Goblin Market

Goblin Market

From Christina Rossetti's poem “Goblin Market”

“The early market was an eldritch space of intrigue, shot through with more than a touch of dark trickery, of fetid and desirous potential hanging tightly coiled, ready to spring for good or ill.” -Bernard Cova, Robert V. Kozinets, Avi Shankar

Sieglinde and Isavelle lost their parents before learning to speak. They were 14-year-old twins, living in a cramped stone cottage just outside a cramped stone village. Their Grand Papaw lived with them, but he was a mostly mute old man who spent his days staring into the coals of the fire. The only time he would speak was on cold winter nights when the three of them would huddle by the fire to keep warm. He told them stories of their Grand Mamaw and of all the adventures they had together before she died. He blamed her death on the Market.

“Those creatures and their fruit ruined her,” he said on one chilly spring evening. “They took her away from me.”

“Tell us about the Market,” Sieglinde asked. Isavelle tried to hush her, not wanting to make their Grand Papaw more upset than he already was. She could see his lip quivering like the firelight. Then he swallowed, and the quiver was gone.

“It was a brilliant place. A glen in the woods full of wagons and fruit and little animalesque goblin men. Their likeness was of badgers, or maybe squirrels, or both. Sometimes neither. Your Grand Mamaw and I had heard they were vile but we did not heed the rumors. They seemed like such splendid little creatures in a splendid little place, and they were,” he paused, fingering the blanket that covered his bloated, twisted legs.

“She wanted to see it so bad. Always begged me just to go take a peek. So we did. And she bought some fruit, ate it, and was never the same. I don't know what they did to her, but she spent days in bed crying for the fruit. Oh! How I miss the taste of fruit! She would call out in her sleep. She stopped eating. Told me if she couldn't have the fruit she would rather die. So she did. And every night we hear those damned creatures-” he paused, with his head cradled in his arms with hands clasped firmly over his ears.

From the window, the sound of distant singing goblins could be heard, accompanied by the rattle of tambourines and the bellow of drums. Isavelle swatted the side of Sieglinde's head.

“Look at what you have done,” Isavelle scolded. She stood and wrapped her arms around her Grand Papaw. He did not acknowledge her.

Sieglinde played with the strings on the rug. When Isavelle scooted their Grand Papaw's chair closer to the fire, the noise startled her. “Isavelle, can't we go take one peek? The Market sounds so beautiful. I just wish I could see it.”

Isavelle looked at her sister. “Grand Mamaw's sad story should be enough to keep you away from there. Just ignore the singing.”

They lay on the floor together, huddled with a few blankets and pillows, staring at the window where the goblin voices drifted in to the cottage. Isavelle couldn't deny the same curiosity her sister felt. Every night, from dusk to dawn those voices filled their ears. She was afraid of them. The voices made her hair stand up and her toes tingle. It made her uneasy.

She was on the verge of dreaming, so when Sieglinde stood and pulled on her robe, Isavelle thought it was their mother. She startled awake when Sieglinde opened the door, letting chilled air fill the room. She sat up and tried to call to her sister, but the air made her throat tense and she could not speak until the door was shut and Sieglinde was gone. Isavelle pulled on her own robe and slippers and followed her sister.

The forest loomed over her, damp with leftover winter snow and ice crystals. Isavelle had blond, almost white hair, but Sieglinde's hair was red as strawberries. Through the tree trunks, she could see a glimpse of her sisters hair and followed it, catching up after running a few steps. She pulled at Sieglinde's hand and held it fast.

“Please, do not go. I do not want to see you suffer like Grand Mamaw did,” Isavelle said.

“I will not,” Sieglinde said. She gave Isavelle's hand a little squeeze. “If you're worried, come with me.”

Isavelle did not like the sound of it. She must have looked undecided, because Sieglinde said “ I am going whether you come or not.”

Isavelle took a step forward toward the voices that filled the air. Somewhere in those woods was the goblin Market that sold fruit that killed their Grand Mamaw. What were the goblins playing at? Did it give them sick pleasure to sell fruit that caused madness? Isavelle would rather accompany her sister than let her go alone.

