The first thing Tryle became aware of was throbbing pain — more specifically, the throbbing coming from the large lump that had formed on top of his head. He groggily tried reaching up to feel it, but found he couldn’t move his arms.

His hands and legs were bound behind him. A smelly ball of rags was stuffed in his mouth, secured by another band of cloth that knotted around the back of his neck.

He pulled at his bonds experimentally. They didn’t budge.

“You can try to get out of that, sonny, but you’ll have to try harder than that.”

The granny walked up from behind and into Tryle’s field of vision. Night had turned into day. In the sunlight streaming through the windows, her blunt features were thrown into greater relief. Her jaw was wide and square and thickened with age.

Now Tryle was fully awake. The granny’s deep, pouched eyes stared back at him. They were thinner than he remembered from last night, their corners covered by an epicanthic fold.

Tryle attempted to say “I wasn’t trying anything”, but through the gag it came out as “Ah-wumawnf-ayeing-uh-ee-ung”.

The granny bent down. “I’ll remove the gag so long as you don’t try to bite me like your feisty little friend.”

At Tryle’s cooperative nod, she undid the knot at Tryle’s neck, took off the band of cloth, and pulled the ball of rags out of his mouth. Tryle hacked and sputtered; the stale, musty taste left by the sweaty rags was awful.

The granny tossed the gag into a wicker basket in the corner. She went to the kitchen counter and held a cup under a curved metal rod pointing down into the sink. To Tryle’s astonishment, a stream of water came out the rod and filled the cup to the brim. The granny came back over and put the cup to Tryle’s lips.

“Here, goblin. You must be thirsty.”

Tryle drank gratefully. The water was cool and sweet and fresh, and filled his mouth like long-overdue rain absorbing into the hot, cracked ground of a desert. After he’d finished most of the glass, the granny took it back to the sink.

Tryle’s head felt much clearer. He had a million thoughts ping-ponging around his brain, but he didn’t want to say anything that would anger the granny more than she might already be. He decided to go with the most innocuous one.

“Where…where is my pack?” The human language felt soggy and unfamiliar in Tryle’s mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken English. The words had a softer texture than Goblano’s, the sentences flatter, simpler, filled with less rich metaphors.

“In the guest bedroom along with the other goblin. The grumpy one.” The granny didn’t turn around, but a wryness entered her voice. “Quite a few interesting items you have in there. Is the underwear on the slingshot from your wardrobe?”

“Nuh-uh — I mean, no it isn’t. It was taken off a human — I mean, a merchant.”

“I should have guessed. They were a bit stretchier than I would expect a goblin would be able to make.”

Panic set in then, not from Tryle’s fear of impending death (though from what he’d witnessed of the granny, his demise at her hands was not an implausible outcome), but from his worry that the granny had disposed of the tools he’d taken along for the raid.

Seeing his distress, the granny said with amusement, “Don’t worry yourself, dearie. I didn’t take anything. I’ve got plenty of knickers of my own.”

Tryle smiled weakly. “Heh…yeah, um, thank you.”

The granny’s continued to rinse Tryle’s drinking glass. The peculiar stream of water only seemed to come out when she held it near the spout.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Time for lunch. You’ve been out for nearly twelve hours. My shield did a good number on your little noggin. I’m surprised you’re still alive.”

it was already afternoon. Tryle looked around the cottage. The granny had cleaned up the mess left by last night’s raid, righting the table and straightening out the rugs and sweeping up the remnants of shattered plates and cups. The buckler shield was once again hanging by its hook above the fireplace.

But evidence of the previous night’s struggle remained. White scratches scored the wood floor, left by errant sword blades and clawed feet, and there was a smear of dried blood where Jrunta had hauled himself on the stone of the opposite windowsill. Tryle wondered if he was still alive.

“What happened to the other goblin?” he said. “Is he all right?”

“Spry enough to try and take my fingers off. A bit rude, I’d say, for someone with two broken arms.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Gumbo.”

“Oh-ho, so his name is Gumbo. And what shall I call you?”

“Tryle. Tryle Bodkin.”

So Gumbo was alive and relatively well, broken arms aside. At the moment, escape was out of the question. Now, it was a matter of taking things as they came and avoiding getting his head crushed between the granny’s meaty palms.

“And what’s your name?” asked Tryle.

The granny turned from the sink, shaking the water from the newly washed glass. “My name, dearie? I’m Henna Longping, but you can call me Grandma Henna.”

--

Tryle tried to recall everything that he had ever read about humans. Unlike goblins, their dental matter grew weak and brittle in their old age, and contained a greater amount of molars and premolars. If the granny was going to eat them, she’d probably mash up their bones and other organs first to turn them into a jelly or a stew…all the better for her to slurp them up with.

Okay, great — so now he knew he would be reduced to a paste rather than sliced up. Small comfort.

As he considered his fate, Grandma Henna bustled about the kitchen making breakfast. Burning wood crackled and snapped beneath a firewood stove next to the brick furnace.

