Young Writers Society

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

The cottage’s thin windowpanes hardly muffled the distant goblin singing. The lyrics were mostly unrecognizable, except for the words fruit and market, and were accompanied by the drawl of accordions and the strum of fiddles. Some of the songs were upbeat. Most of them were slow and felt sinister or full of trickery, made hair stand and skin prickle. The singing started around dusk every night and didn’t stop until morning. It used to bother Isavelle and Sieglinde. The melodies would keep them up until early morning and interrupt their dreams. Now they were used to it.

Sieglinde and Isavelle were 14-year-old twins. They had been orphaned by a wildfire four years ago. After the fire, they stayed and tended to the farm and the cottage their parents left behind. People from the village didn’t visit often. Some even thought the sisters had also died in the fire and that the farm was nothing more than weeds and rotting wood.

They lay on the floor by the fireplace, huddling to stay warm. It was early spring, which left the stone floor, the walls, and the cots freezing cold once the sun went down. They wore nightgowns and had blankets piled over them. Every few hours, they took turns replenishing the wood. Tonight, the singing seemed louder. Both of them were restless, too aware of the strange lyrics and tenor goblin voices.

Sieglinde sat up and rubbed her forehead. Her long white-blond hair reflected the weary firelight. Isavelle reached for her sister’s arm and tried to pull her back down so she could sleep. Sieglinde resisted. “Every night,” Sieglinde said. She was glaring at the window.

“Haven’t you gotten used to it?” Isavelle asked.

“Yes,” Sieglinde said. “But I can’t listen to them every night and never know what they are. Or what their fruit tastes like. Or what their market sells. Let’s go take one quick peek.”

Isavelle shook her head, maneuvering her bright red braided hair onto her chest. “You’ve heard the rumors. The villagers say Lauri visited the market and ate the fruit. They say it’s what killed her.”

“Maybe the fruit was rotten,” Sieglinde said. “No one knows the real reason she died.”

Isavelle turned onto her side and scooted closer to the hot coal. Her face flushed. She hoped her sister would lie back down. Sieglinde had an incurable curiosity. Isavelle didn’t want it getting in the way of their quaint and almost perfect life. “Let’s not take our chances.”

Sieglinde played with the strings on the rug. Isavelle stared at the window where the Goblin voices drifted in. Isavelle wanted Sieglinde to forget about the goblins. She wanted her to come back to bed so they could curl their arms around each other’s chests and help keep the nightmares away. Isavelle often dreamt of wildfires. She preferred the nightmare over the goblin’s singing. At least nightmares were confined to her own head.

She was on the verge of dreaming. When Sieglinde stood and pulled on her robe, Isavelle thought it was their dead mother. For a fleeting moment, she imagined their mother was there telling them to go to the creek and pick barberries for lunch. Isavelle startled awake when Sieglinde opened the door and let chilled air into the room. Isavelle sat up and tried to call to her sister, but the air made her throat tighten. She couldn’t 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. She could hear her sister fumbling through the branches ahead. Isavelle followed the noise, hoping she wasn’t mistaken and walking towards some late winter beast. It was light enough to see the outlines of tree trunks but too dark to see anything underfoot. She caught up to Sieglinde, grabbed her hand and held it fast.

“You are too curious,” Isavelle said. “Even if the market is splendid, it isn’t meant for us.”

“Who is it meant for?” Sieglinde asked.

“Goblins,” Isavelle said plainly. “Not humans. Please don’t go. It’s dangerous.”

“I just want to see it,” Sieglinde said. She gave Isavelle's hand a little squeeze. “If you're worried, come with me.”

Isavelle didn't want to. She wanted to drag Sieglinde back to the cottage, back to their blankets that might still be warm. She must have looked undecided, because Sieglinde said “I’m going whether you come or not.”

Isavelle had never seen her sister so determined. Somewhere in those woods was the goblin market that sold fruit that might have killed Lauri, the kind middle aged baker who had given them extra bread after their parents died. Isavelle would rather accompany her sister than let her go alone. She took a step forward toward the distant goblin voices singing gibberish.

As they walked, the voices got louder and merrier, singing one of the more upbeat songs. Accordians and fiddles were complimented by a lur. It made Isavelle tap her fingers against her thigh.Seiglinde would turn to her every so often, smiling from dimple to dimple. There was a wild look in her eye. Isavelle held on to Sieglinde's hand tighter. She thought of how much Sieglinde looked like their mother. The white-blond hair like fresh cow cream, the dimples, the long graceful legs and big ungraceful toes. She couldn’t lose her sister, they needed one another. Isavelle wondered what their parents 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's go see!”

