Elliot and the Goblin War Read online

  Dear Reader, if your name happens to be Lnit Prmsln, then in the first place I’m very sorry for you. In the second place, you are not the human Mr. Willimaker intended to become king, so please do not dig a hole hundreds of feet into the earth trying to correct this problem. You’ll get very dirty and still won’t reach the Underworld. Besides, as you continue reading this story, you’ll probably decide that you really don’t want to be the king anyway.

  Mr. Willimaker cleared his throat again and began to speak, but one of the Brownies yelled out, “Is the scary little mouse coming again, Willimaker? Will the mouse destroy us all this time?”

  Mr. Willimaker tried to say that this was not a time for jokes, but everyone was laughing too hard to hear him. His hands sweat even more and blurred the ink so that no one could read it. He was on his own now.

  Patches Willimaker walked up to stand beside her father. “Hey!” she yelled. “My dad has something important to say!”

  Slowly the noise settled down, and as the eyes of every Brownie in the cave focused on him, Mr. Willimaker was more nervous than ever. With a tremor in his voice, he stated, “Queen Bipsy did many great things for Burrowsville. Except for our troubles with the Goblins, I believe we’ve always been happy here. Her final wish before she died was to know that our next ruler will bring us the same happiness. Maybe more, if he can end the Goblin war.”

  A cheer rose in the crowd. Even Fudd cheered, although making the Brownies happy was not in Fudd’s secret plans.

  Mr. Willimaker continued, “Before she died, Queen Bipsy gave me the name of our next ruler, a king.”

  Fudd sat taller in his chair. This was his big moment.

  “However, those of you who only speak Flibberish may have a problem with this name, because the name is not a Flibberish word.”

  Fudd shrank in his chair. His name was a Flibberish word, though he didn’t like to remind people of that, since it meant “ugly stink face.”

  Mr. Willimaker continued, “Our next king is a human named Elliot Penster.” He paused, waiting for the uproar. At any moment, the Brownies would realize that Queen Bipsy must have made a mistake. Their only action would be to reject Elliot as king and hold an election for their next ruler. Any second now.

  There it was! The murmuring began, just as he expected. They were asking each other what the queen might have meant. Maybe she was playing a joke on them and was laughing at them from her grave.

  Mr. Willimaker raised a hand, calling for silence. “Now, we all know the queen couldn’t really have wanted a human for our king. Therefore, I propose—”

  “But the queen knew how Elliot Penster saved me three years ago,” said Patches to the entire crowd. “That must be why she chose him. He’ll make a great king. I know it!”

  Mr. Willimaker stared at his daughter, wondering why he’d ever taught her to speak. She wasn’t helping.

  “If he’s brave enough to save Patches from the Goblins, then maybe he can save all of us,” a Brownie in the crowd called out.

  “Did I say he’s human?” Mr. Willimaker protested. But nobody seemed to hear him.

  “I know he can help us,” Patches said. “Just yesterday he fought another human that looks like a Troll. A bully named Tubs.”

  The crowd gasped in shock, although in fact, Brownies think a lot of humans look like Trolls. Patches didn’t mention that Elliot almost lost that fight.

  Fudd shot from his chair toward Patches. “You mean to tell me that the next king of the Brownies is a human child?” He turned to Mr. Willimaker. “Are you sure that’s the name the queen said? Are you sure what she said didn’t sound more like Fudd Fartwick?”

  Mr. Willimaker coughed nervously. “Er, no, I think I would’ve heard that clearly.” Now that his brain was speaking to him again, he realized what a terrible idea this had been. He wanted to tell the Brownies that he’d chosen the name himself, but it was too late now. Fudd Fartwick would give him hard labor for lying to all the Brownies and would then take over as king. He couldn’t let that happen, even if the lie made his ears turn moldy and sprout grass, which sometimes happens to Brownies who tell lies. He said even more loudly to the crowd, “Elliot Penster is our next king. We must go and tell him the news.”

  “Hail King Elliot!” the Brownies cheered. “Long live King Elliot!”

  Mr. Willimaker became so excited by their cheers that he began to believe he’d done the right thing after all. What he failed to notice was the one Brownie in the entire cavern who was not cheering.

