Gribblebob's Book of Unpleasant Goblins

by David Ashby

  “Jack?…” William called out. “Are you alright?”

  “I-I’m fine,” said Jack, pulling himself together. “William. What’s going on?”

  “That,” said Gribblebob, before William could answer, “is ecstatically what I would like to know. What is going on?”

  “Don’t I know you?” Jack asked, looking down at the little man as he ducked his head and stepped out of the climbing frame. “Ah yes, you’re that goblin who lost his appetite for magic. What was your name again? Bobblehead, or something?”

  The children snorted, Dimple barked and the little man shot them a glance that would have wilted walnuts. “Gribble… bob,” he enunciated.

  Nils put his hand to his mouth and whispered to Anna, “I think I prefer Bobblehead.”

  They both laughed again.

  “Yes, well. We can’t stand here chatting,” said Jack to the little group. “We have places to be, don’t we, William?” As he said this, he glanced over at his fellow veil-breaker, who nodded.

  “Hang on a halfpenny,” said Gribblebob sternly. “What are you two tall louts doing breaking the veil? What are you up to?”

  “Absolutely nothing to do with you, and—” Jack’s sentence was interrupted by Nils, who let out a loud “Hey!” as William suddenly grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards him, looking intently at the boy’s hand with the text scrolling over it. His smile had vanished.

  “And what’s happened here, my young friend?” William asked quietly. Nils looked over at Anna, who then looked at Gribblebob, who looked up at the sky, whistled and walked over to where William was turning Nils’s left hand over and over in his own.

  “He had a bit of bother with my book. Ended up with it all over his hand. Blurry nuisance. Got to sort it out.”

  William looked over quietly at Jack, who was approaching them now.

  “Not a good week for books, Jack, from the look of things.”

  “What book?” asked Jack, looking down at Nils’s hand and the spooling characters. Gribblebob said nothing, and after a moment Anna spoke up.

  “It was called Gribblebob’s Book of Unpleasant Goblins and… other something something, I think. And we were going to break the veil to sort things out and get it all out of my brother’s hand.”

  Jack arched an eyebrow. “Oh. So you were going to break the veil, were you?” He looked over at Gribblebob, who was studying his feet, and addressed him directly. “And what made you think it was a good idea to take two young ones from this side to our side?”

  “I needs my book back in its right and proper.”

  William let go of Nils’s hand. “Well, that’s a feeling we can get behind. Isn’t that right, Jack?”

  Jack sighed. “Come on, we need to go somewhere not quite so conspicuous.”

  “But we need to break the veil,” objected Anna, “and help my brother.”

  “I’m afraid there’ll be no breaking of the veil for you today, young miss,” said Jack, and Anna bristled.

  “And who suddenly went and put you in charge,” she answered back, surprising herself slightly, “some strange man who popped out of a climbing frame?”

  Jack stared at her for a moment, and there was a stirring inside him. He knew this girl from somewhere. From that wide-open world of terror. He shook his head sharply to shake it all away, then bowed slightly to her. “My apologies. There have been no proper introductions.”

  “Apart from Bobblehead,” corrected William, smiling.

  “Oi! Manners,” grumbled the little man.

  “My name is B-B…” Jack stuttered, and William shot him a worried look. “…Jack Broadsword,” he continued. “This is my… this is William Wynn, and it would seem the friendly fates have indeed conspired to place we two in charge. So, might I now enquire the names of this fine young fellow and fair young lady?”

  Anna glared in silence at Jack as he stood there waiting for a reply.

  “Do you know,” she finally said, “Jack Broadsword sounds very much like a made-up name.”

  And, deep inside him, Jack had a feeling she was right.

  CHAPTER 22

  All five of them—apart from Dimple, who was tied up outside—were sitting in The Tartan Teapot, one of two tea shops in the village, which was run by a rather temperamental old gentleman from Scotland named Mr Frasier McCurdey and his long-suffering daughter, Isla. The other tea shop, Pippa’s Pantry, still closed at quarter to four, but recently Mr McCurdey had started late-night openings on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Never too late for tea, toast and tarts! was the slogan, very ornately written in blue and red chalk on the blackboard by the door.

  The group were an odd sight, sitting round a daintily laid table: the little man with his shock of hair and baseball cap, Nils trying to keep his left hand hidden, William with his megawatt smile and red frock coat, Anna with her barely concealed fury, and of course Jack with his huge sword by his side, which was now resting at a strange angle on the wooden floor. The Tartan Teapot didn’t often get customers like this. When they had entered the establishment, Frasier McCurdey had taken one look at Jack’s sword and moved with astonishing speed to block his entrance.

  “Is that a sword?” he had asked, nodding at the sword. Jack had followed his gaze to what was, without question, a sword hanging by his side, and nodded affirmatively.

  “Yes, it’s a sword.”

  “Don’t get many swords round here.”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  “Why do you think you need a sword in my tea shop? We do have cake slices on the premises. Good ones.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “I’m not licensed for swords.”

  “Ah-ha.”

  “I suppose I could charge you swordage—”

  William, who could see that this conversation was heading towards a disappointing conclusion, interrupted them. “My friend and I are performers, street performers. That is only a prop, nothing more. It won’t cause any damage, I assure you.”