“I don't want to,” Isavelle said. The copper wash felt unnatural amidst leaves layered with blue-tinged ice. The goblin voices were filling her ears. Sieglinde tried again to pull her hand away from Isavelle. That little voice in the back of her head screeched at Isavelle to stay where she was.

“I want to see. Just a peek,” Sieglinde said.

“Just a peek?” Isavelle asked. Not for first time, she wondered if her sister was someone she could trust.

“I promise,” Sieglinde said. Isavelle let go of her hand.

“Please don’t eat the fruit!” Isavelle called. Sieglinde disappeared into the copper light drifting through the trees.

Isavelle stood alone, freezing in her nightgown and thin robe and slippers. There was a layer of snow powdered across the ground that began to soak through her slippers. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other until she tripped forward.As if a weight were attached to her chest, she stumbled after her sister without meaning to. She took care to hide behind tree trunks. The closer she got, the quicker her breaths came until she came upon the market. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

The market was set up in a glen ripe with springtime. It was magic, the way the trees were in bloom with purple and blue flowers and heart-shaped leaves. The grass was tall and swayed in a light warm wind that tasted of soil and bubbling stream water. Carts filled the glen, piled high with barberries and pomegranates and apricots. Crates on the ground were filled with pears, dewberries, and peaches. There was a tall maple tree in the center of the glen and from the branches hung strings of dates, gooseberries, greengages, and strawberries. Everything looked delicious, with that same otherworldly copper glow to them. There was some part of her that wanted to rush out and stuff her cheeks full of the fruit. She stifled the urge before she could act on it.

Isavelle studied the goblins. They looked like animals but walked like humans. Some of them had plump bellies, green skin and wide, wide eyes. Others had fur and looked like squirrels and raccoons and foxes with yellower teeth and bigger feet. Some wore vests made of leather or hats made from willow tree branches. There were hundreds of them, of varying sizes. Some were mice-sized, and one on the far side of the glen was the size of a black bear. They milled about the wagons and crates of shimmering fruit. They were singing loud and soft, making it feel like the ground was vibrating. Every once in a while, one would burst out in louder song and the rest would join in with drums and tambourines and wild clapping.

Sieglinde stood by the maple tree, fingering one of the strings of fruit. Beside her was a fox-like goblin with red fur and large ears that flopped into its face whenever it moved. They were talking but Isavelle couldn’t make out the words. She saw Sieglinde pat at her pockets and shrug. Isavelle watched, clinging to the back of a large oak tree, as her sister leaned over and used a rusted knife to cut off a piece of her hair. It fell into the fox-goblins hand. The fox-goblin curled its fingers around the hair. The sides of its mouth curled into a grim smile as it plucked a strawberry off of the nearest string of fruit. Sieglinde took the strawberry and bit into it.

Isavelle covered her mouth with her hand to keep from yelling. After the first fruit, Sieglinde kept eating and eating, squirting fruit juice across the front of her robe and nightgown. It seemed she could not get the fruit to her mouth fast enough. There was something eerily primitive about the way Sieglinde's hand would shoot out and grab the next fruit from the fox-goblins hand. The only thing that kept Isavelle from running to her sister was fear that the goblins would convince her to eat the fruit too.

Isavelle fell back from the tree she was leaning against. She went away from the Market, unable to watch her sister gorge herself. Some minutes later, Sieglinde returned. She was back to her cultured self, despite the fruit juice dripping from her lips and robe. She wiped it away when she thought Isavelle wasn't looking. Dawn was breaking. The copper wash on the trees merged into the pink glow from the morning sun. Sieglinde walked by her side, with a stupid smile, until they reached the cottage where the cows were wandering across the front lawn.

“Milk the cows,” Isavelle told Sieglinde.

Her sister hurried off. Isavelle re-lit the dead fire and hung the kettle over it. She avoided her sister most of the day. They did their chores like normal, milking the cows, gathering berries and hunting rabbits, and dusting the cabinets. Come supper time, Isavelle noticed her sister's stupid smile was gone. The two of them sat at the dinner table munching on carrots, bread and watery stew. Their mouths were full and the house was silent. The goblin singing emerged gradually, from the sudden grayness of dusk.

