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The Sweetest Stalklings (Part II)

Without a seed to mark the way, Queen Smira and her three boglings set out in search of the weeping willow. After a few paces, Smira quickly realized that the swamp was overrun with willows.

“Which one do you think it is?” Yeka asked.

“The one that’s weeping, silly.” Ñekkum bonked her on the head.

“Momma…pee-pee” Gagem pointed.

“Hold it a moment longer, dear.” The queen looked around.

“Maybe we could ask him.” Yeka pointed to an orangish-brown scatterfoot with hundreds of chained segments, three legs adorning each partition. “Hey Mister, do you know where we can find a weeping willow?”

“Hmm…a weeping willow, you say?” the arthropod scratched his head.

Suddenly a clear, green liquid squirted in his face.

“Gagem!” Smira snapped as the wily tot hiked up his pants and ran off.

“It seems to have slipped my mind. Good day, goblings.” He glared at Gagem, and crawled under a log.

“No, wait,” said Smira, but the insect was gone.

As the day dragged on, the task of locating the weeping willow proved more elusive.

“Perhaps daddy meant a sleeping willow. There are plenty of those around here,” said Yeka.

“And creepy willows.” Ñekkum pointed to a black tree with twisted branches and spiders the size of his hand scattering from cocoon to cocoon.

Gagem tugged Smira’s dress.

“Not again.” She looked down.

“Pee-pee,” Gagem giggled.

The queen took the child over to a cluster of tall weeds and waited.

“Are you out of your mind?” A spotted owl flew out, shaking its feathers. “Is this how goblins introduce themselves around here?”

“I am sorry, maam.” Smira pulled up Gagem’s pants, and tucked him behind her. “We are trying to find a weeping willow, but no one will talk to us.”

“No one will talk to you because you are a bunch of wretched goblins.” She circled and flew off.

As the sun began to fall, the queen decided to retrace her steps, and search for the willow another day; but quickly she found herself going in circles. “Oh no,” Smira gasped. “If we do not find our way soon, we will have to sleep in the swamp.”

“Oh please, please, please. Can we spend the night out here?” Yeka pleaded.

“Yeah, that would be cool,” said Ñekkum.

“There are creatures in this swamp with appetites more voracious than ours,” Smira warned. “Wait a minute, where’s Gagem?”

“Where do you think?” Ñekkum pointed to a bush.

Suddenly a creature roared. Gagem scampered out of the brush as a two-headed serpent with knotted horns charged after him.

“Children, run!” Smira snatched up Gagem, and scurried through the mire.

The beast chased them through the wetlands till the water turned black and only shadows loomed before them. Smira scooped up the three tots, and hid under a tree as the hydra sniffed around and continued on.

“I have failed you, my sweet stalklings. Pray that we make it through the night.” As tears fell from her eyes, more trickled down from the leaves above.

“What is it with that boy? Perhaps he drinks too much swamp water,” said the owl. “Fate smiles upon thee. ‘Tis the willow you seek.” She flapped her wings, and drew closer. “What brings you to this part of the swamp?”

“My husband sent me on an errand to find an imp named Tutis.” Smira dried her eyes as more tears rained down.

“An imp? Is that what I look like?” The owl transformed into a slender sprite with long, brown hair covering her naked body, green eyes like gems, and a ring of feathers crowning her head. “‘Changeling’ would be closer to the mark.” Tutis combed her umber locks. “Still you have not answered my query. What brings you here?”

“To enroll my children in Hollawree,” said Smira.

“You are misinformed. I am no registrar; but your wandering eyes tell there is something more.”

“My children…have a hunger that cannot be staved.” The queen shielded herself from the downpour.

“Tell me more of their addiction.” The mystic leaned forward.

“They have a keen taste for celery, the very flesh our king is made of.”

“A goblin’s hunger cannot be completely averted, and stamping it out only makes it burn brighter,” Tutis chuckled. “Since he is your husband, why do you not ask for the same remedy? Are you not also afflicted?”

“Celery is poison to me,” said Smira. “I break out in hives each time I devour a piece.”

“Very well.” Tutis snapped off a twig. “Take this sprig, and stab it in the waters beyond the thornlands.”

“Sprig? But I was told that you would baptize us.”

“This willow is meant to purify the soul, though I have my doubts about its effect on goblins.” Tutis whipped her wet locks from her face. “For the change you seek, you will have to travel farther north. Be careful within its influence. Their hunger can be bound to anything…absolutely anything.” She transformed into the owl and flew off.