  Isla McCurdey had just then come out of the back—carrying a plate of welsh rarebit for old Mr Broadchip, who was the only other customer, sitting by the window doing a crossword, his hearing aid turned up much too high, as usual—and she had seen her father talking to these two strange men, one of whom seemed to be wearing a sword and the other who looked like a rock star.

  “All okay, Dad?” she had asked, putting the welsh rarebit down by Mr Broadchip, who had started slightly at the noise, and then she had seen Nils and Anna behind the two tall men. “Oh, hello, you two,” she said. “Table for four, is it?”

  “Five,” stated Gribblebob sourly, poking his head out from behind the children. Isla had jumped a little.

  “Sorry, of course—five.”

  “And he better not have a sword either, not even a little one,” said her father.

  “Dad!” Isla had admonished. “Hadn’t you better be getting on with the leek and potato soup?”

  And so now the five of them were sitting round the table drinking blackcurrant cordial, eating gingersnap biscuits and talking in very, very soft voices.

  “Why did we have to come into this tatty tartan tea shop?” grumbled Gribblebob. “The owner’s a buffaloon.”

  “We couldn’t very well stand around by the climbing frame all night, looking odd and suspicious,” said Anna.

  “No, so we’ll just sit here; one goblin, one boy with a stolen magic book on his hand, one angry girl, one sword-waving tub of muscle, and whatever on earth that is”—he jerked his head in the direction of William—“all squeezed in around a tiny tartan table having afternoon tea, like some type of knitting circle, looking not at all odd and not at all suspicious.”

  “Is he always like this?” asked William to Nils quietly.

  “We only met him today… but, yes, he does seem to be like this most of the time,” whispered Nils.

  “Who’s ‘he’?” asked Gribblebob. “The cat’s brother?” He attempted to dunk his ginger snap in his glass of
blackcurrant cordial.

  “Eww,” said Nils, as the biscuit dissolved into a biscuity mess in the glass.

  “Typical!” snapped the little man. “Even the biscuits don’t work in this dumpling.”

  “Please!” said Anna, really quite loudly, so that it rang like a fire siren in Mr Broadchip’s hearing aid and he dropped his welsh rarebit. “Can’t we talk about serious things? We need to fix Nils’s hand, we need to know why you won’t let us break the veil and I’d like to know what you two are doing here with made-up names and weird weapons.”

  Jack nodded.

  “You’re right. There are things to talk about. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that you three have had some trouble with a book at the same time we’re having some trouble with a book.”

  “Another magic book?” asked Nils.

  William and Jack shared a moment’s look, and Jack gave a barely noticeable nod to William, who sat upright and took over the conversation.

  “Yes. Another magic book. But this one’s a really very important book.”

  “Oi!” interjected the goblin. “Bitter respect, please.”

  “Shh!” said Anna, holding a slender finger to her lips.

  Gribblebob shrugged and muttered under his breath: “‘This one’s important’. Muddy cheek!”

  Anna glared at him and he shut up.

  “Really very important indeed,” continued William. “You see, a long time ago, on our side of the veil, we had a… problem. With the Rider.” The way he said it, and paused, made it seem like he expected to be understood, but Anna shook her head slightly and repeated:

  “The Rider?…”

  “Yes, the…” William paused again and sighed. He looked at Anna and held her gaze for a few long seconds. Anna blushed a little. “Have you ever had a nightmare?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she replied, with a quizzical expression. “Everyone has.”

  “No, I’m not talking about just a bad dream, or a sad dream or some such. I’m talking about a real, howling, ripping nightmare, where you wake up screaming and your hair is slick with sweat and your heart is pumping like a piston, and the terror from your sleep is still with you, on you, in you. Have you ever had something like that?”

  “I…” began Anna. “No, no. Not like that.”

  “No, good. Well, a long time ago, where I come from, there were a lot of nightmares, more than is in any way normal. People of all ages, all types, were affected—goblins, humans, whoever. Some people woke up screaming and were never the same. Some people never woke up.” He paused and lowered his head. “It was a dark time.”

  “So… why?” asked Anna. “What was causing it all?”

  “The Rider,” said William, looking up again.

  “Or Mare, or Mara, or Maya,” put in Jack. “She goes by many names.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Nils very softly. “Who… what is she? What does she do?”

  “Nobody quite knows,” went on William, “but whatever she is, she’s very old. She goes back to before the veil was put up between our worlds, back when we were one.”

  “What?” said Anna, in real surprise.

  “Long story. Old news,” muttered Gribblebob. “Another day.”

  “But… what did she do?” asked Nils again.

  “When she came, she came at night. In the deadest, blackest part of the night. She came into your room, when you were in your deepest sleep. She knelt down by your bed and placed her head next to yours. Sometimes her long hair would fall across your face and you would stir slightly. She listened to your breathing, watched your chest move up and down, and she placed her long, thin fingers just so, so lightly on your eyelids, so that she could feel your eyes flutter beneath the skin. She got a taste of your dreams. Sometimes, if she didn’t like the taste, she’d move on. Most times, normally. But if she liked the taste, if she got the right scent, then she’d choose you.” William paused again, looking down at his boots.

