Redcap

’Twas the dead of deep winter in a township called South, whilst the citizens all slumbered, when Redcap stole into town. Not a single soul heard the snow crunch under his hairy feet as they creeped along the forest floor from the north, furtive beneath the canopy dark, hushed by the rush of the River Deep. Past pigsties, he snuck by pens stuffed with freezing hogs all squealing in their sleep, so desperate for warmth, they dreamed of being bacon; and in the icy chicken coops, the pained clucking of hens became cries to be fried, pleas to be rotisseried. It was enough to make a man’s mouth slaver, but for Redcap, his stomach rumbled for a different meat—one to be found in the thick of town. From within every house, his keen ears could hear the roar of hearths and the snore of sleepers. And inside each tavern, drunkards roistered, windows fogged, and chimney smoke poured smothering the night sky with puffs of white so that no moonbeams glowed nor starlight shone on his ruddy hat nor his crimson cloak—nor on the figure under that, hidden in shadow: tusks and teeth and eyes like milk glass, fur coarse as copper wire, green, tarnished, and thick as muscles big enough to lug the sack over his shoulder—Redcap’s black bag of presents full to bursting.

Home by home did he deliver them—no, not by the door—that would not do! Up walls of wattle and daub, he climbed to the roofs, claw over claw, then silently across thatch or shingles, down chimneys and onto sputtered hearths. No hint of fire, no hint of warmth. Not a coal remained glowing at Redcap’s touch. At once the ashes blackened; candles snuffed. Then in the dark did he do his work, stepping softly as not to be heard by cat nor hound nor even a mouse, and especially not by sleeping children.

Slumber on, thought Redcap. Your turn will come—but first, the grownups.

It’s them he started with: fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts, grandparents and guardians. Closer and closer and closer he creeped on the pads of calloused feet, nearer and nearer, until, looming over their beds, his head all but pressed against their chests. There, Redcap listened to their troubled hearts. . .beating softly under the bedsheets, some. . .but others drummed fast, as quick as feet fleeing whatever horror haunted their dreams. To either kind of heart, he listened twice, once with each ear to better hear who slept soundly and who suffered such terrific nightmares. It took only a moment for Redcap to tell who knew himself to be naughty and who thought himself swell.

For the former, he left no presents. What he bore in store was not for them, but for those whose peace of mind deserved reward for the lies they told themselves—that they are good. For them, he reached inside his dusty sack, meticulously. . .maliciously. The gift couldn’t be too big or it wouldn’t fit without risk of rousing bedfellows, but nor could it be too slight or modest. It had to have the right weight and size or else he’d need more than one for each, and that wouldn’t be fair. That wouldn’t be right. He might run out before visiting every house, leaving liars to dream in undeserved peace.

He couldn’t have that. He would not have it. For too long did Redcap plot of this night. He would not fail. It had to go right. And if it didn’t—no need to worry! No need to think! He’d thought it through, already. He’d prepared, having slinked around town counting each member of each house. Every citizen was listed, every gift especially picked out. He’d even checked twice to ensure a perfect fit, once while packing and again upon deliverance—that was his favorite bit!

When Redcap found the perfect present, he dug it out from his dusty black bag. He hefted it about and rejoiced to himself. The gift of gift-giving is so precious, he’d kid, clutching a pumpkin-size lump of coal in his palm, made so very small by his massive claws. Then he grinned, his tusks and fangs shining in the darkness, as he delivered the present just like he practiced: fast onto the pillow, snatching back, and letting go, just so, that the tortured sleepers go undisturbed. No movement on the mattress, no splatter on their clothes—what did you suppose his cap and cloak were for but to soak up the mess of blood and gore?—so that a ruddy stump of a neck was all ’twas left plugged with Redcap’s winter coal.

Now, then, onto the children went jolly Redcap to stuff his hungry gullet. Always eager for a morsel after each delivered parcel, he retraced his steps to where the youngest slept—delicately, malevolently did he retread his footprints so as not to upset a platter of biscuits or a bowl of cream that children so often left—an attempt to appease him. But Redcap hated sweets, and though in every house at which the merry hob paid his call, those fortunate enough to wake come dawn would find the offerings gone, it was never Redcap’s fault. Never the hob, unless the children were smart and, intuiting his tastes, offered a plate of blood sausages. Only those ruddy, dark, bread stuffed intestines could best Redcap’s senses and satisfy his stomach. Left anything less, what else was a hungry hob to do but to fix his own? And so he went picking out the smallest, most tender, least defended child in the room.

