Clan Heir in the Land of the Changing Walls
AN: Ok, just so you don't get confused, this is a prequel to Labyrinth. It was not written by me, but by my father, so I asked him if I could post it on here and he agreed. So, if you review please be nice. Oh, and Jareth's name in this fic starts out as Christopher. And Cor, he speaks with a speech impediment, so just do your best with the reading there. Enjoy!
Cor smiled. He was quite pleased with himself over his newly acquired plunder. The inhabitants of the small village had fled at the first sight of his fearsome hoards. His raid had secured many things that would prove useful to the clan. Here were things wondrous.things of wood, things of brass, bronze, sliver, and gold.even gold! Things which he did not yet know the use of, but that would come in time. If you took such things one at a time, and followed the "test", the use would reveal itself.
Disarray abounded. His goblins had tossed about everything in their looting. Piles of everything and whatnot stood tall interspaced with fields that were sown with brick-a-brack and falderal. From the direction of one of the smaller piles, Cor detected a sound that could only be muffled breathing.
Raising himself up to his full diminutive stature, the portly elder of the goblin clan waddled next to the mound in question. Lifting his right copper-strapped foot backwards, he tentatively kicked at the pile, receiving a muffled pained exhalation for his effort.
"Haeth ye har!" he bellowed and the closest of his youngers arrayed themselves about the now-stirring mound of "not goods".
"Fithe ye thath!" commanded the elder, and new swirls of "not goods" flew through the air, forming new piles behind them until only one item remained at the bottom of the original one.
Surrounded by the goblin raiders lay a small boy, pale of skin and slight of build. Christopher of Jarrett rose to his feet and stood rigid, his thin blanched hands clenched in fists at his side.
"Hath ye nameth?" Cor put forth the question more as a demand, his deep voice almost a growl.
Standing bravely for a child no more than four, Christopher stared the goblin elder in the eye. "My name is Christopher of Jarrett." He had tried to shout it boldly, but had only managed to choke it out in a nervous bark. "Hath ye nameth?" he threw back at Cor, trying to hide his fear behind a somewhat transparent bravado.
"Ayeth be Cor, de long-lived eldereth of de goblin clan, ruler of de land of changing wallth. I taketh me youngerth to raid amidth ye folkth."
The elder looked down, slightly on the boy in front of him, still rigid, trembling slightly. "Whath passeth wit ye eyeth?" Cor sneered, "Theyth be no-two-liketh. Strangerth be dey in de one faeth."
"My eyes are my eyes!" shouted Christopher, "And they might be all I have left after your "youngers" have taken all they can lay hands upon!" One tiny tear made its way down the boy's left cheek, but still he squared back his trembling shoulders.
"Dis one maketh me laugh. No bigger than a young-younger, him, but all de angryth. He can smile me later. Haeth dis 'Jareth' wit."
"The name of my village is Jarrett! Not Jareth!" screamed Christopher, but the conversation had ended, and he faded into unconsciousness, courtesy of the flat of a younger's short sword, dealt to the back of his head.
His first impression was of the clanking and rattling of metal and a headache. He had not awakened with a headache; the headache had awakened him. There was a scurry and bustle about this place, accompanied with a signature prattle and cackle. Goblins, and yes they had left, but no, they had not left him but taken him with them.and. what now? For now, he chose to feign continued unconsciousness, hoping he wouldn't be noticed.
A sudden sharp pain in his side brought his eyes open wide. "Wake up!" screamed the goblin in a shrill voice. In the goblin's hand was a very ornate, very sharp stick. "Wake up or Grik poke you again!"
Evidently, this short pudgy, goblin with the purple beard and a tin helmet just two sizes too large.evidently this was Grik.
He found himself in a large stone room that smelled of moss and damp, surrounded by clutter and broken pieces of all sorts of things.
Christopher continued to dart glances around the room; always with one eye on Grik's sharp stick. Torches that lofted black smoke against a long- stained ceiling lighted the room. His ears were assaulted by a series of crashes and bangs and tinkles coming from behind him. Trying to look behind without taking his eyes off Grik proved impossible, so he looked anyway. Here was another goblin, a head taller than Grik, but almost razor thin. This one was proceeding to take an object from a pile and then first bite it, then throw it into the air, to fall crashing to the stone floor.
"Who is that?" inquired Christopher. Grik seemed almost mesmerized by the sight of the other goblin biting and throwing objects. Without tearing his gaze away, Grik answered, "That Scuzzy." "What is he doing?" "Test." "Test?" "Yes, Scuzzy do test. Cor and youngers bring things here and Grik and Scuzzy test." "Test? Test for what?" "Oh! Many, many, things. We test for many, many things!" "What do you mean?" "Grik and Scuzzy show!"
Grik scampered across the room, shouting, "Scuzzy! Show test!" Grik turned to face Christopher, stood overly erect, and cleared his throat. Then in an officious voice, as though taking part in a great ceremony, he announced, "THE TEST!" Grik proceeded, "Test One: Eat." Scuzzy then picked up an object from the nearest pile, clearly old Mrs. Argory's chamber pot, and tried to bite it from several different directions. "No eat," he reported. "No eat," chimed Grik. "Test Two: Shiny." "Is it shiny?" Scuzzy held the pot up to the light at different angles. "Yes, IS shiny!" "Good," said Grik, "We put in room with shinies. Next thing!" Scuzzy grabbed the next "thing" on the pile, a very ornate wooden cutting board. "Test One: Eat," announced Grik. "No eat," replied Scuzzy. "Test Two: Shiny. Is it shiny?" "Not shiny!" declared Scuzzy. "Test Three: Hurt." Grik took the cutting board out of Scuzzy's hands and proceeded to deal him one, square, thunking blow to the top of the head. "Did it hurt?" asked Grik. "Umm, hurt," reported Scuzzy, rubbing that well tested spot on the top of his head.
