"Once upon a time, there was a young princess who suffered the unfortunate fate of being under the care of her wicked stepmother. The perfidious woman mistreated the little princess and forced her to watch over her capricious son for hours on end. Until one fine day, the poor princess, unable to bear the situation any longer, called upon the Goblin King, who loved her dearly, for help. She pleaded with the King to take the boy far, far away from there..."
Sarah paused and checked the eager faces in front of her. The children awaited her next words in silence, captivated by the fascinating aura surrounding the Goblin King. Over time, she had read this very story to countless children, yet she always encountered the same reaction when reaching this part of the tale. The Goblin King, who happened to enjoy snatching children away. It was no wonder they couldn't help but feel uneasy when his name was mentioned.
The children huddled together in a small corner of the room, despite the ample space in the main library, seeking comfort and protection in their shared proximity. A diligent mother might have misunderstood their gesture as a sign of discomfort and cold, advocating for the advantages of a carpeted floor over a marble one, aesthetics aside. "These kids are smart; they're right to fear him," Sarah thought, oblivious to the prosaic considerations of a family-oriented person.
With a sigh, she resumed the narration, knowing that, despite their fear, the children wanted to hear more. "It's always the same with the Goblin King," she thought, "you want to hear what happens next, even though deep down you know it would be smarter to run away and forget the whole thing..."
But before she could finish that thought, she found herself once again involuntarily immersed in the well-known tale.
When the story reached its conclusion, she couldn't help but feel the familiar yet complicated mix of emotions: relief, sadness, and a certain emptiness. The children, however, remained silent for a moment, bewitched, but it didn't last long. In the blink of an eye, they were laughing, running, and turning the library into utter chaos. The truce was over.
Sarah closed the thick volume and stood up. As the librarian formally uttered the customary phrases ("Thank you for taking the time to honor our invitation; you've probably received requests from all the libraries in the country"), she wondered if any of the adults had paid any attention to her reading. But she already knew the answer from experience—it was highly unlikely.
"The Labyrinth" was nothing more than a silly children's story, and she counted her blessings every day for making a living out of it. Despite what her father and Karen might have said in the past, that "strange obsession" had ultimately become a profitable venture. Her checkbook had made them accept her career as a writer pretty fast, and now they could even fake pride when the occasional reporter asked them about Sarah's "lovely stories."
"Lovely stories," she chuckled, while walking towards the exit.
Her first editor had politely asked her to tone down the male antagonist. Could she perhaps write him as a character more suitable for a children's tale? The Goblin King was too...
Sarah couldn't recall the exact adjective after all those years, but she was certain it was something along the lines of "mature." The Goblin King was a character too mature for a children's book. As if that adjective could adequately describe his majesty, the most whimsical and complex creature she had ever had the displeasure of encountering.
But she had to admit that he wasn't fairytale material nowadays. Jareth would have fit perfectly in a world where Cinderella's stepsisters had to cut off pieces of their feet to try on the coveted glass slipper, or where the little mermaid serenely chose to sacrifice herself to save the prince. Times had changed, children needed to be shielded from anything that could be too dangerous, difficult, or..."mature." And the Gobling King could have been succinctly defined by a combination of those three adjectives.
"Above all, dangerous," thought, feeling a shiver run down her spine as she walked towards her car. It was still mid-afternoon, but the temperature had considerably dropped since she had headed to the library that morning.
When one of the mothers had innocently asked her that day where she got her brilliant ideas, Sarah hadn't replied anything at first, as it was one of those questions that had no real answer. But before she had even time to come up with a polite, non-committal sentence, the kind woman added that she envied her imagination, and would give anything to dream like her of those wonderful worlds.
By chance, the start of the reading saved her from answering. Otherwise, she might have ended up confessing the whole truth—that the wondrous world inside her dreams had practically driven her to madness. Could anyone genuinely envy such a poisoned gift?