  Fudd Fartwick sat back on his chair and folded his arms. The cheer was wrong. King Elliot would not live long. He might not even live until the end of the week.

  He needed the Goblins for this. They’d be happy to help. As much as they liked killing any Brownie, they’d like to kill the human king of the Brownies most of all.

  Elliot wasn’t the type to wake up suddenly in the middle of the night, bathed in sweat and afraid for his safety. But his room had never been secretly invaded by creatures from the Underworld before.

  “Who’s there?” he called out into the darkness. His brother Reed, who shared his room, would’ve normally answered by tossing a pillow at Elliot and telling him to stop asking strange questions in the middle of the night. But Reed was working at the Quack Shack late tonight. And it wasn’t a strange question.

  “Are you Elliot Penster?” The voice was higher in pitch than he was used to, as if someone had sucked helium from a balloon before speaking.

  “That’s me. Who are you?” Elliot switched on the light beside his bed and then jumped back. Two small things were on his floor staring up at him, a younger girl and a boy thing that might have been her dad, if things had fathers. They were dressed like something out of a fairy tale book and stared at him with wide, hopeful eyes. He didn’t think they were trying to be scary, but the fact that they were standing in his room was scary enough.

  The boy thing stepped forward. He was dressed in a little suit, and his hair stood out in fewer directions than the girl’s. A large pair of glasses slid up and down his nose with the movement of his head. He pushed the glasses up and said, “We’re Brownies. Not like the dessert that you eat, but Brownies, the creatures that we hope you don’t eat.”

  Elliot shook his head. “The only brownies I’ve ever eaten don’t talk to me.”

  Mr. Willimaker smiled at that as the girl nudged him and whispered, “See? I told you he wouldn’t eat us.”

  Mr. Willimaker turned back to Elliot. “We were sent here on behalf of all Brownies. We’re friends to you. Do you believe in Brownies?”

  “I do now.” Earlier that night Elliot would’ve given a different answer, but it’s hard to deny the existence of something that’s staring you in the face.

  “My name is Mr. Willimaker.”

  “Oh, well, it’s nice to meet you,” said Elliot.

  Mr. Willimaker pointed to the girl beside him. “This is my daughter, Patches.”

  Elliot squinted as he looked at her. “I remember you. Halloween three years ago, right?”

  “Yes!” Patches seemed pleased to be remembered. At least her ears perked up slightly.

  “We live in the Underworld, miles and miles below where we now stand. Not just Brownies there, of course, but also Dwarves and Elves and Pixies—many different creatures. Mostly we keep to ourselves, but I can introduce you around if you’d like.”

  “Oh, uh, thanks.” Elliot waited for the Brownies to say something else, but they didn’t. So finally he said, “Is there something I can do to help you?”

  The Brownies laughed at that. Elliot pinched his lips together, wondering what the joke was. Then he said, “I don’t think that was funny. You came to my room in the middle of the night. I think it’s fair for me to ask why.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mr. Willimaker said. “You can ask why, and I’m glad you did. We’ve come to tell you the good news.”

  Elliot was suspicious. He didn’t know much about Brownies. Maybe their idea of good news
was, “Congratulations, your life is about to get a whole lot worse!”

  That wasn’t exactly it. Mr. Willimaker bowed low. “Congratulations, you are the new king of the Brownies.”

  It was Elliot’s turn to laugh. “Me? That’s crazy!”

  Mr. Willimaker pressed his thick eyebrows together. “Why? Are you already a king for another Underworld race? The Leprechauns maybe? If it’s gold you want—”

  “I’m not anyone’s king! I’m just a kid. I didn’t even know there were Underworld races. Why me?”

  Patches stepped forward. “All we know is that right before she died, Queen Bipsy gave my father your name.”

  “Bipsy? Silly name for a queen.”

  “You can’t pronounce her full name without a lot of spitting and a hard slap to your face,” Patches said. “Would you like me to show you?”

  “Bipsy’s fine,” Elliot said quickly and then added, “But I don’t want to be king. I’ve got school tomorrow.”

  “Just consider being king a sort of homework assignment,” Mr. Willimaker said. “There’s math homework and English homework. Being our king is like Underworld mythical creature homework.”

