When Tryle could walk without feeling dizzy, Grandma Henna put him to work. Among other chores, Tryle carried in the wood she chopped, weeded the front yard, washed the dishes, and fed and watered the sheep.
For any other goblin, performing menial tasks for a human was a great dishonor, akin to slavery. But Tryle found it hard to complain.
Henna was polite to him. She gave him plenty of breaks throughout the day and never asked him to do more than he could handle. Her cooking — though containing more bread and porridge than Tryle was used to — was nutritious and tasty. Every night, she treated the wound on his head with an anti-inflammatory poultice that felt cool and soothing to the touch. Within two days, the bruises on his head were already starting to fade.
Henna introduced Tryle to things he never could have learned from the books back home: new kinds of clothing threads whose strength improved the durability of his sewing repairs five-fold; human-grown herbs magically engineered to treat diseases Tryle had never heard of; how to stuff sheep wool between sewed layers of cotton cloth to make coats and quilts warmer than Tryle had thought possible. He even learned how to do laundry with human soap, something he’d never encountered before.
In Lundy village, they used body cleanser made from water-mixed hardwood ash and distilled vinegar — effective anti-bacterials for sure, but very harsh. It wasn’t uncommon for goblins to moisturize their scales with boar fat after scrubbing away with a detergent strong enough to irritate the skin underneath. In contrast, the soft bars Grandma Henna used for bathing not only did a good job of cleaning away dirt sweat, but also glided feathery-light across the skin.
The cottage boasted amenities Tryle could only have dreamed of. After their first scrubbing in the river (Tryle enjoyed “helping” Gumbo bathe by dumping copious buckets of water over his head), they were allowed to use her bath tub. The water was powered by some mechanism Tryle had yet to discover (it flowed cleanly from a brass spout at whatever temperature he desired using a clock-like dial on the tub’s side, seemingly no magic or fire required).
Henna gave Tryle and Gumbo their own dry cloths, which she heated by the fireplace before they washed up so they were fluffy and warm by the time they were bathing.
All in all, Henna was nicer than almost any goblin Tryle had met, with the exception of his mother.
However, she was not without her quirks. Tryle expected the typical human to granny to spend her daylight hours napping on the front porch in her rocking chair, enjoying the sunshine of the day and the idyllic tranquility of the meadows.
Henna, on the other hand, routinely bench-pressed two humongous barrels of water on a stone bench she’d set up behind the cottage. She went on long walks in the mornings, stopping by the riverbank now and then to chat with empty air. She rode her sheep for fun, alternating between two beefy males named Humphrey and Patrick, sending them galloping up and down the rolling curves of the fields.
She protected her herd with vigorous passion, sometimes getting up in the dark of night to chase away predators that ventured too close to the sheep pens. One time, Tryle could’ve sworn he heard a yelp of surprise, following by a plaintive yowl gradually petering out into silence — the sound of an unlucky fox being punted back to the forest from which it came.
Henna also read strange books at night from a large selection of titles she kept on a bookshelf in her bedroom. Tryle had asked to borrow a few but quickly lost interest. Unlike his own book collection, these volumes were fictional and offered no practical instruction, telling long and convoluted stories about fake humans solving fake problems and fighting imaginary wars amongst themselves to preserve their nonexistent honor.
If he ever needed to, Tryle needed no special potion to doze off; now, he had these books to put him to sleep.
Tryle enjoyed Henna’s company. He’d caught a glimpse of her belligerent side during the night raid, but most of the time, she was simply fun to be around. She boisterously challenged him to dead-lifting competitions, cackling good-naturedly as he struggled with a fifteen-pound rock before showing him a variety of lifting exercises to get his arm and shoulder strength up.
Yet at night sometimes, Tryle would catch her gazing out the window towards the seemingly endless fields of the Outer Woodlands. When he asked her what she was looking at, she’d reply “Oh, nothing much, dear” and returned to whatever she had been doing. Throughout their time together, Tryle sensed Henna was holding something back, refusing to reveal a part of herself that was near to her identity but not something he could be privy to. Her reticence went hand-in-hand with an unacknowledged loneliness.
Of course, he was under no illusions that the granny was his friend. They weren’t being kept in cages or forced into cells, but no matter how you viewed it, both him and Gumbo were here against their will. It just so happened that their prison warden was more lenient than Tryle had expected.
