“But why do it?” Pippa was more interested in why someone would hang them from the tree than in the bottles themselves or the silly sounds they made.
The sun cut through the branches, making some of the bottles look golden. Most were clear, but there were a few of the dark blue ones, and some were so close a shade of green to the needles that it was difficult to separate them from the foliage. There was a yellow one that was in the shape of a bird with its wings folded close to its side. The leather thong that held it to the tree was wrapped around an open beak that Spikehollow guessed someone once drank out of. Two were the color of milk and were as big around as they were tall, looking more like fat globes than ordinary bottles. The corks that used to stopper all of them were strung on threads on branches. Their movement added to the music.
“Go get Direfang,” Spikehollow told her. “Find Direfang somewhere near the river.” He moved closer to the trunk and stared up. “Direfang should see this.”
“What about Saro-Saro?” Pippa tapped her foot against the ground, making a crunching sound against the many dropped pine cones. “Saro-Saro should see this first.”
“Then go get Saro-Saro and Direfang.” Spikehollow unfastened the quilt from his neck and laid it on the ground. Then he sat on the forest floor, still gazing up at the unusual sight.
He spotted a dark red bottle, the only one of its color. It had a knob at the bottom and top, and was thinner in the middle, almost shaped like an hourglass. He thought that the prettiest one, the sun making it look wet and inviting like a sweet apple.
Several minutes later, a crowd of goblins had gathered around the tree along with three hobgoblins Spikehollow had never seen before. He heard one with a pockmarked face call the young one Ruffem. Saro-Saro arrived, muscling his way to the front and snorting scornfully.
“Stopped eating for this?” he asked, glaring at Spikehollow. “Stupid to stop eating for this. Lots of empty bottles. So what?” The old goblin spat and ground the ball of his foot against a pine cone. “Stupid Spikehollow.” He turned and retreated a few yards, pushing his way through the crowd. But he didn’t go far.
Direfang had arrived, and everyone awaited his reaction, which was different. The hobgoblin stared thoughtfully before he stretched up and grabbed a bottle, a long-necked clear one. He tugged, which set the bottles on the same branch to clinking and whistling in the breeze. The sounds were melodious; he tugged again and again to the oohs and ahs of the young goblins around him. Finally the bottle came loose, and he inspected it in his hand. Fashioned of heavy glass, it had a maker’s mark on the bottom and some sort of raised lettering that had been rendered when the bottle was formed. He hefted it in one palm, showing it to everyone around him who gawked at the pretty musical bottle.
“Wizard!” Direfang shouted several times before Grallik materialized. He tossed the bottle to Grallik, who in his surprise caught it awkwardly, just barely keeping from being struck by the flying object. “Huh. What is the meaning of this bottle tree?”
“A waste!” That opinion came from Saro-Saro, who had turned around and was standing, glaring at Direfang. “A waste of time is the meaning of it. This tree has nothing to do with goblins.” The old goblin spit again and turned, ambling slowly toward the river.
Grallik looked at the bottle in his hands, his fingers tracing the raised words. “It’s a glass tree,” he said finally, handing off the bottle to a tall goblin. “I’d wager it was started quite some while ago, judging by how rotted some of those leather strips look.” He pointed to a green bottle hanging from a cracked leather cord.
“A glass tree,” Spikehollow whispered to Pippa, translating the wizard’s tongue.
“What’s a glass tree?” Pippa wondered aloud.
Direfang translated her question, which was also the very next thing he intended to ask.
The wizard brushed his hands against his threadbare undertunic. “Elves probably were responsible for this one, given the fact that it’s in a forest. A glass tree was a tradition started by some Nerakan merchants many, many years ago. They’d hang bottles and pieces of glass from the few trees they passed on their trade routes. The wind blowing across the tops of the bottles was said to ward off evil influences, such as bandits. Some elves adopted the practice to ward away foul forest spirits and the like.”
Spikehollow said, “The sounds are nice, like a song without words.” He repeated the wizard’s explanation in goblinspeak to the many others collected around him.
The wizard had wound his way through the goblins and come up to the trunk, careful not to step on Spikehollow’s quilt. He pointed to a symbol carved at his eye level. “Elven for certain. Some of the homes …” He paused, caught up in a memory of his young years. “The homes where I grew up. They had these symbols carved on door frames or somewhere in their shops. It essentially is a wish for good luck and boon times.”
Direfang joined him. “Can hardly see it, that faint symbol.”
“The bark’s growing over it. I don’t believe there have been any elves around here for years. There are more carvings higher, but they are even harder to recognize. Some are names, some of them symbols.”
“So the bottles belong to no one. Not any longer.” The hobgoblin scratched his head and reached up, and standing on his toes was able to grab one of the darker blue bottles. He yanked it hard, and the cord snapped, the motion again setting many bottles to clinking and whistling. “Wouldn’t matter if the bottles did belong to elves.” He turned to face the crowd. “Take everything. The bottles will be good to hold river water when there is no more river to drink from.”
Direfang pulled down a few more then returned to the river, passing by a group of Hunter’s Ridge clan members who called out to him about how pleased they were to join the hobgoblin’s army.
Pippa came back to Spikehollow. She touched his arm gently and nodded to the tree. “Which bottle for me, you?”
“The red one,” Spikehollow said. “The only red one on the tree.”
She brushed her hand against his cheek, scampered to the trunk, and tied her shirt around her waist so it would not tangle in her legs. Then she started to climb.
Some goblins stood on their taller kinsmen’s shoulders so they could reach the lowest-hanging bottles. Others followed Pippa’s example and climbed. Grallik watched them for a moment then reached toward the tall goblin he’d given the first bottle to. He plucked it from the goblin’s hands.
“This one is mine,” the wizard said flatly, looking around fiercely. “Foreman Direfang gave it to me.” Not waiting for an argument, he left. “And someone best tell Horace and Kenosh they should come here-soon-if they want their own bottles.”
MUDWORT’S PRICE
The sky was as red as Spikehollow’s bottle. The setting sun had colored the low-hanging clouds crimson, and the goblins stared at it, oddly quiet. They’d left the shade of the pine trees days before and were at a point where Mudwort said the river would soon widen and head straight to the sea. More goblins and hobgoblins had joined them, the army’s numbers swelling to close to two thousand.
Where had they all come from? Direfang asked Mudwort days past.
Mudwort shrugged and found something to busy herself with. She did not want to tell Direfang that she’d been calling through the stone to their kinsmen, summoning them to join the horde.
She sat apart from the rest of the goblins, her thoughts churning. Direfang had confessed to her that he’d changed his mind about the Qualinesti Forest. It was too far away; the clans would drift apart long before they reached the place. And she hadn’t been able to find a faster route to travel to the forest.
“There are too many of us now,” he told her. “We will attract attention if we march directly to the Qualinesti Forest. So we will go first to the Plains of Dust … if this army will walk that far.”