Soon, the Cliff and its craggy, barren lands were far behind the Gobiks. They came to a dark and forbidding forest of pines. Gmisel reached for Pook's hand, shivering as they entered the wood. The temperature dropped and just a few yards in, the midday light had been completely blocked out by the thich foliage.
Pook tried to hide his fear for Gmisel's sake.
"A song?" he asked. He felt as far as possible from wanting to sing but wanted desperately to lift everyone's spirits.
Gmisel, at least, perked up immediately, "Yes, Pook! Oh, yes please! Sing forty seven fat shrimps in my fishing net!"
Ah yes, the old fishing song. Occasionally, when Mook was overwhelmed with a new litter, he would take the older goblets out with him fishing. He, Pook Keggog and Pook Goreek (his fishing partners) would show them how to throw and draw in the nets and teach them old fishergobuxes' shanties. The favourite with the goblets was always forty seven fat shrimps. They insisted on singing every verse and delighted in the annoyance it brought the fishergobuxes.
Pook stopped, dead in his tracks. He remembered the terrible time when Gmisel's littermates, Gmilek and Gmiseeb, had been pulled overboard by the weight of the nets. Despite his, Pook Keggog and Pook Goreek's best efforts, they had been unable to save them and the young goblets had drowned. Mook still hadn't quite forgiven him, he knew, and neither had he forgiven himself. It was soon after that that Pook Keggog had left the Cliff. Pook Goreek followed shortly afterwards.
He was doing the right thing, leaving. There was nothing left for them there, and yet, and yet... Pook would never fish again. Never squawk the shanties as loudly as possible, his voice battling against the winds, never reel a net, never bring home fresh shrimps. Never feel the waves splash on his back, never smell the salty air.
What was he doing? What, by all the moons, was he doing? It was the right choice, he and Mook had made it together... The words of the Koog echoed in his mind. You will meet with nothing but misery and misfortune there.
"Pook?" Gmisel tugged on his arm, "Pook, what are you staring at? Why have you stopped walking? Come on, let's sing." Pook shook himself and his mind returned to the forest. Mook looked at him anxiously; Pook was normally the together one.
With a tremendous effort of will, Pook started to squawk, "Throw out the nets now, Reel them in now. Throw out the nets now, Reel them in. Forty seven fat shrimps in my fishing net, hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow many in yours?"
Gmisel joined in, laughing, "I ain't got no shrimps, in my net now. I ain't got no shrimps, in my net now. I ain't got no shrimps, in my net now."
Pook had to give a wry laugh, thinking how acute the words were, "Then throw it out the other side!"
Together, Pook and goblet sang, "Throw out the nets now, Reel them in now. Throw out the nets now, Reel them in. Forty six fat shrimps in my fishing net, hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow many in yours?"
""I ain't got no shrimps, in my net now. I ain't got no shrimps, in my net now. I ain't got no shrimps, in my net now."
Mook, tiring of the forced joviality, cut in, "But I have got a fine plaice!"
Gmisel frowned, annoyed at this forced end to her singing and confused. Pook gave Mook a reproachful look. She sighed; Pook seemed always to be criticising her.
In unison, the Gobiks jumped. All quarrels were forgotten as each felt their heart rise into their beak. A twig had snapped behind them.
Pook tried to turn around but was paralysed with fear. "Who goes there?" his squawk was high-pitched and shaky.
There was no reply but for further crunches of the twigs. Finally, Pook mustered up the courage to face the unknown behind him.
There were a dozen of them; vast, bulky creatures, wielding their clubs above their heads.
"Trolls." Pook whispered. Gmisel cowered and covered her face in her robes. Mook clutched the babies tighter to her, kissing them on their heads. Louder, Pook asked, "What do you want?"
The chief troll, the biggest one, standing a little forwards from the others, grunted, "We wants your stuff. Hand its all over and we'll let you go."
Pook swallowed his fear, looked up and spoke, clear and strong, "What if we don't? What if we have nothing to give you, or what little we have we don't want to part with?"
The troll smiled, revealing tusks the length of Pook's wing, "Then we'll smash you to pieces with our clubs here," Pook looked at the gigantic club, roughly carved from the whole trunk of an oak tree, and swallowed, thinking they'd really best hand it all over... The troll continued, "That's not all we'll do." Pook wondered what else they might do, not really wishing to know, "Oh, no, that's not all. We'll take your wee little babbies here, your sweet wee babbies, and roast them on a spit over a fire. And then we'll eat them"
Mook moaned in horror.
The troll looked down at the goblets in her arms and licked his lips, "It's up to you. Your stuff, and all of it mind, or your wee babbies..."
