Even after the old goblin ran the play past him, Paul found its potential efficacy highly dubious. Much of it relied on his ability to cozen a literal giant into revealing her innermost secrets to him under a hair-thin pretext, all while keeping her distracted and himself out of harm’s way.
This last bit was his foremost concern.
Despite these misgivings, Fickle threw a rangy, paternal arm around Paul’s shoulders, already leading him onward through the forest.
“You ply her with that princely charm of yours,” Fickle said, in a conspiratorial drawl. “Find out anything you can about her—something we can use in the performance to win her over.”
“Yes, but—“
“Unless, of course, you’d rather pull your own wagon out of this god-forsaken valley. I could have ol’ Bess fit you with a bit and bridle. If that’s your preference.”
The giant had plucked the Caravan’s draft animals from their harnesses like toys, indifferent to their various moos, bleats and chitterings of protest, and had dropped them all into what looked disconcertingly like an enormous stew pot. Unless they could convince her to forego her windfall of braised meat, the wagons would be stranded, and the circus would be reduced to only what its performers could carry away.
“I suppose it could work, but—“
“There’s a good lad!” The ringmaster thumped him on the back with one gloved fist. “I knew we could count on you!”
“But what if the troupe works its magic, and she’s so enchanted that she decides to join the circus?”
“Hah! We should be so fortunate. Come along—“
“What if the show is so entertaining that she doesn’t want us to leave?”
The Hob inhaled sharply through his crooked, brown teeth. After a moment of consideration, he answered, “We’ll ford that crossing once we reach it! Now steady yourself. I’m about to make the play.”
They emerged into a wide clearing, and Paul drew up short at the sight of the giant. Two hundred feet tall if she was an inch, even hunkered down and hunched over she stood out among the treetops. She was clearly living rough; her auburn hair, woven into a hasty braid, was oily and fraying, matted with mud and branches. Her coverings, which were modest, despite her size, were grime-stained and seam-split in several places. In human years, she might have been thirty-five or so—but then again, she also could have been older than the mountains. She could have sprung fully grown from the loam just the day before.
In Fairyland, who could tell?
The giant had gathered a few armfuls of saplings and tree trunks, and was hard at work starting a cook fire. Beside her, from within a lidded iron structure that could have neatly covered the center ring of their three-ring circus, Paul could just make out the plaintive lowing of trapped oxen.
The old Hob, who could fill the big tent to the nosebleeds with his voice six nights a week, cleared his throat, and she turned.
*Fuck,* Paul thought, dismayed, as her gaze settled on them. At first she seemed nonplussed, but when her walnut eyes locked with his they narrowed in suspicion, pinning him to the spot. He realized with dawning horror that the ringmaster had seized him by the collar, and was dragging him forward. His feet had ceased voluntary operations.
“Begging your pardon,” Fickle began, “and copious apologies for interrupting, Miss…?”
He trailed off, leaving the question to linger in the air. Her expression took a long moment to roll over into recognition that the funny little goblin was addressing her.
“Oh! They call me Lilliandre of the Vale.”
“Why do they call you that?”
She motioned to herself. “I’m Lilliandre, and this—“ She gestured to the broad expanse of wilderness around them with one great hand. “—this is the Vale.”
“Charming. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear.” The Hob gave an exaggerated bow, as if he were playing to the cheap seats. In kind, she rose to her full height, and returned a halting, somewhat choreographed curtsy. She seemed ill-at-ease with the protocol, but the rules of fairy politeness were so rigid you could practically stand them upright and hang your hat from their strictures. He gave her an approving nod of reassurance, and continued. “I am Doctor Fickle, founder, owner, proprietor, and impresario of Fantastic Fickle’s Caravan of Wonders!”
Fickle’s nimble hands split the air, sending a cascade of exploding sparks in all directions. Too quickly, Paul felt the old goblin’s bony digits tighten on his shoulder.
“And this… *awe-struck*… young mortal is Paul, my personal valet.” Paul only gawped at the giant, so Fickle broke the silence. “You’ll have to forgive him. I’ve trained him not to speak without my explicit permission, and he doesn’t wish to be flogged for his insolence. You know how humans are.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice darkening. Evidently she held no love for humans. “They can be very…insolent.”
“It’s all right, Paul. You may address the lady. Whenever. Any time you’re ready.”
Fickle shoved him forward and he stumbled, somehow managing find his feet before his face found the dirt.
“Hi,” he said, trying his best to fall gracefully into a low bow of his own. He looked up at her, from the leather thongs of her sandals, past the fraying hemline of her skirts, the wide sweep of her hips and belly, the thickly freckled swell of her chest, the hard, suspicious eyes. His head barely cleared her big and second toes, and he thought with amazement that she could probably fit his entire body between them, if she flexed a bit. “I’m uh— I’m Paul.”
“I heard,” she replied. “He just introduced you.”
“Now that we’ve put the formalities behind us with such eloquence and aplomb,” Fickle interrupted, “Let us come to our purpose in approaching you today.”
Looking somewhat relieved, Lilliandre said, “Let’s do that.”
“As I said earlier, my human and I belong to a troupe of performers. A traveling coterie of entertainers, artists, dramatists and musicians who wander in search of our next audience. We’ve come to your valley to offer you an invitation to an exclusive, once-in-a-lifetime performance. Tonight only!”
With practiced legerdemain, Fickle conjured one of their large-format posters—almost twice as tall as he was fully unrolled—and offered it to her. Lilliandre knelt and took it from him between her thumb and forefinger, unrolling it carefully so as not to tear it. She squinted down at what, to her, must have been a scrap, and Paul could see her mouth the words as she read. He knew them by heart.