"Good,.Good, we put in room with hurts." Grik and Scuzzy both cackled the laugh of those who really love their jobs. It seemed they were so wrapped up in testing that they had forgotten about him, and he took the opportunity to slip away. He stayed in the shadows as much as possible, and eased his way to an open door. At the main passage he looked left and then right. What appeared to be an open-air hallway with no roof extended in both directions almost as far as the eye could see. Left? Right? Did it matter? As long as he was out of there. "I'm left-handed; left is right and right is wrong.left." He sidled left down the corridor, one step after the other, slowly, carefully, hugging close to the wall at his back, aware of every sound, sight, and smell, but nothing brought him alarm.
The footsteps became audible so slowly that at first he wasn't quite sure he had heard them at all. When he was sure he heard them, it was difficult to tell where they were coming from. Behind him! He turned quickly to see two goblins, all leather and brass and steel, heading his way from far down the corridor. He gasped, turned, and ran headlong into a wall that had not been there only a moment before. He slumped to the stone floor, dazed. He heard the footsteps come closer, come upon him, and felt the pull as the goblins lifted under his arms and dragged him away.
In his half-conscious state, only the most obscure of perceptions made their way through the fog. The intermittent scuffing noise as the toes of his hide-bound feet dragged across cobblestone after cobblestone.the occasional jostle as his purveyors changed their grip to ease their burden.the eventful pain when they stumbled under his weight and sent him diving to the stone below. The dank odor of the "where we are now" gave way to the smell of "new place" in his limited awareness. He heard a rumbling, roaring laugh with which he now was becoming familiar.
"Hayeth ye har!" The cessation of the clank-clank of the metal-clad boots was punctuated by grunts of his bearers, and by another slam to the floor.
"Stones, again," muttered Christopher. "I could learn to hate stones." "Wake de young-younger up," bellowed Cor, and a goblin scampered forth and ceremoniously emptied the entire contents of a brass bucket along the entire length of his body.
He floundered sputtering to full consciousness, gaining his feet purely by reflex. "Ahh, Jareth," growled Cor, "Seeketh ye leave Cor with not a bye?" "Anywhere would be better than here!" Christopher hadn't even bothered to correct Cor about his name.
"Hayeth ye de iron rope," Cor said, in an almost quiet manner, which Christopher found more than a little disturbing, because it seemed more foreboding than did the long-lived's bellow.
Christopher could not believe his own eyes. The "iron rope" was brought forth, a set of chains so massive that they were clearly designed for a task much more extensive than restraining a mere human. Twenty goblins shuffled out of the shadows straining under the weight of the first five links, content to drag the remainder. Christopher tried to count the links, but his tally was lost in total amazement.
"Hayeth ye forth ye hanns." Christopher again took his pose of defiance with his fists clenched at the side of his thighs.
"Den hitch dis war dis stands!" Christopher shook only a little as three goblins shackled first one wrist and then the other, and as they released each, the weight of the chains dragged his hands to a height just above his ankles. He huffed as he tried to assume his former stance, but could not.
"So, Jareth," laughed Cor, "dese keep ye har!" Time does pass, as do all things, as did the form of the frail, wiry four-year-old. At first, he at by pressing his head down between his legs so that he could reach his bound hands with his mouth, all the while lamenting that Cor's cooks were no better at their job than Grik and Scuzzy were at categorizing booty. The food was simple and bland: some meat this, some vegetable that, some taste of spoilage or mold, but he was given plenty of it. There must have been some value to it, since he lived. And as first one year, the next passed, Christopher no longer bowed his head to eat. First a link, then another, and another he lifted from the floor, until every meal became a physical exercise. Each night, when left alone, he would test himself as to how much of his bonds he could lift all at once.
And as his frame grew, so did his intellect. He watched and learned as Cor conducted the day to day business of ruling the land of the changing walls. He saw all manner of goblins, beasts, and creatures of unknown origin parade in front of Cor's throne, and paid close attention to the way the affairs of each were handled. He watched the way that Cor led the goblin minions on a very short leash: not waiting for their reaction, but telling them what their reaction was, and being a bit slow of wit, most of the goblins probably thought the reaction was theirs in the first place. More times than he could count, Cor would announce a raid to take place, and the plans would fall on a hushed multitude until Cor would bellow, "Well, howl!" and he would cover his ears as the stones reverberated in a near- deafening cacophony of wails and snarls.
Once, a dwarf was led before the throne. It was the only such one Christopher had ever seen. He was taller than Cor but still kowtowed before the clan leader.
"Aye, Hoggle," rumbled Cor, "Vath hath ye far meth?" "May it please the long-lived, I bring word of a village that is ripe for the plunder." The dwarf was so nervous that he was almost yodeling, his voice skipping up and down an octave or so as he spoke.
