Kathy had to admit the two goblins she had adopted didn't slow her down at all. Admittedly, they made enough noise tramping through the dim, overgrown wood for an army, but they moved fast. She actually suspected they could have easily outrun her, had they been so inclined.

It was odd, really. They were small, but they had wickedly sharp teeth and long, curving claws on their gray hands. She'd ask them questions from time to time, and, once their answers were filtered from the matrix of bizarre accents and idiom that surrounded them, they really didn't seem to be that stupid. More… simple. Screwtape, the older one, was more sensible than Gutbucket, but even he was hopelessly dependent on her to make decisions like: "Which fork looks like it will take us closer to the castle?" or "Shall we stop and climb a tree to see if we're heading the right direction?"

If she had told them, "Boys, go drink that poison," she suspected they would do it without question.

Back at school (wow, and didn't that seem like it was years ago… could it really have been less than a week?), Kathy had taken a few required psychology courses. She had paid a bare minimum of attention, the soft sciences having little appeal when contrasted with the glittering perfection of mathematics and physics that her astronomy major had provided. She remembered one class, though, taught by a middle-aged Swiss professor who had seemed unhealthily interested in the torturous treatments used until quite recently on the mentally ill. Kathy thought she would never forget the film of the so-called "Icepick lobotomy."

His actual area of research had been in "mental programming," specifically that used in cults. He had talked about Jim Jones, Charles Manson, David Koresh, and the Reverend Sun Myung Moon. He had talked about charisma and autohypnosis. He had talked about isolating the new inductee from friends, family, and the world. And he had talked about how, with time, it's entirely possible to completely control the average human mind.

Kathy was beginning to suspect something like that had happened to the goblins. Somehow, they had all been convinced that, despite their pointy fangs and razor-sharp claws, they were stupid, weak, and needed to be constantly guided. It was hard to believe, she knew: most of these men had controlled comparatively small groups, who they kept nearby. The really large-scale nutcases (the ones who got to run Germany in the thirties, f'rinstance) still spoke stirringly to their subjects on television, radio, and in the newspapers.

That hadn't happened here. Neither of the goblins had ever met Jareth in person before today. Gutbucket had never even seen him from a distance. How the hell could anyone, charisma or no, manage to keep thousands of people (and they were people, albeit non-human people) who had never even seen him on such a tight leash.

The answer came to her in a flash. Of course. The answer was so simple it was obvious. He may not have TV or the wonders of the Internet at his command, but the bastard has one thing that ol' Jim Jones would have loved. Magic. Now drink the Kool-Aid, boys, and wake up in the Promised Land, can you gimme hallelujah?

Kathy shivered, not because the thought was unpleasant (although it was), but because the air had gotten damp and chilly. Snapping out of her brown study, she realized that she could hear running water, and had been hearing it for some minutes. She squinted her eyes and stared along the deer-track that they had followed for the past hour or so. The light was growing dimmer, and the orange sky that was occasionally visible through the green canopy of the trees was turning to red. It was getting dark.

This annoyed her. She could just about deal with the fact that her little brother had been kidnapped by the King of the goblins. She could deal with the idea that her prosaic, comfortable universe was far from the other one. She had no problem with swimming in this universe's dark, confusing waters, regardless of the sharks in the depths. With an effort, she could even get behind the idea that a kids movie she had watched being filmed back in the days when she still played with Barbie dolls was more or less 100% accurate. Why not? When… if… she got out of this, she could have all the leisure to contemplate the madness of it all that she wanted. A nice room with padded walls to throw herself against was looking sweeter and sweeter.

But, damn it, she had left the house at nine that morning, and even the damn silver pocket watch said only five hours had passed, and there was no damn way it should be getting dark yet. She didn't have a flashlight, and this wasn't exactly Manhattan: if the sun set, she'd be blind, walking through a black forest with two goblin guard dogs who were utterly helpless without someone who could at least pretend to be in charge. The bum ankle was swelling painfully against her sneakers; the bruised rib made each breath a painful proposition.

Kathy hated to think it, but this just wasn't fair. "Sometimes I think God is teasing me," she mumbled, running her hands through her sweaty hair, "Like he teased Moses in the desert."

"Pardon, Miz?"

"Guess you don't get Fox out here. Never mind for now. Can you get up here and tell me what you see ahead there?"

