The Raiselig Dossier: Goblin

Raiselig was allowed a maximum of seven days of vacation a year. It was a paltry amount for most, but Raiselig constantly had trouble finding times and places to indulge.

Relaxing was such an odd concept to Raiselig. When your being was your purpose, pausing in your efforts was akin to a kind of suicide, wasn’t it? If you weren’t working, then why were you?

Calchona had tried to explain it several times. Raiselig understood the idea of sleep, rest, even the idea of taking a moment to catch one’s breath — which was no small feat for someone who didn’t breathe.

But a vacation. That was…well, it was just wrong.

Nevertheless, Raiselig was bound by convention and circumstance, and so seven days out of every year, Raiselig set aside their yellowwood cabinet and walked away. They didn’t take their pen with them, nor any books. Sometimes, they even tried leaving their hat behind, though it made little difference. For twenty-four hours, Raiselig wouldn’t be a Scrivener.

It was torturous.

For the first few years, Raiselig indulged in the natural pastime of a Scrivener, namely looking for loopholes. Raiselig tried writing draft contracts on barroom napkins, and staging mock trials between bridge and brook. It didn’t take long for these loopholes to be discovered, however, and so Raiselig tried turning their mind to theory-craft.

For years, they spent their seven days sitting and thinking about the Law. They teased out edge-cases and created new theories of procedure. They watched whole towns full of people go about their daily lives, and counted up all the different ways a Scrivener might bring up charges.

For centuries now, every loophole Raiselig had found had been closed, until there was nothing for Raiselig to do but walk.

For a full day, Raiselig walked. They took none of the secret ways, avoided all of the private doors, and never let their eyes wander from the horizon.

Sometimes they walked through snow, other times swamp. Some of the roads were dusty and dry, others were covered in grass and vine. The horizon was sometimes near, sometimes far, sometimes flat and sometimes jagged, but it was always there; tantalizing in its majesty.

By the time the twenty-four hours was done, Raiselig always found themselves back at their yellowwood cabinet, quietly waiting by the side of the road.

“Hey!”

Raiselig looked down. A short man was walking at their side, puffing gently as he tried to match their pace.

He was rather short, with hair that was obviously once jet black, but now had faded to a speckled gray. He had a long beard that hung to his chest, and a patch of hairless head on the very top of his scalp. His eyes were screwed in a mix of concentration and anger, his lips were pulled back in a hard line of frustration.

Raiselig shortened their stride, giving the man some ease.

For a moment they walked in silence. Raiselig wasn’t going to start the conversation; they had no idea how.

“You a Scrivener?” The man’s voice was ragged and dry. Raiselig didn’t bother wondering how the man knew that they were, in fact, a Scrivener. Calchona had said, may years ago, that Raiselig exuded scrivening like humans exuded sweat.

“Not at the moment,” Raiselig muttered, with not a little bitterness. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m a Goblin, right?”

Raiselig looked at the man again. He was certainly not a goblin of any shape or size — His humanity exuded from him, much the same as Raiselig’s scrivining exuded from them — but Raiselig was not a Scrivener for another few hours, yet, and so classification papers were not in their purview. They decided to wait, and let the man continue at his own pace.

“A Goblin,” he said again.

“I see.”

“You can’t tell, can you?”

Raiselig spared another glance. “You certainly look different than most of the Goblins I’ve seen.”

“Yeah, only my papers gone missing, see?”

Raiselig continued walking. They were on vacation.

“So nows when I think I want to go have a pint of mushroom beer or a snack of millipede cake, I don’t know where the holes are. I can’t get to the underground.”

“Can’t you?”

“No. See, only Goblins know where the underground is. Only they know where the Goblin holes are, and all them secret passwords, like. And sos when I want to get in a bit of a rumble, I gots no where to go.”

“You don’t remember where the holes are?” Raiselig poked at the man’s tale.

“Not no more. If you’re not a Goblin, you can’t know where the holes are.”

“Ah.”

“Only I am a Goblin, see?”

“I see.”

They continued walking.

“You can help, right? You’re a Scrivener?”

“Couldn’t your…fellow Goblins help?”

“Ah, well,” the man fell into silence for a moment, grumbling as his short legs kicked up the road dust in a tiny cloud. “Goblins don’t like people, you see. Goblins like Goblins. You can’t see a Goblin unless you’re a Goblin.”

“Which you are.”

“Which I am, right.”

Raiselig continued walking. So did the man.

“You gonna help me?”

Raiselig considered the situation. The fact of the matter was, they were on vacation. They couldn’t help the man now, even if they wanted to. The number of loopholes that had snapped shut surrounding their vacation time was quite arduous.

But…there was nothing that said the man couldn’t keep talking, explaining his life, his concerns, his quiet sufferances; while Raiselig continued to walk. And listen. There was nothing improper about listening.

“You look like an old man,” Raiselig said.

“I know damn well what I look like,” the man snapped, whipping his leathery hand through the air. “I don’t give a damn what I look like. What you look like don’t mean a damn thing!”

