A Goblin Named Mark

Fantasy / Humor

Markus Hang-Nail made his way through the Thickendense Forest, a fleshy jack rabbit slung over his shoulder. He — the goblin, not the rabbit — preferred to be known as “Mark.”

Mark had been tasked with procuring that night’s dinner by the leader of his gang, Ignati Hang-Nail, an old, grey-haired goblin with many a slaying and pillage to his name. He also happened to be Mark’s father, and the two boasted an impressively dysfunctional relationship with enough head-smacking and arm-twisting to make any fellow goblin greener with envy.

Mark had spent the entirety of the morning chasing the now-dead jack rabbit through the Thickendense. As he followed the tiny white tail of his target, punching through underbrush and wheezing with each stride, he had caught the flash of deers’ eyes, seen the fuzzy-tailed end of a red fox and even heard the frightened snort of a wild pig — all much more kingly prizes than a possibly stringy jack rabbit. But once Mark had set his mind on his target, there was no deterring him. What hoity-toities called “common sense” was mere distraction.

Even so, as the head of the bloodied jack rabbit bobbed against his shoulder in soft smacks, Mark thought about all the things he wished he had caught instead. He cracked his knuckles in anticipation for the beating he would surely receive from Ignati, for he would tell the gang about the entirety of his hunt , missed prizes and all. Mark, though his temper could get the best of him, was no liar.

Mark saw, at last, the tree with his gang’s mark, a symbol cut into the wide trunk in messy, jagged stripes. If you squinted, the mark looked something like a wild boar with two long tusks and a spear stuck straight through its head. If you didn’t squint, it looked like a woodpecker with its beak turned toward the sky. Either way, it was the sign of the Hog-Stomp goblin gang.

Mark let out a wheezy sigh of relief; with one more turn and a two-mile downhill walk, he would be home.

“‘Ey!”

Mark, startled, broke wind so violently he feared he tore a hole in the back of his trousers.

“Whozzat?” he croaked, clutching the jack rabbit with one claw and, after checking the seat of his pants, whipped out his trusty hand-cannon with the other. He heard raucous laughter ring throughout the Thickendense. He whipped his head to and fro, but only saw tall trunks and shades of green.

“Here, boyo, here!”

Mark realized the voice came from on high and wondered, for a flash of a moment, which god in the Mighty Pantheon had chosen to torment him this day.

“Up, ye blast-ended lard-head!” Mark’s eyes followed a trunk up until his gaze landed on a pair of perfectly round, yellow eyes set into a great round of fluffy brown feathers. An owl gazed down at him and smiled as wide as an owl can. “‘Hullo.”

“H-hello — ?” Mark choked on his greeting and grew hot with anger. “Ey… owls can’t talk!”

“That’s a funny thing to say to a talkin’ owl,” the owl chuckled. The strange, airy sound ended in a soft hoot. “Almost like standin’ in front of the Bubbly-Wubbly Stream and sayin’, ‘rivers don’t run!’” Mark thought about this statement and worried it was true. He hated being wrong.

“I haven’t seen a talking owl in this Forest before,” said Mark, jutting out his warty chin to show how sure of himself he was.

“You might have seen one, but not heard one, boyo,” said the owl. Mark allowed the gears in his head to turn toward his next argument until he noticed the owl’s luminous eyes flicker to his shoulder, toward his trophy. Mark clutched the rabbit tighter.

“This is mine,” said Mark, his finger on the trigger of his hand-cannon. He squared his bandy legs. The owl turned his head all the way around and back again, his owl-brow furrowing into a quizzical tangle.

“And what makes you think I want that stringy piece of jerk?” it asked. “I doubt that stringbean has even an ounce of juice in its gangly legs. Hardly big enough for an owl of my stature. And that shabby swath of fur could hardly warm my lovely den. No, indeed not. The only worthy part of such a creature are its feet. I could save them as charms for a particularly terrible day.” Mark decided the owl liked very much to hear itself talk — and to talk a lot of bunk, at that. Rabbits’ feet were the choicest parts of the beast. Every goblin worth his warts knew that. Mark licked his lips in anticipation. He thought he could hear the crackle of the cooking fire and the crunch of bunny bones in his long, drooping ears.

“Uh, I… well, then,” Mark cleared his throat. “I s’pose you won’t be needing it.”