“Wait. How do I get there? I do not know where I am now,” Smira cried.

“Gogus will take you,” said the changeling. The beast slithered out of the shadows, one head licking the other with its black tongue. The owl sat, perched atop one of its horns.

The three infants scattered under Queen Smira’s dress.

“Come now, Gogus. Don’t make me expose your secret.” Tutis tickled the hydra’s scales with her feathers. “Gogus feeds on moss alone, cured by the very waters that you seek. Once there, you must drop in two items: the one that will lose is influence, and the other that will be reinforced. You have one chance to do this, and one chance only. Do not screw it up.”

“Very well.” Smira carefully scaled the serpent, holding her young ones tight. “And what if something does happen?”

“The predicament is yours to untangle.” The owl returned to the tree.

“Then untangle it I shall.” The beast turned and fled into the night.

The Sweetest Stalk (Revised & Extended)

Smira of the swampland was she; daughter of hollow, goblin princess of bog. And heinous she was, even to goblin eyes, and it seemed nothing could be done of it. Then one day she sent herself on an errand, leaving behind a trail of seeds.

"Silly Smira," her half-brother Kamm sneered, a radish-hued swampling with her father's cruel brow. "Celery cannot grow in swamps. Foolish you are to think that one day you could be queen."

"So it shall be. You will see," said she.

And off she went, deep into the tangled wetlands where wandering eyes strained to see. At last she arrived at the spot, and thrust her claws deep. On and on she toiled, dredging deeper into the muck, kicking up sickly shades in the emerald waters. As fatigue crept in, she dug in her heels, until at last she bumped across something stout. "This is it," she pawed with renewed vigor.

From the muddy pulp she fished out a tattered purse, the one that the faery had chimed about.

Not too shallow

Nor too deep

This taxing trove

Yours to keep

She filled it with seeds from under her dress, and buried it once more. "On and out they shall sprout. Till magic binds and stalks unwind." She danced.

The aid of faery magic was essential, especially if she hoped to grow anything in these lands. It saddened her to think what her brethren might do if they happened upon the spritely spirit. Darklings were cruel scavengers at heart, with a keen taste for faery flesh. To spare her soul, she did not lend an ear to their dastardly tales of faery treachery, but their wicked words still resonated.

At last the swamp illuminated. Eagerly she scooped up the shambled reticule. From its feeble cloth she plucked out a single seed, unlike the hundreds poured in. Closer still she peered, the seedling shining like a star. Abruptly it sprung from her hand, and burst from its gelatin shell. She gawked at her bounty: a tangle of limp, spidery leaves and nothing more.

"What am I to do with this weed?" She tossed it in the mire. Bubble it did, all around, till the waters steamed into a fetid broth. A creature of the swamp's refuse rose, bemoaning its labored invocation. "Slumberwort, why do you steal me from my sojourn?"

"Not I. A faery made you be. I came to her, seeking stalk for my murky haven, and instead she delivered you, o servant of stringweed."

"A faery? From what divine quarter?"

"Underwood."

"Underwood is fowl," he grumbled. "A boggie's bowl of fright found you in place."

"Indeed," she frowned. "What shall I do? A touch of celery I must find, to love and nourish my mingy peers."

"Must you?"

"If I do not raise stalk, then these lands will forever be deemed a wasteland, as will I. No suitor of noble virtue will have me."

"Are you suggesting a goblin prince? Do such things exist?"

"Aye. And celery is the goblin gold that springs them from their muddy holes. A princess am I." She curtsied.

"Indeed," he replied. "Heart of gold, take mine of kale; from it all things prosper. In return, all that I ask for is the purse from whence I came."

Smira thought it a fair exchange, and handed it over. And in her hand he placed his final offering before recoiling back into the putrid waters.

A fair distance back she trekked, skipping from puddle to puddle with glee. In her father's dying oak she placed the heartling, and abruptly a stalk of celery shot into the sky. Creatures gathered from all around, gaping at the vast vegetable.

“Whoever did this must be a mage of the highest prowess,” elves whispered among themselves.

“‘Twould be my sister, Smira,” Kamm grinned.

Many offered their hand, goblin and human alike. ‘Stalkers’ her father called them, and he would have none of it.

