Mythic Monday: Kobolds (related: what the hell is wrong with Google users?)

I've been remiss on my mythology lately, and I have no legitimate excuse. Things have been a little... upheavalous*...for me lately, and blogging sort of fell out of the back of a bouncing wagon of SHIT I HAVE TO DO. Oops. 

*No, of course "upheavalous" isn't a word, but the sentiment fits. 

In honor of tonight's Kobold extravaganza, I thought I'd see what an interwebz search vomited out, since they are a long-standing feature of various video and RP games. Oh Google, I'm both unsurprised and slightly horrified. 

It appears some of you searchers out there have confused Kobolds with dingoes. 

Also, spellchecker wants to change "kobolds" to "cuckolds" and I have to say that's fairly judgmental, Blogger. I've found no evidence of kobolds cuckolding, nor would it be likely to catch them doing so since they are purportedly quite sneaky and wily. 

Moving on. 

Kobolds are most easily described as the Germanic relative of the British Brownie or Norwegian Nisse. They are usually invisible but can appear as child-sized people. Interestingly, their dress seems to be defined by the work they do. 

There are three main delineations of Kobold: the house-elf variety (think Dobby from Harry Potter) who are generally seen in peasant clothing; seafaring Kobolds who stow away on ships and of course dress like a sailor (presumably they also swear like a sailor, and would cause a sailor to swear profusely when seen, I imagine); and mining Kobolds who appear hunched over, cranky as hell, and dressed in filthy mining clothes.  

The house Kobold, similar to a Brownie, can be quite helpful. Unfortunately, while the Brownies have a reputation for being easygoing and cheerful as long as they're given regular gifts of food and honey, Kobolds are rather capricious. Even bribed, they're as likely to cause mischief and messes as they are to sweep or clean, and it appears they're fairly ambivalent of mood when it comes to interactions with people. It's often considered lucky to have a house Kobold, and interestingly the creature is attached to the dwelling itself (not the family who lives there). A house with a happy Kobold will be prosperous and lucky. 

On the other hand, those who sail seem to be quite helpful to sailors (once everyone gets over that initial Kobold-is-not-invisible meeting). They were considered good luck to have aboard for the most part, and (as is a theme here) the sailors gave regular offerings to their ship's Kobold. I do wonder if they're subject to sailors' maladies, though: do fairies get scurvy, for example? What about syphilis? Do they keep a girly Kobold in every port? Would a Kobold girl in a bar be of the house or sailor variety (and as such, what would she wear)? 

Those who mine appear to be something of a cross between a goblin and a dwarf or gnome. As Germanic mythology is often closely related to Norse (Wodan/Odin) I'd guess they originated as dwarf-like characters who both protect and work the mines. They are described as being dirty or even black from mining filth, hunched, and dressed like a child miner. Miners left all sorts of offerings to placate the Kobolds, and some of their tales morphed with creatures like the Cornish "knockers" (not the boob kind...the Tommyknocker kind). 

Kobolds, much like other Fairy and spirit creatures, are horrendously dangerous when pissed off. They must never be mocked or laughed at, fed daily (beer seems to be often on the menu, which I suppose fits since it's a German creature and beer generally surpassed wine in popularity and availability in that area of Europe), and generally treated with respect. 

Consider the wrath of an invisible creature who enjoys literally playing with fire, tripping people at the worst possible time, shoving someone overboard, or collapsing a mine shaft. Hodekin, a Kobold of disturbing renown (likely because he lived in a bishop's house), strangled a servant boy who'd angered him, tore the poor boy's limbs off, and tossed his head into the stew pot. Yeah. Best to keep on their benevolent side. 

Should you find yourself with a Kobold resident, good luck my friend. Feed them their favorite meal daily and try not to get too irritated when they hide your shit or mess with your things (even nice Kobolds are full of mischief). If you offend them, for the love of Pete say you're sorry and change whatever is offending them IMMEDIATELY and maybe you'll get back in their good graces. 