"And vere be dis village?" Cor leaned forward as the dwarf told him in a whisper so soft that Christopher could not hear, as close as he was to the throne.
"Ahh, dis be good. Ye go nah." Cor waved a down-turned hand, dismissing the dwarf. "But.but." stammered the dwarf. "What about me payment?" "Ayeth hath paid ye well in past time, dat is nuff," said Cor, dismissing the dwarf's protests as well.
"Cor! Cor!" shouted the dwarf; "From this day forward I shall take your name in vain." And with this final declaration, he made a hasty exit as the clan leader sat chuckling darkly.
"Cor!" murmured Christopher under his breath, "I like that." Next before the throne of the long-lived came Grik and Scuzzy, dragging an enormous trunk awkwardly. "Vyeth come ye here?" was Cor's summons to the throne.
"Grik and Scuzzy bring something!" chattered Grik excitedly; his words slightly muffled at the end as his tin helmet fell across his entire face, as it was prone to do. "Scuzzy! Show!" Scuzzy opened the trunk to reveal the wardrobe and possessions of a well-behest gentleman. Christopher knew what he saw. Apparently the goblin testers didn't. "Eh hem," began Grik. "Test not work on dis." "No," agreed Scuzzy. Grik: "Eat?" Scuzzy: "No." Grik: "Shiny?" Scuzzy: "No." Grik: "Hurt?" Scuzzy: "Not a lot." Grik: "See?" He looked at Cor and waved his hands in the direction of the open trunk. "Cor must say!"
With the characteristic down turned hand, Cor began, "Den taketh dis chard." "May it please the long-lived!" burst forth Christopher, even before he had known it. "Va?" bellowed Cor, turning to look down beside his throne. "May it please Cor, if you don't want that, might I have it?"
Cor just glowered. "In case the long-lived hasn't noticed," Christopher said, "I grow, but these rags do not!"
Cor eyed the young man up and down twice. He motioned forward about fifteen of his goblin guards. "Take dis Jareth wit dis chard away, he geth new rags!"
Surrounded by fifteen guards, in a small room lit by torches, Christopher surveyed his prize. Upon opening the trunk and rummaging through it, he might have wept for joy had not sheer awe prevented it.
Herein lay the rags of the richest! His eyes feasted on the sheen of satin, the shimmer of silk. His fingers delighted in the soft crush of velvet and rasping intricate of lace.
Colors leapt forth from the trunk; some of which he knew no name. Gold he knew.red.green.But this was not quite red, and not quite blue.hmmm.
"And boots!" Boots the like of which Christopher had never seen. These were no mere wrappings of fur and leather; these were tall and black and supple, mirror-shiny with wax and candle-black. Still in his old rags, Christopher fumbled and struggled to pull them on over his bare, dirty feet.
He stomped forward with both feet: twice, then three times more. Returning to the trunk, he realized he was faced with a difficult choice: what would he wear? He rifled through the magnificent contents all the way to the bottom, where his hand met something solid. He drew forth a wooden box, and already subdued by the richness of the attire, still he marveled at what lay within: a golden chain and pendant and three glass spheres that seemed to have trapped the rainbow within themselves.
The nearest of the guards drew nearer, staring at the spheres intently. "You!" bellowed Christopher, doing his best to imitate Cor's command voice, "Bring me a large vessel of water! I wish to bathe!" And to his amazement, the guards hurried off to perform the ordered task.
After washing up, Christopher decided to test a theory. Picking up one of the translucent spheres he walked up to one of the guards, a particularly burly fellow. Passing the sphere slowly before the goblin's eyes, he commanded, "Your dagger, give it to me." Again he watched in amazement as the goblin drew forth the weapon and handed it hilt first to the young man. It was an excellent blade, obviously not of goblin make, with a keen edge and jewel encrusted blade. Christopher moved back to the center of the room.
With no mirror, he gazed into his reflection in one of the spheres and used the blade to pull and hack at the long growth of hair obscuring, his face and eyes. "I'm afraid, I'm making quite a shoddy job of this," he thought, judging by the "fish-eye" distortion of the image in the sphere. When he thought he had done as best as would be, he chose a pair of black riding breeches, a soft, bell-sleeved shirt, and (of course) the "BOOTS". He got dressed.
He considered giving the dagger back to the guard, but decided to nonchalantly conceal it in his right boot. The mesmerism of the sphere must have persisted, since the guard did not ask for his weapon back. He put forth his wrists, was shackled again, and led back to the throne room.
As he stepped into the throne room, still awkwardly heel toeing in the stiff new boots, he heard the rumbling of Cor's laughter, low at first, and building into a raucous roar.
"Var be me dirty boy? Hah!" scoffed the long-lived. " Who be dis pwetty vun?" The bellowing laughter continued echoing throughout the hall.
"The one who THINKS he knows me, should recognize me!" shouted Christopher, shackles and fists clenched at his thighs. "Or are there things that the long-lived does not know?"
"Veh know!" bellowed Cor, "Veh know more!" "Knowing comes from learning!" shouted Christopher, "And learn you shall!" Again Cor's laughter echoed through the hall: tormenting dis "Jareth" was most amusing.
Night after night he hefted his chains merely to eat, but never could he quite lift them all. Even when grown to man height, there were always four of the ponderous links remaining on the floor. Until that one night.
