The Goblin Reservation

A feeble, squeaky voice issued from the bridge. “But all we ever wanted, all we ever asked, was for that bigmouthed O’Toole to make for us a cask of sweet October ale.”

Maxwell turned around. “Is that right?” he asked.

Sharp set O’Toole back upon his feet so that he could answer.

“It’s the breaking of a precedent,” howled O’Toole. “That is what it is. From time immemorial us goblins are the only ones who ever brewed the gladsome ale. And drink it by ourselves. Make we ca

“You know,” said Oop, “that the fairies would never drink the ale. All they drink is milk, and the brownies, too.”

“Athirst you would have us all,” screamed the goblin. “Hard labor it is for us to make only what we need and much time and thought and effort.”

“If it’s a simple matter of production,” suggested Sharp, “we certainly could help you.”

Mr. O’Toole bounded up and down in wrath. “And the bugs!” he shouted. “What about the bugs? Exclude them from the ale I know you would when it was brewing. All nasty sanitary. To make October ale, bugs you must have falling into it and all other matters of great uncleanliness or the flavor you will miss.”

“We’ll put in bugs,” said Oop. “We’ll go out and catch a bucket full of them and dump them into it.”

The O’Toole was beside himself with anger, his face a flaming purple. “Understand you do not,” he screamed at them. “Bugs you do not go dumping into it. Bugs fall into it with wondrous selectivity and-”

His words cut off in a gurgling shriek and Carol called out sharply, “Sylvester, cut that out!”

The O’Toole dangled, wailing and flailing his arms, from Sylvester’s mouth. Sylvester held his head high so that Mr. O’Toole’s feet could not reach the ground.

Oop was rolling on the ground in laughter, beating his hands upon the earth. “He thinks O’Toole’s a mouse!” Oop yelled. “Look at that putty cat! He caught hisself a mouse!”

Sylvester was being gentle about it. He was not hurting O’Toole, except his dignity. He was holding him lightly in his mouth, with the two fangs in his upper jaw closing neatly about his middle.

Sharp hauled off to kick the cat.

“No,” Carol yelled, “don’t you dare do that!”

Sharp hesitated.

“It’s all right, Harlow,” Maxwell said. “Let him keep O’Toole. Surely he deserves something for what he did for us back there in the office.”

“We’ll do it,” O’Toole yelled frantically. “We’ll make them their cask of ale. We’ll make two casks of it.”

“Three,” said the squeaky voice coming from the bridge.

“All right, three,” agreed the goblin.

“No weaseling out of it later on?” asked Maxwell.

“Us goblins never weasel,” said O’Toole.

“All right, Harlow,” said Maxwell. “Go ahead and belt him.”

Sharp squared off to kick. Sylvester dropped O’Toole and slunk off a pace or two.

The trolls came pouring from the bridge and went scurrying up the hillside, yelping with excitement.

The humans began scrambling up the slope, following the trolls.

Ahead of Maxwell, Carol tripped and fell. Maxwell stopped and lifted her. She jerked away from him and turned to him a face flaming with anger. “Don’t you ever touch me!” she said. “Don’t even speak to me. You told Harlow to go ahead and kick Sylvester. You yelled at me. You told me to shut up.”

She turned then and went scrambling up the hill, moving quickly out of sight.

Maxwell stood befuddled for a moment, then began the climb, skirting boulders, grabbing at bushes to pull himself along.

Up on the top of the hill he heard wild cheering and off to his right a great black globe, with its wheels spi

The cheering still was going on atop the bluff and far off, near the top of the hill that rose beyond the ravine, something that he heard, but did not see, came plunging to the earth.

There was no one else in sight as he began the climb again.

It was all over now, he told himself. The trolls had done their work and now the dragon could come down. He gri

Fu

He recalled that at one time he had wondered if the Artifact might not once have served as a god for the Little Folk, or for those strange creatures which early in the history of the Earth had been associated with the Little Folk? And had he been right, he wondered. Was the dragon a god from some olden time?

He began the climb again, but went slower now, for there was no need to hurry. It was the first time since he had returned from the crystal planet that there was no urgency.

He was somewhat more than halfway up the hill when he heard the music, so faint at first, so muted, that be could not be sure he heard it.

He stopped to listen and it was surely music.

The sun had just moved the top part of its disk over the horizon and a sheet of blinding light struck the treetops on the hill above him, so that they blazed with autumn color. But the hillside that he climbed still lay in morning shadow.

He listened and the music was like the sound of silver water ru

A fairy orchestra and fairies dancing on the green! It was something that he had never seen and here was a chance to see it. He turned to his left and made his way, as silently as he could, toward the dancing green.

Please, he whispered to himself, please don’t go away. Don’t be frightened by me. Please stay and let me see you.

He was close now. Just beyond that boulder. And the music kept on playing.

He crawled by inches around the boulder, on guard against making any sound.

And then he saw.

The orchestra sat in a row upon a log at the edge of the green and played away, the morning light flashing off the iridescent wings and the shiny instruments.

But there were no fairies dancing on the green. Instead there were two others he never would have guessed. Two such simple souls as might dance to fairy music.

Facing one another, dancing to the music of the fairy orchestra, were Ghost and William Shakespeare.

The dragon perched upon the castle wall, its multicolored body glittering in the sun. Far below, in its valley, the Wisconsin River, blue as a forgotten summer sky, flowed between the shores of flaming forests. From the castle yard came sounds of revelry as the goblins and the trolls, for the moment with animosity laid aside, drank great tankards of October ale, banging the tankards on the tables that had been carried from the great hall, and singing ancient songs that had been composed long before there had been such a thing as Man.