“I saw you eat the fruit,” Isavelle said.

Sieglinde tapped her fork against her plate. “Do you hear them?”

“Of course I do. Always,” Isavelle said. The singing was higher than usual, not just tenor but a mixture of alto and soprano as well.

“I can't,” Sieglinde admitted. She stood and her chair flung out behind her. It toppled to the floor. Isavelle jumped from the noise.

“You can't hear them?” she asked. Sieglinde bit her lip and ran to the loft. She didn’t come down for two days. Isavelle took care of her chores. When Sieglinde finally showed her face, her eyes were puffy and red. Isavelle handed her a bowl of cranberry spinach salad and sat with her.

“Pull yourself together,” Isavelle said.

“Perhaps if I went to the market and bought more fruit,” Sieglinde whispered.

Isavelle shook her head violently. “Not a chance.”

Sieglinde said nothing. She stared at the floor, tears welling in her eyes.

“For Heaven’s sake, why are you crying?” Isavelle asked. She went around the table to

Sieglinde and held her hand.

“I can’t hear them,” Sieglinde said. She turned to Isavelle and her eyes were wide like the goblins. Isavelle backed away, afraid of the raw wildness in her sister. “I want more fruit but I can’t hear them.”

Isavelle sighed heavily, shaking her head disapprovingly. Sieglinde hadn’t touched the salad. “They say Lauri stopped eating after she ate the Goblin’s fruit.” Isavelle pushed the bowl salad bowl closer to Sieglinde; she made sure her sister ate every green.

Isavelle started making dinner every night. Some nights Sieglinde would eat, others, Isavelle would have to sit beside her and force her to eat. They grew tired. The weeks wore on. Sieglinde 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.

Spring turned to summer. Usually, this time of year beckoned picnics and laughing and long naps under the shade of golden maple trees. Instead Isavelle was caring for the house and her sister. There was no difference between them; both needed cleaning. Isavelle would help Sieglinde to the bathtub and lather her with soap and water. She scrubbed Sieglinde’s breasts and the bottom of her feet and in between her fingers.

Sieglinde’s eyes became glazed over, as if she were constantly daydreaming, absent and uncaring. She didn’t eat unless Isavelle fed her like child or an old woman withering away. She lost weight, the bones in her face becoming prominent and sharp.

Summer turned to fall. As the leaves changed color, Isavelle spent time sitting with her sister on the porch. It was the only time Isavelle felt close to her, even though Sieglinde had stopped talking halfway through the summer. Birds sounded like little demons in the trees, teasing Isavelle with happy tunes when the world seemed so unforgiving. She was afraid. It seemed the only way to help her sister would be to get her more fruit, but Isavelle feared more fruit would make it worse.

Isavelle had late nights where she cried softly and swore at Sieglinde’s foolishness and cursed the Goblins for ruining her sister. She couldn’t figure out why the Goblins sold fruit that bore magic, if the fruit was only meant to kill. She was watching her sister wear away. One day Sieglinde would turn to dust and Isavelle would have to sweep her off the floor.

Sieglinde looked like an old, wrinkled woman with yellowed skin, thinned white-blond hair and no meat on her bones. Some morning Isavelle would help her sister to the porch and when she touched Sieglinde she would be repulsed by the lack of substance.

At dusk, Isavelle could sometimes see the goblins dancing and hear them singing about how her sister was dying. She came to the conclusion that the goblins had a sick fascination with human deterioration.

Isavelle woke up to a piercing cry in the nighttime, when the frost of winter was first settling on the ground. There were still a few hours until dawn, when rose would tint the gray in the sky. The space beside her, where Sieglinde slept, was empty. Isavelle's throat seized. She jumped out of bed without slippers or her robe. She tossed the door open like a rag doll. The sight in the yard was a real-life nightmare. Isavelle hurried down the steps to her sister, who lay on the grass sobbing. Sieglinde's hair was cut off, 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 left. Isavelle pulled her sister close and stroked her uneven hair. From the line of trees, Isavelle could see the goblins dancing. She could hear them laughing and singing a tune that rang with finality. She tried to ignore their cruel taunts.

“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,” Isavelle said. She held Sieglinde tight. Her sister was ugly and dying. Isavelle helped Seiglinde inside the house, leaving the wads of hair scattered across the frozen grass. She left her sister on the plush chair by the fire.