  “Choose you? What do you mean?” asked Anna.

  “She’d choose to ride your dreams. She’d jump on your chest, straddling you, one leg either side. She would reach down and her hair would fall over your face, she would put one hand on each ear, and then she would taste your dreams deeply, breathing in their scent, seeing what it was you saw. But as she took your dreams, she would give you what was inside her, turned this way and that way to muddle up with your own thoughts. And what’s inside her is bad. Evil. Terrible. The more of your dream she took, the worse your nightmare became. Something awful. Then, when you were shaking and whimpering and crying and sniffling, she’d leave you, leave you with the nightmare left on your cheek… and you’d wake up.”

  “If you were lucky,” added Gribblebob.

  “If you were lucky,” echoed William, looking over at the little man.

  Nils shivered.

  “That’s horrible,” said Anna.

  “That’s Mara,” said Jack. “That’s the Rider.”

  “But, but…” said Nils, looking truly scared. “You said that was then… She doesn’t come now, does she?”

  “Well…”

  “Soup’s ready!” shouted Frasier McCurdey proudly from the kitchen, and Mr Broadchip dropped his welsh rarebit again, as his hearing aid vibrated with a Scottish accent.

  CHAPTER 23

  “She’s still out there. She comes, she listens, she might ride your dreams, but the nightmares no longer come in the same way,” went on William. “She’s not as strong as she was, and that is where the book comes in.”

  “Yes, the really important book. Tell them about the ‘really important’ book,” muttered Gribblebob.

  “Well, the Rider, Mara,” said William, “was becoming more and more powerful. She was gaining power from all the dreams she rode. There were more and more nightmares, and the nightmares were becoming worse and worse. People were afraid to sleep, afraid of what they might dream—”

  “Afraid that they wouldn’t wake up,” interrupted Jack.

  “Yes, that too,” continued William. “So something had to be done. And it was. Everyone came together, everyone pooled their magic—magicians, seers, wizards, witches—”

  “Goblins,” interjected the goblin.

  “Goblins.” William nodded. “And a great spell was cast. A protective spell. I don’t think a greater spell has ever been cast. It reached over the land, over time, even through the veil—because by this time the veil had come down. This spell laid a thin layer of mist over all the dreams to come, all the dreams not yet dreamt. It meant that even though Mara could still try and ride your dreams, she couldn’t quite get the taste, the scent, of them. So the nightmare plague stopped. She was very angry. There were a lot of bad and sad dreams for a while, but no nightmares.”

  “But what about the book, then?” asked Nils.

  “The spell needed a vessel—something to hold it, something to keep it safe. Something powerful. Books are powerful. Books are probably one of the most powerful things people ever hold in their hands, without realizing it. The spell to protect all those future dreams was bound in a book, and that book was hidden somewhere. They say Mara has spent hundreds and hundreds of years searching for the book, to destroy it, to break the spell that keeps her weak.” William sat back in his chair and took a sip of blackcurrant cordial, staining his lips dark blue.

  “Um…” said Anna, touching her finger to her lips.

  “Oh, sorry,” said William and licked his lips clean.

  Jack tsked, shook his head and took up the story. “It’s called The Book of All Tomorrow’s Dreams, and only a handful of people from one generation to the next know its hiding place. As William said, Mara has been wandering the world searching for it, and she has helpers too now, rip-riders they call them. It seems the book has very recently gone missing from its hiding place, and William here has an idea it has been taken to this side of the veil. So we are trying to find it and return it, and hope the Rider doesn’t get her hands on it first.”

&
nbsp; “How do you know she wasn’t the one who took it?” asked Anna. “How do you know she doesn’t have it now?”

  “I think we’d know if she had it,” answered Jack. “But something’s afoot. There’s magic in the air, the dreamworld is not as it should be, there are… stirrings…” His voice trailed off as once more he felt something, someone even, deep inside him, struggling to come to the surface. There was that name again, ringing in him, louder and louder: Bengt, Bengt, Bengt.

  “You said something about… rip-riders?” said Anna, and Gribblebob shivered.

  “Ah, yes, rip-riders,” Jack said, snapping back to the here and now, pushing the ringing name away. “Well, when Mara was at her most powerful, when the nightmare plague was night after night after night, there were many people who didn’t wake up in the morning. They stayed alive only within their nightmare. Can you imagine how awful that must be, living only in Mara’s world? The sole comfort they take is from Mara herself. If the rip-riders do her bidding, if they keep Mara happy, then she softens their nightmare, makes their unending torment slightly easier to bear.”

  “It’s horrible,” said Anna, shaken.

  “And the rip-riders are dangerous,” said William. “Unlike Mara, who is only a creature of sleep and dreams and the dark, those poor souls who became rip-riders were just like you and me. Well,” and he directed his full beamforce smile at Anna, “like you, anyway. And because they once lived in the light, walked the world, the rip-riders can ride people anytime, day or night, dark or light.”

  “You mean ride people’s dreams, like Mara, and give them nightmares, even when they aren’t asleep?” asked Anna.