Quickly, quietly—he’d practiced this too—did he stuff his sausage wrappers: one claw tickled under their boots while the other shoved food into their chuckling mouths, drowning their laughter, sealing their lungs full with biscuits and cream and terror and doom. The sugar sweetened their muscles; fear cleared their entrails of stool, emptied them ready to be stuffed with meat and blood and bread from their stomachs—from one to another until Redcap’s was full. . . But Redcap was never full. . . No matter how many roofs he climbed up nor down chimneys he stole, every household was owed at least one lump of coal, and every lump left him wanting ever more. So hungrier and hungrier did Redcap grow visiting all over the township. No where was sufficient: not the residential districts nor the Council Hall and its jailhouse occupants; not the guilds, whether they be the Miners’, the Apothecaries’, or the Golden Anvil; not the Union Chapel nor the Township Mystics; not the inns nor the wine-taps; not even the Boroughton Brothel could satiate Recap’s gluttonous dissatisfaction.

And so, when that ogre of a hob reached the end of his rope, what choice did he have but to follow the smoke beyond the western-most forest to desolate Bitter Ridge with its sulphuric heart and its brackish Black Lake? Fast as runs the River Deep did he along the frosted bank; for soon the sun would wake from sleep whosever hearth yet still was flaming. This would be his last chance to sup, his final opportunity to fill his gut. He would not waste it. He could not when, any moment now, the light which he so desperately hated would surmount the mounds, would overtake the trees, would scour the ground and send him into hiding—another year of waiting, his belly yet full, “half empty,” we might say. That could not be. That would not do. Better the whole town—grown ups, young ones, even himself—receive coal than for him to go seasons starved. After all, ’twas not his fault he was made this way, with desperation to devour and desire to punish. ’Twas their fault for not saving the babe stolen from a burning house, taken by the claws of some unknown hob that winter night of the Great Fay Haunt—an eve of chanting and dancing, of arson and death, of kings and kobolds, of spirits and revenge.

Yes. . . How could Redcap forget when every hunger pang said his vengeance was correct? That the mean, old sun was nothing but a tyrant! And soon he, that old sun, would be no match for Red who grew darker by the day—stronger, more shadowed—no longer an infant enraged nor a mere goblin stalker but a real cannibal hob, a man-eating ogre. And come dawn, if his belly proved full and his vengeance complete, all that was bitter, resentful, and rancorous would spontaneously seem to him something sweet—so Redcap believed. He’d be a giant among kin, a monster among ken. In his presence, the sun would cease to be. He’d cast all of South in eternal darkness, and in the dark of despair the hobs would feast!

Through the woods, toward these fantasies dashed Redcap with savage lust. The snow would not slow him, nor roots, nor thorns, nor low-hanging branches. It mattered not that his black bag tore, that he lost his gifts in his rush through the forest. Nothing mattered anymore but the smoke from the cove on the bank of Black Lake. He could see the entrance now, opposite where the river mouth emptied—a long walk around from where he came out the forest. But the hob had not the time nor patience for that. He saw but one path in his race against the sun and that was through the black, half-frozen water.

And so he dove headlong into the lake. No later than his body submerged did the ogre realize his hasty mistake. But by then, ’twas too late. The winter cold had a hold of his soul. Turn back now, and in the open air, he’d freeze from exposure. Then the unthinkable: in the light of dawn he’d shrivel and shrink, dwindle—reduce to a pitiful hobgoblin, small and insignificant, incapable of revenge. He could not let that happen. His only chance was the hearth, forward down the path he’d started. There was no other way, could be no other end. So he swam, and he swam, blind and breathless, toward fire and smoke as if each stroke might be his last when, suddenly, it manifested before him: a massive black door hewn from obsidian and stone—and a man holding it open.

“Salutations my frozen hob friend,” the Good Doctor welcomed. “My name is Edger, and who might you be?”

Redcap lumbered from the water and said, “Fire! Need fire! You let me in!”

The doctor tapped his peg-leg in contemplation. “Inside? Are you certain? You won’t like what you find there, friend. And the girls won’t like finding you one bit either. Trust me, you’re better off waiting for the sun to rise to get warm and dry. It’ll be coming any moment.”

“No! Not the sun!” Redcap cried, “Need fire! Need full belly before break of dawn! You let me in!”

“If that’s what you really want, friend,” answered Doctor Edger, tapping his peg-leg as he sent the ogre on his way.

Further into the cave, it looked just like a house with a potbelly stove, stools, a table, and a wardrobe—and a bed there, too. No one sleeping in it, though, there was certainly a shout—she must’ve been a Glassborough girl from her brown hair and eyes and her unladylike accent. “Hey, who snuffed the stove and lamps? It’s still cold and dark out!”

“I did!” roared Redcap. “I put out, but you light again so I get warm and fill my belly!”

The girl says, “Say what, stranger? Whose house do you think you’re in to be making demands? I mean, it ain’t my place. I’m only Roslyn, a friend. But it sure ain’t yours. The Lady of the Vault is a bit further in.”

“Bring her then! And we light fire and fill my belly with you both!”

“What are you? Stupid? She said no one’s to trouble her till morning at best. You’ll have to wait a little while—well, not too long, I guess. It should be dawn any moment.”

