Hobgoblin and the Seven Stinkers of Rancidia. Kyle Sullivan

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      “Prumpf! Pruumpf! Prmpf! Prmpf! Prmpf!!”

      Hobgoblin resumed his toots. The six flies took turns riding the current of hot air that burst out of the tuba with every “prumpf.”

      The flies were Hobgoblin’s constant companions, and really, his only companions. The one exception was a monthly visit from a cranky warthog from Pootonia. On the sixth day of every month, the gnarled beast plodded through the Mucklands with his squeaky wheelbarrow to deliver supplies and haul away harvested beans.

      Much to Hobgoblin’s discomfort, the warthog would also deliver disturbing updates about neigh-boring Rancidia and its ogre problem. These updates distressed Hobgoblin immensely, so he had spent the last several years trying his best to ignore them. He’d much rather focus on pleasant things like tooting—both on his tuba and otherwise.

      The flies continued riding the tuba current, every new toot an opportunity to practice flips and twists and twirls. Thanks to these flies, Hobgoblin was never, ever lonely. He loved them very much, and they loved him. The special bond that developed between hobgoblins and their flies was well known

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      across Rancidia and its neighboring lands. In fact, there was an old Rancidian saying for best friends: “They’re just like flies on a hobgoblin.”

      Once again, the tooting stopped. The flies paused their buzzing and toot riding to follow Hobgoblin’s eyes southward. He was looking far into the distance, past the districts of Cryptonia and Pootonia, all the way to the Onion Palace that loomed over the land. The sunset bathed the palace in a soft lavender light.

      Arranging themselves into a single-file line, the flies glided onto Hobgoblin’s head and took a seat. They looked out toward the Onion Palace and let out six tiny, high-pitched sighs.

      The flies felt bad for the Rancidians, and they loathed the ogre king. They stayed informed on what was happening in Rancidia thanks to a group of gadflies who accompanied the warthog every month. The gadflies warned that the ogre was scrubbing stinky creatures by the day, and Hobgoblin could easily be next. It’s true that gadflies loved to gossip, but this seemed very real, and very scary.

      Again, the flies sighed in unison.

      “I know what you’re thinking, guys,” said Hobgoblin with his own sigh. “The Onion Palace

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      makes you think of onion soup, and you wish we could eat some for dinner. I’m sorry, but all we have to eat is bean curdle.”

      The flies gave each other worried glances. Hobgoblin didn’t seem to fully understand the danger he was in, but the flies sure did. They couldn’t bear to think of their beloved friend without his stink. A hobgoblin without stink would be like a bird without wings.

      On the rare occasions when Hobgoblin showed the tiniest amount of concern about the ogre king, it was always short-lived. He was very easily distracted.

      “Turd blossoms!” yelled Hobgoblin.

      The shocked flies instinctively darted into the little tufts of hair by Hobgoblin’s ears for protection. They peeked out to see him pointing to the Fetid Forest’s tree line, where little pink flowers sprang from the muck.

      Rare and delicious turd blossoms were one of Hobgoblin’s favorite snacks. The sight of them excited him so much that he forgot two very important things: 1) he was holding a tuba, and 2) he was standing behind a fence.

      Lurching forward with his eyes on the turd

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      blossoms, Hobgoblin dropped the tuba, tripped on it, tumbled over the short fence, and splattered into the muck. Panicked, the flies scattered into the air.

      Sitting on his butt in the muck, Hobgoblin tried to figure out how he got there. Then something in the forest caught his eye. Returning to Hobgoblin’s head, the flies saw it, too—it was almost as if a shadow had slipped behind a tree.

      Hobgoblin’s heart raced and he sniffed the air. He was concerned he might pick up the scent of some-thing scary, like a troll or a forest hyena or a perfumist.

      Sure enough, Hobgoblin picked up a scent, but it wasn’t anything he’d ever smelled before. It was strong and mysterious, with a slight trace of cinnamon.

      Hobgoblin shivered. There was a weird smell creeping through the air, and for once he wasn’t to blame.

      The flies also smelled it. They knew Hobgoblin could be skittish at times, but in this case, they understood his fear. They didn’t know what lurked in the forest. But they knew it smelled unfamiliar. It smelled disturbing. It smelled like danger.

      “Hmm,” said Hobgoblin. “On second thought,

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      those turd blossoms don’t look ready to pick quite yet.”

      With a wary glance to the tree line and with his flies nervously gripping his hair, Hobgoblin picked himself up from the muck, gathered his tuba, hopped back over the fence, and went inside.

      He closed the door and peered out of a side window into the darkening woods. Whatever it was СКАЧАТЬ