The Islands of the Blessed

Jack didn’t know what to say. Pega thanked God on her knees every day that she hadn’t married the hobgoblin king and gone to live in a musty cave full of mushrooms.

“I’m sure she’ll faint dead away when she sees you,” sneered the Nemesis.

“It might be a good idea to limit the number of people who do see you,” the Bard suggested. “Folks here might mistake you for demons, and we wouldn’t want them to take after you with rocks and rakes.”

“It’s our traditional welcome,” the Bugaboo said, sighing. “What was that horrible cry we heard in the woodland?”

“Such a tale is best left for daytime.” The Bard hunched over his staff, and Jack realized that the old man was completely exhausted.

“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—”