Mr. Willimaker coughed. “There is this small matter of a war, between the Goblins and Brownies. Well, it’s not really a war, since we don’t know how to fight back. So it’s more like we just wait around to get killed. Most of us are tired of waiting around to be killed, so we hope as king you’ll help us end all of that trouble.”
Elliot looked at Patches. “Those kids in the Goblin suits three years ago—”
She nodded. “Yep. Real Goblins.”
“Figures. They ruined all my candy, you know.” Elliot scratched his chin and asked, “Aren’t Brownies the creatures that have to do nice things for humans, like if we leave you a job to do?”
“We don’t have to do anything,” Patches said. “We choose to help if we like the gift the human leaves for us.”
“Yes, but if I were your king, you’d have to do a job just because I ordered you to, right?”
The two Brownies looked at each other. “Well, yes. But we only work at night,” Mr. Willimaker said.
Elliot looked over at the clock in his room but then remembered there was no clock in his room, because his family had sold it last week to buy bread. So instead he looked out the window. “Night’s almost over, so you’ll have to hurry. I’ll make you a deal. My Uncle Rufus is getting out of jail tomorrow, and we’re having a welcome home dinner. If you can have a nice dinner ready for my family, then I’ll be your king.”
Uncle Rufus was the oldest man in town who still had all his teeth. He stayed young by eating healthy, taking walks along Main Street, and unfortunately, by stealing shiny things. He claimed he always meant to buy the items, but he had memory problems. The police didn’t believe that, but Elliot did. After all, Uncle Rufus often forgot Elliot was a boy and brought him shiny earrings every birthday.
The Brownies smiled. Mr. Willimaker said, “That’s it? Make your family dinner? But it’s so simple.”
“You say that now. Wait until you see my family’s empty cupboards.” Elliot figured he’d win no matter what. Either he’d get a nice meal tomorrow night or else he wouldn’t have to be the Brownie king and end a war with the Goblins. And even if he were king, he’d just do what they wanted for a few weeks and then give the job to someone else.
“Your wish is our command,” Patches said, bowing.
“There’s one more thing,” Mr. Willimaker said. “We have one simple but very important rule. You can’t tell anyone that we exist. If you do, you’ll never see us again.”
“Never?”
Patches nodded. “We don’t appear to humans who tell our secrets.”
“I won’t tell,” Elliot said. He was pretty good with secrets. His parents still didn’t know where he had buried the glass vase he’d accidentally broken over the summer.
After the Brownies left, Elliot lay back on his bed, wondering what would happen tomorrow. Him, a king? He had holes in the knees of most of his pants. The fanciest thing he owned was the rusty horn on his bike (not counting the earrings Uncle Rufus stole for him). And he still had to take orders from his sister when she said to eat his vegetables, no matter what color they were. Somehow he didn’t feel like a king. But Mr. Willimaker seemed sure that Queen Bipsy had chosen him, so he fell asleep with a smile on his face.
Most readers of this story agree that Elliot probably wouldn’t have fallen asleep if he knew that hiding in the corner was a third Brownie named Fudd Fartwick. And Fudd Fartwick was watching the sleeping boy, deciding it wouldn’t be hard at all for a small band of Goblins to kill him.
By the time the first morning rays peeked over the horizon, Fudd Fartwick had thought of at least fourteen ways in which he might kill Elliot. Fifteen ways, if he counted making Elliot play out in the warm autumn sunshine for a few hours. On second thought, perhaps that was only deadly to a Brownie. Brownies could tolerate a little sun, but they didn’t like it, which is why they did their work at night.
Fudd snapped his fingers to take him back to the Underworld, vanishing from Elliot’s bedroom only about twenty seconds before Elliot awoke. Elliot awoke because he smelled something unusual in his home: hot breakfast. Unless his ears were playing a cruel joke on him, that was definitely bacon sizzling downstairs, and he was certain he detected the quiet thup of toast popping up. He’d asked the Brownies to provide his family with dinner. Was it possible they would provide food for the entire day? He jumped out of bed and ran from his room so quickly that he didn’t notice the tiny dart stuck into his bed, not four inches from where his head had been.
The poison dart had been Fudd’s first idea. But Fudd wasn’t a good shot, and he’d only brought one poison dart with him. Rule number eight in The Guidebook to Evil Plans clearly stated, “Always have a backup plan in case your first try misses (page 24).” Fudd had forgotten that rule tonight, but he wouldn’t let himself forget again.
He poofed himself directly to Flog, the Goblin city. Fudd was fully aware that the last Brownie to accidentally poof himself into Flog came home with most of his fingers bitten off, but Fudd was no ordinary Brownie, and he had not come here by accident.
Fudd was—until yesterday—the closest advisor to Queen Bipsy, making him the second most powerful Brownie in the Underworld. By the end of today, he planned to be the closest advisor to Grissel, leader of the Goblins, and the newest secret enemy of King Elliot.
The Goblins stared at him with hunger in their black eyes, and Fudd shuddered. The eyes alone wouldn’t be so bad, but combined with their jagged teeth and mossy green skin, Goblins were never a pretty sight. It had been over a thousand years since a Goblin won the Miss Underworld Beauty Pageant. As the story went, the only reason she won was because the other entrants were literally scared to death of her. Being the only living contestant by the end of the show, the crown was hers.
The Goblins were at that moment fighting over bites of an enormous pumpkin. Fudd hoped they would be so full of pumpkin that they wouldn’t want to eat him. But he knew better. Goblins were always hungry for Brownies.
Dear Reader, I’m sure you can understand this. While we humans don’t eat Underworld creatures, most humans feel there is always room for one more bite
of the chocolate cake–like dessert known as a brownie. For Goblins, it’s not much different.
Fudd raised an arm, showing them his gold ring, a sign that he was a royal advisor. They wouldn’t attack him if they saw it. He hoped. In his most commanding voice, he said, “Take me to Grissel.”
No one answered. Even for a Goblin, it’s not polite to speak with a full mouth. But they pointed to a crooked, gray house at the top of a crooked, gray hill. Fudd thanked them, kicked at a Goblin child who was at that moment gnawing on his leg, and then made his way up to the house.
As it turned out, Grissel was sitting on a rock in front of the house, as if he’d expected Fudd to come. Over the past few years, he’d grown meaner-looking than when Fudd had last seen him. Like most other Goblins, his clothing was unimaginative and in need of serious repair. Fudd tilted his head toward Grissel, not a deep bow as you’d have to give a royal, but still a show of respect.