Clifford D. Simak

“It is them no-good bummers!” he shouted. “It is them lousy trolls. I’ve told them and I’ve told them to leave them broomsticks be. But no, they will not listen. They always make the joke. They put enchantment on them.”

“Mr. O’Toole,” Maxwell shouted. “You remember me?”

The goblin swung around and squinted at him with red-filmed, nearsighted eyes.

“The professor!” he screamed. “The good friend of all of us. Oh, what an awful shame! I tell you, Professor, the hides of them trolls I shall nail upon the door and pin their ears on trees.”

“Enchantment?” Churchill asked. “Do you say enchantment?”

“What other would it be?” Mr. O’Toole fumed. “What else would bring a broomstick down out of the sky?”

He ambled closer to Maxwell and peered anxiously at him. “Can it be really you?” he asked, with some solicitude. “In the honest flesh? We had word that you had died. We sent the wreath of mistletoe and holly to express our deepest grief.”

“It is I, most truly,” said Maxwell, slipping easily into the idiom of the Little Folk. “You heard rumor only.”

“Then for sheer joy,” cried Mr. O’Toole, “we three shall down great tankards of October ale. The new batch is ready for the running off and I invite you gentlemen most cordially to share the first of it with me.”

Other goblins, a half dozen of them, were running down the path and Mr. O’Toole waved lustily to hurry them along.

“Always late,” he lamented. “Never on the ball. Always showing up, but always somewhat slightly late. Good boys, all of them, with hearts correctly placed, but lacking the alertness that is the hallmark of true goblins such as I.”

The goblins came loping and panting down onto the green, ranged themselves expectantly in front of Mr. O’Toole.

“I have jobs for you,” he told them. “First you go down to the bridge and you tell them trolls no more enchantments they shall make. They are to cease and desist entirely. Tell them this is their one last chance. If they do such things again that bridge we shall tear apart, stone by mossy stone, and those stones we shall scatter far and wide, so there never is a chance of upbuilding that bridge yet again. And they are to uplift the enchantment from this fallen broomstick so it flies as good as new.

“And some others of you I want to seek the fairies out and explain to them the defacement of their green, being sure to lay all blame for such upon them dirty trolls and promising the turf shall be all fixed smooth and lovely for their next dancing when the moon be full.

“And yet another of you must take care of Dobbin, making sure his clumsy self does no more damage to the green, but letting him crop, perchance, a mouthful or two of the longer grass if it can be found. The poor beast does not often get the chance to regale himself with pasturage such as this.”

He turned back to Maxwell and Churchill, dusting his hands together in symbolism of a job well done.

“And now, gentlemen,” be said, “you please to climb the hill with me and we will essay what can be done with sweet October ale. I beg you, however, to go slowly in very pity of me, since this paunch of mine seems grown large of late and I suffer most exceedingly from the shortness of the breath.”

“Lead on, old friend,” said Maxwell. “We shall match our steps with yours most willingly. It has been too long since we have quaffed October ale together.”

“Yes, by all means,” said Churchill, somewhat weakly. They started up the path. Before them, looming on the ridge, the ruined castle stood gaunt against the paleness of the sky.

“I must beforehand apologize,” said Mr. O’Toole, “for the condition of the castle. It is a very drafty place, conducive to colds and sinus infections and other varied miseries. The winds blow through it wickedly and it smells of damp and mold. I do not understand in fullness why you humans, once you build the castles for us, do not make them weathertight and comfortable. Because we, beforetimes, dwelt in ruins, does not necessarily mean that we have forsook all comfort and convenience. We dwelt in them, forsooth, because they were the best poor Europe had to offer.”

He paused to gulp for breath, then went on again. “I can well recall, two thousand years ago or more, we dwelt in brand-new castles, poor enough, of course, for the rude humans of that time could not build the better, being all thumbs and without proper tools and no machinery at all and being, in general, a slabsided race of people. And us forced to hide in the nooks and crannies of the castles since the benighted humans of that day feared and detested us in all their ignorance, and sought, in their ignorance, to erect great spells against us.

“Although,” he said, with some satisfaction, “mere humans were not proficient with the spells. We, with no raising of the sweat, could afford them spades and clubs and beat their spells, hands down.”

“Two thousand years?” asked Churchill. “You don’t mean to say-”

Maxwell made a quick motion of his head in an attempt to silence him.