The neverglade teemed with curiosity till the giant stalk grew seeds of its own. More and more stalks shot up, and soon its legion began to sing. Not sweet lullabies of fae, mind you, but wretched rants that shattered the ear. The celery just would not stop growing, nor singing.

Desperate to stave off the masses from fleeing his kingdom, King Gondegook called Smira to his throne. He inquired about her trip to the mudlands, and when she told him about the faery and the beast, his face darkened. "I warned you about playing with faeries. Now they have played us."

"But father, all the beast wanted was the purse from which it sprouted."

"Purse? From whence?"

“Deep in the mire. No more did I imagine its use."

"‘Twas not a purse, but a faery trinket, buried long ago and hoped forgotten." Gondegook’s massive hands shook with rage. "Reclaim gifts, faeries cannot. Duped into returning the harvest bag, you have."

"But gave his heart did he, this creature of the bog."

"A trick. ‘Twas the faery all along. And how many seedlings did you drop in?"

"Hundreds," she frowned.

"Then a hundredfold shall rise. Faeries they are, forged from the flesh of celery."

Suddenly the stalks sprung to life, tearing out their roots, and dancing in the bog. They jumped down the muddy lodgings, caroling their sadistic chants, enough to send all of Gooklun fleeing into the wastelands. Unable to stomach their hideous shrieks, Gondegook and the royal family exited the swamp, leaving behind but one.

Smira gaped at the faery folk, her accidental creation. And from them, the sweetest helping stepped forward.

"Beautiful creature, a princess you must be," said he.

“And thee, a prince,” she blushed.

“Hopefully I regale the fantasy you hold dear,” he smiled. “Dillsing I am known.”

“Dillsing.” She peered at his silver stalk. “A name meant for a king.”

“I would be honored if I could have yours.”

Awestruck, she could not move her lips nor tongue, her heart swelling larger than it had before.

Soon after, he offered his hand, and this one she accepted. And so Smira became Queen of Hollowree, the unlikely union between goblin and enchanted stalk. Though not the fairest, Smira was adored by all of Adura, her loyal subjects making her rich in more ways than she could fathom.

Yet this is not the place for words such as ‘Happy’ and ‘Ending,’ for strange things happen when you mix faeries and goblins alike.

The Sweetest Stalklings (Part I)

Peculiar. A word Queen Smira knew all too well, for she had a king made of celery. And surely she did not know what to expect when she discovered that she was carrying her first batch. How would they turn out? What would they look like? Would they have the silver stalk of their father, or the cruel brow of her siblings that fled the kingdom when they first laid eyes on their organic kin?

When the day finally arrived, Smira could not bear to look. Hopefully there would not be any complications, leaving her with a bevy of ill-tempered mixed greens, or dunderheads with sticks of celery for arms and legs. The very thought made her clasp her hands even tighter.

One by one they popped out, the sound of their raucous gabble bringing an instant sigh of relief. In all she bore three handsome goblings—bright, brazen and with the hideous hunger for which they are renowned.

“Never have I seen anything so precious,” Smira gushed. “I shall name thee Ñekkum, Yeka and Gagem.” She embraced the three goblings. “Thank you, your highness.”

Mouth agape, King Dillsing was not sure what to make of them. The three did not look a whit like him; goblins they were through and through. As weeks passed, he became victim to their foul play. They behaved like mischievous pets, snapping at his fingers, and soiling the throne every chance they got. But there was little point in arguing—they were his tyrannical tots, whether he liked it or not.

Walking soon led to running, which in turn led to the disappearance of many of his loyal subjects who frequented the hall. Goblins crave celery, and never seem to fill their bottomless paunches. King Dillsing knew that one day the troublesome trio would turn their appetite on him. He had little choice but to lock them in a distant part of the castle until they became more amiable; but his goblin bride would not be so receptive.

Each time Dillsing tried to bring up the matter, Smira cut him off. “Everything will be fine, you shall see. Why wait any longer? Let’s have another three,” she grinned.

Realizing that she would never agree, the king devised his own scheme to bring them into compliance. “Before our offspring grow a hair taller, there is something I must ask of you, my queen.”

“Anything, your highness.”

“Now that they are old enough for the journey, you must take our three stalklings to the weeping willow in the wetlands, and have them baptized by an imp named Tutis. All children go there to be registered in Hollawree,” said Dillsing.

“I’m busy today, dear. Would you mind taking them?” Smira asked.