He had no way of knowing what night it was, in the counting of men, because the goblins did not count time. To him it was just: now. This night he vowed not to be denied. Again he strained to lift his chains and again four massive links remained on the floor. He let forth a feral growl and glared at those four links, still lying motionless, as his muscles strained. He lifted and strained and glared and glared. And as he glared, his "not alike in one face" eyes slowly pulled into perfect alignment. He glared and the four links on the floor began to vibrate, then to shudder. He glared and the four began to beat against each other. He strained and he glared and the chain links from the floor rose into the air, lifting not only their own weight, but lifting their fellows as well. At the point when he thought his muscles and his eyes might both burst from the strain, he released his concentration and fell back panting on the stones.
"Stones again," thought Christopher. More exhausted than on the day of his arrival he slept. On the morrow, he awoke at the first glimmer of the morning light. "Much to do today," he mused, as he pulled on his boots. "Much indeed."
Cor arrived at the throne room, still blurry-eyed from his night before: drinking and carousing as only pirate captains and goblin clan leaders are known to do. The sun had not yet broken the horizon and the hoards still slept. With his head supported by the palm of one hand, Cor made his way to the throne and landed in it heavily.
"May it please the long-lived." "Uhhh?" groaned Cor, barely looking up. "May it please the long-lived, I ask for my freedom," stated Christopher in low, even tones. "Uhhh! Vas dis Jareth vanth now?!!" growled Cor, opening only one eye.
"Freedom, I ask for my freedom, lest I do you harm." "Vahh? Geh thee ovay Jareth, Cor nah smiled." "Then a smile you shall!" shouted Christopher. From his soft bell sleeve he drew forth a single crystal sphere. From the moment it appeared, Cor's gaze was fixed upon it. "Vahh?" said Cor and again, "Vahh?" even louder, until the hall rang with the single question.
One and two at a time, the goblins began arriving, summoned by their leader's voice. The scene was tensely defined in Christopher's sight. As he would move the sphere from left to right to left, so would follow Cor's gaze. Sensing the plight of their leader, six goblins came at Christopher from the rear. From the other soft sleeve he produced a second crystal sphere which stopped them instantly and held them transfixed. But the act had diverted his attention from Cor, who shook his head from side to side, and leapt headlong, body to body upon the young man.
Though short in stature, Cor, armor and all, was in no way light, and his bulk slammed Christopher backward on the cobblestone floor.
"Enough of your damned stones!" huffed his voice out of sheer frustration, "And enough of you!" Cor was first to his pudgy feet, but Christopher was not far behind. "Who dis Jareth tink he be?" rumbled Cor. "My name," said Christopher, struggling to drag his chains across the floor, "My name," he said again, as he glared at the chains, and his eyes snapped into perfect symmetry. "My name is Christopher!"
With this shouted declaration all the lengths of the massive chain swung up from the floor and revolved over the young man's head almost with a life of their own.
"Set me free, or feel my chains!" exclaimed the fair-haired one. "Dese steel rope Cor giveth thee!" roared the elder. "Yes!" yelled Christopher.and then.his voice in the low even tones, "And now.you shall have them." His gaze darted from Cor, to the chains, and again narrowed on Cor.
"Back!" screamed the young man, and the chains lashed outward and forward in a wide, sweeping, flailing arc, catching the long-lived just above the waist. The sheer weight of the links and force with which they were swung dragged his entire body through the air in a continuance of their arc until that arc was broke by the intersecting line of a stone wall.
Sparks flew, tin and copper were crushed and dented, and steel chains made their way through flesh, bone, and all. The elder was left on the floor resembling some broken toy, still trying to rise.
Christopher stood over Cor. He bent down to hear the elder's garbled words. "Jareth, ye smileth me." "Of course," said Christopher quietly. "Don't you remember what you said on the day of my capture? "Dis one smileth me later?" Later it is," he breathed, "And a smile you shall have!" Christopher drew forth the jeweled dagger from his right boot and gave the long-lived a smile that would last, just three inches below his chin.
Glaring at first one wrist, and then the other, his shackles fell free, clanking to the stone floor. Worn from the conflict the young man made his way only a little erratically across the room wincing each time he bent to pick up a crystal sphere.
By now the small crowd of goblins had grown to a great multitude. The hush had fallen from them as they began to mutter and murmur amongst themselves that mutter almost becoming a frenzy of confusion.
Christopher moved to stand upon the dais in front of the throne. From his right sleeve he produced a third crystal sphere. He held all three spheres in his outstretched hand and found that with the subtlest of movements, they would rotate about the center of his palm. Continuing this movement not only calmed him in the presence of the muttering hoards, but the effect on the goblins filled him with confidence, as the muttering turned to "ahhhhs" and then to silence.
With all the goblin minions in his thrall, he raised the rotating spheres to full arm length above his head. The attention of the goblins followed the spheres upward.
"The long-lived is dead!" he proclaimed. "The long-lived is dead," recited the hoards, as if in a trance. "Long live." he hesitated, "Long live.Jareth! King of the Goblins," he stated in as authoritative manner as he could muster.
When no reply came forth from the goblins, he remembered that which he had learned at the foot of Cor's throne. "Well?" he said. "Well!" he commanded.
A discordant rousing cheer sprang forth from the goblin hoards. Shouts of "Jareth, Jareth, Jareth," could be heard, but not being much on organization, mostly they just made noise.
