Code Name: Twinkle

The story of how goblins became surface dwellers.

I

Goblins, as we know them in this world, are everywhere we look. How, though, did these cave-dwelling miners climb the ladders of this world and find themselves trading as wheeler- dealers in the fine markets of our cities and towns? How did these grotesque little creatures win the approval of the sun, and learn to walk among us on the surface? No one knows exactly how goblins came to be in our world, but when I was a boy, I heard the story of one young goblin who succumbed to the gnawing of curiosity. Let me take you back three hundred years, to the underground city of Gashel where our tale begins. 

For centuries, the cave-dwellers of Gashel knew better than to rise to the surface. Any goblins that did became urban legends, and not for good reason. Speculation regarding what happened to the surface-seekers ranged from becoming eagle-fodder (and after that, nest lining of course), victims of spontaneous combustion in the rays of the sun, or shrinkage to something so small that even the most average goat dropping would roll over you like a boulder, crushing your bones as well as hope of an escape. Even in recent memory, when Wagchat Flingering, groom of the stool, disappeared, none dared to go after him. Some suggested the unfortunate creature was ‘sucked off’ for standing too close to the entrance of the cave. Others said he was turned into a goat and devoured by the cave trolls. Officially, nothing was ever mentioned of Flingering’s disappearance, but the anxious crowds arrived at the foot of the slag heap every month and deep down, they hoped to find out what misfortune had found the last surface-seeker in living memory. 

Even when the benevolent entities on the surface came to guarantee protection to the goblins of Gashel, nobody questioned whether the fate of the surface-seekers had anything to do with the guardians. They daren’t ask. 

One morning, when the king made his monthly address at the royal slag heap, he managed to sow the first seed of doubt. “I have in my hands a decree from the benevolent keepers up top,” the king said. “They promise to grant our protection from the evils…” 

The speech was interrupted by the king’s hacking, wet cough. He spat the bounty of his coughing at his feet and continued. “The benevolent smile upon us and will continue to do so, forever!”

There was a cheer from the court. The king, wrapped in hogskin, raised his hand to silence them. “But in exchange… They want more tribute than last year.” 

Flapping lips in low tones susurrated like dry grass among the onlookers as they registered the news. 

A young goblin, Bodgel Underwart of Spink, listened intently to the king’s address from a cavity in the stone and rubbed his chin. Like many other young goblins, he had never seen their benevolent overlords. He wondered who had. “We will need a thousand volunteers to gather the gold. Have your names on the wall by this afternoon and paint your faces white,” the king said. 

The old, royal goblin returned to his mud hut of a palace and closed the door. A downpour of silence soaked the crowds. Their green, filthy faces scrunched up into sentient balls as they exchanged looks of wonder at each other. Bodgel tossed his dried apple into the sad sea of stupidity and jumped down the shaft pole leading to the gold mine. 

Boney and Spawk were two adolescent goblin miners who, like Bodgel, were often uninspired and downright baffled by the unwavering loyalty to the surface lords. Still having had yet to witness their city prosper, they couldn’t appreciate the king’s regular tributes and speeches expressing unrelenting gratitude for the army of saviours above. If ever a young goblin spoke of the tributes disparagingly within their homes, they’d either receive a clip around the ear from their fathers or a wooden spoon slapping from their mothers. No one was allowed to talk about the surface lords— unless—it was positive discourse. Positive discourse was always welcomed. Negative discourse, as far as the younglings knew, resulted in toe thumping—or worse—banishment.

Boney—the shorter, more rotund of the group—rubbed his snotty nose and shook his head. “I do enough volunteerin’ down ‘ere. That army of guardians is gettin’ greedy. What do they need all that gold for? Risky bizniss.” 

He was right—Bodgel thought. They did need to mine, whatever happened. Working at the treasury ran the risk of coming into contact with a wyvern—or worse—a dragon. Flying serpents didn’t mine their own gold—they much preferred to let others do the work first. At the annual career gathering, the queue for mining was often a mile longer than the queue for employment at the treasury. Bodgel should therefore have been happy with his lot, but he wasn’t. He looked to his starved-looking friend Spawk with beady, black eyes and wondered what Spawk thought. At one time, Bodgel would have thought that Spawk was a goblin of few words. He soon learned, however, that Spawk was a goblin of few thoughts, too. 

“He didn’t say what we were volunteering for,” Bodgel said. 

“What’s up there anyhow?” Boney asked. 

“Dunno. The king says death.” Just as Bodgel was about to continue, they heard the eruption of several rocks falling to the ground somewhere further down the tunnel. 

“There goes crew three,” remarked Spawk.

The three goblins said nothing for a moment. Bodgel looked up at the roof of the mine for a second, and stopped. “What’s that?” he asked, jumping up. Spawk, several feet taller than Bodgel, picked up his lantern and held it up: it was a ledge. 

“Get me up,” Bodgel said. Boney looked around nervously. 

“What if it isn’t safe?” 

“It isn’t safe. Come on, Spawk. Lift me!” 