As they walked, the voices got louder and merrier. They could not understand the words of the goblin men, but the tune was a happy one, made Isavelle tap her fingers against her thigh.Seiglinde would turn to her every so often, smiling from dimple to dimple, with a wild look in her eye. Isavelle held on to Sieglinde's hand tighter the louder the voices became. She thought of Grand Papaw and Grand Mamaw and how much Sieglinde looked like their mother. Isavelle wondered what they would think if they knew the two of them were running through the frosted forest toward the goblin Market.

A copper wash on the trees up ahead made them stop. Sieglinde tried to let go of Isavelle's hand. “Come, sister, let us go see!”

“I don't want to,” Isavelle said. The wash felt unnatural amidst leaves layered with blue-tinged ice. The voices were filling her ears, pulling her feet forward. That little voice of her own kept her where she was. Sieglinde tried to pull her hand away from Isavelle.

“I want to see. Just a peek. I will not buy anything,” she said.

“Just a peek?” Isavelle asked. For the first time in her life, she wondered if her sister was someone she could trust. The wildness in Sieglinde's eyes said no.

“I promise,” Sielinde said.

Isavelle let go of her hand.

“You must not eat any fruit from the market!” she called out as her twin sister disappeared into the copper light drifting through the trees. She stood there, freezing in her nightgown and thin robe and slippers. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other until she tripped forward and stumbled after her sister, taking care to hide behind tree trunks.

The glen was springtime. The trees were in bloom, with purple and blue flowers hanging between the leaves. The grass was tall and swayed in a slight warm wind that tasted of soil and fresh stream water. There were carts filling the glen, piled high with fruits Isavelle had never seen. They looked delicious, juicer and more tender than any fruit she had ever tasted. Isavelle pulled her eyes away from the carts and studied the goblin men. They looked like animals, but walked like humans. Some of them had plump bellies and greener skin and wide, wide eyes. There were many more of them than she was prepared for, all milling about the fruit wagons and the rest of the glen. All of them constantly singing softly made it feel as if the world were vibrating. Every once in a while, one would burst out in loud song, and the others would join in with drums and clapping.

In the front of the Market stood Sieglinde, talking to a fox-like goblin with big brown ears that flopped around his face whenever he moved. Isavelle could not hear what Sieglinde was saying, but she could see her sisters lips moving.

Isavelle watched, clinging to the back of a large oak tree, as her sister leaned over and used a rusted knife to snip a piece of her hair off into the fox-goblin's hand. The fox-goblin hurried away and brought back to Sieglinde a shining fruit that looked like a peach and a grape and raspberries. Isavelle covered her mouth with her hand when Sieglinde took a bite from the fruit. Tears were waiting behind her eyes, but they never found time to fall. After the first fruit, Sieglinde kept eating and eating. The wildness in her eyes shocked Isavelle. She fell away from the tree and went away from the Market, unable to watch her sister engorge herself.

Just minutes later, Sieglinde returned from the Market. The wildness was gone. Dawn was breaking. The copper wash on the trees merged itself into the glow from the morning sun. Isavelle said nothing. Sieglinde walked by her side, with a stupid smile, until they reached the cottage where Grand Papaw was still asleep.

“Milk the cows,” Isavelle told Sieglinde.

Sieglinde hurried off. Isavelle re-lit the fire and hung the kettle over it, full of water for Grand Papaw's bath. She avoided her sister most of the day. Come dinner time, Isavelle noticed her sister's stupid smile was gone. The three of them sat at the dinner table munching on carrots and bread. Their mouths were full and the house was silent. It was gradual, the way the goblin voices emerged from the sudden grayness of dusk. Grand Papaw hobbled to bed. The sisters were left sitting across the table from one another. They said nothing for a long time. When Grand Papaw began to snore, Isavelle frowned.

“I saw you eat the fruit,” she said. “Why. Why are you such a fool?”

“Do you hear them?” Sieglinde asked.