AN: Ok, just so you don't get confused, this is a prequel to Labyrinth. It was not written by me, but by my father, so I asked him if I could post it on here and he agreed. So, if you review please be nice. Oh, and Jareth's name in this fic starts out as Christopher. And Cor, he speaks with a speech impediment, so just do your best with the reading there. Enjoy!
Cor smiled. He was quite pleased with himself over his newly acquired plunder. The inhabitants of the small village had fled at the first sight of his fearsome hoards. His raid had secured many things that would prove useful to the clan. Here were things wondrous.things of wood, things of brass, bronze, sliver, and gold.even gold! Things which he did not yet know the use of, but that would come in time. If you took such things one at a time, and followed the "test", the use would reveal itself.
Disarray abounded. His goblins had tossed about everything in their looting. Piles of everything and whatnot stood tall interspaced with fields that were sown with brick-a-brack and falderal. From the direction of one of the smaller piles, Cor detected a sound that could only be muffled breathing.
Raising himself up to his full diminutive stature, the portly elder of the goblin clan waddled next to the mound in question. Lifting his right copper-strapped foot backwards, he tentatively kicked at the pile, receiving a muffled pained exhalation for his effort.
"Haeth ye har!" he bellowed and the closest of his youngers arrayed themselves about the now-stirring mound of "not goods".
"Fithe ye thath!" commanded the elder, and new swirls of "not goods" flew through the air, forming new piles behind them until only one item remained at the bottom of the original one.
Surrounded by the goblin raiders lay a small boy, pale of skin and slight of build. Christopher of Jarrett rose to his feet and stood rigid, his thin blanched hands clenched in fists at his side.
"Hath ye nameth?" Cor put forth the question more as a demand, his deep voice almost a growl.
Standing bravely for a child no more than four, Christopher stared the goblin elder in the eye. "My name is Christopher of Jarrett." He had tried to shout it boldly, but had only managed to choke it out in a nervous bark. "Hath ye nameth?" he threw back at Cor, trying to hide his fear behind a somewhat transparent bravado.
"Ayeth be Cor, de long-lived eldereth of de goblin clan, ruler of de land of changing wallth. I taketh me youngerth to raid amidth ye folkth."
The elder looked down, slightly on the boy in front of him, still rigid, trembling slightly. "Whath passeth wit ye eyeth?" Cor sneered, "Theyth be no-two-liketh. Strangerth be dey in de one faeth."
"My eyes are my eyes!" shouted Christopher, "And they might be all I have left after your "youngers" have taken all they can lay hands upon!" One tiny tear made its way down the boy's left cheek, but still he squared back his trembling shoulders.
"Dis one maketh me laugh. No bigger than a young-younger, him, but all de angryth. He can smile me later. Haeth dis 'Jareth' wit."
"The name of my village is Jarrett! Not Jareth!" screamed Christopher, but the conversation had ended, and he faded into unconsciousness, courtesy of the flat of a younger's short sword, dealt to the back of his head.
His first impression was of the clanking and rattling of metal and a headache. He had not awakened with a headache; the headache had awakened him. There was a scurry and bustle about this place, accompanied with a signature prattle and cackle. Goblins, and yes they had left, but no, they had not left him but taken him with them.and. what now? For now, he chose to feign continued unconsciousness, hoping he wouldn't be noticed.
A sudden sharp pain in his side brought his eyes open wide. "Wake up!" screamed the goblin in a shrill voice. In the goblin's hand was a very ornate, very sharp stick. "Wake up or Grik poke you again!"
Evidently, this short pudgy, goblin with the purple beard and a tin helmet just two sizes too large.evidently this was Grik.
He found himself in a large stone room that smelled of moss and damp, surrounded by clutter and broken pieces of all sorts of things.
Christopher continued to dart glances around the room; always with one eye on Grik's sharp stick. Torches that lofted black smoke against a long- stained ceiling lighted the room. His ears were assaulted by a series of crashes and bangs and tinkles coming from behind him. Trying to look behind without taking his eyes off Grik proved impossible, so he looked anyway. Here was another goblin, a head taller than Grik, but almost razor thin. This one was proceeding to take an object from a pile and then first bite it, then throw it into the air, to fall crashing to the stone floor.
"Who is that?" inquired Christopher. Grik seemed almost mesmerized by the sight of the other goblin biting and throwing objects. Without tearing his gaze away, Grik answered, "That Scuzzy." "What is he doing?" "Test." "Test?" "Yes, Scuzzy do test. Cor and youngers bring things here and Grik and Scuzzy test." "Test? Test for what?" "Oh! Many, many, things. We test for many, many things!" "What do you mean?" "Grik and Scuzzy show!"
Grik scampered across the room, shouting, "Scuzzy! Show test!" Grik turned to face Christopher, stood overly erect, and cleared his throat. Then in an officious voice, as though taking part in a great ceremony, he announced, "THE TEST!" Grik proceeded, "Test One: Eat." Scuzzy then picked up an object from the nearest pile, clearly old Mrs. Argory's chamber pot, and tried to bite it from several different directions. "No eat," he reported. "No eat," chimed Grik. "Test Two: Shiny." "Is it shiny?" Scuzzy held the pot up to the light at different angles. "Yes, IS shiny!" "Good," said Grik, "We put in room with shinies. Next thing!" Scuzzy grabbed the next "thing" on the pile, a very ornate wooden cutting board. "Test One: Eat," announced Grik. "No eat," replied Scuzzy. "Test Two: Shiny. Is it shiny?" "Not shiny!" declared Scuzzy. "Test Three: Hurt." Grik took the cutting board out of Scuzzy's hands and proceeded to deal him one, square, thunking blow to the top of the head. "Did it hurt?" asked Grik. "Umm, hurt," reported Scuzzy, rubbing that well tested spot on the top of his head.
