To bring me my flute, quick!
Bring it to me here.
Within the twinkling of an eye, Twig and Thistle appeared before me. Thistle seemed irritated by the summons, but Twig seemed amused. The tall, spindly goblin offered me the instrument with an almost reverent look on her face.
Thank you, my friend
My thanks to you.
Please help me find my way
Out of this tomb?
I could not figure how to work I wish into my improvised song, which grew more tuneless and shapeless by the measure.
“There is no way out, mortal,” Thistle said. “It is futile to try.”
I shook my head, still humming a wordless tune. I turned to Käthe, whose drawn face was pale and sheened with cold sweat.
“I’m here,” she said in that strained, distant voice of hers. “I’m still here.”
Twig gazed at me with those flat, inhuman, unreadable eyes. I wanted to read kindness into them. “Know this, mortal,” she said. “All paths lead to the beginning and to the end in the Underground. It is for you to find which is which. Stay true; be swift. Remember, what the old laws giveth, they also taketh. It will not be easy for you to escape.”
“She will fail,” Thistle sneered. “No mortal on earth has the power to upset the ancient balance.” She bared her teeth in a ghoulish grin. “Good luck. You will need it.”
I ignored Thistle, and nodded my thanks to Twig. Both goblin girls faded away.
Talk to me, darling, I sang to Käthe, Stay with me. Sing!
Then I placed the flute to my lips.
* * *
The Underground was a labyrinth. I followed corridors that led upward, corridors that doubled back on themselves, corridors that disappeared into a wall. I could not hold Käthe’s hand as I played the flute, but she tied herself to my apron strings. Every time she faltered, I played something from our childhood. A canon. A skipping song. A silly little nonsense ditty.
“You’ll never win, you know.”
Ahead of me, wreathed by shadow and torchlight, stood the Goblin King. He wore the hood and cloak he had when I first met him in the marketplace, when he was just a tall, elegant, and mysterious stranger.
I stopped in my tracks. Käthe tripped into me.
“What is it?” she wobbled. “Are you all right?”
I stared at the Goblin King, but Käthe’s eyes darted about, blind to his slender form blocking our path. He raised one side of his mouth in a smirk and brought a gloved finger to his lips. Shhh.
A breeze picked up in the Underground, bitter and cold, bringing with it the tantalizing scent of the world above: leaves, loam, ice, and freedom. My sister pressed against me and I could feel her trembling against my back. The wind darted about us like a little sprite, tugging at our hair, our skirts, our blouses, playful and mischievous.
“Liesl,” Käthe said. “Are we getting close?”
I dared not lower my flute to comfort my sister. The Goblin King’s eyes glittered beneath his hood. I raised my chin and met his gaze squarely.
There was nothing of my soft-eyed young man in him now; this Goblin King was all shadow and illusion, Der Erlkönig in his most elemental form. Trickster. Seducer. King. I searched his face for any hint of the austere youth from the portrait in the gallery, my Goblin King. But he was not there.
I squared my shoulders and turned to Käthe, playing a jaunty little Ländler. It was one of the most cheerful melodies I knew, and I playe it with all the lightheartedness I could muster. The little wrinkle of concern never left my sister’s brow, but her face relaxed into a tentative smile. Käthe wasn’t one to dissect the moods and tones of a piece of music, but even my non-musical sister could respond to what I was saying without words.
All is well. Do not worry.
Käthe followed in my footsteps as we approached Der Erlkönig. The wind grew stronger, no longer a playful sprite, but a malicious spirit. It pushed, it pulled, it argued, it threatened. It bit at my fingertips and lips, turning them stiff, numb, insensitive. The sound of its wuthering rose higher than the thin voice of my flute, drowning out my melodies. Käthe huddled close as I struggled to play over the wind, but it was a battle we were losing. My sister slipped farther and farther away from me, my apron strings leaving her grasp. So close, we were so close …
“Give up, Elisabeth,” Der Erlkönig crooned. “Let go, my dear. Lay down your flute and rest. Stay with me.”
I closed my eyes. I could no longer feel the instrument between my numb fingers. I was tired, out of breath, and out of ideas.
“Yes,” he hissed. “Gently, slowly—”
My lips left the flute, my hands slowly lowered to my side. But to yield was not always to lose. I was not defeated yet.
Mother had taught us all to sing, just as Papa had taught us all to play. While none of us had her gift of song, she taught us all how to control our breathing, how to project our voices, how to shape the air within us to produce an enormous sound. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs down to my stomach with air. I found a pitch I could comfortably sustain: high enough to be shrill, low enough not to shred my vocal cords.
I opened my mouth and screamed.
I let the sound fill my head, resonate in the hollow spaces of my face, and pushed outward. Der Erlkönig faltered, stunned by the intensity of my scream. He stumbled back, throwing his hands up against the sound.
I took one step forward; Der Erlkönig took one step back. I kept moving forward, but the distance between us never closed. I wanted to meet him, confront him, push him out of the way with my bare hands, make him admit defeat at my feet. I reached for him, but my fingers passed through the fabric of his cloak. He was as insubstantial as a will-o’-the-wisp. He vanished in an instant.