Goblincore

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Goblincore

Twitterstory by @LauraSkylark A new beginning  It was colder than she had thought in the early summing morning hours. She was grateful that she had put her new goblin-core sweater on. It's aesthetics with the moon phases and toadstools stood for her new path of life and it was comfy and warm.  Unfortunately, the late summer woods were not only  misty  and  cool right now, additionally a wet drizzle  fell on the rows of pines and hardwood trees. She owned no reasonable raincoat. Soon she would be drenched completely. She chided herself. She could have known that a new beginning is no Disneyland day trip, pretending she was the princess of the pink castle. It was hard work and yes- more like the tiring efforts of a small goblin, who had to work for every mouthful of nourishment. Perhaps, at a pinch, digging in the dirt like a wild pig.  Right now she had a whole backpack of non-perishables. Nothing fancy, but sufficient for several days.  So the  mission of her morning walk was not finding berries or roots or trying out her longbow, that right now was hidden behind the blackberry shrub.  It was warmth and light and protection. She opened  the small booklet she had peeped into already several times. "Introduction To Home Mushroom Cultivation (2nd Edition): edible mushrooms/fungi, forest farming edition.  She opened the highlighted page and looked again. Silvery grey to almost black, shaped like a horse's hoof. Used primarily as tinder, but also  to disinfect wound dressings, for bladder problems, an upset stomach and menstrual cramps.  It should not be difficult to find it, it was quite common. She had checked so many tree trunks  now. Beeches and birches and in her growing despair any tree around her.   She went deeper and deeper into the woods.   Tinder fungus. It beckoned her deeper into the woods and she was willing to go. It was still morning and she still knew her way back to the growing  blackberries, she thought. And her longbow.  In another section of the woods the conditions for the fungus might be better. She still knew her way. It was still morning. The sun surely  did not reach its highest point yet. The mist swallowed the woods but that was only nature, nothing to be afraid of. Onwards she walked.  The self- reassurances started to get more frantic, as soon as the mist inched closer with every step she took. Still morning. Nothing to fear. I know the way.   At last it was difficult to see her own feet. She suddenly stopped, shivering in her now completely drenched sweater. At least her feet were warm in her rain boots but she desperately needed that tinder.  Looking around she perceived a sudden change in the light as well, coming from a different angle - like twilight-  and a spooky absence of any sounds made her swallow- no birds- no wind- no faint rustling - just anything at all.. That was exactly like in the stories when you walked for awhile and  ended up in Faerie. Entering a place  of alternative time and reality.  
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Slowly she looked around. There was nothing really suspicious around her. No fairies, and right, no goblins as well. No elder tree she desecrated unwarily. No howling of wolves or other predators. Just silence and wetness and mist and a feeling of time and place that was slightly off. Thinking she sat down on a log and a small chuckle escaped her. Finally! Three perfect tinder fungi grew on the log. She broke them off and put them in the outer pocket of her backpack. She also opened a chocolate muesli bar and munched on it. She would take a break and come to a decision.  Licking away the last chocolate crumbs (nobody was watching anyway, right?) she had made a plan. She finally did found her precious fungi and now  really wanted her longbow back. Perhaps she should not have put it under the shrub in the first place. Protection and the ability to hunt for her own food were essential. She would have to change her sweater, too, but would not like to do so before building a fire. It did not feel like summer right now. She had only one spare sweater . Her departure had been overhasty- she just had been lucky with the food cabinet that had been well-stocked. So she would backtrack her steps until she found familiar landmarks.  She stood up, put her backpack on and saw that the mist was slowly lifting - with it the mood of the woods also shifted  and yes, the sun looked quite right, late morning, nearly noon. Birds were chirping.  For a moment she lingered in the remembrance of her granddad. Camping and hunting with him perhaps had lain the foundation for her newly found endorsement with goblin-core aesthetics and her ability to survive in the wilderness. Now that she needed to be away from her old life as far as possible.  Grampy, as she called him, knew all the bird voices and imitated them splendidly. She almost smelled the legendary bean soup he loved to cook over the open fire. Shaking of the thoughts and avoiding further delay, she  walked a bit around and indeed found her footsteps in the wet underground. She started to walk, first slowly, eyes to the forest floor, then faster, knowing the general direction because of the now visible sun. Finally the drizzle had stopped. At last she found more and more landmarks she knew and almost ran. Fascinating how a mere blackberry shrub could mean something like home in such a short time. Just around this bend... Finally reaching the blackberries  she sighed. Now she only had to take her longbow. It was so dear to her, made out of yew. Grampy even had said "out of magical yew", wanting to charm her. It fitted her so well. There under that branch! She reached into the shrub and squeaked. Ouch! A thorn had pierced her index finger. Cursing silently she felt around. Then she almost crawled under the branch. It must be here! It is the place! It was hidden so well! An animal would not drag it away. Nobody else was here! Damn! Damn! DAMN! Highly frustrated she started to claw the earth and dig wildly with her bare fingers in the loose pine needles that had accumulated under the shrub. Her pierced finger throbbed with any contact and she began to cry wildly. She did not cry when she had to leave her old life behind. She did not cry alone in the dark. She could not hold it back longer.  Her throbbing finger jerked back. She had hit something. She pulled. What was that? She had unearthed a longish thing.  It felt leathery. The material felt old and decayed. She knew the shape. Was it ... a quiver? An ancient one? On the very place she had hidden her bow and also her quiver? Methodically she digged deeper, now reaching the soil under the layers and layers of decomposing pine needles. When her 
