Nancy - The Islands of the Blessed

Jack moved baskets and chests next to the wall to make space. The Nemesis and Mr. Blewit helped him make up beds, and by the time they were finished, the floor was wall to wall hobgoblins and humans. If anyone else visited, Jack thought, they would have to hang him from the ceiling.

Mr. Blewit covered Hazel with his cloak. It was made of motley wool, and when it was in place, all you could see was the top of her round little head. The rest of her seemed to vanish. The melancholy hobgoblin stroked her hair, and she gleeped faintly.

Jack had a hollow feeling in the middle of his heart. The Blewits loved Hazel deeply. They would never give her up. But Mother and Father wanted her too, and they certainly deserved to keep her. It was a problem for which there was no good solution.

Jack packed Fair Lamenting in one of the Bard’s chests. By the time he’d finished, he was almost falling off the perch himself. He settled gratefully into a heap of bracken and straw.

“Tell me what happened with the draugr,” whispered Thorgil, crouching beside him on the floor.

Jack listened to the night wind fiddling with the thatch overhead and watched the shadows flicker at the far end of the house. “Not tonight,” he said, remembering the chill mist pressing in against his chest. “The Bard says such tales are best kept for daytime,” he said. “I think he has a good reason.”

The Nemesis sprang from his bed with a roar. “That monster tried to eat my toes!” he shrieked, quivering with rage. Seafarer looked up, thoughtfully clicking his beak.

“Is it morning yet?” said Thorgil, burrowing deeper into her straw.

“Your pet tried to kill me and that’s all you can say?” screamed the Nemesis.

Jack got up swiftly and opened the door. The sun was just below the margin of the sea and wisps of clouds had turned pink in the dawn. Come, he said in Bird. The albatross ignored him.

“You have to compliment his wings first,” Thorgil muttered. When Jack had repeated the correct formula, the great bird reluctantly turned away from the hobgoblin’s toes and followed the boy outside.

“They are like fishing worms, aren’t they?” Jack said, leading Seafarer down to the water. He sat on the sand, enjoying the fresh air after the musty atmosphere in the house. Hobgoblins always did smell of mushrooms, he remembered. “What are we going to do with you when we go north?” Jack said.

Seafarer spread his wings and tested the breeze. One of them drooped. He did a practice run along the sand and fell over in an ungraceful heap.

“Don’t feel bad,” Jack said to encourage him. “It’s early days still. If worse comes to worst, I suppose we could take you with us. I wouldn’t trust the Northmen too far, though. They’ll think you’re a seagoing chicken.”

Seafarer had discovered a tide pool full of crabs and proceeded to clean it out. By then Jack could smell food, and he rose and ambled up the path. He heard the sound of pattering. Seafarer was running after him as fast as he could.

“I wouldn’t desert you,” the boy said, touched. He stroked the bird’s feathers and was rewarded with a soft whistle that meant contentment. “I wish I knew more Bird. It comes naturally to Thorgil, but I have to work at it. Never mind. I once learned to communicate with giant spiders, and nothing could be harder than that.” He kept up the one-sided conversation, not knowing whether Seafarer understood a single word. But the Bard said animals responded more to music than speech. Seafarer certainly seemed interested in Jack’s voice.

“Keep that behemoth away from me,” the Nemesis said as they entered.

“Now, now, you could easily spare him a toe,” the Bugaboo said. “It isn’t as though it wouldn’t grow back.”

Jack put Seafarer in the alcove and sat next to the fire with the others. The Bard had already recounted the story of the draugr, leaving out the grimmer parts because Hazel was listening.

“We’ve come across a draugr or two in our travels,” said the Nemesis. “Jenny Greenteeth, for example. There’s someone you don’t want to find at the foot of your bed. Do you remember that night we camped in the Hall of Wraiths?”

“Oh, my!” The Bugaboo’s eyes bulged at the memory. “A deer would have had trouble keeping up with us after she appeared—but we mustn’t get bogged down in old tales. My dear Dragon Tongue, do you think it’s safe to lure the sea hag away? You have to keep several hops ahead of something like that.”

“Of course it isn’t safe,” the Bard said, stirring the embers of the fire with his staff. Jack had often noticed that it never burned, no matter how long the old man poked around with it. “I can’t leave her here. She’ll become a permanent resident, like Jenny in the Hall of Wraiths. Jenny’s grievance happened so long ago that she can’t remember what it was. If you don’t fix wrongs in time, they never go away.”

“Well, you can’t have a draugr trailing after you forever.”

“No,” said the Bard thoughtfully, stirring the flames. “Everything depends on what fate has in store for Severus. He isn’t a bad man, you know, just an incredibly pig-headed, narrow-minded idiot. He feels guilty.”

“Fat lot of good that does,” said the Nemesis.

“He won’t escape punishment, but it will probably take the form of some penance. I doubt whether the draugr will be satisfied with anything less than his death.”

“What happens if she isn’t satisfied?” demanded the Nemesis.

The Bard’s eyes looked into the distance, seeing beyond the wall to someplace Jack could only guess at. “Then… I suppose… I must find another solution.”