Several times, Tryle thought about making a run for it. There were plenty of opportunities. When Henna had her back turned in the kitchen, when she left for half a day to shop at the town market she’d mentioned was a two-hour walk away, or when Tryle was out by himself tending to the sheep in their pens.
But if he tried to escape on his own, what would happen to Gumbo? It would take at least a month for his fractured arms to heal, and even that timeframe was optimistic.
Tryle was responsible for bringing the other goblin his meals, something Gumbo was very displeased by. Instead of being spoon-fed, he insisted Tryle put his food plate on top of a nearby dresser for Gumbo to bend down and lick off himself.
He also refused any help when he needed to relieve himself in the small outhouse by the sheep pens. How he wiped himself was a mystery, but Tryle didn’t care either way; Gumbo’s ego was one at stake, not his.
Day-to-day, they engaged in what was technically conversation, but most of it was surface talk — things like “More food” or “My blanket needs cleaning”, or the curses Gumbo hurled his way when Tryle “accidentally” set the temperature of his bath too either freezing cold or scalding hot.
So Tryle was surprised one afternoon when he walked into the room they shared together. Gumbo was reclining in his chair, facing the lone window above the bed. With his sling-encased arms and dour, squashed expression, he looked like a nightmarish teddy bear that had come to life and wasn’t happy about it.
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
As soon as he opened the door, Gumbo said nastily: “Having a good time of it in here, aren’t ya?”
By this time, two weeks had passed, and this was the first time Gumbo had said a complete sentence to him without cursing.
Tryle placed the steaming dish of salted duck and mixed greens on the nightstand. “By any standard, you’re not having such a bad experience, yourself.”
“Not as much as you,” said Gumbo. He went into a high falsetto. “Going all in with ‘You’re just a sweet, little old lady, Gran’ma Henna’ garbage. As a goblin, you should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I thought we no longer liked the word ‘goblin’.”
“I like havin’ both arms working, but we can’t always have nice things, can we? Especially when one of us doesn’t seem to know his priorities. Like getting outta this poop-shoot and gettin’ back to the village.”
“Okay, Gumbo.” Tryle turned to leave. Henna had just made a loaf of something called garlic bread, and he was itching to sink his fangs into its basil-sprinkled buttery goodness.
“Get real, Tryle. The old hag is never planning to let us go.”
Tryle halted in his tracks. He stuck his head out the room. Henna was clattering around in the kitchen, humming to herself. Tryle swiftly closed the door and rounded on Gumbo.
“Keep your voice down, will you? She could’ve heard.”
“What, afraid you’re gonna upset your new human pal? She’s turned you into her pet. Sickens me to my stomach, I’ll tell ya that. Didn’t you hear her threatenin’ to yank us dry a couple weeks ago?”
“I don’t think she meant to actually treat us like livestock. She’s got some nuts loose. Makes weird jokes.”
“Same difference. She’s up here, and we’re down here. That’s what humans always do, and that’s what they’ve always done. Kill us, or keep us low enough to use as their footstools. I don’t plan on bein’ some old granny’s footstool for the rest of my life. ”
Tryle lowered his voice into a steely whisper. “Listen — I’m no idiot, Gumbo, and I want to go back to Lundy village as much as you do. But I’m doing that by not boiling Grandma Henna’s blood every chance I get! You got me, okay? I’m getting along with her, helping out around the cottage. I’ve perfected my routine. And you know what? It’s working. She leaves us alone for hours at a time. I pretty much have free reign around the property. If I wanted to leave, I could.”
“Oh, yeah? And why don’t you?”
Tryle resisted the urge to tear his ears off. “Because you’re unable to pick up a spoon to save your life, you moron! Do you want me to leave you behind?”
Gumbo leaned back in his chair and fixed Tryle with an appraising stare. “You know what I’m getting? I’m gettin’ the feeling that you wanna make nice with this granny. I don’t think you want the raiding party to take her treasure away. Before, I thought you were just a sissy who didn’t like gettin’ his hands dirty. But now I have it. You didn’t actually care who we robbed back then, but you definitely care about this granny now. And that makes you a traitor to the village.”
“Contrary to what you’re ‘getting’, I happen to know my priorities pretty well. First things first, we stay on Henna’s good side and take advantage of her resources. We take take as much food and water as we can carry, and then we make for the Woodlands, full speed ahead. But this requires some time. We need to take it slow.”