  Elliot folded his arms. “What would I have to do?”

  “It’s simple. You’ll solve whatever little problems come up, such as who gets the potato if it grows across two garden patches.”

  “You’ll sentence prisoners to hard time,” Patches said.

  “And drink all the turnip juice you want,” Mr. Willimaker said.

  “And end the war with the—” Patches began before her father clamped a hand over her mouth.

  Elliot tilted his head. “What’s that last one?”

  Mr. Willimaker looked at his feet and mumbled, “Oh, nothing, there’s just this little…”

  “I can’t hear you,” Elliot said. “Could you speak louder?”

  Mr. Willimaker coughed. “There is this small matter of a war, between the Goblins and Brownies. Well, it’s not really a war, since we don’t know how to fight back. So it’s more like we just wait around to get killed. Most of us are tired of waiting around to be killed, so we hope as king you’ll help us end all of that trouble.”

  Elliot looked at Patches. “Those kids in the Goblin suits three years ago—”

  She nodded. “Yep. Real Goblins.”

  “Figures. They ruined all my candy, you know.” Elliot scratched his chin and asked, “Aren’t Brownies the creatures that have to do nice things for humans, like if we leave you a job to do?”

  “We don’t have to do anything,” Patches said. “We choose to help if we like the gift the human leaves for us.”

  “Yes, but if I were your king, you’d have to do a job just because I ordered you to, right?”

  The two Brownies looked at each other. “Well, yes. But we only work at night,” Mr. Willimaker said.

  Elliot looked over at the clock in his room but then remembered there was no clock in his room, because his family had sold it last week to buy bread. So instead he looked out the window. “Night’s almost over, so you’ll have to hurry. I’ll make you a deal. My Uncle Rufus is getting out of jail tomorrow, and we’re having a welcome home dinner. If you can have a nice dinner ready for my family, then I’ll be your king.”

  Uncle Rufus was the oldest man in town who still had all his teeth. He stayed young by eating healthy, taking walks along Main Street, and unfortunately, by stealing shiny things. He claimed he always meant to buy the items, but he had memory problems. The police didn’t believe that, but Elliot did. After all, Uncle Rufus often forgot Elliot was a boy and brought him shiny earrings every birthday.

  The Brownies smiled. Mr. Willimaker said, “That’s it? Make your family dinner? But it’s so simple.”

  “You say that now. Wait until you see my family’s empty cupboards.” Elliot figured he’d win no matter what. Either he’d get a nice meal tomorrow night or else he wouldn’t have to be the Brownie king and end a war with the Goblins. And even if he were king, he’d just do what they wanted for a few weeks and then give the job to someone else.

  “Your wish is our command,” Patches said, bowing.

  “There’s one more thing,” Mr. Willimaker said. “We have one simple but very important rule. You can’t tell anyone that we exist. If you do, you’ll never see us again.”

  “Never?”

  Patches nodded. “We don’t appear to humans who tell our secrets.”

  “I won’t tell,” Elliot said. He was pretty good with secrets. His parents still didn’t know where he had buried the glass vase he’d accidentally broken over the summer.

  After the Brownies left, Elliot lay back on his bed, wondering what would happen tomorrow. Him, a king? He had holes in the knees of most of his pants. The fanciest thing he owned was the rusty horn on his bike (not counting the earrings Uncle Rufus stole for him). And he still had to take orders from his sister when she said to eat his vegetables, no matter what color they were. Somehow he didn’t feel like a king. But Mr. Willimaker seemed sure that Queen Bipsy had chosen him, so he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

  Most readers of this story agree that Elliot probably wouldn’t have fallen asleep if he knew that hiding in the corner was a third Brownie named Fudd Fartwick. And Fudd Fartwick was watching the sleeping boy, deciding it wouldn’t be hard at all for a small band of Goblins to kill him.

  By the time the first morning rays peeked over the horizon, Fudd Fartwick had thought of at least fourteen ways in which he might kill Elliot. Fifteen ways, if he counted making Elliot play out in the warm autumn sunshine for a few hours. On second thought, perhaps that was only deadly to a Brownie. Brownies could tolerate a little sun, but they didn’t like it, which is why they did their work at night.