"Good,.Good, we put in room with hurts." Grik and Scuzzy both cackled the laugh of those who really love their jobs. It seemed they were so wrapped up in testing that they had forgotten about him, and he took the opportunity to slip away. He stayed in the shadows as much as possible, and eased his way to an open door. At the main passage he looked left and then right. What appeared to be an open-air hallway with no roof extended in both directions almost as far as the eye could see. Left? Right? Did it matter? As long as he was out of there. "I'm left-handed; left is right and right is wrong.left." He sidled left down the corridor, one step after the other, slowly, carefully, hugging close to the wall at his back, aware of every sound, sight, and smell, but nothing brought him alarm.
The footsteps became audible so slowly that at first he wasn't quite sure he had heard them at all. When he was sure he heard them, it was difficult to tell where they were coming from. Behind him! He turned quickly to see two goblins, all leather and brass and steel, heading his way from far down the corridor. He gasped, turned, and ran headlong into a wall that had not been there only a moment before. He slumped to the stone floor, dazed. He heard the footsteps come closer, come upon him, and felt the pull as the goblins lifted under his arms and dragged him away.
In his half-conscious state, only the most obscure of perceptions made their way through the fog. The intermittent scuffing noise as the toes of his hide-bound feet dragged across cobblestone after cobblestone.the occasional jostle as his purveyors changed their grip to ease their burden.the eventful pain when they stumbled under his weight and sent him diving to the stone below. The dank odor of the "where we are now" gave way to the smell of "new place" in his limited awareness. He heard a rumbling, roaring laugh with which he now was becoming familiar.
"Hayeth ye har!" The cessation of the clank-clank of the metal-clad boots was punctuated by grunts of his bearers, and by another slam to the floor.
"Stones, again," muttered Christopher. "I could learn to hate stones." "Wake de young-younger up," bellowed Cor, and a goblin scampered forth and ceremoniously emptied the entire contents of a brass bucket along the entire length of his body.
He floundered sputtering to full consciousness, gaining his feet purely by reflex. "Ahh, Jareth," growled Cor, "Seeketh ye leave Cor with not a bye?" "Anywhere would be better than here!" Christopher hadn't even bothered to correct Cor about his name.
"Hayeth ye de iron rope," Cor said, in an almost quiet manner, which Christopher found more than a little disturbing, because it seemed more foreboding than did the long-lived's bellow.
Christopher could not believe his own eyes. The "iron rope" was brought forth, a set of chains so massive that they were clearly designed for a task much more extensive than restraining a mere human. Twenty goblins shuffled out of the shadows straining under the weight of the first five links, content to drag the remainder. Christopher tried to count the links, but his tally was lost in total amazement.
"Hayeth ye forth ye hanns." Christopher again took his pose of defiance with his fists clenched at the side of his thighs.
"Den hitch dis war dis stands!" Christopher shook only a little as three goblins shackled first one wrist and then the other, and as they released each, the weight of the chains dragged his hands to a height just above his ankles. He huffed as he tried to assume his former stance, but could not.
"So, Jareth," laughed Cor, "dese keep ye har!" Time does pass, as do all things, as did the form of the frail, wiry four-year-old. At first, he at by pressing his head down between his legs so that he could reach his bound hands with his mouth, all the while lamenting that Cor's cooks were no better at their job than Grik and Scuzzy were at categorizing booty. The food was simple and bland: some meat this, some vegetable that, some taste of spoilage or mold, but he was given plenty of it. There must have been some value to it, since he lived. And as first one year, the next passed, Christopher no longer bowed his head to eat. First a link, then another, and another he lifted from the floor, until every meal became a physical exercise. Each night, when left alone, he would test himself as to how much of his bonds he could lift all at once.
And as his frame grew, so did his intellect. He watched and learned as Cor conducted the day to day business of ruling the land of the changing walls. He saw all manner of goblins, beasts, and creatures of unknown origin parade in front of Cor's throne, and paid close attention to the way the affairs of each were handled. He watched the way that Cor led the goblin minions on a very short leash: not waiting for their reaction, but telling them what their reaction was, and being a bit slow of wit, most of the goblins probably thought the reaction was theirs in the first place. More times than he could count, Cor would announce a raid to take place, and the plans would fall on a hushed multitude until Cor would bellow, "Well, howl!" and he would cover his ears as the stones reverberated in a near- deafening cacophony of wails and snarls.
Once, a dwarf was led before the throne. It was the only such one Christopher had ever seen. He was taller than Cor but still kowtowed before the clan leader.
"Aye, Hoggle," rumbled Cor, "Vath hath ye far meth?" "May it please the long-lived, I bring word of a village that is ripe for the plunder." The dwarf was so nervous that he was almost yodeling, his voice skipping up and down an octave or so as he spoke.
