5. Gob

Dot had doubted she'd be able to sleep with a goblin in the house, but sure enough she opened her eyes to find herself squinting at the morning sun.

If it weren't for the sprawling aches and deep bruises, she might have even confused it all for a strange dream.

Young Gil had thankfully left, and the goblin had been overjoyed when he learned he could eat the whole owl to himself. He even seemed to have listened, judging by the relative silence, to her demands that he sleep quietly in the kitchen until she returned.

It must have rained the night before as well, because water had leaked through the battered window shutters, and pooled underneath the warped sill.

She looked about her room, the furnishing stolid and modest, made by her husband's own hands using trees he'd felled. She'd seen it all so many times, but now she felt a strange twinge of shame at how much dust had gathered along the surfaces, at how tattered and threadbare her blankets and curtains had gotten.It was as if her whole life had been fading around her and she'd hardly even noticed.

Dorothy had always taken pride in keeping her home clean and tidy. Well ordered. But as the winters alone wore on, she got more tired and less orderly. It hardly seemed to matter if things got a little cluttered when she was the only one who would see it. She wasn't a woman who had friends or family coming over. Young Gil never stepped further than the kitchen. Not that her home had ever been that large, but they did have a sitting room for guests. That was where she'd stabbed Moira's husbands all those winters ago.

Dorothy still had an old wash cloth faintly stained with his blood. But then she didn't like to throw things away for no good reason.

Strange to think that a cloth had outlasted a man.

Dorothy reached over, her back twinging with pain, to grab the wood etching of her husband. Dusty too, she realized, to a sudden swell of regret. She'd had a short temper with him too. And he'd never been the most patient man. But they'd been happy, and lucky, as far as those things go. She just wished she'd have known he was going to go when he did. She'd have tried to be calmer. Kinder. For the last winter, at the least. But when he'd started to go, he'd gone quick. A little cough turned into a big cough, and then he'd laid on the couch in their sitting room and never found the strength to get himself back up again. Maybe that was why there'd been no guests since. Dorothy liked to stick to her bed and the kitchen, even though the stools in there made her bones ache.

To her surprise, Dorothy managed to struggle up out of bed, wash herself, and get dressed in fresh clothes without hearing a goblin scrabbling or screeching. She was half hoping that her unwanted visitor had gotten bored and left of his own accord when she approached the kitchen. But she opened the door to find the scrawny goblin on all fours amid scattered feathers and small bones, his excitable smile smeared with dried blood. "What do?" he asked, eyes wide. "What clan do now?"

"I'm brewing tea."

"Tea?" he asked.

"Herbs in hot water. To drink."

"Oh. Yes. Womanling is tea. What do... goblin. What do--" He pointed to himself with his clawed hands.

"Nothing."

The goblin's wild face creased in confusion. "No things?"

"Sit," she grumbled. "Be quiet."

"No," he complained like a whining child. "Quiet not. Sit, yes. Womaning is speaking quiet. Many. Many speaking--"

"Because you make too much noise."

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"Oh." He stood upright. "I do...?"

"Yes."

"How many make?"

"Too many."

"How many do... do womanling wanting goblin to make?"

"Less."

"Oh. Make less noise," he muttered to himself, scratching behind his ear.

"Yes," Dorothy agreed. "I want you to make less noise."

"Womaning want many quiet," the goblin countered. "Too many!"

"Stop calling me that," Dorothy snapped.

"Calling what?"

"Womanling," Dorothy said at length. "That's not my name."

"Oh? What name is you?"

The old woman stared at him in frustration. "Dorothy."

The goblin then made a painful effort of repeating the word.

"Dot," she cut in. "You can call me Dot. And your name is?"

"My name?" he asked, seemingly amused. "No name for me. I small goblin. Not known."

"Gob."

"Gob. Lin."

"I'll call you Gob."

"I... Gob?" he pondered.

"Yes."

"Yes! I Gob," he declared with wonderment. "Dot and Gob! Is clan. Strong clan!"

The scrawny green goblin looked around wildly, jumping up and down on the dusty floorboards, before stopping and looking questioningly at Dorothy. "What do now?"

Dorothy let out a long sigh. "Go hunt."

"Oh. Yes. Good think," he happily answered. "More hooting?"

"Deer," she suggested with a sly smile, knowing from her husband's days of hunting that they were few and far between in these parts. "Fetch the clan a great big stag."

***

Dorothy's back ached as she sat on a hard stool in her kitchen. Her arse had long since gone numb.

She'd made some tea, which she stewed, and then made some more tea after that. Then she'd had some plain fare of stale bread and hard cheese that Young Gil had brought the night before. She'd regretted the food though as her jaw was awful sore and two teeth felt loose.

Dorothy wondered if she shouldn't have left with the young man. There'd always been goblins in these parts but maybe it really was getting dangerous if even healthy, well travelled men were getting afraid to wander. She could go and buy that dead man's home or maybe even seek out her son. Meet her grandchild for the first time.

She wondered what the goblin, Gob, would think if he got back dragging a great big deer only to find her home abandoned. She wondered, as well, what she was going to do if he got back and she was still here. Surely he wouldn't just carry on fetching animals back to her until he'd cleared out the whole forest. And even if he was that foolish, Dorothy couldn't help but feel a bit cruel putting him at risk. He was one of the smallest goblins she'd seen so there were plenty of things in and around the forest that could kill the little monster. Perhaps she just needed to tell him to leave. More firmly than she had before. Then he could go and be with his own kin. Not separate himself from the rest of his kind like Dorothy had.

The truth was she'd never expected to go first. So when Gordon died she didn't know what to do. She'd thought, or maybe even hoped, she'd go not long after. But then the seasons went by and she went by as well and all on a sudden ten winters had passed without much notice.

She'd been alone for so long she'd forgotten what company was. And now the only company she was fit for was a scrawny, half-mad goblin.

Dorothy sighed. She decided she would finally go and spend some time in her sitting room. Her aging frame couldn't bear the torture of anymore time sitting on the kitchen stools.

A knock at the door stayed her before she left the kitchen.

Dorothy hesitated. She wondered if Young Gil had come back. There was no way Moira could have gotten here that fast.

A second knock followed.

"Womanling...?" The shrill voice of a goblin asked. High and garbled like Gob's but quite the same.

Dorothy let out a worrisome sigh. She reached over for her heavy iron pan.