“Of course I do. Always,” Isavelle said.

“I can't,” Sieglinde admitted. She stood.

“You cannot hear them? How?” Isavelle asked just as Sieglinde bit her lip and ran to the loft.

Isavelle made dinner every night from then on. As the weeks wore on, her sister grew frail. She spent hours on the porch staring at the woods. She would concentrate hard, looking between the tree trunks. She gave herself terrible headaches. Once Sieglinde was asleep, Isavelle would press a warm cloth to her sister's forehead.

“You fool,” Isavelle would whisper to herself.

Grand Papaw noticed and retreated deeper inside of himself. During a rainy day in the middle of spring he said I can't lose her too. He became mute after that. He stopped telling his stories. Isavelle was left alone to care for both of them. To watch as spring turned to summer and summer turned to fall. As the leaves turned, she spent time sitting with her sister on the porch. Feeding her because she refused to feed herself anymore. Sieglinde had aged. She looked like an old, wrinkled woman with a young woman's skin stretched across her bones. Isavelle was repulsed by her.

Sitting beside her sister, she watched the trees, where she could see the goblins dancing and prancing and singing about how her sister was dying. It had become clear to Isavelle over the past few months of their chanting, that the goblins had cursed her sister. That it was a sick fascination with human deterioration that pleasured them. Some nights Isavelle wished the creatures would die horrible deaths for cursing Sieglinde. Other nights, she couldn't help but think about how foolish Sieglinde had been to eat their fruit in the first place.

She woke up to a piercing cry in the nighttime, when the frost of winter was first settling on the ground. There were a few hours still until dawn, when rose would tint the gray in the sky. The space beside her where Sieglinde slept was empty. Isavelle's throat seized, this time from fear instead of cold. She jumped out of bed without slippers or her robe. She tossed the door open like a rag doll. The sight in the yard made teardrops cling to her eyelids. Isavelle hurried down the steps to Sieglinde, who lay on the grass sobbing. Her sister's brilliant red hair was heaped on the ground and thrown towards the woods. When Isavelle wrapped her arms around her sister, Seiglinde tried to shove her away but had no strength. Isavelle pulled her sister close to her chest and stroked her uneven, half-bald head. From the line of trees, Isavelle could hear see the goblins dancing. She could hear them laughing and singing a tune with a note of finality. She tried to ignore their cruel taunts. In her chest blossomed an impressive hatred, like steel weighing her to the ground.

“I just want to taste the fruit again. Just one last time. But I can't hear them anymore. Can't see them. I thought,” Sieglinde said between sobs. “I thought if I gave them more of my hair,”

“Hush, sweet sister. Hush now,” Isavelle said. She held Sieglinde tight. Her sister was ugly and dying. Her Grand Papaw had given up, ready to leave behind their hopeless world. Isavelle wanted her sister back. She wanted her Grand Papaw who would tell stories and chuckle the way she imagined her father would have if he were still alive. Isavelle helped Seiglinde inside the house. They left behind the wads of red hair. Once her sister was safe in her bed, asleep, Isavelle pulled on her robe and boots and left the house. The woods were foreboding and smelled of damp autumn leaves. She wandered towards the goblin voices until she came upon the copper wash on the trees around the glen. Isavelle took a deep breath and charged into the glen, scaring some of the goblins nearest her.

“What did you do to my sister?” she demanded of the creatures. “Why?”

There was a mass of them in the middle of the glen. She walked up to them, repulsed by their matted fur and long dirty fingernails and the way they walked as if they were human.

“Tell me!” she yelled at them. They stood, staring at her with confused expressions. After a few moments, they began to hum. One of them asked if she wanted to buy fruit.

“No. Unless I can buy it and bring it back to mys sister,” she said.

The goblins frowned and violently shook their heads in unison. “No. No. Not allowed,” one of them said, who looked like a cross between a badger and a porcupine.

“Would you like fruit?” a goblin by her side asked, pulling at her robe.