Spawk tossed Bodgel up onto the ledge as though he were a hogskin football, and waited. There was a crash and the sound of some rock coming loose, but Bodgel’s face soon reappeared. “There’s something up here.” 

“What? What is it?” Boney hissed. 

Bodgel narrowed his eyes in the gloom. The initials WF appeared before him in the rock. 

“W F,” he said to his friends. 

“What fuck?” Boney asked. 

“Maybe. Can’t see that well. Anyway, there’s something up here. Looks like a tunnel.” 

Boney and Spawk looked at one another with wide eyes. “Shall I?” Bodgel asked. 

They said nothing. Bodgel nodded. “All right. I’m going. Say nothing. I’ll be back.”

“But, Bodgel!” cried Spawk. “Death?” 

Bodgel snorted and spat at the ground. One chest beating later, he was gone, scampering up a shaft. 

II 

At the end of the tunnel, Bodgel found a spoon. The spoon had been discarded at the mouth of what looked like an opening to the mountainside above the mine, but he waited within the tunnel for some time until he could be sure. 

Groping at dried tufts of grass and the occasional leg of a wild goat, Bodgel Underwart of Spink found himself on the mountainside, somewhere near home. Blinded by the light of the winter sun, he crashed to the ground and covered his face. “What? Fuck!” he cried. Holding his hands over his eyes lest they pop out of his skull, he got down on the ground. Making small slits with his boney fingers, he peeked through and crawled down the mountain on his elbows and knees, coating his skin in hardened goat droppings for good measure. 

By nightfall, Bodgel was able to uncover his eyes and relieve his pointy, leathery elbows of their rock-ridden discomfort, and climb up to his feet. He had reached what he hoped was the mouth of the cave. 

Aglow with the most primitive of fire that a goblin could carry off, the high walls surrounding the cave danced in the flickering shadows. Bodgel rubbed his eyes and narrowed them, hoping to find what he was looking for in the firelight. He hid behind a stone column and crouched down. The keepers would make themselves known, soon. Bodgel would wait, and hope that they did so before the sun came back to blind him. 

The blast of an enormous horn rattled through Bodgel’s bones, jolting him awake. He wiped a trickle of drool from the corner of his mouth and gasped: he’d dozed off. Scrambling back onto his feet, Bodgel stuck his head around the pillar. Banging a large drum erratically, a little goblin danced with glee at the mouth of the cave. “Five days! Five days to pay the tribute,” the goblin boomed through the horn. The thunder of the drum echoed down the cavity in the mountainside and the column Bodgel leaned on. If he hadn’t known any difference, Bodgel would have thought an entire army was up here with him and the war musician. There was no castle, no court and no golden-cloaked guardians fighting off eagles or vortexes seeking to suck everyone off and empty the caves. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up after the drumming had ceased. The snicker emerging from the throat of the mysterious figure sounded all too familiar. The little creature sat atop a pile of gold and chicken bones, wearing peasant’s goat furs and stone clogs. Wagchat Flingering, once keeper of the stool, was now keeper of the jewels. 

Bodgel had to tell his friends. 

Watching the moon fade in the light of the emerging dawn, the young goblin made his way back into the mountain to tell his friends what he’d seen. 

III 

“We need a code name for this operation,” Boney said, holding his chin in his podgy hands. 

“Twinkle?” suggested Spawk.

Boney scowled. “That’s not a proper name.” 

“My mum’s called Twinkle.” 

“Proper codename.” 

“Twinkle is nice.”

“Fine!” Bodgel said. “Fine. Code name: Twinkle.” He scratched his chin. “We get to the king, somehow, and we tell him the truth. If he doesn’t listen, we can still carry out the plan.” 

“You can’t get past the guards,” Boney said. “They’ll snap you in half.” 

Bodgel thought of the cave trolls that guarded the king’s palace and sighed. “What do trolls like?”

“Goats?” 

Bodgel hugged his knees. “I should have brought one back from up top.” 

“You stink of goat shit though. Why don’t you just get them to follow your scent?” 

Bodgel looked at Spawk in amazement. “Spawk… you thought of that?” 

The simple goblin looked at him incredulously. “You wa?” 

“You just… you don’t talk much.” Bodgel said with a shrug. 

“I’d rather talk nothin’ than talk shit.” 

The other two looked at Spawk and then at each other, nodding in resigned agreement. 

Boney gasped, and turned to Bodgel with the question that had struck through his skull like lightning. “Can you make a goat sound?” 

“Maa, maa,” Bodgel said, smirking.

“We need a diversion,” Spawk said, picking up a goatskin rug from his hut floor. “Roll around in this.” 

As per Spawk’s plan, Bodgel rubbed himself on the goat fur until his skin was raw. They wrapped the rug around Boney, who agreed to crawl past the palace during the slumber shift. 

“Well hang on,” Boney asked before he was deployed to the castle grounds. “What do I do if they catch me?” 

“Have more faith, brother,” Bodgel said, patting Boney’s chunky flank. They left him on the platform to work it out for himself. 

As soon as it was clear that Boney had caught the guards’ attention, Bodgel and Spawk climbed down from their hiding places and leapt onto the weak, leather roof of the king’s chambers. 