“I’m going to save you,” Isavelle said. She grabbed a single penny from the purse where they

kept coins. Then she pulled on boots and a coat over her nightgown and head into the woods. The trees were foreboding and it smelled of damp autumn leaves. The late-night frost was melting away. She wandered the woods, searching for the glen. In the corners of her eyes lurked some of the goblins, following her through the trees. When she came upon the copper wash of the glen, she took a deep, painful breath and charged between the trees.

Some of the goblins jumped away, startled by her entrance. They looked at her expectantly. Isavelle was repulsed by their matted fur and long dirty fingernails and the way they walked as if they were human. She tossed them the penny. “I want fruit for my sister.”

“Eat with us,” a rabbit-like goblin squeaked.

“I don’t want fruit,” Isavelle said. “It’s for my sister.”

“Eat here, or eat nothing,” the goblins said in unison. It sent a shiver up her spine. If she walked away with nothing, Sieglinde would die. The closest crate was full of apricots, about two feet from where she stood. Isavelle wondered if she would be fast enough to steal one. She braced herself, took a deep breath and lunged. She grabbed two of them and got part way into the woods before the goblins caught up with her. They tore at her legs and jumped onto her back, pulling her to the ground. She fell hard. One goblin grabbed the apricots from her hand.

Isavelle's throat was closing again. She couldn't breathe correctly. One of the goblins jumped on her and tried to force fruit into her mouth. She bit her lips shut so she wouldn’t taste the fruit juice. In another moment, several dozen goblins were squirming all over her, trying to feed her. She struggled, hitting some of them with her elbows until they grabbed her arms and held her fast. Their claws tore at her robe and nightgown. Her boots were pulled off and her hair was yanked hard. 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 could feel the fruit juice dripping down her chin and onto her chest and breasts and stomach. It dried slowly, made her feel sticky and violated.

The rose light of dawn peeked through the trees, as if it were playing hide and seek. When the light touched them, the goblins would fade. Soon, there were only a dozen who kept squirming on top of her like worms but slowly she could feel the weight of them lifted off her chest. Then there were three, then none.

Dawn was carefully speckled across the ground. Isavelle lay with her back bare against the rotting leaves of autumn. Her vision was spinning, making it seem like the trees were going to fall on her. There was a light wind that made goosebumps raise on her arms. Her body ached from being trampled and her head hurt. It took her a while to sit up without her head spinning. She was dripping with fruit juice. Most of her clothes were torn and laying in tatters around her. Her breasts hung low on her chest and what was left of her nightgown clung to her buttocks and her thighs. Her boots were nowhere to be seen.

She tried to stand, but swayed and sat back down. There was a lump on the back of her head and her 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 was sticky. She thought of her sister sitting on the porch, aching for the fruits the goblins hoarded, and wondered if fruit juice was the same as eating the fruit itself.

Isavelle stood. This time she swayed but did not fall. She hugged herself to stay 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, ugly woman revived her hope for some kind of change. She ran out from the woods with her arms open wide.

“Sieglinde, hug me, kiss me, suck the juices off of 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 led her sister to foolishness. Sieglinde hesitated before dragging her tongue across Isavelle's shoulder.

“My sweet sister,,” Isavelle gasped as her sister began to lick all over her body.

Sieglinde tasted Isavelle's hands and fingers and the space between her toes. She tasted Isavelle's breasts and her stomach and her thighs. She tasted her sister's buttocks and the crease in her back all the way up to Isavelle's neck. She stood behind Isavelle and lay her head on Isavelle's shoulder. A moment later, Sieglinde began to convulse. She seized violently and fell to the ground. Isavelle held Sieglinde's head as she shook. When the shaking stopped, Sieglinde was feverish and wouldn’t wake up. Isavelle brought her to the bed and held a cold washcloth to her forehead. Sieglinde started sweating and looked sunburnt. Isavelle felt helpless, more helpless than she had in the past few months watching her sister deteriorate. If this was it, if this was the moment of Sieglinde's death, Isavelle wasn't ready. She stayed up all night with her sister, falling asleep on and off to the goblins distant singing. She was still dressed in tatters and her head was hurting again. She took breaks to wash the cuts and bruises and bite marks the goblins had left on her.

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

“Decency, sister!” she yelped. Her voice was weak and scratchy, out of practice.

Isavelle laughed. She sunk to the ground against the bed and put her head on Sieglinde’s shoulder. She couldn’t stop smiling. She had her sister back.

“Oh my stupid sister,” Isavelle said. “What a fool you've been.”