Nancy Farmer - The Islands of the Blessed

“We should go home now,” the boy said. “I’m sure we can find room for a pair of old friends.”

“More than a pair, actually,” said the Bugaboo. “You can come out now, Blewit. It’s perfectly safe.”

A skinny hobgoblin appeared from behind a bush, struggling with a bundle. Jack was amazed to see the long, gloomy face of Mr. Blewit. The bundle wriggled free and dropped to the ground.

It was Hazel, Jack’s long-lost sister.

The little girl bounded over the grass exactly like a sprogling, or young hobgoblin. “Oh, goody! Mud men! My favorite treat,” the child squealed.

Jack lifted her into his arms, intending to swing her around, but she weighed twice as much as he’d expected. He put her down again.

“I’m along to make sure you don’t steal my baby,” growled Mr. Blewit. “This is a visit, mind you. Don’t get too used to her.”

Get used to her? Jack wasn’t sure he could ever do that. He loved her, of course. She was his sister. But she’d been stolen as an infant by hobgoblins. When he’d found her in the Land of the Silver Apples, Hazel didn’t even know she was human. She imitated the hobgoblins’ froggy ways, blinking her eyes one after the other as they did. She attempted to snag moths out of the air with her tongue. She even gleeped, making an ugly plopping sound that indicated joy.

“Stop nitter-nattering, Blewit,” the Nemesis ordered. “Our feet will have put down roots by the time you finish moaning. I’ll carry Dragon Tongue.” The hobgoblin hoisted the Bard as easily as a man picking up a kitten. Jack was relieved that the surly Nemesis had realized the old man’s exhaustion. Being carried like a baby wasn’t the most dignified way to travel, but the Bard didn’t complain. With Jack leading the way, the group set off for the old Roman house.

“I remember this place,” said the Bugaboo as they reached the top of the cliff. “It’s lasted well, but then, the man who built it was an excellent architect.”

“You know who built it?” asked Jack, who recalled that until recently the hobgoblins had scarcely aged at all. The Bugaboo could be very old indeed.

“I saw who built it,” the hobgoblin king said. “He was a poet exiled for writing rude poetry about his emperor. He painted the walls to resemble a Roman garden to cheer up his wife. There used to be a bathhouse over there before part of the cliff crumbled into the sea.”

“He had a pair of brats who threw stones at me when I surprised them in the woods,” the Nemesis said, grinning wickedly.

Jack felt a chill that was something like being in the presence of a draugr, but not as deep or dire. It was more of a passing sadness, a faint memory of a beloved dwelling, now lost in time.

The Nemesis put the Bard down and steadied him as the old man found his feet. “Thanks, old friend,” the Bard said. “Magic tires me out more than it used to.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” the hobgoblin said gruffly. “Fighting monsters always takes it out of you, no matter how old you are.” Jack was surprised by how respectful the Nemesis was.

Hazel darted past them. “Da! It’s the ugly mud woman,” she called. “Where’s the pretty one?”

“If you touch those baskets, I’ll kill you,” came Thorgil’s voice from inside.

Hazel laughed like a hobgoblin; the sound resembled someone choking on a piece of gristle. Dear God, thought Jack. What are Mother and Father going to think of her?

Mr. Blewit hurried inside and snatched up the little girl before she could get into trouble.

Jack saw to his consternation that Thorgil had gone hunting and made a stew with the results. She usually avoided such work, but her good mood must have impelled her to cook. She could no longer use a bow and arrow, but her skill with a spear or a sling was excellent. The shield maiden’s cooking methods were basic, however, and she tended to leave shreds of fur in the mix. Jack saw what looked like squirrels bobbing around.

“Smells interesting,” said the Bugaboo, opening his nostrils very wide. “Perhaps it would benefit from a few mushrooms—”

“There you go, criticizing the cook before you’ve properly greeted her,” the Nemesis complained. “I apologize for my rude companion, Thorgil, and for dropping in on you so unexpectedly—great toadstools!” The hobgoblin leaped out of the way as Seafarer made a stab at him. Jack had forgotten how very nimble hobgoblins could be. The Nemesis clung to the ceiling by his sticky toes and fingers.

Thorgil laughed merrily. She said something in Bird to the albatross, and he slouched off to the alcove. “I, at least, welcome you,” she said. “Seafarer has never seen anything like you before.”

“I’ve never seen anything like him either,” said the Nemesis, dropping down. “Is he a troll-seagull or what?”

“An albatross from the far south. Seafarer says there are thousands of his kind there.”

“Let’s hope they stay there,” muttered the Nemesis.

“Greetings, noble shield maiden,” the Bugaboo said, bowing deeply. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

They sat around the fire with bowls of stew, which wasn’t as bad as Jack had feared. Fortunately, there was a good supply of bread, for the hobgoblins ate ravenously. Hazel licked out her bowl and clamored for more. After they had finished, the Bard explained about the trading journey to Bebba’s Town.

“You’re low on food! You should have told us,” exclaimed the Bugaboo. “The Nemesis and I will go fishing. There’s nothing like hobgoblin toes to attract a fat fish.” He held out his foot, wriggling the long toes temptingly in different directions. Hazel clapped her hands with glee.

The Bard jerked himself awake. “My stars, I’m about to fall off my perch. If you’ll forgive me, dear friends, I’ll go to bed.” The hobgoblins apologized for keeping him up late, and Jack helped him to the truckle bed at the far end of the house. “See to the bedding, lad,” the Bard said. “There should be enough straw in the storeroom.”

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.