Goblin Winter

 

12 months ago I revealed to subscribers to my Patreon the existence of a new season; Goblin Winter, a counterpart to Fairy Summer. Now, just in time, the rest of you can learn about this mysterious time.

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After All Hallows but before Midwinter the goblins make their appearance. They’ve been here all along of course. They don’t live elsewhere, mostly, but in unfrequented corners of the world. That overgrown lane you’ve never been down. The house on the corner you don’t look at. The boring field, filled with strange plants and standing stones, you pass but never explore. And why would you?

As the days grown short and the air cools they emerge. No that’s not right. As I said they are with us all the time. It’s the late autumn, the Goblin Winter. The background changes and they come into focus.

When you’re walking home in the twilight, you see sparks dancing where they work. Their secret farms open up, offering strange crops. Mushrooms, squash and root vegetables of course. Herbs, dried and fresh, hops, scented flowers. Jams and jellies, chutneys and pickles, all with flavours unmatched. Odd bottles of beers, wines, liquors – not potions, no – made from fruit and flowers that sound familiar even if you could not describe them.

People wrap up warm. Hats and scarves and hoods, heavy jackets and long skirts, thick trousers. Perhaps the shape, the silhouette of the person scurrying along on the other side of the road is unusual. Perhaps they look a little odd. But it’s cold out and the darkness draws in and in any case it’s rude to stare. We had all the summer outside, for people-watching, we had our fill. So the goblins who do not pass so easily as human step out, onto the street, off the byways and secret paths they’ve followed the rest of the year.

Still, humans are infinite in their variety, and boundless in their ability to ignore the uncanny. A troll or badgerkin might be sitting at the table next door in the café, drinking acorn coffee and eating mangle-cake. This is England so if they mind their own business, so do we. If the hobb serving you at the market has three eyes and tusks, it’s impolite to comment on it, and they do have some lovely candles, perfect for a romantic evening or to give as a Christmas present.

And your neighbour, the one who lives down the alley rather than having a door on the street. You see them now and again, early in the morning on the way to work, on bin night, putting the rubbish out. Not foreign exactly – they speak with a local accent, more local than most, old-fashioned. Something odd about their appearance, you can’t quite put your finger on it. They invite you over, the fire-lighting ceremony. An old tradition. They’ve done it before, you’ve been there. You can’t recall the details but it was a jolly evening, drinks and a log fire in a low cottage with dark beams.

The weather is so changeable. It rains, then the sun is out with no transition. Fog rolls in unexpectedly. A cool bright day becomes an overcast oppressive one, almost hot, muggy, and you didn’t see it happen. Almost as though you’ve lost time, or the environment transforms under the control of people you cannot see. Almost as though magic is in the air.

Goblin Winter, all the neighbours and friends – and quiet rivals too – every November you remember them. A dark flowering, the hidden folk coming out. The magic of the world that has always been there on your doorstep. How did you forget? Why did you walk past the poky shops, the cramped doors, the strange lanes and paths?

And the darker memories. Things going missing. Buying knick-knacks from a stall and realising, too late, how worthless they are. A time when debts are called in, and people leave, never to return. The birds fly away for the season, animals hide in their burrows. The goblins are your neighbours, and they are like mortals in other ways. Bound up in their own concerns, sometimes looking for advantage. It is now that they will ask to borrow, knowing that when Goblin Winter is done, the lender will forget what was given.

Because as midwinter turns everyone becomes busy. Christmas arrives and sweeps all before it. The season of goodwill, the greatest holiday. You plan to catch up with your new/old neighbours when it’s done. In the new year when everything is finished. Family and friends, feasting and celebration. It overwhelms.

And Goblin Winter vanishes and the neighbours become strangers, hiding under their cloak of anonymity. Until the days grow short again and the pumpkins grow large.

If you’re reading this in February, or May, or even in July at the height of Fairy Summer, you’ll think this a light piece of fiction. A fun riff off folklore and the strangeness of the turning of the seasons. Something to entertain yourself. But if Halloween has come and gone, fireworks are in the sky and effigies are being prepared to be immolated as a sacrifice you’ll wonder. Who is lighting the fire and baking potatoes in the embers, cooking sausages on sticks in the glow? Who scampers through the pre-dawn light or lurks in the fog? Have you seen them before, last year perhaps? Where have they been?

Waiting for Goblin Winter.