Clifford Simak - The Goblin Reservation

The path was steep, with many turnings to dodge the massive boulders crouched upon the ground, anchored in the soil, gray-bearded with their crops of lichens. The tree trunks crowded close, the rough, dark bark of ancient oak, the satin whiteness of the birches, showing little tan blotches where the thin bark had peeled off but still clung, fluttering in the wind. In the cluttered trash of the surface rose the fat red pyramid of the jack-in-the-pulpit fruit, the shriveled hood drooping like a tittered purple robe.

Maxwell climbed slowly, saving his breath, stopping often to look around, to soak in the feel of autumn that lay all about. He reached, finally, the fairy green where Churchill’s flier, with himself as passenger, had come crashing down under the spell of the trolls’ enchantment. Just up the hill a ways lay the goblin castle.

He stood for a moment on the green, resting, then took up the climb again. Dobbin, or another horse very similar to him, was cropping at the scanty grass which grew in ragged bunches in a pole-fenced pasture. A few doves fluttered about the castle’s turrets, but there were no other signs of life.

Sudden shouts shattered the morning’s peace and out of the open castle gate came a gang of trolls, moving rapidly and in curious formation. They were in three lines and each line had a rope across its shoulders, exactly, Maxwell told himself, like the old painting he had seen of the Volga boatmen. They charged out onto the drawbridge and now Maxwell could see that the three ropes were attached to a block of hewn stone which bounced along behind them, raising a hollow, booming racket when it hit the drawbridge.

Old Dobbin was neighing wildly, kicking up his heels and galloping madly around the inside perimeter of the fence.

The trolls, their fangs gleaming against the brown, wrinkled viciousness of their faces, their roached hair seeming to bristle more stiffly than was the usual case, came pounding down the path, with the massive stone bouncing along behind them, raising puffs of dust as it gouged into the ground.

Boiling out of the gate behind them came a cloud of goblins, armed with clubs, with hoes, with pitchforks, apparently with anything they could lay their hands upon.

Maxwell leaped out of the path as the trolls bore down upon him. They were running silently and with vast determination, their weight bent against the ropes, while the goblin horde pursued them with wild war whoops and shrieks. In the forefront of the goblin band, Mr. O’Toole ran heavily, his face and neck violet with his anger, a two-by-four brandished in his fist.

At the point where Maxwell had leaped out of the way, the path took a sudden dip, toboganning downward in a rocky slide to the fairy green. At the top of the dip the block of stone took a mighty leap as its forward edge struck a rocky ledge. The ropes hung slack and the block came down and bounced and then, with the ropes flying, started pinwheeling down the hill.

One of the trolls looked behind him and shouted a frantic warning. The trolls dropped the ropes and scattered. The block of stone went tearing down the slope, gaining speed with every revolution. It struck the fairy green and gashed a great hole in it, made one last bounce into the air, mushed down into the grass and skidded, ripping up the sod, tearing an ugly gash across the place of dancing. Crashing into a large white oak at the far end of the green, it finally came to rest.

The goblins went roaring down the hill in pursuit of the trolls, scattering out into the trees to hunt down the stealers of the stone. Hoots of fear and yelps of rage floated up the hill, intermingled with the sound of many bodies thrashing through the underbrush.

Maxwell crossed the path and walked over to the pole fence. Old Dobbin now had quieted down and stood with his lower jaw resting on one of the topmost poles, as if he needed it to prop him up. He was staring down the hill.

Maxwell reached out a hand and stroked Dobbin’s neck, pulled gently at one ear. Dobbin slanted a gentle eye toward him and whuffled his upper lip.

“I hope,” Maxwell said to him, “that they won’t expect you to drag back that stone. It’s a long, steep pull.”

Dobbin flicked one ear languidly.

“If I know O’Toole,” Maxwell said, “I don’t expect you’ll have to. If he can round up the trolls, they’ll be the ones who’ll do it.”

The uproar down the hill had quieted now and in a little while Mr. O’Toole came puffing up the path, carrying the two-by-four across one shoulder. He still was purple of face, but apparently from exhaustion rather than from rage. He hurried from the path toward the fence and Maxwell walked out to meet him.

“My great apology,” said Mr. O’Toole, in as stately a voice as he could manage with the shortness of his breath. “I glimpsed you and was happy of your presence, but engaged most earnestly and very urgently. You witnessed, I suspect, the low-down happening.”

Maxwell nodded.

“My mounting stone they took,” raged Mr. O’Toole, “with malicious intent of putting me afoot.”

“Afoot?” asked Maxwell.

“You comprehend most feebly, I see. My mounting stone, up which I must scramble to get astride Old Dobbin. Without a mounting stone there gets no horseback riding and I must trudge afoot unhappily, with much pain and puffing.”

“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.