4. Fetch

"Mam...?" came the less than confident question from beyond the door. "It's Young Gil. From the Grocer. Is everything all right? I saw some blood--"

"Come in," Dorothy called, too bruised and tired to push up out of her seat in the kitchen. "Everything's good and well."

The lanky young man stepped gingerly through the door. He had a head of scruffy red hair, and a lean freckled face. He was a handsome enough lad, but he carried himself like a timid mouse. Dorothy always thought that strange, since bringing food and supplies out to remote places could be dangerous work. But she was grateful he didn't mind the risk or the long trek, because it had been a few winters since she'd had the strength to march to the Grocer and back.

"You're early," Dorothy said.

"No." He slightly shook his head. "I always come the same day just like I've told you before."

Dorothy scowled but had no mind to argue. She watched as he set down a large pack on the ground, taking out a lantern which he diligently set alight. Young Gil looked up at her with a satisfied smile that soon dropped to open-mouthed horror. "What's happened?" he worriedly asked. "Gods above, you're hurt bad!"

"I'm fine," she dismissed. "Goblins was all. I seen to 'em."

Young Gil frowned. "You've seen to them?"

"Aye," she answered. "Bashed a big one's head in with a rock and the rest of 'em scampered."

"Oh... right. Well, we best get you back to the village. Have you mended. If you can walk, I mean."

"'Course I can walk," Dorothy grumbled. "'nd I'm fine. I'll heal on me own. How much do I owe ya?"

The lanky lad was shaking his head. "Wouldn't feel right leaving you out here on your own like this."

"Lucky for you, you've no choice in the matter then," she countered. Seeing he was still unconvinced, she added, "Hardly be good for me to be dragged for miles, would it?"

"Doesn't feel right," he mumbled to himself. "Wait," he then said. "What if I send Moira to come and look in on you? She knows all sorts about herbs and healing."

"Fine," Dorothy said, knowing full well that Moira hated her and she wouldn't agree to the journey to begin with. Or maybe she would. All seemed so important back then, but it had been so long since maybe it didn't matter at all. Moira's husband had convinced himself that there was some unspoken bond between him and Dorothy, which she wasn't at all aware of.

Now, of course, Gordon and Eustace were both long dead. Dorothy couldn't be sure whether petty jealousy outstretched the grave.

Gordon might have killed him sooner, but Dorothy was quicker to act and she only stabbed him in his hip.

That was why it was always handy to carry a knife. A lesson she'd forgotten, she realized. A blade would've helped the night before.

"Dorothy?" Young Gil asked. Not for the first time by his worried tone and the questioning look in his lambent eyes. "You hear me?"

"'Course."

"So no charge?" he asked, lifting his lantern aloft to study her.

"'Course there's a charge," Dorothy answered. "How much do I owe?"

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Like I just said," Young Gil replied, "there's no charge because this is the last time we can come out here. Getting too dangerous. Kara's soon to pop, and I can't risk my life with a babe on the way. There's a new chief about as well. Bringing all the goblins together. Robbing folk, if they're lucky. Eating folk, if they ain't. Why don't you come back with me and you can stay with us for a while? Ed's just died of the cold and his place will be going for a few silver at best. You'll have folk around you, and won't have to worry yourself about scrapping with goblins."

"This is my home," was all she said in answer.

"I know that. But--"

"No buts about it," Dorothy cut in. "I'm awful sore and awful tired. Goblins ain't moving me and you ain't neither. Best you save your breath."

Young Gil sighed, his lips twisting in displeasure.

"You can send for Moira," she said to placate him. "Goblin's are gone. I'll heal on me own, I promise ya. You worry about your young'un. I've had all the winters I need."

The lanky lad reluctantly nodded, and started taking things from his sack and placing them in the cupboards and shelves as Dorothy would have wanted. He must have had a remarkable memory, considering she'd only told him the once where things went. When he was finished, he closed all the cupboards and draws, tidying away the pots and pans that the goblin had scattered around, and eventually brushed his hands together as if he were done with his labours. Young Gil looked at her, his young face plainly worried, and made a disagreeable murmur.

"I said stop worrying," Dorothy chided.

"What will you do for food?"

"I've got food," she reminded, looking pointedly around the kitchen to remind him of what he'd just delivered.

"You know what I mean," he argued.

"Maybe I do," she admitted. "Might be I'll change me mind once I start to starve. Either ways, you got worries enough of your own."

"True." Young Gil offered a heart-hearted smile. "I'll come see you soon. Just to stop by, check--"

"No. You'll stay home," Dorothy gently instructed. "Safe with your woman and babe."

"Right you are," he conceded. "There anything else you need?" he asked, glancing towards the door.

"Sleep," Dorothy answered.

"Right you are," he said again with a worried smile. "Hope to see you in town soon, then. I'll send Moira when I see her."

Dorothy made a vague noise of assent. "Go careful," she added as she was leaving. She'd never much taken to most folk. Even less so as she'd gotten older, but she had to admit that Young Gil had always been unduly kind and terribly patient with her despite her short temper. "Ilma the Midwife watch over you and your family."

Young Gil's face lit up as he looked back at her. "Thank you, Dorothy. "

"Don't be too familiar," she mocked.

He laughed, almost as if surprised or relieved.

Dorothy realized this was likely the only time she'd been kind to him. "You're a good lad," she then said. "You'll be a good da' too."

Young Gil nodded then, his expression turning very stern and serious. "You sure you don't want to come with me? I'll go slow."

"Quite sure," Dorothy said, struggling up to see him off at the door and to bar it behind him. "Off you go now, Young Gil."

The lanky lad nodded, sighed, and descended the three-step stair. "Go careful down these steps."

"I--"

Scrabbling against wood preceded clattering shutters and a great crash. Dorothy turned back to see the scrawny goblin on all fours amid the kitchen, a ravaged owl pinned in his bloody fangs.

The goblin shouted, seemingly in excitement, but the words were muffled and senseless.

"What was that?" Young Gil asked, holding up his lantern at the bottom of the stairs. "Everything all right?"

Dorothy found herself smiling in reassurance. She didn't want Young Gil or the goblin getting hurt. She'd find some other way to get peacefully rid of the little monster. "Fine."

"I heard--"

"Broom fell over," she cut in. "Off you go."

"I think--"

Dorothy slammed shut the door, eclipsing the confused look on his freckled face. "Be quiet," she growled at the goblin, hoping he would heed the command as well as before. Then she hefted up the length of wood to bar the way. When she turned to face the goblin, his mouth slowly opened to a lolling tongue, speckled in feathers, while the dead owl flopped onto the dusty floorboards.

"Hoot hoot," he proudly announced.