Two pots of water and a tin kettle sat on top of the stove. As the pots began to foam, the granny poured three cups of grain into one of them, and one cup of grain into another. The granny hummed quietly as she worked. She broke open a few eggs into both and mixed them thoroughly, sprinkling powdery red spices over them. She added nuts and green herbs.

The kettle began to whistle and she took it off the stove and set it aside. She poured the kettle’s boiling water into three mugs and dipped green-colored tea bags into all of them.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

She pulled Tryle’s chair over. He just realized he was sitting on several cushions to make level with the tabletop.

She shook a little sack at Tryle. “Sugar?”

“No. No, thanks.”

At that moment, a muffled screaming noise came from one of the bedrooms down the hallway. Tryle flinched instinctively.

“Sounds like the grumpy one is awake again,” said Henna.

She went down the hallway and reappeared several moments later carrying a heavy-looking chair, on top of which sat a trussed-up and gagged Gumbo.

Gumbo’s arms were bound in several layers of wrapped blankets, which were also encased in slings on both shoulders. His eyes narrowed when he saw Tryle before they suddenly squeezed shut. His head jerked forward and he let out a humongous sneeze that sounded like a wet pillow exploding.

“He’s been doing that ever since he woke up,” explained Henna to Tryle. She turned to Gumbo. “I would think it’d feel better without the covering on your face and to get some food in your stomach. But I can’t do that if you can’t be nice.”

Gumbo twisted and struggled in his seat, but only managed to aggravate his broken arms.

“GMMMFF!”

Henna sighed. “Oh, dearie, why do you make things so hard on yourself?”

“HNNNFF! PMMFF-HNNNFF!”

She rose from Gumbo’s side and slid a bowl of porridge in front of Tryle, laying a spoon next to it.

“Are you right-handed or left-handed?”

“Left.”

Henna undid the arm-strap on Tryle’s chair. “There you go.”

Tryle barely wasted any time before tucking into his bowl, slurping it up with gusto. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now. The porridge was delicious: savory and salty, with a tinge of smokiness that reminded him of the boar brisket back in Lundy village.

And as hearty as the taste was, the porridge itself was only a smidgen lighter than broth, just rich enough to have texture but not be too heavy on the digestion.

Gumbo had stopped trying to tear off his bonds, watching Tryle attentively as he chewed at a chunk of egg in his bowl. Now and again he let out a heavy, muffled sneeze.

Henna looked up from her tea. “Are you ready to behave, dear?”

Gumbo reluctantly nodded. Once his gag was removed, he let out a long wheeze before gargling harshly and hacking up a loagie onto the floor.

“Z’a-veeshet, that cloth tastes terrible.”

“I should think so,” said the granny. “Those are old socks I have yet to wash.”

Gumbo’s eyes bulged. “What?”

“Oh, don’t fret so much, Gumbo. I heard goblins have strong stomachs.”

“How’d you know my name?” Gumbo swiveled to Tryle and switched to Goblano. “You! Whaddya think this is, huh? This crazy granny’s got us under her claw and you’re just sittin’ there playin’ house?!”

Tryle wanted very much to tell him to shut up, but instead he said in English, “She’s feeding us, Gumbo. The least we could do is have some manners, you know.”

“Manners, my butt! We just tried to rob her, ya think anybody cares about manners?”

Stupid, thought Tryle. So, so stupid. If they didn’t do something to lower the granny’s guard soon, their chances of getting out of here dwindled to thousandth-place decimal points.

“Now, boys,” said Henna. “I don’t want to stop you from speaking amongst yourselves, but if we don’t stay on the same page here, we can’t have a productive discussion about what comes next.”

“I’m not doin’ any ‘productive discussion’ with some human graaa-CHOO!”

A light bulb went off in Tryle’s head. “Oh, right. I’d almost forgotten.”

“What’s the matter with him?” said Henna curiously.

“A Tudor fairy curse, most likely. I warned him not to disturb their dwelling a couple nights ago, and he told me to tell him to not disturb their dwelling. But then he went ahead to do it anyway. It was very confusing. My guess is they gave him a variant of hay fever.”

“You slimy little grub, you didn’t warn me about any-ACHOOIIEEE!”

Henna stood up from her chair. “I might have something to help with that.”

Five minutes later, Gumbo sat there glaring with two rolled up handkerchiefs stuck up both nostrils. Occasionally, he still let out a sneeze, and now it came out as a little honk or a high-pitched coughing noise. Henna spoon-fed him porridge and water, which Gumbo accepted grudgingly, though with much glaring and grumbling. Eventually, he began to calm down.

Tryle worked halfway through his third serving of porridge before setting his bowl aside. His head still ached, but now that he was full of warm food, he felt much more relaxed. Not relaxed enough to believe he was out of danger, but enough to not be panicking.

