“No worries now,” I say, though the Telling Stone persists in its chill. I eye the sheathed sword atop the mantel—its worn hilt, the depiction of a great stag in the center of the scabbard. Straightening, I brush dust from its length with my fingers. “I’ll make us some stew,” I offer, and wipe my fingers on my dress.
I prepare lunch, sweep the kitchen, and tend to the daily chores. All the while, the Telling Stone hangs cold from my wrist. As the sun makes its descent, I lock the windows and doors, then hide away by the laundry and clutch the stone between both palms. I don’t know the language of sorcery—it is very old and no longer regarded with the esteem it once was—but somehow the stone speaks to me, filling my thoughts with its shadowy knowledge. A gobler, and it’s close. Closer than before.
But we will be safe. I’ve taken all the precautions, and mystings don’t like trouble. It’s easier to prey upon an unsuspecting stranger than a fortified house, and we are not so very far from town. There’s no reason my father and I should be on this creature’s agenda.
Still, I double-check the nettle leaves and salt before settling into a cold and restless sleep.
It is the clamoring of the larger salt crystals hitting the floor that stirs me from half-lidded slumber. My left arm is frozen. I can barely move my elbow, my shoulder aches, and my fingers are curved into claws. The gobler is near. Very near.
Shallow breaths burn my throat. I throw off my blanket and search for the silver dagger tucked beneath the mattress—the very same one my mother once carried. It did not save her, yet I clutch it in my one warm hand.
Creaking boards sound in the living room. The stone whispers that they do not bend under the weight of my father. But if it’s the gobler, how did it get in? Why? No mysting could be so desperate.
Thankful the fire in the front room still burns, I slip from my room, inching along the hallway. My hands shake with both fear and the ice emanating from my bracelet.
Peeking into the living area, I see a thick form blocking part of the glowing hearth. Shorter than myself, and much wider. The dying flames highlight thick rolls of blubber around neck and wrists. It’s almost humanoid in that it has a head, two arms, and two legs, but the rest is pure monster. The gobler turns, searching, its large eyes shifting back and forth, its cavernous nostrils flaring. Wide gray lips roll above a nearly nonexistent chin. Burns and bluish blood mar its skin from where it encountered my wards.
Its dark fist-sized eyes land on me and widen. As I lift my dagger, it launches.
My scream echoes through the house.
The beast is too nimble for its size, and it plows into me, knocking air from my lungs as we collide with the hallway wall. My fingers tighten on the hilt of my blade, but the mysting presses against my right shoulder, and I can’t bring my arm around to stab it. A desperate cry rips from my throat.
Yet the gobler’s focus is not on my face. It grabs my frozen arm with stubby fingers, and I feel an unnatural heat from its touch—a heat that might be painful, were my skin not so permeated with cold. Lifting my appendage, it eyes the bracelet on my wrist and the deep, blood-red stone hanging from it.
I hear a swoosh of movement through air, and the gobler’s horrible face tightens before going lax. Its fingers loosen. The mysting slides down me like a drunken lover until its fetid fat puddles on the floor.
Looking up, I realize for the first time how hard I’m breathing, how angrily my blood pumps. My father stands behind me in his nightclothes, his hair mussed, his own breathing labored. He holds his sword in both hands, and down its blade runs bluish blood.
He brings the sword around, his muscles remembering their training, and stabs the gobler again for good measure. The mysting doesn’t even flinch. The first blow had been true.
Tears escape my eyes as I leap over the body and run into my father’s arms. He keeps the sword in one hand and embraces me with the other. Weeping into his collar, I bless this moment of clarity and swiftness.
Yet though my left arm begins to warm, the Telling Stone quivers, warning of other dangers lurking behind the veil of the wildwood.
CHAPTER 2
It is painful for mystings to cross oon berry. Weaving a circle of the thorny plants around your home will act as a proficient safeguard.
The gobler left a mark. An incomplete handprint mars the flesh of my left forearm, a deep gray that is almost black. It doesn’t hurt, and the skin feels no different to the touch, but the mark is undeniable. I’ve no idea how long it will last, but per the warning in my grandmother’s notes, I soak a cloth in red salt dissolved in water and wrap my arm, hindering the magic that would call other goblers to me. Between my precaution and the fact that goblers do not frequent the wildwood, I hope I’ll be safe.
I add a footnote to the entry concerning goblers, then turn to a clean page to sketch the mark. Once I’ve finished, I measure the mark and jot down the numbers.
Grandmother’s notes did not indicate whether the gobler mark would fade. Part of me is hopeful the salt soak will banish it. Another, foolish, part of me hopes it will not, for no one could doubt my credibility with such evidence to show. Closing my book, I let my mind wander for just a moment, imagining the volume in my hands as a true published work, studied by scholars. All of whom would believe my research, for I’d have garnered a reputation at a fine college . . . then I blink the fancy away and set my thoughts to the household.
I suppose it is fortunate that I prefer prudent dresses, all of which are long sleeved.
My father is confused in the morning, and I carefully explain to him what happened the night before, so as not to overexcite or concern him. He accepts this with clarity and, after cleaning his blade and returning it to its place on the mantel, builds a litter out of rope and wood planks and hauls the gobler’s body back into the wildwood. What he does with it, I’m not sure. Perhaps he will leave it for wolves, or for grinlers.
My left arm is no longer ice, but the stone was cold when I awoke, and has gotten progressively colder. Another mysting is near. Never have I sensed two so close together. Clutching the Telling Stone in my fist, I step outside and walk toward the wildwood, kneading the stone, urging it to tell me what approaches.
After some time, it does. A gobler.
A shiver of my own dances across my shoulders, and I rest my hand over the mark left by the first gobler. Surely it is a coincidence, unless my grandmother was mistaken about the red salt. Or perhaps this new creature does not sense the mark, and is merely looking for its predecessor. I thought goblers were loners, but my knowledge of them comes solely from my grandmother. Folk around here have little experience with their kind. All I know is that the stone grows colder, the gobler closer.
I head back to the house, into the thin protection of herbs and salts. The first gobler had been interested in my Telling Stone. There are many charms and baubles that whisper of the nearness of mystings. Why mine is of any particular consequence is beyond me, and there is nothing in my grandmother’s writings to answer my unspoken questions.
The first thing I do is gather new cloth and, after stripping away its thorns, sew tusk nettle into it as best I can.
I pull up my sleeve and study the murky print on my arm. Rub my thumb over it, as though it could be wiped away. The salt has faded its edges, but otherwise it remains unchanged.