"And vere be dis village?" Cor leaned forward as the dwarf told him in a whisper so soft that Christopher could not hear, as close as he was to the throne.
"Ahh, dis be good. Ye go nah." Cor waved a down-turned hand, dismissing the dwarf. "But.but." stammered the dwarf. "What about me payment?" "Ayeth hath paid ye well in past time, dat is nuff," said Cor, dismissing the dwarf's protests as well.
"Cor! Cor!" shouted the dwarf; "From this day forward I shall take your name in vain." And with this final declaration, he made a hasty exit as the clan leader sat chuckling darkly.
"Cor!" murmured Christopher under his breath, "I like that." Next before the throne of the long-lived came Grik and Scuzzy, dragging an enormous trunk awkwardly. "Vyeth come ye here?" was Cor's summons to the throne.
"Grik and Scuzzy bring something!" chattered Grik excitedly; his words slightly muffled at the end as his tin helmet fell across his entire face, as it was prone to do. "Scuzzy! Show!" Scuzzy opened the trunk to reveal the wardrobe and possessions of a well-behest gentleman. Christopher knew what he saw. Apparently the goblin testers didn't. "Eh hem," began Grik. "Test not work on dis." "No," agreed Scuzzy. Grik: "Eat?" Scuzzy: "No." Grik: "Shiny?" Scuzzy: "No." Grik: "Hurt?" Scuzzy: "Not a lot." Grik: "See?" He looked at Cor and waved his hands in the direction of the open trunk. "Cor must say!"
With the characteristic down turned hand, Cor began, "Den taketh dis chard." "May it please the long-lived!" burst forth Christopher, even before he had known it. "Va?" bellowed Cor, turning to look down beside his throne. "May it please Cor, if you don't want that, might I have it?"
Cor just glowered. "In case the long-lived hasn't noticed," Christopher said, "I grow, but these rags do not!"
Cor eyed the young man up and down twice. He motioned forward about fifteen of his goblin guards. "Take dis Jareth wit dis chard away, he geth new rags!"
Surrounded by fifteen guards, in a small room lit by torches, Christopher surveyed his prize. Upon opening the trunk and rummaging through it, he might have wept for joy had not sheer awe prevented it.
Herein lay the rags of the richest! His eyes feasted on the sheen of satin, the shimmer of silk. His fingers delighted in the soft crush of velvet and rasping intricate of lace.
Colors leapt forth from the trunk; some of which he knew no name. Gold he knew.red.green.But this was not quite red, and not quite blue.hmmm.
"And boots!" Boots the like of which Christopher had never seen. These were no mere wrappings of fur and leather; these were tall and black and supple, mirror-shiny with wax and candle-black. Still in his old rags, Christopher fumbled and struggled to pull them on over his bare, dirty feet.
He stomped forward with both feet: twice, then three times more. Returning to the trunk, he realized he was faced with a difficult choice: what would he wear? He rifled through the magnificent contents all the way to the bottom, where his hand met something solid. He drew forth a wooden box, and already subdued by the richness of the attire, still he marveled at what lay within: a golden chain and pendant and three glass spheres that seemed to have trapped the rainbow within themselves.
The nearest of the guards drew nearer, staring at the spheres intently. "You!" bellowed Christopher, doing his best to imitate Cor's command voice, "Bring me a large vessel of water! I wish to bathe!" And to his amazement, the guards hurried off to perform the ordered task.
After washing up, Christopher decided to test a theory. Picking up one of the translucent spheres he walked up to one of the guards, a particularly burly fellow. Passing the sphere slowly before the goblin's eyes, he commanded, "Your dagger, give it to me." Again he watched in amazement as the goblin drew forth the weapon and handed it hilt first to the young man. It was an excellent blade, obviously not of goblin make, with a keen edge and jewel encrusted blade. Christopher moved back to the center of the room.
With no mirror, he gazed into his reflection in one of the spheres and used the blade to pull and hack at the long growth of hair obscuring, his face and eyes. "I'm afraid, I'm making quite a shoddy job of this," he thought, judging by the "fish-eye" distortion of the image in the sphere. When he thought he had done as best as would be, he chose a pair of black riding breeches, a soft, bell-sleeved shirt, and (of course) the "BOOTS". He got dressed.
He considered giving the dagger back to the guard, but decided to nonchalantly conceal it in his right boot. The mesmerism of the sphere must have persisted, since the guard did not ask for his weapon back. He put forth his wrists, was shackled again, and led back to the throne room.
As he stepped into the throne room, still awkwardly heel toeing in the stiff new boots, he heard the rumbling of Cor's laughter, low at first, and building into a raucous roar.
"Var be me dirty boy? Hah!" scoffed the long-lived. " Who be dis pwetty vun?" The bellowing laughter continued echoing throughout the hall.
"The one who THINKS he knows me, should recognize me!" shouted Christopher, shackles and fists clenched at his thighs. "Or are there things that the long-lived does not know?"
"Veh know!" bellowed Cor, "Veh know more!" "Knowing comes from learning!" shouted Christopher, "And learn you shall!" Again Cor's laughter echoed through the hall: tormenting dis "Jareth" was most amusing.
Night after night he hefted his chains merely to eat, but never could he quite lift them all. Even when grown to man height, there were always four of the ponderous links remaining on the floor. Until that one night.
