Goblins and Ghosties by Maggie Pearson Page A

gallop than fly to the moon.
    By the time Torquil arrived back at the farm with the doctor riding behind him, he found Jeannie sitting up in bed with her newborn baby in her arms.
    â€˜Well, well,’ said the doctor. ‘It looks like you didn’t need me after all.’
    â€˜Where’s she gone?’ said Torquil. ‘The little old tinker woman who promised to stay till I came home again.’
    â€˜You mean the brownie woman?’ Jeannie said smiling.
    â€˜The what? The who?’
    Jeannie laughed. ‘Poor Torquil! All these years you’ve been afraid of the brownie under the bridge and never stopped to wonder what it might look like! That one was the sweetest creature – and she’s delivered more babies than you ever will, doctor, in a lifetime. No offence.’
    â€˜ None taken,’ the doctor said, smiling. ‘Though if I were to live another couple of hundred years…’
    The next day, Torquil took a basket of eggs and left them by the bridge on his way to market by way of a thank you. When he came back the basket was empty. Often after that he and his children after him − and his grandchildren and great-grandchildren too − would leave a little something now and then for the brownie, right up until the day they died, though none of them ever saw the brownie woman again.
    Though brownies do live an awful long time. So it’s quite possible she’s living there still.

A Room Full of Spirits
    Korea
    There was once a boy who loved nothing more than to listen to stories. His father had an old servant who was a wonderful storyteller. Every night, he told the boy a new bedtime story. Every night, the stories whispered to him in his dreams.
    The boy was also very selfish. ‘These stories are mine,’ he told the old servant. ‘I don’t want any of them to go beyond this room.’
    That made the old man very sad. Like all storytellers, he wanted to share the tales he had to tell with anyone who would listen.
    But he was a servant. He had to do as the boy said. And, since all storytellers are, in a way, magicians, able to conjure whole worlds out of thin air, it wasn’t a hard thing to do, to bind those stories so they never left the boy’s room.
    Time went by, the boy grew up and became too old for stories, but still those stories haunted his dreams.
    Until the day came when he was to be married. The whole household gathered in the courtyard, forming up for the procession to the bride’s house, where the wedding would take place.
    All except the old storyteller. He was too old for all that junketing – the noise and bustle! Why couldn’t people be married quietly any more, the way they used to do in the old days? He’d just creep in at the back when the ceremony began.
    Meanwhile, he wandered round the empty house, enjoying the silence, until, passing the boy’s room, he heard a whispering inside, of many voices. He eased open the door and stepped inside. The room seemed to be empty, but his head was suddenly filled with memories of stories he’d told long ago and almost forgotten. And with voices calling to him.
    â€˜Old man! Old man, we know you can hear us.’
    â€˜Please let us out. We want to go to the wedding too.’
    â€˜Have you forgotten us? You trapped us here. You are the only one with power to set us free.’
    The old man smiled. ‘Forgotten you?’ he said. ‘Of course not! How could I forget a single one of you? You are my children. But the young master commanded me…’
    â€˜Never mind what he said!’
    â€˜He’s going away.’
    â€˜He doesn’t need us any more.’
    â€˜Please, please, please! Set us free.’
    The old man said. ‘Go free, then, my children. Wander over the wide world, wherever you will.’ It was like a weight lifting off his shoulders.
    Oh, but then the whispering voices started again, buzzing round his head like