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finger forced her to make a stop she remembered her spoon in the backpack and tried to dig with that. "What a ridiculous shovel!", she thought.  After eighteen long minutes of shovelling with her spoon, she finally stopped. There was nothing else there or she could not reach it with a fucking spoon!  She took the quiver again. It looked greyish-brown. She turned it around. There on the edge was a tiny burn mark she could  identify. A tiny bird? A tiny bird! She swallowed. She looked again. A bird! A lark! The sigil of her grampy? A lark? Like their family name? She rubbed her eyes. Was she dreaming? On her quiver was a lark, grampy had done it for her. To make it her very own, a sign for their name and remembering their shared favourite lines of Shakespeare, they sometimes recited together:  It was the lark, the herald of the morn,  No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks  Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:  Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day  Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.  I must be gone and live, or stay and die. She never did feel more vulnerable as in this minute- whispering the Shakespearean lines. Reaching the last line, a shiver went through her whole body. A faint echo seemed to whisper  'stay and die- and die- die- ie" or it was in her mind?  She hugged herself. What if the quiver really was hers? Could  it have been destroyed by force? She palpated the leather. It looked and felt ancient. Not torn to pieces or otherwise manipulated. Oh dear. The mist- what if...?  She could hike a long distance back to the next human settlement. See if anything was different. No. Her reasons to never go back were more than valid.  She had to live with whatever shift happened in that mist.  Slowly she reached to her backpack. In there everything looked normal. The two tinder fungi caught her eyes. Defiantly she started to stack some twigs and leaves.  Freezing to death would not help at all, wouldn't it?  After awhile her fire was hot and blazing. The blessed tinder fungi had worked well, even despite the dampness of the ground. Strange to build a fire in summer. Admittedly a lot of smoke was rising, but avoiding the downwind side worked well. She had thrown her dark red goblin-core sweater over the 
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nearby shrub and pulled on the dry midnight black hoodie with the crow embroidery. She loved this one also. Black on black, with slit trumpet sleeves, emphasising her affinity for the Romantic Gothic.  These were her only tops because she was not able to go back to her room when she had to hurry away from her old life. What she had worn she had to ditch in a dumpster behind the local Memorial hospital. Hopefully the blood stains would be unsuspicious next to a hospital. The hospital waste was surely bound to be burned.   These two tops  she had found in the utility room next to the kitchen. She would have to dry the goblin one by the fire.  The fire! Its blessed warmth made her happy. Happy and a bit of sleepy. Nodding off she listened to a strange kind of lullaby. Birds... not larks. She knew larks. Something different. More like a croak, rising and rising. Falling sleep she knew what it was. A murder. A murder of her tormentor. No! A murder of crows. Sleep... More and more crows arrived, watching the sleeping girl besides the fire. She finally had arrived. The cycle could begin anew. The crows sat everywhere. On the shrub, on the remains of the quiver, on her backpack, on the firs and hardwood trees, on the forest floor and on her supply pile of logs next to the fire. Tonight she was guarded. No one would disturb her dreams.  She woke up elated and rested.  The fire was reduced to a couple of glowing embers - but it still radiated warmth. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She tried to process  what she saw. The whole area was sprinkled with black feathers. She had dreamed of a murder of crows, didn't she? What kind of dream was that now? She pinched herself. It felt very real. Actually she herself  felt very real, awake and full of life. More alive than ever.  Perhaps it was possible to flee one's old life with all the boring necessities and the dark hours one wants to forget. Her tormentor was dead. He had had a firm grip on her psyche for years and the recent additional physical abuse was only second to the paralysing effect that had made her frozen and unable to feel anything at all. One day she had found this letter opener with the ivory grip shaped as a skull in a  little shop and she somehow knew how she would use it. Indeed she had used it. After dumping the bloody clothes she had not dared to throw away the opener as well. She had carried it hidden in a black  plastic bag (actually a dog waste bag she had found in the utility room that she had plundered before leaving). Deep in the woods she had thrown it into an old foxhole. When she interpreted the signs in the right way,  she was safe now. Safe from any kind of persecution. Safe from questions. Safe from him. Something had happened in the hearts of the woods. A time shift? A switching of realms?  Stretching she ended her morning musings and stood up. From this altered perspective the feathers did not look randomly sprinkled anymore. They looked wilfully arranged. Excited she read the signs. Perhaps she did  enter Faery after all. Exhilarated by the recent events and the intriguing crow signs that promised to lead her, she  followed the feathers with a light step, all her belongings in her backpack, the remains of the quiver dangling from it.  The signs she followed were beautiful, some of them dark. She recognised a skull,  the tree of life and her letter opener, already belonging to another lifetime. She saw the sign of the lark, as her granddad 