He had no way of knowing what night it was, in the counting of men, because the goblins did not count time. To him it was just: now. This night he vowed not to be denied. Again he strained to lift his chains and again four massive links remained on the floor. He let forth a feral growl and glared at those four links, still lying motionless, as his muscles strained. He lifted and strained and glared and glared. And as he glared, his "not alike in one face" eyes slowly pulled into perfect alignment. He glared and the four links on the floor began to vibrate, then to shudder. He glared and the four began to beat against each other. He strained and he glared and the chain links from the floor rose into the air, lifting not only their own weight, but lifting their fellows as well. At the point when he thought his muscles and his eyes might both burst from the strain, he released his concentration and fell back panting on the stones.
"Stones again," thought Christopher. More exhausted than on the day of his arrival he slept. On the morrow, he awoke at the first glimmer of the morning light. "Much to do today," he mused, as he pulled on his boots. "Much indeed."
Cor arrived at the throne room, still blurry-eyed from his night before: drinking and carousing as only pirate captains and goblin clan leaders are known to do. The sun had not yet broken the horizon and the hoards still slept. With his head supported by the palm of one hand, Cor made his way to the throne and landed in it heavily.
"May it please the long-lived." "Uhhh?" groaned Cor, barely looking up. "May it please the long-lived, I ask for my freedom," stated Christopher in low, even tones. "Uhhh! Vas dis Jareth vanth now?!!" growled Cor, opening only one eye.
"Freedom, I ask for my freedom, lest I do you harm." "Vahh? Geh thee ovay Jareth, Cor nah smiled." "Then a smile you shall!" shouted Christopher. From his soft bell sleeve he drew forth a single crystal sphere. From the moment it appeared, Cor's gaze was fixed upon it. "Vahh?" said Cor and again, "Vahh?" even louder, until the hall rang with the single question.
One and two at a time, the goblins began arriving, summoned by their leader's voice. The scene was tensely defined in Christopher's sight. As he would move the sphere from left to right to left, so would follow Cor's gaze. Sensing the plight of their leader, six goblins came at Christopher from the rear. From the other soft sleeve he produced a second crystal sphere which stopped them instantly and held them transfixed. But the act had diverted his attention from Cor, who shook his head from side to side, and leapt headlong, body to body upon the young man.
Though short in stature, Cor, armor and all, was in no way light, and his bulk slammed Christopher backward on the cobblestone floor.
"Enough of your damned stones!" huffed his voice out of sheer frustration, "And enough of you!" Cor was first to his pudgy feet, but Christopher was not far behind. "Who dis Jareth tink he be?" rumbled Cor. "My name," said Christopher, struggling to drag his chains across the floor, "My name," he said again, as he glared at the chains, and his eyes snapped into perfect symmetry. "My name is Christopher!"
With this shouted declaration all the lengths of the massive chain swung up from the floor and revolved over the young man's head almost with a life of their own.
"Set me free, or feel my chains!" exclaimed the fair-haired one. "Dese steel rope Cor giveth thee!" roared the elder. "Yes!" yelled Christopher.and then.his voice in the low even tones, "And now.you shall have them." His gaze darted from Cor, to the chains, and again narrowed on Cor.
"Back!" screamed the young man, and the chains lashed outward and forward in a wide, sweeping, flailing arc, catching the long-lived just above the waist. The sheer weight of the links and force with which they were swung dragged his entire body through the air in a continuance of their arc until that arc was broke by the intersecting line of a stone wall.
Sparks flew, tin and copper were crushed and dented, and steel chains made their way through flesh, bone, and all. The elder was left on the floor resembling some broken toy, still trying to rise.
Christopher stood over Cor. He bent down to hear the elder's garbled words. "Jareth, ye smileth me." "Of course," said Christopher quietly. "Don't you remember what you said on the day of my capture? "Dis one smileth me later?" Later it is," he breathed, "And a smile you shall have!" Christopher drew forth the jeweled dagger from his right boot and gave the long-lived a smile that would last, just three inches below his chin.
Glaring at first one wrist, and then the other, his shackles fell free, clanking to the stone floor. Worn from the conflict the young man made his way only a little erratically across the room wincing each time he bent to pick up a crystal sphere.
By now the small crowd of goblins had grown to a great multitude. The hush had fallen from them as they began to mutter and murmur amongst themselves that mutter almost becoming a frenzy of confusion.
Christopher moved to stand upon the dais in front of the throne. From his right sleeve he produced a third crystal sphere. He held all three spheres in his outstretched hand and found that with the subtlest of movements, they would rotate about the center of his palm. Continuing this movement not only calmed him in the presence of the muttering hoards, but the effect on the goblins filled him with confidence, as the muttering turned to "ahhhhs" and then to silence.
With all the goblin minions in his thrall, he raised the rotating spheres to full arm length above his head. The attention of the goblins followed the spheres upward.
"The long-lived is dead!" he proclaimed. "The long-lived is dead," recited the hoards, as if in a trance. "Long live." he hesitated, "Long live.Jareth! King of the Goblins," he stated in as authoritative manner as he could muster.
When no reply came forth from the goblins, he remembered that which he had learned at the foot of Cor's throne. "Well?" he said. "Well!" he commanded.
A discordant rousing cheer sprang forth from the goblin hoards. Shouts of "Jareth, Jareth, Jareth," could be heard, but not being much on organization, mostly they just made noise.