“Uh, I…well, then,” said the owl, mimicking Mark’s phlegm-y goblin growl, eyes flashing. “I suppose rabbit’s feet aren’t quite so lucky after all!” The owl let out a triumphant screech.

Mark shot his hand-cannon before the owl’s wings could twitch into flight. As the shot ripped through its torso, a cloud of dust and feathers burst from its back and its massive black talons dug deep into the branch on which it perched.

“Ohhhh…” the owl moaned as its eyes lolled down to look at the hole in its breast.

“You don’t announce your swoops,” chided Mark. He flipped his hand-cannon around in his fingers.

“Rotten, little, mud-sprite…” The insult petered out as the owl fell forward off the branch, its body falling at such a velocity that it broke a few branches on the way down. It spun and hit the ground, belly-up, talons and wings curling in like a spider that had just taken a tumble.

Mark approached the dead bird. He was careful not to move too quickly — a talking owl must be Magick, and “Magick” so often meant “Curses.” He looked into the owl’s face. Its eyes and beak were open, but nothing twitched with signs of life — not even his little black tongue. For good measure, Mark reached out with his hand-cannon and poked the body with the end of his weapon. The owl rocked a bit, but did nothing else.

Mark realized his wheezing had worsened. The whole ordeal had tired him out and his mouth felt as dry as an old druid’s bone dice. He wrenched his grog jug from his hip and took a long swig. As the thick, sour stuff slid down his throat, he kept his eyes on the owl. For some reason, he felt that he must keep staring at the creature. He also felt that this owl could be an even greater prize than the jack rabbit. Mark looked to the sky . From what he could see through the trees, the day was nearly night.

This blabbing old bird, he thought, may be such a prize, that Ignati would only try to twist-burn one of his arms for being late rather than both for bringing in an unworthy catch. His thirst quenched, Mark put away his grog and crouched to study how he would tie the owl to his back.

The Hog-Stomp camp, a blend of a small glade and a wide-mouthed cave, roared with fire and laughter. Goblin gangs celebrated as richly as kingly courts, even if their backdrop could only be a dirty, bug-ridden forest instead of some pristine stone hall with tables and napkins and tapestries.

Tapestries they won’t even let you wipe your nose on, Mark mused. He’d take a bug-infested pile of leaves over a plushy, swan-down bed, anyday. He loved bugs. They were his accommodating snacks between breakfast and dinner.

Few faces turned Mark’s way when he entered the camp. They saw him, to be sure, but none dared provide praise or ridicule until Ignati set the tone. For all their individual bluster and bragging, goblins had a pecking order and Ignati had the biggest beak. Mark smiled crookedly to himself as he imagined that pecking order shifting. As he made his way to his father’s seat, his neck and back twinged with pain as the owl hung heavily over him.

Ignati was sitting atop his favored grog barrel, carousing with a couple of darlings who seemed genuinely pleased at being tasked with refilling his drinking tusk and grazing their long fingers across his knobby chest. In one of his many-ringed hands, a piece of yellowed paper hung loosely. Mark guessed it was possibly a list of rations or an updated map of the region, showing where the weaker goblin clans had made their nest. Ignati had spies throughout the Thickendense and even a beyond into the Wide Expanse. The reminder of his father’s power sent a chill from his heart down to his feet, but he would not let his fear overtake him this day — not with his feathered prize. He took a deep breath and called above the din —

“Ignati Invidious Hang-Nail!” his voice rang throughout the glade and managed not to crack — Mark counted that as a good omen. His father turned from his darlings, a scowl drooping his bristly goatee.

“What,” he said, heavy and cold as stone. The darlings, hearing the nasty tone, snarled at Mark openly. He responded to them with an obscene waggling of his forked tongue.

“I’ve brought my fellow Hog Stompers a great gift,” he said, and released the owl from his back, letting it fall to the ground in a great feathery heap. The weight had been a greater burden than he realized, and he felt his lower back seize as he tried to straighten. His face twitched with the surge of pain, but he tried his best to mask it with a smirk. Ignati stared back at him, his face disturbing in its blankness.