“No! No! Not dawn! Not yet!” Redcap tantrumed. Thrashing and stamping, not wanting to believe his body had already begun to atrophy. Yet he could feel his muscles weakening, his flesh shrinking. . .shriveling. . .dwindling. . . No! He determined it was simply the cold. The sun could not have risen yet. As soon as he was warm, he’d feel his strength again, then he’d tear this girl open and stuff her insides into sausages. But until then, he needed that fire, so he bellowed, “If you not bring her, then you show me where she is!”

“If that’s what you really want,” answered Roslyn, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” to which the hulking hob insisted till she directed him further in where the Vault turned from house to cave and then to cavernous, winding switchbacks. All in utter blackness did Redcap hasten on his way, ever deeper and ever weaker with every weary step. His legs grew feeble, and his arms, thin as spindles groping the walls of the cave, could hardly keep him on his feet. Yet, he could feel it: a heat residing within the walls, a warmth getting warmer the deeper he delved. Onward, it compelled him like a moth to a flame until a woman’s haunting voice sent shivers throughout his vertebrae.

“Thou wayward son,” spoke the Shield-Maiden Shalquoir, dressed all in white and with a veil hiding her face—a face of which the hob somehow knew to be afraid. Suddenly, he wished he could not see in the dark and that his ears weren’t so keen as she said to him, “I warn thee, wayward son. Turn back. Further on, the Seer sayeth she shall be not disturbed. Trespass at thy peril, for that which the Black Flame burneth can never be returned.”

Shivering, his teeth chittering, Redcap heard only fragments of what she said; but what he thought he understood, he liked the sound of—his interpretation: “Fire that not go out? Which way I go to find that?”

Shalquoir sighed. “Art thou certain thy fate cannot yet changeth? Why not come with me outside and under the light of our Patriarch? Already it be dawn. In his holy warmth, thine evil soul may yet sheddeth itself of that vengeful spirit.”

“Dawn? No! Can’t be, Can’t be!” ranted the hairy hob. “Not dawn yet! Not till after I full and give punishment! You show me! You show me where the Black Fire be!” Redcap screamed, stamping and swinging, reaching for his sack, for he’d forgotten he’d torn the dusty black bag in his rush through the forest. “No presents? No presents! But need present for—Argh!” The ogre roared in frustration and tore off his hat, threw it at the Shield-Maiden, but his arms were so enervated and his mind so enraged that he missed and hit the floor instead. Then his blood-soaked cap, frozen from the cold of the wind and the wet of the lake, shattered on impact into a thousand shards of wool. Now the poor ogre was nothing but Red. “Your fault,” he started. “Your fault!” he said, louder and louder and over again, rushing for Shalquoir with the last of his strength—not enough to be brave; he was too afraid he might see her face—and so, with eyes closed, he stumbled right past the white-clad Shield-Maiden and tumbled down a shaft into the mountain’s deepest veins.

There, wherever it was that Red had landed hard on his now bleeding, throbbing head, all around the edges of the cavern, streams of molten rock flowed hot and golden—so hot that even his hob presence couldn’t make them cold again. The flame that remain! The fire that not even hob make go out! He thought, in his concussed state, that he’d finally found it—whatever it was he’d been looking for. Fire? But for what, he’d forgotten that and much, much more. Where was he? Why had he come? Even his name became lost to him. All that remained was hunger like a bottomless pit, and the wonder, What to fill it with? That’s when he saw her. At the far end of that volcanic chamber, aglow with pulsing light and yet adorned in shadow, a girl stood with her back to the hob, sobbing before an effigy of someone she’d lost.

Her! Her! His instincts took over, took possession of his feet—tiny and hairless; his claws, too, had become small and weak—but he couldn’t remember what they’d been. Nor did he notice his shrunken stature, his thinned limbs, his loss of tusks, nor that his cloak was now so ill-fitted that it slipped from his shoulders as he creeped upon his victim. Silent. Starving. An eternal infant who knows naught but to feed—to freeze when the girl turns around without every saying anything, towering over him now, her eyes like the river passing judgement through smoked lenses of her antlered headdress, dividing the hob’s soul, divining between his good and evil. It only took her a moment. Then, from under her tattered officer’s coat echoed a sonorous clicking throughout the cavern. She raised her arm, weapon drawn, so that the hobgoblin gaped down the barrel of the Constable’s deathwand. She pulled the trigger, the hammer fell, the brass-cap sparked and ignited its charge. A blast of rock salt buried itself in the hob’s heart, from which he staggered toward the girl, toward the beckoning warmth of the liquid fire behind her, suffering, but he would not die save from a silver shot. So five more times did she fire, and five more times did he stagger forward, toward her, toward the light and the promised comfort of its molten warmth.

A lie! A lie! Only once he was too far gone, once the girl had stepped aside and allowed him to fall, did Redcap realize who he was and what he was to become: full of nothing but salt until the end of time, burning eternally in the fires beneath Bitter Ridge Mountain.