  Fudd snapped his fingers to take him back to the Underworld, vanishing from Elliot’s bedroom only about twenty seconds before Elliot awoke. Elliot awoke because he smelled something unusual in his home: hot breakfast. Unless his ears were playing a cruel joke on him, that was definitely bacon sizzling downstairs, and he was certain he detected the quiet thup of toast popping up. He’d asked the Brownies to provide his family with dinner. Was it possible they would provide food for the entire day? He jumped out of bed and ran from his room so quickly that he didn’t notice the tiny dart stuck into his bed, not four inches from where his head had been.

  The poison dart had been Fudd’s first idea. But Fudd wasn’t a good shot, and he’d only brought one poison dart with him. Rule number eight in The Guidebook to Evil Plans clearly stated, “Always have a backup plan in case your first try misses (page 24).” Fudd had forgotten that rule tonight, but he wouldn’t let himself forget again.

  He poofed himself directly to Flog, the Goblin city. Fudd was fully aware that the last Brownie to accidentally poof himself into Flog came home with most of his fingers bitten off, but Fudd was no ordinary Brownie, and he had not come here by accident.

  Fudd was—until yesterday—the closest advisor to Queen Bipsy, making him the second most powerful Brownie in the Underworld. By the end of today, he planned to be the closest advisor to Grissel, leader of the Goblins, and the newest secret enemy of King Elliot.

  The Goblins stared at him with hunger in their black eyes, and Fudd shuddered. The eyes alone wouldn’t be so bad, but combined with their jagged teeth and mossy green skin, Goblins were never a pretty sight. It had been over a thousand years since a Goblin won the Miss Underworld Beauty Pageant. As the story went, the only reason she won was because the other entrants were literally scared to death of her. Being the only living contestant by the end of the show, the crown was hers.

  The Goblins were at that moment fighting over bites of an enormous pumpkin. Fudd hoped they would be so full of pumpkin that they wouldn’t want to eat him. But he knew better. Goblins were always hungry for Brownies.

  Dear Reader, I’m sure you can understand this. While we humans don’t eat Underworld creatures, most humans feel there is always room for one more bite
of the chocolate cake–like dessert known as a brownie. For Goblins, it’s not much different.

  Fudd raised an arm, showing them his gold ring, a sign that he was a royal advisor. They wouldn’t attack him if they saw it. He hoped. In his most commanding voice, he said, “Take me to Grissel.”

  No one answered. Even for a Goblin, it’s not polite to speak with a full mouth. But they pointed to a crooked, gray house at the top of a crooked, gray hill. Fudd thanked them, kicked at a Goblin child who was at that moment gnawing on his leg, and then made his way up to the house.

  As it turned out, Grissel was sitting on a rock in front of the house, as if he’d expected Fudd to come. Over the past few years, he’d grown meaner-looking than when Fudd had last seen him. Like most other Goblins, his clothing was unimaginative and in need of serious repair. Fudd tilted his head toward Grissel, not a deep bow as you’d have to give a royal, but still a show of respect.

  “I knew you’d come, Fartwick,” Grissel said, licking his lips. “Your smell arrived faster than you did.”

  Fudd wanted to point out that Goblins—who avoided water because of the welts it left on their skin—were the worst smelling of any Underworld creature (except perhaps for Trolls, who often create their own swimming holes with how much they sweat). But rather than insult someone who had the ability to swallow him whole, he said, “It’s an honor to speak with you, Grissel.”

  Grissel didn’t act like he was honored to speak with Fudd. Instead, he looked at Fudd like he wasn’t sure whether to eat him headfirst or feet first.

  “What do you want with the Goblins?” Grissel finally asked.

  Fudd’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe you heard about our queen. She died the other night. Something scared her to death.”

  Grissel couldn’t hold back the smile on his face. “I did hear that. I planned to send flowers, but since it was me who scared her to death, I thought flowers would seem insincere.”

  A shiver ran up Fudd’s spine. “Er, yes, good reasoning. Well, shortly before Queen Bipsy’s death, she gave the name of our next king.”