A.C. Smith

Nobody saw the owl, white in the moonlight, black against the stars, nobody heard him as he glided over on silent wings of velvet. The owl saw and heard everything.

He settled in a tree, his claws hooked on a branch, and he stared at the girl in the glade below. The wind moaned, rocking the branch, scudding low clouds across the evening sky. It lifted the hair of the girl. The owl was watching her, with his round, dark eyes.

The goblins were so still, you could have heard a snail blink.

Lightning traced the veins of the sky and lit up his face.

Lightning traced the veins of the sky and lit up his face.

Jareth examined her face in his crystal. Too old to be a goblin, but too young to be kept by him, damn her innocent eyes.

The goblins watched him uncertainly. Was it all right to laugh now?

“Well, go ahead,” Jareth told them.

With the simple glee that is natural to evil-hearted folk, the goblins launched themselves into their full routine of cackles and snickers. The keen goblin directed them, like a conductor, bringing them up to a crescendo of malign mirth.

“It’s a place you put people to forget about them.”

Mind what you say to a beggar, it might be God in disguise.

Mind what you say to a beggar, it might be God in disguise.

Mind what you say to a beggar, it might be God in disguise.