William Alexander - Goblin Secrets

“I don’t think I should help anybody find him if he doesn’t want to be found,” Rownie said. “Thanks for the supper. Thanks for hiding me away from the Captain. But . . .” There was no polite way to ask this, so he did not ask politely. “Why should I trust you?”

Semele smiled. Nonny, of course, said nothing.

“Because we’re nice?” Essa suggested.

Patch shrugged and looked dour. “Probably shouldn’t,” he said.

Thomas let out a sigh. It made his beard flare out in all directions. He stopped strumming the bandore and set it aside. “Because I swear to you, by the stage itself, by every tale and character I have ever breathed life into while treading the boards, by every single mask I have ever worn and offered the use of my voice, that we will not harm your brother, and that by finding him we can prevent harm from coming down upon a great many other people—ourselves included. I swear it by blood and by flood and by fire, and I swear it by the stage.”

“Wow,” said Essa.

Rownie was also impressed, but he still wasn’t convinced. “Actors are liars,” he said. “You pretend. It’s kind of your job.”

“No,” said Semele. “We are always using masks and a lack of facts to find the truth and nudge it into becoming more true.” She picked up a pebble from the ground, wiped it off with her sleeve, and held it out to Rownie. “Here. This is more properly a way to say hello to the dead, who are stone silent themselves and therefore accustomed to a pebblish way of speaking. I do not think that Rowan is dead, but he is lost and therefore silent, and I know that this was his way of saying hello to your mother. So I will use it to say hello to you, yes—from him, and also from me.”

Rownie took the offered pebble. It was greenish gray and egg-shaped. “Hello,” he said.

“Welcome to our troupe,” said Semele. “You may stay and perform with us. We will teach you the language of masks—though we must go about that carefully, yes, since maskcraft is more likely to bring about arrest and imprisonment than it once was. We must also go carefully because your former household will be hunting for you. You are still welcome. In exchange, please be helping us to find your brother before the floods come.”

Rownie put the pebble into the only pocket of his coat. “He might be on the bridge,” he said quietly. “I look for him there, and sometimes I see someone who looks like him, though it isn’t ever really him. But maybe he’s there.”

“We have also searched the sanctuary of the Fiddleway,” Thomas said, “and we also have not found him. But we will keep searching. We are grateful for any help you can provide.”

“What do you mean, his former household will be hunting for him?” Essa asked. “We have to worry about old Chicken Legs? Again?”

“Yes,” said Semele. “Please be cautious around pigeons. Tell me if you see them. Tell me if you dream of them, and shout if you wake up from such a dream.”

“Pigeons aren’t very clever,” said Essa. “I mean, I knew an owl who could use doorknobs, and a pair of crows who played harpsichord together. They had terrible voices, but were really just fantastic at the harpsichord. But pigeons are so dumb and mangy-looking. Do we really have to worry about them?”

“Yes,” said Semele. “Tell me if you dream of them.”

“Speaking of dreams,” said Thomas, “it is time we all went to our rest. We have a long walk before the show and the search tomorrow. Choose your masks for the morning walk, and then to bed. Here, Rownie. This one will be yours.” He took off his hat, reached in, and removed a mask shaped like a fox’s face. It had furry fox ears and a long fox nose, with whiskers.

Rownie took the mask and looked it over. It smiled with small, sharp teeth. Its fur was short, and coarse when his thumb rubbed it in the wrong direction. He smoothed the fur back again.

“You will also wear gloves and a hat,” Thomas told him, “in order to hide your un-Tamlinish features. The Guard would be very unhappy with us for teaching maskcraft to an unChanged child. In this way you may hide with us, in full view and in daylight, and seem to be Tamlin yourself. Now, everyone to their rest. I’ll see to the cleaning up. Rownie, find yourself a spare hammock in the wagon and keep the fox nearby while you sleep.” The old goblin poured the rest of the kettle’s contents over the fire. It hissed, sputtered, and steamed.

“Good night,” said Semele.

The rest of the troupe mumbled their good nights. Rownie stood. He felt the fox teeth with his fingertips. He wondered if he would really be able to sleep in a litchfield, surrounded by graves and goblins and possibly ghouls, with a hangman’s rope dangling in the tree branches and bird-dreams perched in the air, waiting to be dreamed. Then he yawned and followed Essa, Patch, and Nonny into the wagon. He carried the fox mask in one hand. With his other hand he checked to make sure the pebblish hello still sat safe in his pocket.

SEVERAL HAMMOCKS STRETCHED across the inside of the wagon, like sailors’ bedding on a barge. Rownie found an empty one, set the mask underneath it, and figured out how to climb in. It took him three tries to manage. He had never slept in a hammock before.

He didn’t think it would be possible to sleep. The bedding was unfamiliar. Straw and rope were both itchy, but in different ways, and he was accustomed to straw and not rope. But he had walked a long way when the day began and had eaten as good and filling a meal as he had ever tasted when the day was over. These two things together summoned sleep, and Rownie let it carry him off.

He dreamed that the city was also his face. The Fiddleway Bridge was the bridge of his nose, and it tickled as traffic walked across it from Northside to Southside, and from Southside to Northside. He woke up and flicked a bug away from his nose. He suspected that a Grub might have put it there, as a joke. Then he remembered that he was no longer in the company of Grubs. He opened his eyes.

Semele stood beside his hammock. She squinted at him. Dusty sunlight poured in through open window hatches in the wagon walls.

“Pigeons?” she asked.

Rownie blinked. He was only half sure where he was, and he wasn’t sure at all what she meant.

“Did you dream of pigeons?” Semele asked.

Rownie shook his head. “No pigeons.”

“Well, that is a good thing, yes.”

Rownie tried to sit up. It wasn’t easy, and he had to brace himself with both arms to manage. He didn’t know how to get out of a hammock. Finally, he flipped the thing upside down and tumbled forth.

“Has the boy injured himself?” Thomas asked from elsewhere in the wagon. “Is he fragile? Is he dead? Have we lost our little fledgling actor already?”

Essa peered down at Rownie from among the ropes and rafters. “He’s not dead,” she reported. “Not unless he’s the sort of dead who gets up and goes walking afterward.”

“Good then,” said Thomas.

Rownie got to his feet, embarrassed. Then he checked to make sure that he hadn’t crushed the fox mask as he fell. The fox grinned, undamaged.

Semele showed him where breakfast was—a bit of bread and dried fruit, left over from supper the night before, and some runny egg yolk to mix with the bread.

The others were already awake. Most of them held masks in their hands. Patch had a half mask with a sinister-looking brow. Essa had two: one of a lady and another that looked heroic. Semele held a mask dyed bluish gray. It had high, sharp cheekbones and long, white hair. She sat on a crate and rubbed egg whites into the hair.