The Goblin Reservation

“I see,” said Maxwell. “As you say, at first I did not comprehend.”

“Them dirty trolls,” said Mr. O’Toole, grinding his teeth in fury, “at nothing will they stop. After the mounting stone it would have come the castle, piece by piece, stone by stone, until there be no more than the bareness of the rock upon which it once had roosted. It is necessary, in such circumstance, the bud to nip with quick determination.”

Maxwell jerked his head in a downhill direction. “How did it come out?” he asked.

“We root them out,” said the goblin with some satisfaction. “They scatter like the quail. We dig them out from under rocks and from hiding in the thickets and then we harness them, like so many mules, of which, indeed, they bear a striking likeness, and they drag the mounting stone, most laboriously, I think, back to where they found it.”

“They’re getting back at you,” said Maxwell, “for tearing down their bridge.”

Mr. O’Toole jigged in exasperation. “You are wrong!” he cried. “Out of great and misplaced compassion, we refrained from the tearing of it down. Just two little stones is all-two tiny little stones, and much effective roaring at them. And then they betook the enchantments off the broomstick and also off the sweet October ale and, being simple souls much given to good nature, we let it go at that.”

“They took the enchantment off the ale? I would have thought that impossible once certain chemical changes…”

Mr. O’Toole fixed Maxwell with a look of contempt. “You prate,” he said, “in scientific lingo, which brings no more than errant nonsense. I fail to fathom your engagement in this science when magic you could have for the asking from us and the willingness to learn. Although I must confess the disenchantment of the ale left something for desire. It has a faintly musty touch about the tasting of it.

“Although,” he said, “it is a notch or two improved upon no ale at all. If you would only join me, we could do a sample of it.”

“There has been nothing all day long,” said Maxwell, “that sounds as good as that.”

“Then leave us retire,” cried Mr. O’Toole, “to the drafty halls built so inexpertly by you crazy humans who thought we doted upon ruins and regale ourselves with foaming mugs of cheer.”

In the drafty great hall of the castle, Mr. O’Toole drew the foaming mugs from a mighty cask set upon two sawhorses and carried them to the rough-hewn table before the large stone fireplace in which a smoldering and reluctant fire was smoking rather badly.

“The blasphemy of it,” said Mr. O’Toole, as he lifted his mug, “is that this preposterous outrage of the mounting stone was committed at a time when we goblins were embarked upon a wake.”

“I’m sorry,” Maxwell said. “A wake, you say. I had not been aware…”

“Oh, not one of us,” Mr. O’Toole said quickly. “With the possible exception of myself, in disgusting good health is all the goblin tribe. We were in observance of it for the Banshee.”

“But the Banshee is not dead.”

“Not dead,” said Mr. O’Toole, “but dying. And, oh, the pity of it. He be the last of a great and noble race in this reservation and the ones still left elsewhere in the world can be counted upon less than the fingers of one hand.”

He lifted the mug and buried his muzzle in it, drinking deep and gustily.

When he put it down there was foam upon his whiskers and he left it there, not bothering to wipe it off.

“We die out most notably,” he said, in somber tones. “The planet has been changed. All of us Little Folks and some who are not so little walk down into the valley, where shadows hang so densely, and we are gone from the ken of all living things and that is the end of us. And the very shame of it makes one tremble when he thinks upon it, for we were a goodly people despite our many faults. Even the trolls, before degradation fell upon them, still had a few weak virtues all intact, although I would proclaim that, at the moment, they are destitute of virtue. For surely the stealing of a mounting stone is a very lowdown trick and one which clearly demonstrates they are bereft of all nobility of spirit.”

He put the mug to his mouth again and emptied it in several lusty gulps. He slammed it down on the table and looked at Maxwell’s mug, still full.

“Drink up,” he urged. “Drink up, then I fill them yet again for a further wetting of the whistle.”

“You go ahead,” Maxwell told him. “It’s a shame to drink ale the way you do. It should be tasted and appreciated.”

Mr. O’Toole shrugged. “A pig I am, no doubt. But this be disenchanted ale and not one to linger over.”

Nevertheless he got to his feet and shuffled over to the cask to refill his mug. Maxwell lifted his mug and took a drink. There was a mustiness, as Mr. O’Toole had said, in the flavor of the ale-a tang that tasted not unlike the way that leaf smoke smelled.

“Well?” the goblin asked.

“It has a strange taste to it, but it is palatable.”

“Someday that troll bridge I will take down,” said Mr. O’Toole, with a surge of sudden wrath. “Stone by stone, with the moss most carefully scraped off to rob the stones of magic, and with a hammer break them in many smallish bits, and transport the bits to some high cliff and there fling them far and wide so that in all eternity there can be no harvesting of them. Except,” he said, letting his shoulders droop, “so much hard labor it would be. But one is tempted. This be the smoothest and sweetest ale that was ever brewed and now look at it-scarcely fit for hogs. But it be a terrible sin to waste even such foul-tasting slop if it should be ale.”

He grabbed the mug and jerked it to his face. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he did not take down the mug until all the ale was gone.

“And if I wreak too great a damage to that most foul bridge,” he said, “and should those craven trolls go sniveling to authority, you humans will jerk me on the rug to explain my thinking and that is not the way it should be. There is no dignity in the living by the rule and no joy, either, and it was a rotten day when the human race arose.”

“My friend,” said Maxwell, shaken, “you have not said anything like this to me before.”

“Nor to any other human,” said the goblin, “and to all the humans in the world, only to you could I display my feeling. But I, perchance, have run off at the mouth exceedingly.”

“You know well enough,” said Maxwell, “that I’ll not breathe a word of it.”

“Of course not,” said Mr. O’Toole. “That I did not worry on. You be almost one of us. You’re the closest to a goblin that a human can approach.”

“I am honored,” Maxwell told him.

“We are ancient,” said Mr. O’Toole, “more ancient, I must think, than the human mind can wonder. You’re sure you don’t want to polish off that most foul and terrible drink and start another one afresh?”

Maxwell shook his head. “You go ahead and fill your mug up again. I’ll sit here and enjoy mine instead of gulping it.”

Mr. O’Toole made another trip to the cask and came back with a brimming mug, slapped it on the table, and settled himself elaborately and comfortably.

“Long years gone,” he said, shaking his head in sadness, “so awful long ago and then a filthy little primate comes along and spoils it all for us.”

“Long ago,” said Maxwell. “As long as the Jurassic?”

“You speak conundrums. I do not catch the term. But there were many of us and many different kinds and today there be few of us and not all the different kinds. We die out very slowly, but inexorably. A further day will dawn to find no one of us. Then you humans will have it to yourselves.”

“You are overwrought,” Maxwell cautioned him. “You know that’s not what we want. We have gone to much effort…”

“Loving effort?” asked the goblin.

“Yes, I’d even say to much loving effort.”

Weak tears ran down the goblin’s cheeks and he lifted a hairy, calloused hand to wipe them away.