"They's nasty, is goblins," Old Geoffrey said, "An' not normal nasty, neither."
He seemed to shrink down into himself at the thought of their nastiness. "Ever heard a cat howlin' in the night?" he asked. Michael and Willow nodded. "That's goblins."
"Cats are goblins?" Willow asked, confused.
"No, course not," Old Geoffrey frowned.
"Goblins are attacking cats?" Michael offered, glad to get the right answer when Willow hadn't.
"Don't be daft," Old Geoffrey scowled. Then he cocked his head to the side for a moment, considering what Michael had suggested. "Yer know, I didn't think o' that," he admitted. He considered some more, and Michael marveled that he had thought of something Old Geoffrey hadn't. Then Old Geoffrey looked at Michael. "No," he said, "I did think o' that, and that ain't it."
Michael slumped a little in disappointment.
"So goblins howl like cats?" Willow suggested.
"When they's in a good temper," Old Geoffrey answered.
"What do they sound like when they're in a bad temper?" Michael wanted to know.
"Ever wake up in the middle o' the night, frightened, and yer didn't know why?"
Michael hated to admit it in front of Willow, but this was Old Geoffrey he was talking to, and it was goblins he was talking about, goblins that might be in his garden shed, so he nodded, trying to show that it was no big thing. Everyone woke up frightened in the middle of the night from time to time, didn't they? He knew for a fact that he had frightened his mother just the night before. So it was okay for him to be frightened, too, on occasion.
"Goblins was what frightened yer. Yer was so frightened by the sound of 'em that yer straight woke up, or else you'd be havin' nightmares all night."
Willow considered this for a moment, then pondered aloud, "So when I have nightmares, it's because of goblins?"
This didn't sound right to Michael, and he indicated as much with a slow shake of his head.
"Sometimes, yeah," Old Geoffrey said, "But there's lots can cause nightmares. An undercooked potato can cause nightmares. Though not from any sound they make!" Old Geoffrey seemed to think this joke very funny. He laughed so loudly that he had to throw his head back to get the sound out, barking like a happy dog. When he had calmed a bit, he continued to explain.
"The sound of a goblin is that sound yer thought yer heard but didn't know where yer heard it. That's what goblins is. They's that thing yer know is there, but yer don't know where it is."
"Like monsters?" Willow prompted.
"In the closet?" Michael added. Sounds he couldn't hear he didn't understand, but things he couldn't see, like monsters in his closet, were easy to understand.
"Not like monsters," Old Geoffrey insisted, "Totally different from monsters. Monsters ain't real. Least ways, not closet monsters."
"What about monsters under your bed?" Michael probed.
"Nor monsters under yer bed, neither," Old Geoffrey replied, "Monsters is what yer mind makes up because there ain't nothin' there. Yer can't see goblins, yer don't know goblins is there, yer don't know why you're scared, but yer know you're scared, and yer need to be scared o' somethin', so you're scared o' monsters. That's what monsters are, what yer makes up because you're scared."
"So monsters are goblins, then?" Willow was more confused.
"No, monsters is monsters, and goblins is goblins," Old Geoffrey explained, using a soft tone of voice and a calm delivery that warned that his patience was wearing thin, "Except there ain't no monsters and there is goblins."
"Under the bed?" Michael was confused as well.
"Not under the bed." Old Geoffrey's grimace filled his entire face now. "Just about." He waved his arms to indicate the vastness of "about." "Causin' mischief. Doin' damage."
Willow was quick to move off the topic of monsters. "What kind of damage?" she asked.
Again Old Geoffrey waved his arms, to indicate the area around them, only now it was clear he meant nearby. He was agitated now, and began to pace in tight circles.
"Look about yer," he said, "Look at this 'ere church. Look at this 'ere graveyard." He pointed at a number of crooked tombstones saying, "Look at them markers. That's goblins."
Michael had long been of the opinion that the crumbling state of the church, the graveyard and the tombstones was due to a combination of time, weather and poor maintenance. He thought it better not to suggest this to Old Geoffrey.
"I been battlin' them goblins for well on forty year, if it's a day," Old Geoffrey growled.
"What have they done?" Willow asked.
"It's quicker to say what they ain't done," Old Geoffrey griped. He leaned wearily against his spade, as though mere mention of his troubles was as exhausting as the troubles themselves. Then he began to catalog his career-long battle with goblins. There were slates thrown from the church's roof. There were paving stones stolen, dislodged, cracked and chipped. There were light fixtures missing or dangling from dislocated wires. There were tree limbs left strewn across pathways, stairwells and gates. There were doorknobs jammed or broken off. The wall along the Vicarage Road needed constant mending, as did all the stonework surrounding the grounds. Gravestones that were standing up straight one day were leaning to the side or to the back the next, and were fully toppled not long after. And the mess that was strewn about! Old Geoffrey's life was a constant war of placing, replacing, fixing, re-fixing, hanging, rehanging, mending, re-mending, cleaning and cleaning and cleaning again.
"An' look at the state o' the place!"
Old Geoffrey's anger and despair were reflected by the volume of his voice and the deepness of the sigh he let out after he spoke.
"But how do you know it's goblins?" Willow asked, "Have you seen them?"
Michael perked up at this question.
"Yeah, have you seen them?" he joined. Things were getting interesting again. He liked Old Geoffrey very much, but he didn't much care about the troubles of maintaining a church and its grounds. That sounded far too much like domestic chores, and not at all like adventure. Goblins, in way of comparison, sounded exactly like adventure.