"Give him everything, Pook!" Mook whimpered. Pook nodded. He reached down and took the nap sack from Gmisel's back. He took out the clumps of weeds they'd boiled, to keep longer, last night and the five measly dried and salted fish, the last of their preserves. He took a handful of old sails, embroidered and decorated into handkerchiefs and table cloths by Mook (she used to enjoy making them, while she waited at home in the day, and whenever she'd gone to the market in the nearby village to sell their fish or pick up new clothes for that fast-growing Gmisel (the rest got her handmedowns) or repairs for the boat or the house, she had sold the embroideries and they'd picked up a little extra income. She'd used to spend it on a necklace or hat, some small trinket for herself or a toy for the goblets, but just lately her trinket money had been nearly all they were surviving on). Not many had survived the fire but they had hoped those left would help them through those first few weeks in the City.
Along with the ten silver coins hidden in a pouch beneath Pook's ragged robe, with three little charms the Koog had made and given to them in happier times; for protection, for many children and for plentiful fish. He wondered why he kept them; the protection obviously hadn't worked otherwise they wouldn't be being bothered by trolls and they would certainly not have plentiful fish in the city. He knew in his heart that it was to remember the Koog by.
"This all you got?" asked the troll, growing angry.
"Yes." Pook lied. He ignored Mook's anxious, reproachful gaze. The trolls, however, spotted it.
"You're lying to us."
"You're keeping something."
"You give us it all now, or we'll bash you to a pulp!" the Chief warned, hitting his club against his thigh in anticipation.
"That's all we've got, everything we have left in the world." Pook lied, the coins weighing heavy against his side.
"Then we'll take something else." Surprisingly swiftly for one so large, the chief stepped forwards, dragged Gmisel from her Pook's robes and flung her over his shoulder, "Come on, lads!" he laughed, "We'll have roasted goblet tonight! They can keep whatever they're hiding!" The trolls ran away, laughing.
"Pook! Pook, Mook!" Gmisel screamed, battering the troll's back with her tiny wings, to no effect. She stared imploringly into her Pook's eyes.
"Just give them the coins!" Mook wailed, hitting Pook hard in her distress, "For expression needed, give them the coins!" Then, to the trolls' retreating backs, "Please, we'll give you everything! Just let us keep our Gmisel!"
"A little late for that, ey?" the troll cried back.
Pook knew what he had to do. He ran after them, "Take me! Eat me instead, but let our little Gmisel go; she's done nothing wrong! She'll barely make a meal. She'll be a mere mouthful at most. Please, eat me instead!"
The troll paused, considering his offer, "You are much bigger, to be true. Ey, you'd make a bigger meal..." Pook dared to hope... The troll looked from Pook to the frantically struggling Gmisel, "But she's younger... Juicier, more tender. Sorry, gobux!"
Pook stared after them in disbelief as they took away his Gmisel, his darling, the apple of his eye, the plaice in his net full of cod. He heard Mook wail. She fell to her knees, hitting at the ground, tearing her clothes, tugging hard on her ears as she screamed, "No no no no no no no no." She screamed on and on and on for hours while Pook stood, staring into the forest where the trolls had taken his Gmisel, not moving, barely blinking and breathing, frozen in shock and disbelief . He knew that if he took it in, accepted that his Gmisel was gone from him and that it was his fault, he couldn't cope and so he refused to think; blocked out the awful truth, not with screaming like Mook but with nothingness.
Mook's voice grew more and more hoarse until she stopped, collapsing into tears. After the deafening volume of her grief, her soft sobs seemed even more pitiful. In the quiet, Pook heard a bird singing and the light pitter patter of rain. He came back to the world.
He ran to Mook and folded her in his wings. She tried to pull away, wincing at his touch. It was obvious who she blamed. But Pook would not let her go. He held on to her as her body rocked with convulsions of tears and cried with her. They clung to each other, comforting one another with the closeness.
Back at the Cliff, in his hut, the Koog watched them through the smokes. He found that hazing the vision made it clearer. He saw the Gobiks' tears and he shed a few of his own. Of all the Cliff's children, Gmisel was the most dear to him.
He sat in quiet contemplation for some time. Then, he consulted the smokes once more, this time looking on a different part of the forest. He nodded, taking his walking staff from the shelf. He knew what he had to do.
The next morning, Mook and Pook stood around a freshly-dug hole, the goblets lain on the floor beside them. Both were crying, more softly this time.
"Goodbye, Gmisel." Pook whispered. He didn't know whether his daughter was dead yet; whether she'd died yesterday or would die today or tomorrow. What a horrible death... He took from the leather pouch at his side the three charms, for fish, for protection and for children. All of them had failed him, or so it seemed. He put them in the whole, where the body of their daughter should have been. It seemed fitting; he had chosen the charms over his daughter, now he would bury them. Mook reached for his wing and together they stood, mourning their loss. Then, as one, they turned from the grave and pushed the dirt down to cover the charms with their wings.
"Come on, Pook." Mook said, brushing the earth from her wings, "If we hurry, we can be out of the forest by nightfall. I- I don't want to stay here..."
"Of course you don't." Pook agreed, although he felt reluctant to leave the forest. Gmisel might still be in there somewhere... But Mook had been through enough pain already. They set off walking.
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