Screwtape peered into the darkening forest with eyes like gimlets (Gimlet being the goblin who manned the watchtower for his village). "S'like a river, Miz. Wiv a bridge and a bit o'house next it. Looks empty."

"No bridge trolls or billy goats gruff?"

"Nar, Miz," chimed in Gutbucket, "It's 'ard to miss a troll, bein' five yards tall and wotnot. I wouldn't mind a goat or two. You can get a good feed off a goat."

"Anything else?"

Screwtape took back over the goblin half of the conversation, "Might be the woods is thinnin' a bit over there. If I guessed the dist'nce right when I climbed that tree back there, we might be getting to the edge."

Oh, thank you God, thought Kathy. "Great. Well, let's get a move on."

The odd trio walked another half mile, until they came to the river and the bridge. The river was deep, and as clear as glass, the fading light tracing paths of gold on its gently rippling surface. In the pellucid depths, gold and silver fish chased one another through the wavering weeds and around the mossy stones.

The bridge was a horse of a different color. At one time it had been painted green, but years had worn off the paint, and the exposed wood was clearly beginning to rot. The "Little House" that Screwtape had described was an abandoned tollbooth, precariously perched at the top of the arch. Standing vertically in its slot was a pole, once striped in bumblebee black and yellow, now as faded and tattered as the rest of the structure.

Kathy looked at the whole with a dubious expression on her face. It seemed rather too easy of a trick, to lure them out onto a rickety bridge that might dump them into the water. Anyway, she could swim, even if the goblins couldn't. But maybe that was the trick: to get you off your guard. Or maybe it was just some sort of joke, to put you on your guard, and then let you cross safely, so next time something weird happened, you would think that it was just another trick, and then POW! Or maybe… Kathy cut her train of thought off before it would circle into a derailment. She turned to the goblins. "I'll go across first, to see if it's safe. Wait until I get to the other side, then follow."

Stepping cautiously onto the bridge, she began the crossing, keeping a grip on one of the rails. The wood creaked underneath her, but the planks were able to support her weight. Clinging tightly to the railing, she jumped once, experimentally. The wood didn't break.

With more confidence, she strode up the arch of the bridge. At the top she slowed, and pressed herself to the far side of the bridge from the tollhouse. It was clearly empty, but there was something sinister about the dark holes-like-eyes of the tiny windows. Just before she reached the top, a wail, as of a long-closed door opening, tore loudly through the air. Kathy gasped, and, pressing her back against the railing, tensed to fight or to run.

So it was that the tollgate, its bumblebee colors long faded, wailing as its rusted hinge let it drop, caught her a good one on the knuckles as it landed against the railing.

The pole, evidently having contributed its all in the making of her day miserable, snapped in the middle, and one half fell to the plank floor. Good riddance, thought Kathy, clasping her bruised fingers with her other hand.

"Bugger and Blast!" shouted someone from a thicket on the far side of the bridge. An chubby, older man, with gingery hair and a walrus mustache of the same color, waddled out of the shrubbery, hiking up brown breeches and tucking in a stained linen shirt.

He had no weapons and wasn't at all frightening, with a remarkable resemblance to the British actor Jim Broadbent. Kathy waited for him as he puffed his way up the bridge to stand in front of her. "Years of nothing," he gasped, "And a man heads off for a call of nature, begging your pardon, Miss Williams, and then someone shows up."

He had reached her, and paused a moment, his walrus mustaches puffing in and out as he caught his breath. "Dreadfully sorry about that. Well, I may as well begin at the beginning." He drew a deep breath and shouted loudly enough to make Kathy jump.

"TOLL BRIDGE! STOP AND PAY TOLL! FAILURE TO DO SO MAY RESULT IN PROSECUTION, FINES, AND IMMERSION INTO THE BOG OF ETERNAL STENCH!"

"Umm," said Kathy, with brilliant and sparkling wit, "Well… I don't have much, but…" She pulled her backpack to one side and opened up the pocket where her wallet was tucked away.

The bridge keeper cocked his head, and his brown eyes went blank. "You have: a flannel shirt a makeup bag contact lens case reading glasses a trashy Anne Rice novel a wallet containing one hundred twenty seven dollars fifty six cents American four pounds fifty British fifty pesos Mexican a checkbook various credit cards a Colorado driving license a student ID card a Sony Discman a half eaten bag of Skittles five types of lipgloss - really, that's a bit excessive on the lipgloss, don't you think? - a CD holder a half-pack of Camel cigarettes you bought six months ago while drunk and forgot you had five pens six pencils a keyring with four keys and a pocket calculator."