She pulled away from it. “Don't touch me. I do not want any fruit. I have no money. I just want you to take your curse off my sister.”

“No money? No pay?” many of them said at once. They grabbed fruit from their carts and began to surround her. Isavelle's throat was closing again. She couldn't breathe correctly. She fell onto her back when one of the goblins jumped on her and tried to force the fruit into her mouth.

“Eat it!” the creature squealed. Isavelle bit her lips shut so she would not drink the juice of the fruit. In a matter of moments, hundreds of the goblins were squirming all over her, trying to force the fruit into her mouth. Their claws tore at her robe and nightgown. Her boots were pulled off and her hair was pulled. Some of them bit her, leaving crescent shaped marks on her skin. Isavelle refused to part her lips, even when one of the creatures started knocking her head against the ground. She lost track of time. She did not yield until the telltale rose light of dawn peeked through the trees. The glen and the goblins began to fade away into the morning light. They kept squirming on top of her like worms but slowly she could feel the weight of them lifted off her chest.

Dawn was carefully speckled across the ground. Isavelle lay with her back bare against the rotting leaves of autumn. The glen was gone. In its place stood tall pine trees that hid most of the sky. There was a light wind that made goosbumps raise on her arms. When Isavelle sat up, she found herself dripping with fruit juice. Most of her clothes were torn and laying in tatters around her. Her breasts hung low on her chest and her nightgown was clinging to her buttocks and her thighs. Her boots were no where to be seen. She tried to stand, but swayed and sat again. There was a lump on the back of her head and the scalp was tender. The scratches on her arms and legs were swollen and bleeding in pinpricks. The fruit juice was dripping off of her, becoming lost in the leaves on the ground. Her entire body felt sticky, as if she were covered in glue. She thought of her sister. Of Sieglinde sitting on the porch staring at the woods, aching for the fruits that the goblins hoarded.

Isavelle stood. This time she swayed but did not fall. She hugged herself from the cold and made her way back to the cottage. She emerged from the woods renewed with energy. She was freezing and scratched and traumatized but seeing Sieglinde on the porch as an old woman revived her anger at the goblins. She ran out from the woods with her arms opened wide.

“Sieglinde, I have the fruit juice, drink from me!” Isavelle called. She hurried up the steps to the porch and offered her body to her sister. Sieglinde's eyes turned fiery. For the first time in months, Isavelle saw the wildness that first led her sister to foolishness. Sieglinde walked up to her and hesitated before dragging her tongue across Isavelle's shoulder.

“My sweet sister, drink, and remember yourself,” Isavelle gasped as her sister began to lick all over her body. Sieglinde tasted her sister's hands and fingers and the space between her toes. She tasted Isavelle's breasts and her stomach and thighs. She tasted her buttocks and the crease in her back all the way up to the back of Isavelle's neck. She stood behind Isavelle, lay her head on isavelle's shoulder. A moment later, she began to convulse. She seized violently and fell to the ground. Isavelle held Sieglinde's head as she shook. A fever rose in her sister, made Sieglinde start sweating and her skin looked sunburned. Isavelle tried to keep her still. She didn't know how else to help. She felt helpless, more helpless than she had in the past few months watching her sister deteriorate. If this was it, the moment of Sieglinde's death, she wasn't ready.

The convulsing stopped. Sieglinde returned to her normal skin color and her sweating ceased. Isavelle looked down at her sister, watched as the wrinkled formed back into smooth skin and the sunken face became full. Sieglinde no longer felt like a skeleton, she had body fat again. As Isavelle watched, her sister's red hair grew back, inch by inch, until it was as long as it had been and longer. Sieglinde's eyes fluttered open and shut and open again. She frowned at Isavelle, who was leaning over her with her breasts exposed.

“Where are your clothes?” she asked. Her voice was weak and out of practice. “You will give Grand Papaw a fright.”

Isavelle laughed. She felt lighter than she had in months. She had her sister back. And out of the corner of her eye she could see Grand Papaw smiling at them from beside the fireplace. “Oh my stupid sister. What a fool you've been.”