He can’t see it. That’s it. You’re standing in front of it, arsehole, thought Mark, trying his best to walk in an enviable mosey around the bird. There we go. Ignati leaned closer over his beer-swollen belly, pushing his drinking horn and the slip of paper into the hands of his darlings. His devoted attendants stepped back, murmuring amongst themselves with expressions that betrayed both their annoyance and fascination. Ignati scooted forward and dropped off the barrel, his sandaled feet crunching against the leaf-covered ground. He still did not speak, only jutted out his jaw. He approached Mark and his catch, eliciting more shocked whispers. Mark heard the favored jingling of coins changing hands and flushed with pride — goblins loved to bet on pretty much anything.

“Hrmm,” grumbled Ignati, leaning over the owl’s body. “Big.” Mark’s heart swelled and he turned to watch his father inspect. Ignati pushed the owl over with a foot and looked deep into its now slack face. Its yellow eyes turned in toward each other, its tongue hanging out of its mouth — it had no hint of swagger or wite. Mark giggled.

“Didja see the talons?” he asked his father. Ignati straightened and crossed his thick arms over his chest. He turned to Mark, frowning — but Mark saw something else dancing in his eyes — amusement?

“Oh, Markus,” said Ignati. “You’ve been gone a long while.” Mark thought that was an odd thing to say after poking and prodding a huge, feathered freak of nature.

“Aye,” he answered. He gestured to the owl. “Bastard’s heavy.”

Ignati chuckled. And then that chuckle grew into a laugh, hearty and loud. Then that laugh grew into a hysterical guffaw, complete with knee slapping and tear-streaked cheeks and long strings of drool trailing out of his mouth. The gang attempted to laugh along with him, matching his volume but, to Mark’s mutual dismay and comfort, they could not match the madness of his mirth.

“H-here!” Ignati managed, holding out a grasping hand to his darlings. The one holding the drinking horn started refilling the vessel and walked over to him with the foam rising just barely over the brim. Ignati managed to wrench open one eye as she approached and started laughing even harder. He clutched his jiggling stomach in combined joy and agony. His voice had weakened into a wheezy falsetto. “N-no! Not that, lovely. Hee hee. Ahahahaha! Th-the notice! Bring me the noootice!” He spluttered into more laughter. Mark felt inclined to join in at this point, letting out meager excuses for giggles that paired horribly with his growing nausea.

“Here,” said the darling holding the paper Ignati. She shot a nasty grin at Mark, showing her gorgeous black teeth, dyed and sharpened to a dazzling effect.

Ignati clenched the paper, leaned back and took a huge breath of air, and then shoved the paper into Mark’s face.

“What’s — ?” Mark peeled the moist paper from his sweating brow and squinted at it. Flowing, human script framed a detailed ink drawing of a large, winged creature with the same piercing yellow eyes that were now blank and crossed. Mark didn’t recognize every word and letter, but did know “REWARD.” And, even though he wasn’t very good at ‘rithmetic, he knew lots of “0s” meant lots of coin. This paper had lots and lots of “0s.” “We get some copper for killing this sack of feathers. You’re welcome!” He placed his hands on his hips, pleased as elven punch. Ignati coughed out another laugh and then grabbed Mark by his arms. His twisted Mark’s skin back and forth, making his green skin flush into red.

“They want him back alive, pig-slop!” cried Ignati. “Dung-pile! Carrion heap! This is a wizard’s pet, special bred, special trained.” Mark yowled with each twist of his arm. He wrenched away from his father and buried his face into the yellowing slip of cursed paper, again. The foul-faced image of the bird stared back at him with his tiny, owlish grin.

“How’d you even get this stupid notice, anyhow?” he whimpered. He waved the paper back and forth through the air like a crinkling flag of surrender. “Anyhow?”

“Off a merchant with a bad leg, whose cart we jumped this afternoon,” said Ignati, gesturing to a group of the toughest goblins of the gang, all missing bits of themselves — eyes, teeth, fingers, toes-in the line of duty serving under the fierce Ignati. “While you were out murderin’ valuable pets.”

“I think we gave that merchant the bad leg, boss,” said Torrus Crook-tooth, one of the roughest goblins in Ignati’s gang. The sound of his voice set Mark’s jaw on edge. Ignati looked over his shoulder at Torrus, and they giggled knowingly over the memory.

“That’s right,” said Ignati, his laugh a simmer in his throat. “Wouldn’t turn over a few bags of turnips. How many turnips is worth a popped knee, eh?” The whole gang except Mark laughed at that. All Mark could bring himself to do was slump over his mock-prize and wonder if his jack rabbit might still be in the spot where he left it.

TBC.