His eyes regained their expression (compensating for the glazed look that Kathy's own eyes had gotten during this recitation) and his head returned to full vertical. "None of them are suitable tolls for this bridge, Miss Williams."

Kathy blinked, mused a moment, and gestured at the silver hoops that hung in her ears. "How about my earri…?"

The bridgekeeper scoffed, and waved a hand dismissively, saying "Earrings? Molest me not with such fairground tat."

"Fairground what? I'll have you know these are one of a kind originals from Tiffany and Co…"

"Company? I'm afraid such foolish terrestrial distinctions are meaningless to me."

Kathy, a bit peeved at the continuous interruptions, raised her voice and called to the goblins, "Gutbucket, Screwtape, come on up here. Maybe they'll have something you…"

"Want? I'm afraid not, Miss Williams. They're your servants. The toll you pay allows them passage as well, but you can't pay it for them."

"They aren't my servants. They work for…"

"Jareth? Who gives them their orders?"

"Well, I have been, but that's only because they're…"

"Lost? But they do follow you, do they not?"

"Yes, but it's only…"

"Temporary? Sorry, that makes them your servants, or your liegemen, anyway. The toll's all yours. Responsibility's a bitch, isn't it?"

The two goblins had joined up with Kathy and the Bridgekeeper, and looked up at the ginger-haired man with suspicious expressions on their odd little faces. He bowed politely to them, and asked Kathy, "Would you mind if we sat? I'm not so young as I once was, and I'm a bit puffed."

"Sure," she said, feeling bewildered, and carefully sat indian-style on the bridge. The Bridgekeeper flopped himself down with a grunt and sprawled spread-eagled on the planks. As for Gutbucket and Screwtape, they stood at attention until Kathy sighed and said, "You guys can sit down." At which point they did with great alacrity and murmurs of, "Yes, miz."

"Told you," chuckled the Bridgekeeper, "I'm surprised you dislike being responsible for them. You seem to easily accept responsibility for young Eric."

"He's my brother, it's different," grumbled Kathy, "And how do you know all this stuff…"

"Anyway? I'm the Bridgekeeper, Miss Williams. No one who crosses this bridge pays the same price, although it is expensive for all of them. I have to know about people to calculate the correct toll. While you are on my bridge, I can see into your past, and into the thousand thousand paths of your future. Seeing into your knapsack is a small trick that any idiot with an X-ray could manage."

"You know, I really wish you'd let me finish a sentence," she said, and then paused for a moment. "Oh. You did."

"I did indeed. You were showing some spirit. I was wondering when you would do that."

"I've been very goddamn spirited through this whole stupid…"

"Labyrinth? I'm afraid not. Oh, at the beginning, before you knew what you were getting into, and with the keepers of the twin gates, yes. But ever since you had to face a truly threatening challenge, you've been doubtful and hesitant. It won't work for you."

"What do you…"

"Mean? I mean, Miss Williams, that on your path to the castle beyond the goblin city, you'll need your spirit. Take your Mother, the lady…"

"Sarah? Yes, please do take her."

"Touché. She's the only one to ever beat the King without his tacit approval. And that's because she instinctively recognized her path and followed it. She was a dreamer, and she made friends easily, and used those gifts to make her way through. You are no dreamer, and making friends is hard for you. If you try to take her path, you will lose. And badly."

"Badly? Like losing wouldn't suck enough. But you're wrong, I can make…"

"Friends? Oh, I know back in the world, you have a circle of acquaintances and well-wishers who you call friends… but really, you're the sort of person who makes two or three real friends in a lifetime. You're a loner. Even these goblins who you've picked up are your servants, and not your friends."

"Well…"

"See? Mind, it's not impossible for you to win anyway. In the lands of Huon, nothing is impossible. You've come farther than most, and you have certain gifts of your own. Brains, determination so hard you could break rocks with it, and a secret chill in your heart that will allow you to count costs and do the right thing no matter who gets hurt."

"Jeez. You make me sound like such a bitch."

"Call me a liar."

Kathy hesitated, tugging absently at a strand of her golden hair. "I… I guess I can't."