“Doesn’t it?” Raiselig was getting curious, in spite of themself. “Then why are you walking with me? If you are a Goblin, go be a Goblin and be done with it.”

“I can’t,” the man cried, “because no one believes me! Oh, I act like a Goblin, alright. They call me rude. I sing and dance like a Goblin, they call me clumsy. I tell them what I want to eat and drink, and they laugh at me. No matter how I act, when they look at me, they don’t see a Goblin; they see a foolish old man.

Raiselig fell silent. Their feet were beginning to tire.

“It’s these papers,” the man muttered. His anger was clearly fading, his frustration slowly fading into exhaustion. “Never needed papers before.”

“You always needed something,” Raiselig answered. “You needed sharp teeth, or have long ears and dirty hair. There was always something that proved what you were.”

“Not for goblins,” the man hissed. “Goblins know they are goblins. They don’t need anything, and if anyone tells them what they had to do, they’d laugh in their face. They’d break your bowls and spoil your milk, if you tried to tell them they weren’t Goblins. If you tried to tell them how they were supposed to behave.”

Raiselig did not think of all the goblins they had worked with over the centuries. They gave a slow nod. “You may be right.”

“I know I’m right.”

“But you could be wrong.”

The man didn’t say anything.

“Do you remember being a Goblin?” Raiselig asked. “If you don’t remember the holes or the passwords and can’t see any Goblins…how do you know you’re a Goblin?”

The man thought for a moment and then shrugged. “It’s in you, ain’t it? It’s like being hungry, only you don’t want food, you just want something to fill you up. You want something to slot into the hole in your chest, and —”

Raiselig stopped, holding their hand up to silence the man’s rambling. “No. Not that.”

The man blinked. “Eh? Not what?”

“Not the same old tripe I’ve heard time and time again. Not the cliches and tropes regurgitated out like a boy at lessons.” They paused for a moment. Yes, this was still acceptable. Scrivening was founded on cliches and precedents, demanding something else was hardly ‘work.’ “Again. Do you remember ever being a Goblin?”

The man swallowed. “Nah. I’m old. There’s a lot I don’t remember.”

“Then, what do you know?”

The man stood still, his screwed up eyes slowly drifting back and forth, like he was trying to see something just outside the limits of his vision. His firm mouth opened and closed a few times, and then he began to walk.

After a few more minutes, he spoke.

“Once, a long time ago, I heard the Goblin’s singing. I heard their feet slapping and their hands clapping. It echoed up from a hollow stump just outside of town, on the edge of the forest. It was nighttime, I remember seeing a firefly flickering through the trees. I didn’t follow it, because I knew the stories, but I listened to the Goblin’s song. I hear their laughter, and it was different than any laughter I had ever heard before. It was loud and long, it filled the air. It was raspy and harsh like a twisted root. There was hair in that laughter, hair in the armpits and on the legs. I could feel my sharp teeth, then. I don’t know how, but I felt my long ears. I knew the taste of mushroom beer even though I had never tasted it in my life. I felt the dance in my bones and the song in my lungs. I don’t know if I remember it, or I want it, or if I’m even hearing the right song…”

The man stopped, and Raiselig stopped too. They stared at each other before he spoke again.

“If I’m wrong, it’s my choice to be wrong. I am a Goblin, and I always was.”

Raiselig nodded. “Walk with me.”

The hills were particularly lovely at this time of year. The locals called the season Greentree, because it was when the new leaves began their slow and steady reemergence. The air was crisp and cold, seasoned with the promise of bright days, cool breezes, and lazy rabbits eating clover. In the distance, tall trees hinted at the edge of a forest, where dark shadows hid moss and mushroom, devouring the fallen and rotting logs fallen in a thunderstorm.

Spirits flitted about like snowflakes, all different sizes and shapes, with different colors and emotive faces. The little man couldn’t see them, Raiselig was certain.

They pitied the man, that he could not see what was so clear to Raiselig.

It only took a few more minutes of walking before Raiselig found his yellowwood cabinet, sitting patiently at the side of the path, untouched by mortal or unnatural hands.

The door opened quickly at Raiselig’s practiced touch. They flipped through several papers before finding the one that they wanted. “Reaffirmation of Goblinic Nature and Heritage,” they said, pulling out their pen with a flourish. “Please sign here and here, and fill out this information here. Which burrow you come from is quite important.”

The man paused. “I don’t remember.” His eye twinkled. “Can I put down ‘unchanged?’”

Raiselig let out a slow breath. “Yes,” they said. “You can.” It was a very Goblin answer.

When the i’s were dotted and the t’s were crossed, Raiselig put the document into the proper cubby for filing in the official ledgers. “A copy of your papers will be sent to you,” they said as they closed and locked the cabinet. “I suspect it will happen quite quickly, especially if —”

But when he turned around, the man was already gone. All that remained was the song drifting through the air, the sound of feet slapping, hands clapping.