All this while Seafarer had been talking to himself. Jack had noticed that the albatross liked to join conversations. They must have reminded him of the sounds a flock made when birds nested together. Seafarer clicked, whistled, snapped his beak, and moaned, for all the world like someone offering an opinion. Hazel had been growing steadily more restless. She was irresistibly drawn to the dangerous bird and more than once had to be kept from pulling his feathers.

Now she wriggled off Blewit’s lap and made a beeline for the alcove. Blewit caught her just in time. “Let’s go down to the beach, dearest, and see if your old da can snag a fish,” he whispered. She nodded happily and waggled her stubby toes in imitation of his long ones. Jack was relieved when they left.

“Excuse me for interrupting, sir,” he said, anxious to take advantage of Blewit’s absence. “I need to ask whether Hazel is here permanently.”

“No!” cried the Nemesis before the Bard could respond.

“He’s right. It would kill the Blewits to give her up,” the Bugaboo said. “And anyone can see that tearing Hazel away from them would cause her untold harm.”

Jack bowed his head. He didn’t know what to say.

“I know we’re responsible for the problem,” said the hobgoblin king. “I’ll do everything in my power to solve it. We’ll visit every summer and give Hazel a chance to know her human family.”

“Why not stay all the time?” Jack said.

The Bugaboo and the Nemesis exchanged glances. They seemed reluctant to answer.

“Because the villagers would mistake them for demons,” the Bard said. “It’s foolishness, of course—no one is more kindhearted than hobgoblins—but old habits die hard. We can’t even admit that Hazel was raised by them. She’ll have a hard enough time fitting in.”

“There’s also— you know,” the Bugaboo said hesitantly.

“What?” said Jack.

“Getting mudstruck .” The hobgoblin king whispered as though it were a shameful secret.

Jack looked to the Bard for explanation.

“Hobgoblins are irresistibly drawn to humans, or as they put it, mud people,” the old man said. “From the first minute they saw us, hobgoblins fell in love. You’ve seen how they copy our houses and clothes. The trouble is, if they stay around us too long, they can’t bring themselves to return home. It’s a kind of addiction, like the craving for strong drink among Northmen.”

“Many a Christian house has its resident hobgoblin,” the Bugaboo said sadly. “He watches over the family and secretly does small chores, like cleaning out the fireplace or rocking the baby’s cradle. Gradually, he wastes away out of loneliness. He’s never appreciated, though he would give his life for his humans. If he’s discovered, he’s pelted with rocks.”

“So that’s being mudstruck,” murmured Jack.

“Please! We don’t use the word in polite company,” the Nemesis growled.

“And now it’s time for me to introduce the child to her real parents,” the Bard said, standing and brushing a few flecks of ash from his robe. “Jack and Thorgil will accompany me. You hobgoblins can stay here, if you wish.”

“Blewit would never let his darling out of his sight,” said the Bugaboo. “He’ll insist on following, and we, of course, must support him. But never fear. No human ever sees us when we want to remain hidden.”

Hidden they were, from farmers planting fields and from John the Fletcher hunting for the draugr that had killed his hens. None of the women traveling to the baker’s house, from which the warm smell of bread radiated, saw the hobgoblins. Not one of the boys playing Bull in the Barn noticed the speckled shapes flitting from shadow to shadow. Of course, the motley wool cloaks helped, but even without such cover, the hobgoblins blended into the background with remarkable ease. Jack could detect them because he knew what to look for.

Everyone noticed Hazel. How could they not, Jack thought miserably. She puffed out her cheeks and wiggled her ears with glee. This was a grand adventure! She was seeing more mud people than she had ever dreamed possible and thought they were pleased with her as well. They raised their eyebrows and opened their mouths into an O, exactly like a hobgoblin when he was happy.

“Who is this lassie?” inquired a farm wife, after watching Hazel snap at a butterfly.

“Jack’s relative from the north,” the Bard said blandly. “His great-aunt’s brother’s granddaughter. Doesn’t she look exactly like Giles Crookleg?”

“Why… yes,” said the woman, trying to work out the relationship.

“We’ll have to teach her manners,” hissed Jack when they were alone again. Hazel was hopping down the road. She did it extremely well, aided by her sturdy legs and lots of practice. “Everyone will think she’s demented.”

“I disagree,” Thorgil said unexpectedly. “Everyone will think she’s simply playing. She’s no different than a puppy trying out its paws.”

“Very wise, shield maiden,” the Bard said.

If the hobgoblins were invisible to people, the animals could certainly see them. There was much baaing and bellowing as black-faced sheep scurried out of their way. A cat arched its back and spat when the Nemesis grinned at it. Chickens fled in panic when Mr. Blewit’s long, unhappy face peered out of a gooseberry bush.

They arrived at the path leading to Jack’s farm, and he unconsciously slowed down. Now was the moment he dreaded. Now he wished they could return to the Bard’s house, spend more time preparing for this meeting, and train Hazel to be more like…

Lucy.

Lucy was the daughter his parents had loved all those years Hazel was missing. Lucy was like a ray of light dancing over a pond, the joy of Father’s eyes from the first moment he saw her. Her hair was as golden as sunset clouds, her eyes as blue as forget-me-nots. People caught their breath when they saw her, for no child in the village had ever been so beautiful. How could stocky, earthbound Hazel ever take her place?