said. There may be someone here who can read it. I don’t know. But we must tell Master Montgomery and Mistress Quickly.”

  “I…Elvish,” I said then snapped my fingers.

  “Elvish?”

  “Just something Laura said. She told me her mother said that if you look through a hagstone, you can read elvish. If we had a hagstone, maybe we could try.”

  “Grandfather didn’t have another. But your Uncle Horace has a fine collection of Native American artifacts,” Archie said then rushed to the door. “Wait here. I’ll be back in just a moment.”

  I went to the window. There, in the distance beyond the gate, I saw a hooded figure, waiting and watching.

  “Goblins.”

  Not possible.

  Not possible, but real.

  “Goblins and clockwork gnomes. What is this world?”

  I stared at the figure. A few moments later, Archie returned. “Here,” he said, lifting a rock which was a bit larger than the hagstones, but was still a stone with a hole at its center. He crossed the room to join me.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Your Uncle Horace’s Native American collection has a very nice assortment of tools used by the native people. I believe this was used for making weapons. No matter. It’s a stone with a hole. Let’s see if it works,” he said then handed the stone to me.

  I took the stone then paused, gazing out the window once more. “There,” I said, pointing.

  Archie followed my gaze.

  “Do you see him?” I asked.

  Archie nodded. “This realm is full of haunted places and things. It is a secret world that lives just under our own. You, Scarlette Rossetti, have opened the door to that world quite by accident. But, I think, it was inevitable.”

  “Inevitable? Why?”

  “Because all around you are doors. Eventually, you were going to open one.”

  I stared at Archie.

  He took my hand, and we went back to the table where the book was laying.

  I turned the pages back to the beginning, took a deep breath, then lifted the stone. Centering it and focusing my vision, I looked at the book. My hands began to shake.

  “Scarlette?” Archie whispered.

  “A Guide to Controlling Goblins and other Magical Creatures,” I said, my voice trembling. “That is the title.”

  Archie rushed across the room and grabbed some parchment lying in a tray. He pulled out a chair and sat down, pulling an inkpot toward himself.

  “You read. I’ll record,” he said.

  I turned the page and looked as the words slowly shifted from goblin to English. “It’s all about goblins and other fey creatures. There are enchantments, spells.” I shook my head. “No wonder they want the book.”

  Outside, the wind blew, stirring up the snow.

  “Come buy, come buy,” I heard a soft call on the breeze.

  Archie turned toward the window. “Was that…”

 
I nodded.

  He frowned. “If they want their book, then we shall give it back to them. But not without recording its contents first. Dammit, I wish there was a faster way.”

  “We’ll invent one after this. I’ll be quick. Let’s begin: A Guide to Controlling Goblins and other Magical Creatures.”

  I began reciting, the hagstone translating the words from goblin to English. With each successive page, the hair on the back of my neck rose, and my skin broke out in goosebumps. The tiny tome spoke of pooka, brownies, boggarts, fairies, goblins, and even the little people of the hollow hills. Whoever had written this book had trafficked with them, learned their ways, and had recorded it all. My hands trembled as the book described the goblin king, a fierce overlord who was centuries old. I remembered the merchant’s words about his master. Is that who he meant? The goblin king? Had the goblin king demanded the return of the book?

  A footman came to call Archie and me for luncheon, but we sent our apologies. There was no time to stop. It had already grown dark outside when I finally came to the last page where the original author had left his mark.

  “I still cannot make out the name,” I said, frowning as I set down the hagstone.

  “We will inquire with the Rude Mechanicals.”

  “The what?”

  Archie tapped his pin once more. “The Rude Mechanicals.”

  “Like the Shakespeare play?”

  “Exactly. Master Shakespeare was a founding member.”

  Astonished, I shook my head. I gently closed the book and glanced outside. “It’s nearly dark. I need to go,” I said, standing. My neck and back ached.

  “The goblins will try to double-cross you. I’m coming with you.”

  “Archie, you can’t risk yourself for me.”

  “What if something happens to you?” he said then took my hand. “Scarlette… Please forgive me for being so presumptuous, but I’m afraid I’m quite taken with you. And, I think, you feel the same way. Thoughts have crossed my mind that I’ve never even entertained before. I can’t let you go alone. Do you understand? Letting you go alone puts that vision—and you—at risk.”