Gumbo chewed his lips for a long moment, sneering. Then he shook his head and bared his teeth.
“Nah. I’m not doin’ it.”
Tryle rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself. I’m moving on. There’s no convincing you until your arms are healed and we get out of here.”
“Not if I move first.”
“Uh-huh. Whatever.”
Tryle had just reached the door when Gumbo suddenly said, “Hey, put my food underneath the window willya? With the shelf-thingy, too.”
“Why?” said Tryle irritably.
“I wanna eat in the sunshine. What are you, my mother?”
“You could just come out and eat with us. Grandma Henna’s said you’re more than welcome to.”
“Piss on what the granny says I’m welcome to.”
Though he was tempted to just leave the nightstand where it was, Tryle did as Gumbo asked and went back out to the kitchen to eat lunch.
Loaves of hot garlic bread sat alongside a platter of sliced, salted duck. Henna placed a steaming bowl of cooked spinach next to them. “How are things with the angry one?”
“Normal,” said Tryle, plunking himself down into his customary seat with the cushions piled on top. Doesn’t want to leave the room, as usual.”
“That’s too bad. I know he likes my salted duck. He nearly cleaned out the last dish I made.”
Tryle selected a loaf of garlic bread and sniffed deeply. It made his him feel toasty and soft inside. He chomped down and relished the explosion of buttery herbs on his tongue.
“This is really good, Grandma Henna — thank you.”
“Oh, I’m glad you like it, dearie. Would you believe me if I told you it took me nearly fifty tries to get it right?”
“No…really?”
Henna went on to regale Tryle with her previous, failed attempts at making the perfect garlic bread at just the right crunchy texture and the most golden color and the most flavorful combination of spices.
“I even tried coalfire pepper once!” she said, chuckling. “Guess how that went.”
“Trial and error, that’s all it is,” commented Tryle, helping himself to a rolled-up slice of duck. “A vital component of —”
“The scientific method?”
Tryle stared at her. “How’d you know about that?”
Henna shrugged. “My granddaughter is studying magical science herself in the big city. Big-name university student, if I can get myself to believe it. It was only yesterday she was waddling around in diapers. I can’t understand half of what she’s saying most of the time, but I do remember that little tidbit.”
Tryle gaped. “She gets to study magical science? Where?”
“Where else, dear? The city of Medeira, a haven where the greatest minds gather to discuss ideas too complex for this old brain.”
Tryle could barely imagine it. A place where you could study magical science! With actual textbooks and labs and lectures taught by some of the most brilliant minds that wrote the books he had back in the village. No, the authors would probably be dead by now. Or would they? He’d have to check the dates his books were published.
Henna stacked a couple pieces of bread on a plate and slid it over. “Here, bring some to Gumbo. I’d like to get his opinion.”
Tryle had to actively pull his thoughts away from the alluring image of a university. “Why? He’ll just say it tastes awful.”
Henna smiled in amusement. “That’s how I’ll know how good it is. The proof of appetite.”
Tryle took the plate of bread, hopped off his chair cushions, and padded down the hallway. He could picture the sight now — Gumbo with bread crumbs plastered around his cheeks, glowering at him.
He tried to open the door to the guest room, but was met with resistance. Something was blocking the door from opening all the way.
“Gumbo, cut it out…”
Tryle gave the door a heavy push, enough to move whatever was blocking the entrance a few feet away. He wedged himself into the gap between door and doorframe.
“You can call me a traitor all you want, but Grandma Henna wanted you to try this bread —”
As soon as he’d squeezed through, a gust of breeze blew into Tryle’s face. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Then he rubbed them again. The window in their room was wide open, curtains billowing in the wind. The nightstand was shoved underneath, the plate of food untouched.
Without thinking, Tryle rushed over, jumped onto the nightstand, and looked out the window. Nothing but grass and blue sky.
He ran out the room, down the hallway, and raced to the doorway, not bothering to put on his boots.
Henna’s voice floated after him. “Bodkin, what’s wrong?”
Tryle moved to the edge of the front yard, hoisting himself over the short fence for a better view.
In the distance, a small figure was awkwardly scuttling across the fields. Its two arms were stiffly held against its body and bent at odd inward angles. Its balance was off, and it slewed from side to side, like a drunken chicken.
Soon, it reached the edge of the Woodlands and disappeared, lost from sight behind the trees.
Not if I move first, Gumbo had said.
So much for loyalty, thought Tryle.