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had drawn it, showing her roots. She came to a halt. A big crow composed of millions of elegant crow feathers lay on a clearing. The sun shining through the branches on the beak. How was that even possible- where were the birds and - a giggle rose out of her mouth- wouldn't they be stark naked, having shed all their feathers? The giggle stuck in her throats while a low-level HUM rose. She realised that she did not see any creature in the woods, not even the crows, that had left this unbelievable artwork. Was now the time to meet it, or them, whatever dwelled here? The HUM intensified and with it a strong wind got up and rearranged the feathers. Her hair flew into all directions and she had to restrain them to be able to watch. Letters popped up.  Hail Mórrígan!  The outline of a stout longbow appeared. The bow was drawn and the arrow head pointed to a group of majestically bending yew trees. The wind stopped, but the HUM got louder. She stepped to the yew in the middle. Its trunk was the thickest and her fingers glided over its surface. Round circles were carved into it. The circles  resembled a target and where the bull's eye was supposed to be, a beautiful triskel was carved, each end of it the head of a crow, the beak bend with a Celtic flourish. She knew what to do. She had to hit the mark. She fingered her withered quiver and sat down with her back to the trunk. A flashback let her see her grampy's  workshop again. The smell of dry saw dust and the clatter of the various tools...What would she give for a ready shaped yew bow out of the workshop, she was confident she could do the finishing touches. Her granddad had raised her like a son and she had helped him on many weekends.  And the arrows- she fancied crow feather fletchings, but it was not an easy task as well. She could identify an ideal branch on the yew tree, she could do as much. She had the same keen eagle' s eye sight as her grampy. The problems started with sawing it off though. With a spoon and some muesli bars and a book and some utensils like rope she was not able to build that bow all by herself. McGiver could have done it. Her grampy could have done it, if he had brought some tools...  She was overwhelmed by the day's outcome. She stood right before a portal. She was called  Mórrígan by magical signs. The name sounded true. Her own or old  name of Moira was quite similar and never had felt exactly right. She had seen real magic and the HUM showed her that she stood in midst an enormous amount of energy. Now she was outside and desperately needed her yew bow. She hammered against the triskel. She pointed at it with the tip of her spoon. She threw tiny sticks against it. She found a smooth black stone and threw it against it. Of course nothing happened. "I wish only one  single pure soul on earth could help me," she whispered and sat down again and closed her eyes exhaustedly. She breathed deeply for awhile. A soft tap on her left foot let her open her eyes immediately again. A tiny white fur-ball sat next to her feet. Wow! It was a fox, a white one. A mere pup. A soft bark made her look closer. It had brought something for her. It looked red? With a pounding heart she looked at the item in front of the pup. The dark red blood stain on the blade - the smooth ivory grip shaped as a skull. The image of him on top of her flashed into her thoughts. His breath, the fade out of any other sound, her firm grip on the skull handle, ... stop!  She made it stop.  The tiny pup whined and licked her hand.  She would heal. She took the opener and tapped it against the heart of the triskel. One step at at time. The blade slit into the yew as it would go through butter. A faint echo " ...gone and live, or stay and die." resounded around her and a black hole - flowing  like  slowly stirred  molasses - appeared in the heart of the tree.  
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The fox cub gave her a little nudge. She put her hand into the hole. It felt slightly warm. The fox gave another tiny bark and jumped into the whole. She looked around one more time and followed her tiny companion. "I name you saighdear gaisgeil", she intoned and reached the other side.  She was not able to take in everything she saw. In the last time she had been on a threshold and very much alone. She did not even saw the crows for real. Saighdear gaisgeil was the first living thing reaching out for her after her flight. Now an abundance of entities greeted her as she entered this magical zone. Other animals or creatures did go on doing their work. There- some real goblins, brownish and grumpy, went by, bowing slightly to her and carrying... a perfect yew bow, like the finest of her grampy but much larger as her trainee bow she recently lost. Some hedgehogs dragged a large quiver to her, filled with crow feather arrows. More foxes ran around in the vicinity. She took the bow. It should have been too difficult for her to draw such a massive bow, but it went easily and felt natural. Her cub started to walk on and she followed, shouldering her new bow.  The path was winding and looked adventurous and where it led is a story for another day.  
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Goblincore

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