“Dalmodeus Fickle, Ph.D., Presents: Fantastic Fickle’s Caravan of Wonders! Astounding Acrobatics! Clownish Cavorting! Death-Defying Thrills! Come great, come small, come revelers all!” Beneath the usual copy, perhaps as a bit of cheek, Fickle had evidently added two words. She finished, “Admit One.”
“Just consider that your ticket, my dear, and present it to the attendant at dusk. We’ve prepared special accommodations for you, our honored guest, at the edge of the forest, just a few steps south of here. Best seat in the valley for the greatest show in all the worlds!”
Paul thought it was one hell of a slick pitch, but she demurred.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly! I’ve got so many other things to do here, like making my supper. And mending my clothes. And fixing my hair. And finishing my...” She muttered something in a language Paul didn’t recognize. “My…rock fort…”
Fickle offered, “Castle?”
“That’s the thing! I’m definitely building one of those, and I’m almost done. So no time for fun and circuses tonight. I’ve got to find some rocks and smash ‘em together to finish my *castle*.”
“That is a shame,” Fickle said. Paul could sense that the Hob had another play up his sleeve, and knew he was not going to like it. “But you know, if you need some assistance with your To-Do list, if it would free up your schedule for tonight, I can lend you my man Paul here for the afternoon. He’s only a human, but he’s got his uses. He’s our tailor, you see. And the troupe’s stylist. Also, set-builder, prop-master and cook. If you need to be well coiffed, well dressed, well fed and well sheltered, he’s the man for the job.”
“I think, “ Paul started, “that you may be overselling me just a bit—“
“Nonsense!” Fickle said. “The boy is just being modest. He’s the most talented circus crewman I’ve ever traveled with in all my years! He can build and strike any set you could describe, single-handedly, in under an hour!”
“Fickle—!”
“His costumes are the pinnacle of elegance and beauty! His hair stylings make the nymphs themselves envy our performers, who—trust me—are a homely bunch, at best!”
“Oh for fuck’s sake—“ Paul muttered. Fickle ignored him, heaping on ever more extravagant praises.
“He’s prepared lavish meals for the Crowned Heads of Fairyland that were so delectable, we’ve had to sneak him out of their palaces and glades under cover of night just so they wouldn’t chain him up in their kitchens!”
Lilliandre looked askance at the goblin, as if he had just told her that the trees could uproot themselves and dance their way onto her kindling pile. Perhaps they could, at that.
“Oh, don’t waste his talents on me,” she said. “I’m no Crowned Head of Fairyland, after all. Surely such an illustrious and gifted human has more important matters to oversee than…my hair.”
“I won’t hear another word, my dear! You are indeed as worthy of Paul’s attention as any noble lord or lady of the realm. Someone of your…stature…should be accustomed to the best and finest, and Paul is all that and more!”
“Seriously, Fickle,” Paul said. “We wouldn’t want to overpromise and under-deliver.”
“Isn’t he adorable?” The old goblin said, ruffling Paul’s hair. “Just makes you want to squeeze him till his eyeballs pop.”
Paul wondered if she’d had any experience in this area. He definitely didn’t like the way it made her laugh.
Fickle broke his reverie by giving him a swift kick in his Achilles tendon.
“Ay—! I realize that it may seem like a stretch,” he began, half shouting to be heard, “that I could do all those things as quickly or half as well as he said I could—“
He glanced over at Fickle, who only rolled his eyes.
“But I wouldn’t want my modesty to deprive you of any assistance you might need with your home-building, or wardrobe, or grooming.”
With a scowl that would have taken Paul two ladders and a good length of rope to climb, she knelt and leaned in so that her face hovered over him, her breath tugging the ends of his coat. He could see irritation written on every freckle and eyelash. He could feel it in his ribs and the thin membranes of his lungs when she spoke.
“And you can help me with my *grooming*, little one?”
Paul could only nod, more certain than he’d ever been of his finite lifespan and its inexorably approaching terminus. In a moment of sheer insanity that pierced the existential terror, he thought, *Well, fuck it. The play’s mine now. If I’m going to die, I might as well give it my best shot.* Mustering his resolve, he shouted, “I am at your service, Lilliandre of the Vale!”
With a mischievous smirk, she scooped him up in an open palm, sweeping him off his feet, and rose, a gesture so rapid and delicate that he barely had time to scream before he found himself sixteen stories up. She cupped her hand around him, chuckling softly as he clutched at her flesh and sank into her heart line.
“Let’s start with that, then!” She turned her attention to Fickle, who had managed by some cunning trick of goblin fuckery to avoid being swept up himself. “I thank you for your generous invitation, Doctor, and I accept. Assuming your human here is as good as you say, of course. If he isn’t—“
She held him up at eye level, considering him the way one might a surf-polished seashell or a glittering piece of agate.
“Like you said, I’m sure he’s got his uses.”
Curling her fingers over Paul’s relatively tiny form, the giant woman turned and strode off in the direction of the river, leaving the old goblin alone in the clearing with a house-sized pile of kindling and a pot full of terrified beasts of burden. He grinned as he watched her go, top hat pushed back off his tapering ears. He watched her disappear behind a small hill, her rumbling footsteps diminishing to distant drumbeats.
“Break a leg, kid!” Fickle said, giving the valley a sardonic salute. “Hell, break both of ‘em.”