I will say, however, that I truly did not find any evidence in books, Wikipedia, or anywhere else on the interwebz of Kobolds eating my baby (or anyone else's), other than Hodekin, but to be completely fair the boy wasn't a baby...and I didn't find a version where the Kobold ate him OR the stew.

Seriously, that was the Dingoes. 

Also, I'm not kidding Blogger, a dangerous sprite is NOT a cuckold. Wow. 

People, I Need a Brownie!

I've been working a while now on a book (well, to be fair, on a couple of books). I cut a snippet into a 500 word scene and submitted it to a flash fiction contest in the summer. I didn't win, but I DID get some really excellent feedback, which I used to re-write (and expand a bit) the scene. Since it's part of a larger work, I'm sticking it here instead of putting it in another contest. I welcome comments/critiques/whatever.

Originally, the title submitted for the short short story was "That's Fairy, Not Dessert." Let's just say my house needs one desperately. Also, I greatly enjoy imagining the chaos with two dogs...

“I’m going mad,” he said to the empty office. The office chose not to respond.

Could you go mad if you could still consider going mad? Or was convincing yourself of sanity the first sign of madness? He wasn’t sure, but those…things he’d seen lurking in the shadowy corners of his apartment weren’t his imagination. Absolutely, certainly not.

And now all his clothes were unpacked and his dirty laundry piled up in a basket by the bed. The bathroom and kitchen sparkled in the bright morning sun, even if he’d left dishes in the sink after dinner.

He didn’t remember doing any of it. He’d carefully talked himself into believing he’d learned to sleepclean, some weird holdover from his parents’ housekeeper traumatizing his childhood with clean dishes. Or something.  

This morning the mousetraps he’d set all over the house were stacked carefully in the middle of his kitchen floor, neat and scrupulously free of any peanut butter bait. He heard papers shuffling in his office and ran into the room only to find them settling themselves on his desk, as though someone had just been flipping through them and left in a hurry.

Ben considered himself a rational, scientific man with a solid base in reality. Sure, he watched the Ghost Hunter shows and liked a good exorcist movie now and again, but that was just for show. He didn’t believe in hauntings or the paranormal, so he just needed to find a rational explanation for all of this, right? What could possibly be wrong with sleepcleaning?  

He sat at his desk, prepared for some serious Googling. He was tapping his finger on the desk along to AC/DC’s “Back in Black” and thinking thank God there was ONE rock station in this town, when someone in the room cleared her throat. 

No one was there. He flicked off the radio.

The “ahem” noise, definitely female, came again from the corner of the room by the window.

No one was there.

“Dammit,” he slammed his laptop closed. “Now I’m hearing things? What the hell is WRONG with me?” Disgusted, he stood and dug his cell from the front pocket of his jeans.

“Aw laddie, there’s nothing at all wrong with ye.” The thickly-lilted voice chuckled merrily. Her motion finally caught his eye, and a tiny female creature waved at him from the top of the stack of boxes marked BOOKS. She was only a foot tall and brown from crown to heel; walnut hair smoothed back from her face in a thick braid, sable eyes clearly laughed at him from a nest of wrinkles. Her clothes were shades of a forest floor, bark and loam. Her body seemed younger and stronger than her lined face, which grinned at him as she waved one tanned hand, the other holding a dust cloth. He didn’t smile back.

“Are ye dull then?” she asked with a long-suffering sigh, and shook her head with regret.

He snatched the bat he’d laid behind the desk for “just in case” problems, and held it out between himself and the creature.

“What the hell!” he shouted. “Stay away! What the hell are you?”

“Humph. Dull AND rude.” Her smile vanished, sparks of anger flashing in those clear dark eyes. She jumped off the box and stomped toward the door, muttering something about brownies under her breath. He cautiously moved closer, making a shooing motion.

