Chase of the Nymphs
The search for the nymphs had begun and Oomph was not excited. The score of goblins had just entered the old forest. He trudged along at the back of the group and thought of his warm blankets in the dungeons of the castle. It was about time for his midnight snack of fried crickets and worms and muddy water, too. He tripped on a tree-root and grumbled. The air was full of creaks and sighs that made even a goblin uneasy.
It was always at full moon that the nymphs gathered to dance around the huge oak that stood alone on a hill in the centre of the forest. They sang so powerfully that their melodies often made their way to the castle dungeons (Oomph always plugged his ears), and other goblins had reported catching flashes of their white dresses when guarding the battlements. Tonight, all of a sudden, the Master Sorcerer had ordered them to catch the nymphs and bring them back alive. Oomph was trying not to think about what would happen if they caught them. He assumed the Master would find them a special place in the dungeons (that would not be warm or homey like his own nook). He also had an uneasy feeling the Master might have taken a scientific interest to them. It was never good for things when the Master became scientifically interested.
Oomph held back for a moment to change the tape on his boots, which had come undone. The Master had produced lengths of his latest experiment, a thin fabric that was sticky on one side, and had requested that every goblin tape this around his boots. The goal was to dampen the noise of their footsteps, but Oomph knew it required a lot more to make a goblin quiet. For him it was obvious that this chase was in vain; the nymphs would hear them coming from miles away.
Oomph lifted his head and saw something shining on the ground ahead. It was a white feather, reflecting a ray of moonlight that had managed to pierce its way through the thick canopy of leaves overhead. Oomph crouched to gaze at it. He felt its soft edge and admired the way it gleamed in the moonlight. He had heard enough stories to know that this was from the crown of swan feathers that a nymph wore on her head. Against his better judgment, he was entranced.
He had to run to catch up with the others. They had reached the old oak at the top of the hill, but the nymphs, of course, were experts at vanishing and already gone. They would not be seen again that night.
As the goblins headed back to the castle to give the disappointing news to the Master, Oomph’s fingers brushed the feather tucked in his vest pocket. There was a new lightness to his step. He almost forgot to be excited about his fried crickets.