"A bitch isn't the worst thing in the world to be," said the Bridgekeeper, smiling sympathetically beneath his mustaches, "I've seen a bitch fox fight a wolf to the death in order to defend her kits. Now, with the pleasantries out of the way, shall we discuss the matter of your toll?"

"Um, sure. But you know everything I'm carrying… what else can I give you?"

"Didn't you ever read fairy tales? There are several traditional gifts, and some less common. The voice is always a popular one, but not very valuable in this case, I suspect."

"What's the hell's so bad about my voice?"

"Perhaps… the color of your skin? Or seventy-seven years of service, to begin in a year and a day unless you obtain a certain jeweled casket for me in the interim? Or your first-born child?"

"Well… I'd rather not go albino, if it's at all avoidable. And I'm not interested in being anyone's servant, or going on another quest. This one is enough for one lifetime. And I don't plan to have any children. You see, I feel that in our overpopulated world, it would be unethical to create another life when I could adopt an unwanted…"

"Oh, for the love of Merlin, get over yourself, child," said the Bridgekeeper, his friendly face creasing in irritation, "Stop clinging to the certainties of your old life. Things are going to be different from this point on, and the sooner you get used to it, the better. You will have, not a child, but children. A pack of boys like stars and a single girl like the sun."

"What?!? How do you know… WAIT! Never mind! I don't want to know," she shouted, "Let's get back to the point. What else will you take?"

"Well, how about your name? Always a classic."

"My name? Well, I guess I could go by my middle name. I never liked "Linda" but it's not that bad once you get down to…"

"No, no, no… you misunderstand me. Katherine is only the name you were born with. You're welcome to that. The name written on your heart in lines of fire is Kathy, and that is what I'd take."

"But I don't even really like the name Kathy. People just started calling me that, and I just stopped trying to get them to quit."

"Nevertheless, it is who you are. What do you say?"

"Well, hell yeah! I thought I'd be lucky to get out of this one with my skin."

The bridgekeeper (and why did he look so sorrowful all of a sudden?) reached out a chubby finger and touched her chest, between her breasts, on the letter "u" of the "Vacuous Tart" slogan silk-screened onto her T-shirt. He drew back his hand, and a thread of amethyst light stretched from her sternum like taffy.

When it snapped, she gasped, although she didn't know why. The operation hadn't hurt a bit. In the bridgekeeper's callused palm rested a tiny amethyst sphere the size of the marble. It looked like it was lit from within, and she couldn't draw her eyes away from the light.

"Is that my name?" she breathed.

"Not anymore," said the Bridgekeeper. He closed his palm, and the light vanished. "I swear and certify that the toll for my bridge has been paid in full. You are free to proceed."

He pushed himself to his feet, not huffing anymore, but moving with surprising lightness for a man of his size. With ceremonial gestures, he raised the half of the gate that remained attached to its post, and then he was gone.

The goblins stared at her, fear and awe mingling in their eyes. "You shouldn't ought to 'ave done that, Miz Williams," mumbled Screwtape

"Why on earth not?"

"Well, 'at was your name, Miz. It's 'oo you is," chimed in the junior goblin.

"This from someone named Gutbucket."

"'E's right, Miz. Wizards don't even tell their names to strangers, and actually givin' your actual name to someone…" said Screwtape, shuddering, "'At gives 'em power over you. A name defines somefing, miss. When you changes a name, right, you changes the fing, you see?"

She puzzled over that, "I don't really feel very different. Calmer, maybe. Less afraid… do I look different?"

Gutbucket shook his head in negation. Screwtape, with his larger experience of humans, wasn't so certain, and hesitated. It was slight, but noticeable… her cheekbones might have been a bit higher, her hair less of a mess, her eyes closer to true blue than their old ,muddied blue-gray, her voice smoother and less smoky. She was more beautiful than she had been, but less pretty. In all, she looked more like a "Katherine" than a "Kathy," now.

"Maybe a bit," he answered finally.

Her eyes narrowed, and she scrutinized him, sensing his hesitation. She might not have sensed it a moment ago. And a moment ago, she might have pursued the issue, or gotten a mirror out of her back and scrutinized her face, afraid she might have made the wrong decision after all.

She did not.

"Take what you want, and pay for it," she murmured, "Eric's worth it." Katherine rose to her feet and shouldered her backpack again. "Are you two coming or what? I'd like to get as far as I can before the sun sets"