“Only the one who has given birth can see the willow.” The king frowned. “If you wait too long, your vision will fade, and you will find yourself lost in the bog. It is best that you go now,” he insisted.

“Of course, my love.” The queen turned to the toddlers. “You heard the king, we must be off.”

“But I don’t want to go,” Yeka cried.

“Leave at once!” The king’s voice darkened.

The three goblins scattered behind Smira. Gagem poked his head out from under her white dress. “What’s the magic word?”

“Go,” he replied.

“Nope. Try again.” Ñekkum peeked over Smira’s shoulder.

“Now!” King Dillsing stood.

“Please…is that the word you seek? Let us hurry before we upset the king any further. See you upon the morrow, my love.” Smira blew him a kiss, and dragged the three brats behind her.

“Not if I have something to say about it,” the king mumbled to himself.

Something Wicked

I never would have purchased this house if I'd known that a goblin lived in it. The agent promised that the plush pad on the outskirts of Westchester was devoid of crime and vermin. In a sense he was right, but nothing could have prepared me for the creature that skulked these hollow walls.

One morning while I showered, the water turned piping hot. Hopelessly I fumbled with the knobs as the deluge scalded me. Abruptly the downpour turned ice cold, and then dwindled to a trickle. With a head full of suds I proceeded to the cellar, cursing all the way. At first I thought the broken pipe was a byproduct of the ancient plumbing, but when the second and third replacements also snapped in two, I realized I was up against something else entirely.

Shortly thereafter everything went downhill. The pantry was frequently ransacked and droppings left on its bare shelves. Half eaten carcasses littered the carpets and walls were frequently chewed open and stripped of insulation. At night while I listened to the creaking of the house, I could hear the miscreant hiss. Even my dreams were not an equitable refuge.

So I decided to introduce my guest to a friend I made at the local pound. Although I am a smallish man, I do not feel the need for a smallish dog, so I enlisted a beast of military might, an Irish wolfhound that no creature dare cross. As soon as I introduced him to the house, the beast bounded down the stairs, and uncovered the creature's lair hidden cleverly among a pair of broken shelves. After sniffing the fowl opening, my companion bared his teeth, and bravely held his ground. Hour after hour he presided over the passage, refusing to budge. I could barely contain my excitement. There would be no more volcanic showers or road kill rugs. That night I slept like a baby, but once dawn broke my new pal was nowhere to be found. Sadly I would not see him again.

Angered by the turn of events, I grabbed a shovel and crawled into the hole, following the stench until the passage opened to a large dim room. I could feel the parasite's eyes on me as I eased inside. Something snickered nearby. With my shovel I smashed everything within an arm's reach. The racket stirred considerable interest from above and a moment later the light snapped on. When a voice shouted down and a shotgun blast followed, I realized where I was--my neighbor's cellar.

"Don't shoot! It's me, Benjamin Buddle," I cried. I tried to explain everything--that I'd lost my dog and a creature was harassing our domiciles--but the geezer only saw one pest, and unloaded his shotgun once more. I dove behind a stack of boxes and remained there until the police arrived.

Even in my lonely cell, the creature's presence lingered. No doubt it would uncover my ornate Faberge eggs and African beetle collection--how they loved a tasty treat. News of my incarceration spread quickly to my employer, and when I collected my things, a message was waiting on my cell phone. I stepped out of the station, without dignity or a job.

When I finally hoofed it home, there was little to come back to. The door was ajar, dangling on one hinge. My clothes were a pile of torn rags, the furniture broken and gutted. As I turned the corner, I caught a glimpse of the withered menace fumbling with my IPod. Unsure what to make of it, he swallowed it whole. My black heart boiling over, I sprinted down the hall and jumped. Glass exploded all around as I bounced off the frame and onto the floor. Somehow I had not seen the full-length mirror in my path. Then I began to take notice of them, in every corner of every room. All this time I had been living in a house of mirrors.

Then something wicked came over me. I doused the walls with gasoline until the sweet aroma consumed the entire house. I dug a new hole for myself and cobbled together a makeshift throne. "Home sweet home," I marveled.

The creature whispered in my ear, but I paid no heed. There was still plenty of fun to be had. I lit a cigarette and dialed the agent who sold me the bill of goods. "Actually, I'm enjoying the house quite a bit," I cackled. "But it’s a little more than I bargained for. Hopefully it can be fixed. Perhaps you could swing by so that I could show you? Seven o’clock? Perfect. I’m sure you’ll provide the spark I need."