“Don’t shoo a Brownie, sir, if you know what’s good for you,” she hollered, waving her finger at his knees. “I’m a damn fool, thinking you could see so you would see.” She shook her head, disgusted. “Well, that’s that then.”

“What?” Ben carefully lowered the bat. “What are you talking about? Who are you? What the hell do brownies have to do with anything?”

“I AM a Brownie, you grand jackass! Fairy, not dessert!” She threw her hands in the air, flinging her dust cloth across the room. “Bah. Maybe I shouldn’ta surprised you so, but damn if I’ll keep talking to an armed idiot.” And with that, she stalked through the doorway and disappeared in a little poof of dust.

The bat thunked on the hardwood floor and Ben ran after the tiny brown woman. She was gone. Toast crumbs still covered the kitchen counter; clothes still lay on his bedroom floor. He sat at the table, pushed a moving box out of the way, and cradled his head in his hands.

“Oh God, I really am going crazy,” he said to the table, and sighed. Deep in his gut, he felt an apology coming on.

 

 

Mitch the Cranky Fairy

I'm working on completing a short story that's been in the works for years (inspired by one of my favorite former characters at the MN Renaissance Festival). There's a submission deadline tomorrow, so hopefully I'll have it polished by then...but here's a snippet.
****

Something clinked next to his ear, and it smelled like goat breath. Mitch cracked one crusty eye…a giant black hole of a nostril whuffed an inch from his face. He started with a yelp and sat up, but the world spun around him and he abruptly toppled back onto the grass.



Grass? The last thing he remembered was the taste of lovely grape-wine this morning. On the bridge post…wasn’t he on the bridge post? He opened his eyes, slowly this time, and groaned as he sat up. He felt like the full Thumper battalion drummed a marching tattoo in his skull, and his antennae drooped to brush his knees. He hauled himself up and tried to pull the wedge of cloth from his butt. The drums only pounded louder, reverberating in his sinuses for an eternity. Mitch flitted back up to his post (wobbling only a little in his landing) and abruptly the drums stopped.


Blinking in relief, the fairy looked straight into the eyes of Jeffrey’s father, King Robert of the Seventh Marsh. His steed, a royal goat in full panoply, stuck its nose in Mitch’s face for the second time that afternoon.


“My Lord!” Mitch dropped to one knee, landing roughly on the tip of his much-abused antenna.


“Mitchell,” said the sylph Lord quietly, thunder in his blue eyes. “Perhaps you could explain exactly where my son has gone.” Mitch shivered.


“I, well, er…” The throbbing resumed in his head as Mitch tried desperately to find an excuse, but as the pain peaked the confession dribbled from his mouth in a rush. “I couldn’t talk him out of it, Your Majesty! I tried and tried…he just left this morning, Majesty, and promised to be back in a few hours.” Sweat dribbled between his shoulder blades and down the back of his shabby trousers.


“THREE DAYS MITCHELL!” Full force thunderclaps shook the bridge, and Mitch looked at his King in horror. “It has been three full days since he left!”


“But…I…”A soldier investigating the scene held up the bottle for Robert’s inspection.


“Fifteen year old Napa, my Lord,” the rabbit-faced man said crisply. His Majesty sighed and gave Mitch the look.


In that moment Mitch was quite sure he was lucky that Sylph powers couldn’t literally eviscerate with their eyes. His wings fluttered wildly, a nervous tic causing a few more rips along the tattered edges. His pale face flushed all the way past the tips of his pointed ears. Mitch looked at his tiny feet and wrung his hands in terror, certain his next breath would be his last.


“Mitchell,” said the King softly, bending down to eye level with the minor fairy.


“Sir?”


“GO GET HIM!” The Voice of Power blasted Mitch ass over antennae from the post. He landed hard and scrambled to stand at attention. “Don’t return without him.”


“Yes SIR! Right away my Lord!” The Thumper soldiers snickered as the entire line watched Mitchell limp down the stone bridge, trying to pick the tights from between his cheeks before he disappeared into the mists.