After they’d eaten, Henna gathered up all the plates and stacked them in the sink. Then she sat back down and folded her hands. “So, Bodkin and Gumbo, what am I to do with you?”

After a pause, Tryle said politely: “Is that meant to be a rhetorical question?”

“It can mean whatever you want, dearie. But I’m asking you quite seriously. Think about the situation from my perspective. An old lady, wanting to be left alone, suddenly wakes up to find herself surrounded by a violent band of goblins intending to clean her out of house and home. The nearest town is ten miles away, the closest trade center in the Outer Woodlands. Without my money, I cannot purchase the soap and herbs and bread I need.

“Most of the goblins have been driven away, but two stragglers are left behind. Both are injured and cannot hope to survive if released immediately without knowing if their tribe is still around.”

“You seem to have a good grasp of the situation.”

“Not quite. I’m merely admiring the problem. My dilemma is this: If I let you both go now and your tribe is not here, you will likely perish from the elements or get gobbled up by one of the bigger critters that dwell within the Woodlands — which I’m sure you’re aware of. But if I release you both now and your tribe is here, who is to say they will not try to assault my cottage with a larger force? Then again, if I keep you here and your comrades remain, I guarantee another conflict with them — a conflict I will win, no doubt — but one which I want to avoid. Cleaning up after all the fun’s over is a bit of a chore. My back isn’t what it used to be.

Henna took a sip of tea and put her cup down delicately. “And that leaves the last possibility, in which your tribe abandons you altogether, and I am left with two goblins who would jump at the first chance at slitting my throat.”

“Our tribe will never abandon us,” growled Gumbo.

Tryle tilted his head. “Well…”

“What?”

“They might not abandon you. Me, on the other hand, would probably be a much easier decision to make.”

“Ha!” said Gumbo sarcastically. “Why wouldn’t they, when you already have such a strong view on loyalty?”

“You’re the one that kicked me down the chimney. Not exactly an authority on loyalty and camaraderie, are you?”

“The simplest solution,” said Henna breezily. “Would be to kill you both and leave it at that. If your tribe is not here, all the better. If they are, well…they’ll get the message.”

The two goblins went dead quiet. In spite of himself, Gumbo gulped.

Tryle said, “If it’s all the same to you, I won’t take your first question as rhetorical anymore. I have some thoughts.”

Henna cracked her knuckles thoughtfully. “The ground is soft around the fields here. I could bury you both in fifteen minutes, at the most.”

“Whoa, whoa, hang on…”

“But before then, I might see what parts of you I could make use of. I’ve heard tell of goblins with fireproof scales — could be useful in lining my door. And I wonder if you can be milked…”

Gumbo snarled. “You try to milk me and I’ll bite your eyeballs out!”

“— magical properties or no, I would like to know how the taste would measure up against the sheep’s —”

“I will not be milked!” shrieked Gumbo.

Tryle felt the blood draining from his face. “Grandma Henna, you don’t have to do this.”

Henna’s mouth curved into a little smile. “I don’t have to do what, dearie?”

“Like you said, Gumbo and I wouldn’t survive if you turned us loose right now. We need time to recuperate. And when we do, we’ll return to the Woodlands and go back home even if the rest of our raiding party have gone. You’ll never have to see us again. Until then, you won’t have to worry about us — we’re no longer a threat.”

“I am,” snarled Gumbo.

“Gumbo, I swear on Mother Earth’s soily backside —”

Henna tapped her fingers on the tabletop. “You venture outside your territory, break into my humble abode uninvited, and threaten to rob me at sword-point. What am I to make of that?”

“You seem like a nice, reasonable human,” said Tryle beseechingly. “We won’t cause any trouble, I promise. We’ll do everything you ask. Just please let us go once we are well enough to travel.”

“And what is the location of your village? How far away is it from my cottage?”

“I-I don’t know. Two or three days of marching.”

“Gumbo, dear — any thoughts?”

“Torture me or kill me, you wrinkly hag!” spat Gumbo. “I’ll never tell you where Lundy village is!”

“Oh-ho, it’s called Lundy, is it?”

“Grandma Henna,” said Tryle. “We are just two, humble goblins. One is a warrior with broken arms. The other is trying to cooperate. And I am not a fighter.”

“Then why did you accompany your tribe on the raid?”

Tryle scratched his head sheepishly. “There was a…ah…vacancy. They had to take someone.”

Henna mulled this over for a long moment. “Very well. I will allow you to stay in my home. I will feed and clothe you until you have fully recovered. But if your tribe attacks me again, I will do more than knock a few heads around. And if you don’t toe the line during your stay, I will snap you both in half like twigs.” Her thin eyes crinkled. “Do we understand each other?”

Gumbo opened his mouth to retort, but Tryle shot him a furious look. “We do. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Henna’s creased face broke into a warm smile. “Oh, you’re welcome, dearie. Now, it’s bath time for the both of you. But since I don’t want your sweat and blood clogging up my bathtub, to the river we go!”