The Islands of the Blessed

“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.” 

Chapter Eleven HAZEL COMES HOME

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?

Pega came out of the barn with an armload of hay. Hazel whooped and ran to her. “The pretty lady!” she squealed. She collided with Pega, sending hay in all directions.

“Why, it’s—it’s—how did you get here?” gasped Pega, trying to catch her breath. She waved distractedly at the others.

“Da brought me,” cried the child. “Please say you’ll be our queen! The Bugaboo is most dreadfully unhappy.”

“Dear saints in Heaven, is he here too?” said Pega, looking around. She tried to walk, but Hazel had clamped her sturdy arms around the girl’s legs.

“The hobgoblins have promised to stay out of sight,” the Bard said, amused. “I presume Giles and Alditha are at home? Good. Wipe that glum expression off your face, Jack, and unhook your sister.”

Jack pried one of Hazel’s hands loose and dragged her away, but the little girl kept a firm grip on Pega’s skirt. “You are a strong little lassie, aren’t you?” said Pega, following to keep her clothes from getting torn.

“I shall wait in the barn,” Thorgil said haughtily. “I have taken an oath never to enter that house again.” Jack didn’t argue with her. He had more than enough problems.

Everyone was sitting in the sunny herb garden. Mother was weaving, and Mrs. Tanner was twisting wool into yarn. The Tanner girls were riddling seeds, shaking them in baskets to see which were heavy and might still grow. Father was mending a milk pail.