"What do they look like?" he demanded, but Old Geoffrey just shook his head.
"I told yer," Old Geoffrey said, "Yer doesn't see goblins." He waved his arm a third time for emphasis. "Yer sees what they done. Then yer knows it's goblins."
Willow put on her stubborn look, in that way that only Willow could.
"How do you know all the stuff that's been done has been done by goblins, and not just the wind, or the rain, or little boys, or little animals?"
That was quite a list, Michael thought. He would have stopped at wind. He was still disappointed that Old Geoffrey wasn't going to tell him what goblins looked like. He was remembering the face that popped up outside his window the previous night. Could that be a goblin? It probably wasn't a ghost. He'd thought of ghosts when thinking about the shed, because he hadn't seen anyone there but had heard voices. When you heard voices but saw nobody there, you had to think ghost, right? But what about goblins? How could he know whether there were ghosts or goblins in his shed?
"There's malice in what goblins does," Old Geoffrey was saying, "That's how I know it's goblins."
"But isn't there malice in ghosts?" Willow asked. Michael was considering the same question.
"Not like goblins," Old Geoffrey answered, "Ghosts got reasons for what they does. They may not always be good reasons, but they're reasons, just the same. Goblins ain't got no reasons. They don't need none."
"There hasn't been any malice in our shed," Michael said, as much to himself as to either of the other two. He was reasoning out the question of ghosts or goblins in the garden shed. "There's just been shaking and a 'God Bless.' " He thought some more. "Oh," he added, "And some arguing."
"Arguin'?" Old Geoffrey gave Michael a penetrating look. "What about?"
"I don't know," Michael answered, "I couldn't hear, not properly. They were whispering." Then he thought some more. "Except when they were talking to me, although they argued then too, really ... "
"They talked to you?" Willow's voice was at once fascinated and suspicious. "About what?"
"Yer talked to 'em?" Old Geoffrey demanded. Underneath the brim of his cap, his eyes were so large and bright that Michael was sure they could have been seen in the dark, or at least have reflected torchlight, like a cat's eyes. That's what Old Geoffrey looked like, a cat. A cat hunting rats. "What did yer talk to 'em about?"
Michael considered a moment. What had they talked about? Nothing really. They had merely discussed whether or not they had been looking at each other. That was barely a conversation, if it was a conversation at all. He related what he could remember. Then he told how he'd been lying in bed, and how he'd gotten up, and how the head had popped up above his window sill.
"Yer saw one?" Old Geoffrey's mouth hung open after he asked, so widely that he must nearly be incapable of closing it.
"You never told me you saw a goblin!" Willow was clearly offended by Michael's secret.
"I didn't know it was a goblin," Michael insisted, "I didn't know what it was." That was the truth. He hadn't known. He still didn't.
"What did it look like?" Old Geoffrey and Willow asked as one. Michael described what he'd seen out his window. Now Willow was clearly angry.
"You didn't tell!" was all she could say, and she kept repeating it.
Michael told Old Geoffrey how he hadn't been sure he'd seen the thing at all. It had all been so quick, and it was the middle of the night.
Willow said, "You didn't tell!"
Old Geoffrey asked, "And yer spoke to 'im?" His mouth continued to hang open before and after he spoke.
Michael nodded. Then he told how he'd gone down to the shed, and how he'd tried to see in, and how his father had surprised him and taken him inside, and how his father had scolded him.
"An' just right!" Old Geoffrey approved, "You stay away from them goblins. They're ain't nothin' good about 'em, and there ain't no reason to be talkin' to 'em. In the middle o' the night, in the middle o' the day, never."
"But it may not be goblins," Michael suggested.
"You didn't tell," Willow complained.
"It's goblins," Old Geoffrey said, "An' goblins is trouble."
"But there hasn't been any trouble," Michael insisted.
"You didn't tell," Willow pouted.
"Not yet, there ain't been trouble." Old Geoffrey's eyes were focused slits now, as if he were poring all his thoughts into Michael with just the power of his eyes. "No trouble you've seen, that is. But there will be trouble, yer can be sure. There will be. So just stay away. Just ... "
Mrs. Scott could be heard at the bottom of the garden.
"Willow! Michael! It's supper time!"
Willow and Michael tried to ignore her. They wanted to hear Old Geoffrey's warning. Old Geoffrey, though, was through.
"Go along, you two! Yer mother's callin'."
Willow and Michael protested.
"Oh no," Old Geoffrey insisted, "Yer needs to be gettin' on home."
Michael wanted him to say something like, "With goblins about, that's where you'd best be," but Old Geoffrey had dropped all mystery from his voice. He was simply the elderly sexton sending Michael and Willow back to their mother.
They turned homeward, walking with a reluctant shuffle at first, but gaining speed as their mother called to them again. All the talk of goblins had made them hungry, and it was supper time. They raced each other to the bridge and over the stream, pushing each other to be first through the gate. Mrs. Scott was midway up the garden path as they burst past the shed. They both stopped and regarded the shed with a mixture of glee and fear.
"Come along, you two," Mrs. Scott insisted from the kitchen doorway. "It's fish fingers tonight."
Fish fingers! They rushed up the garden path, the shed forgotten. Fish fingers! And possibly leftover cake from Mrs. Scott's afternoon gathering!
But mostly, fish fingers!