Page 9 of The Goblin and The Dancer
The image shattered then. A pool meant reflection: a reflection of a less-than-perfect-looking goblin, an ugliness that marred the ideal fantasy.
His mind squirmed as he wondered what was happening behind him. Were they talking about him? Was Paul proposing to her even now? Grik couldn’t walk away; he had to do something!
He knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t stand not knowing what they were talking about.
He darted back down the bridge, freezing in place every other moment to ensure that he wasn’t spotted. He had to see what was happening. He couldn’t bear to watch his rival steal Rosanna, but at the same time, he couldn’t look away. It was like watching a collapsing tunnel—being captured by sick fascination and terror at the same time.
He reached the carriage, then dropped to the ground and wriggled underneath it, crouching in the shadow so that he might spy on Rosanna and Paul and possibly hear what they were saying. He hoped the horse didn’t spook at the smell of goblin, leap forward, and run over him.
He was distracted from this worry by sudden action from the impatient soldier.
Paul captured Rosanna’s hands in both of his and raised them to cover them with kisses.
Grik saw crimson.
Rosanna murmured something and turned away, walking directly towards the carriage.
For a moment, Grik thought he had been seen, but Rosanna’s eyes were distant and she moved directly for the carriage door. Grik noticed Paul looking after her with the same look he might have worn if he had been looking at a city that was resisting his rightful invasion.
Rosanna had stepped back into the carriage to get something. Paul offered to get it for her, but Rosanna said, “No bother.” Paul flushed and looked down at his leg, which seemed stiffer than ever as he leaned awkwardly against the bridge railing.
He was faking it! Grik hated Paul with every fiber of his being. As the carriage door banged shut, Grik saw his chance.
He snatched up a rock, clenching it between his fingers. He did it without thinking. All of the fury and hurt rose up inside of him and virtually thrust his arm forward.
The rock struck Paul in the leg, and he cried out in pain.
His cry faded as he suddenly went over backwards, over the rail of the bridge, and into the river.
The sight of that scarlet figure tumbling towards the water stung Grik into the full reality of what he had done.
He hadn’t been faking it. Paul had lost his balance due to the extreme pain of the rock hitting his injured leg. Grik had not just injured him further; he had sent him plunging to his death.
A strong elf could easily drown on a day like today, but Paul was wounded; he couldn’t kick properly with only one good leg.
Grik darted out from under the carriage and to the side of the bridge, sick with horror as he peered down into the rapids, looking desperately for a red coat.
The voice he loved best suddenly shrieked behind him, high with a note of fear that Grik had never heard from her before.
“What happened?” Rosanna gasped, racing to Grik’s side. “What happened? Where is Paul?”
Grik didn’t mean to lie; he didn’t realize until afterwards that he had. His mind was still shrinking from the truth, refusing to accept the horror of his actions, and it was that resisting impulse which answered, automatically, “He fell in.”
And I have to fix this.He had no choice. He had to make the lie a truth.
He looked at Rosanna one last time and jumped off the bridge.
“Grik!”
It was probably the last time he would hear her voice. He held tight to his waning courage and then he hit the water, and the cold shock of it drove the sound of her dismay out of his mind.
Frigid froth enveloped him as the rapids closed above his head. Darkness roiled around him and then he popped to the surface like a cork.
He raced backwards, disoriented and momentarily helpless in the rushing current, and he found himself looking once towards the bridge, then towards Rosanna. His water-stung eyes caught on her pale figure the way he might catch at a rock to somehow save himself. She was leaning over the edge of the bridge and shouting. There was something large, flat, and coral-colored in her arms. Rosanna must have had the presence of mind to race back to the carriage and grab one of the seat cushions.
At first, Grik hoped that she would merely throw it to him, but as Rosanna swung her leg over the bridge railing, he realized what she really intended to do.
“Rosanna, no!” he wailed, but she couldn’t hear him.