The king, half-asleep in his hot stone bath, barely lifted his sleep mask to see what was happening in his bedroom. “Your majesties,” Bodgel whispered. 

“Who speaks to me?” The king asked, still not removing his sleep mask. 

“It is I, Bodgel Underwart of Spink,” Bodgel said. “And Spawk of Gawk, son of Mawk, son of Bawk.”

“Underwart of Spink?” the king said, addressing the side of the room where they weren’t. “Spawk of Gawk? How did you—” 

“It doesn’t matter, we’ll fix it,” Bodgel said. “We need to talk to you.” 

“Guards!” the king called. 

“No! Please!” 

“Guards!” 

“Wagchat Flingering is alive!” 

IIII

Deciding to spare the intruders, and ultimately angered by the betrayal of his keeper of the stool, the king went along with the plan. 

The following morning at sundown, hordes of goblins burst from their hovels to hear the king speak in a surprise gathering on the king’s heap.

Bodgel had needed only to utter two words to change the future of Gashel forever: Wagchat Flingering. The king felt that his people would be interested in what Bodgel had to say. 

“Bodgel Underwart of Spink has something to say to you,” the king said to the crowds at the foot of the heap. 

“What speaketh Bodgel Underwart of Spink?” called a squeaky voice from one of the goblin miners. 

“I found a tunnel.” 

Gasps erupted from the sea of goblins below. The painted faces of the volunteers presented the King with a collage of surprise and disappointment. Life in the underground was— after all—rather depressing. 

“A tunnel?” 

“A tunnel.” Bodgel nodded. “It goes all the way to the up top.” 

“How do you know this, Bodgel Underwart of Spink?” asked another from the crowd. 

“‘Ave been there.” 

“He’s still alive?” someone asked. 

The gasps started up again. This time, the faces changed to awe and wonder. Somewhere in the swarm, a goblin mother fainted. The king leaned on his staff and stared at the young goblin incredulously. If there had been flies in the underground, they would have been unable to resist the inviting black chasm of the king’s toothless mouth. 

“Bodgel? Is this true?” asked Wudgem Spitbare, the duke of Dungworth. 

“It’s true. I went up there and… well, am not sure you wanna hear the rest.” 

“You do. You do!” urged the king. 

“The benevolent overlords who protect us? It’s just… Wagchat Flingering. And he’s the only thing up there.” 

It was so terribly quiet in the court that Bodgel could hear another mother goblin drop to the ground in shock. 

“Wagchat Flingering… the keeper of the stool?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh!” The king collapsed into his heap throne, and with a sly glance toward Bodgel, whispered, “this is for effect, you understand?” Bodgel nodded, and allowed him to proceed with his theatrics. “The sun didn’t burn him?” 

“No. He’s been playin’ us for years. Everything’s fine up there. He’s just sitting on a pile of gold, too.” 

The king, finding a new, performative fury, gripped the arms of his throne with pale green knuckles. “Open the treasury,” he bellowed.

Every goblin in the kingdom sprawled to their feet and fled to the upper levels, shrieking and cheering with glee. Drums were beaten; horns were blown. The great doors of Gashel were opened wide. Civilians leapt out of the path of the metallic, thrashing rapids of coins and trinkets. Diamonds, golden goblets and pieces of silver twinkled and clinked, covering the dark earth with the promise of new hope. Gold coins sailed across the top, all the way to the king’s slag heap.

“Twinkle,” Spawk said with a wink. 

The king rose from the throne and raised his staff. “Now we wait. Everyone—to the mines!”

As the young goblins had hoped, the largest dragon that they had ever seen arrived by nightfall. 

On the surface, the self-titled King of the world, Wagchat Flingering was picking the last shreds of chicken from a bone when the coins under his feet started to jostle and jingle. Weighed down by the trinkets he had stuffed in every pocket, he was no match for even Roland the Rotund, the fiercest, fattest land dragon known to the goblins of Gashel. 

Thunderous, slow thumps proceeded to rock the roof above the goblins of Gashel as they waited, and listened. When Roland slid into the cave and down into the mountains of treasure, they knew that the job had been completed. That was the last time that goblins, as far as we know, ever mined for gold. Climbing out of the mountain in the way Bodgel had shown them, every green-skinned creature leapt off into the night. Finding only a pile of treasure and bones at the mouth of the cave, they concurred that they couldn’t be sure what had become of the charlatan at the mouth of it, but he was never seen again. 

To this day, the new goblin city of Gashel resides at the mouth of the former kingdom; its wealth easily attained by the new mountainside mines and of course, the heap of gold left to them by Wagchat Flingering, keeper of the stool. 

Afterword: Fantasy is hard to write. Not only do you have to go somewhere else yourself, but you have to invite readers, too. Creating worlds that are so incredibly different from your own is no mean feat, and as a result, fantasy can be quite time-consuming to write. This story is part of a larger series of fantasy stories. The novels are going to take me years to write, but at least I’ve got the context of the goblins sorted. You can read chapter one of this as yet unnamed fantasy novel here: