The Goblin Universe (working title)
an excerpt

It was a perfectly warm and bright day. George Herman Mulligan—called Babe by everyone—was naked. He was also running. He was sprinting fast, and was using every muscle in his little body. He didn’t care where he was going as long as he got there quicker than a boy ever. He was running for the joy of it, running the way only a young boy can run.

Running beside him was his dog—an eighty pound brindle mutt named Joan of Arc. She was running fast also, and was also using every muscle in her eighty pound body. She also didn’t care where she was going as long as she got there quicker than a dog ever. She was running for the joy of it, running the way only a dog can when it is running with a boy it loves.

They ran side by side. Churning their legs and their lungs, churning their hearts. Joan of Arc’s tongue stuck loosely out from the side of her mouth. Babe laughed. “Faster!” he shouted.

They ran faster. It took them only no time to reach the end of the block.

“Look both ways,” said Joan of Arc.

“No! Never!” said Babe, “Never look! Always jump!”

And they jumped. They leapt the expanse of the cross street without a hesitation, without a thought, without a care, without a fear. As they landed on the opposite side, their naked heels kicking up concrete dust, Babe shouted, “Faster, faster, faster!”

And faster they ran. Faster still. Faster than the boy thought they could run. Faster than even the dog thought they could run. Side by side they ran the length of the new block in even less time than the no time it had taken to run the last one.

“Jump again!” said Babe, “This time high.”

And they jumped again. This time they touched the tree tops. They could see the roofs, green black red brown, of the houses of the neighborhood below them. It was as if they were flying. They were flying. Babe screamed in joy and Joan of Arc howled in ecstasy. The wind scraped their faces, and stung their eyes. They were in the air for a whole city block of no time and landed, running, at the play ground at the end of the street.

“Now stop.” said Joan of Arc.

They stopped. They were both panting fast. Babe looked around. “Why? Why Stop? Why Now? What is it?” he said almost laughing with seriousness.

“Squirrels” said Joan of Arc. “There must be squirrels. There are always squirrels.”

“Yes, right.” said Babe “There are always squirrels.”

And so they looked for squirrels. All around the playground they looked. On the slide there were no squirrels. On the swing set there were no squirrels. On the play pirate ship there were no squirrels.

“This is strange.” said Babe.

Joan of Arc growled deeply and dangerously. She bared her teeth and the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

“Are you going to bite someone?” said Babe.

“No.” said Joan of Arc, “Of course not. I’m a good girl.”

“Idea! Let’s hide.” said Babe.

And so they hid. They hid in the sand below the play pirate ship and waited. They waited for the squirrels to come out.

The sun and the moon were both in the sky. It was night-day. And night-day was Babe’s favorite kind. The sun was hot like a father’s laugh, and the moon was soft like a mother’s kiss, and the wind was like a tickle from either. The sand felt happy on their feet and content between their toes. Babe smiled. Joan of Arc smiled a dog smile. They both wanted to laugh, but you didn’t dare. Laughter was noise and noise was what kept the squirrels away. And one thing was for absolute really certain: they didn’t want to keep the squirrels away. They both hid low and held their breath.

The play ground was near a lake and the sun and the moon were shining fire on the lake. Babe thought of jumping into the lake so it would clean him. It would clean him clear through to the other side of himself and he would be a different boy. The same boy only different. And Joan of Arc would be the same dog too, only different. And the world smelled of cookies and clay and Babe was just as happy as a boy could be. Just as happy as anyone could be, he imagined. Just as happy as God could be—in the beginning, when there were only stories and everything was still true.

“Maybe there aren’t any squirrels this time.” said Babe.

“Shh” said Joan of Arc “Just you wait, boy. This isn’t only you, you know. I’m here too.”

And they hid even lower. They hid as low as a boy and a dog can hide and they hushed as quietly as a boy and a dog can hush.

And before long the squirrels came.

Just one squirrel at first. It came timidly from the copse of trees near the play ground and skittered to the swing set. It jumped up onto a swing and sat up on it’s hind legs. It sniffed the air.

Babe asked, “Is it a boy or a girl squirrel?”

Joan of Arc sniffed: “It’s a boy. It’s a boy squirrel. Now hush up.”

Soon, another squirrel stole up to the swing set. And another, and another, and another, and before long the whole play ground was teeming with a squirrel horde. Big squirrels and little ones, boy squirrels and girl ones, gray ones and brown ones, and red and black. Even one little white one with pink eyes. And they all were singing, “safe, safety, safety, safe, safe.”

The little beasts were enjoying the playground like a scurry of children. They were swinging on the swings. They were sliding on the slides. Some were chasing each other playing a game of squirrel tag—the rules of which Babe couldn’t quite make out, and the rules of which Joan of Arc couldn't care a fig about. Squirrel pirates were even scourging the seven seas on the play pirate ship not ten inches above the boy and the dog. The hiding-hunting couple squished deeper into the sand. The boy held his breath. The dog salivated. Joan of Arc always salivated when there were squirrels.

Babe asked, “Can you do it?”

“If I can’t do it here, it can’t be done.” said Joan of Arc, “You see, this is the hard part. You think it easy with so many of the them about, but your mind tricks you. The instant you run out they scatter in all the directions and you forget which little one you were after. You chase one, and another passes close to your nose and you smell it and you think, ‘Ah ha, I can get that one’ and so you chase it instead, and you lose them both. Or two of them run together and you chase both and then when they split apart you can’t decide which one to chase after and you lose both. And the whole time they laugh at you, and that doesn’t help; no that doesn’t help at all. But this day is perfect. If I can’t do it here and now then it can’t be done by dog.”

“Which one are you going to get? That white one looks good to me.”

“Don’t talk. You confuse me.” Joan of Arc carefully surveyed the field of battle.

“Can I help you?” said Babe, whispering quietly and cautiously.

“Yes. Tell me I’m a good girl.” said Joan of Arc.

“You are a good girl.”

“And when I say so, count for me. I can’t count so high.” said the dog.

“Count to what?” said the boy

“Count to one higher than two” said the dog.

Babe nodded and waited.

“Now!” said the dog.

The boy whispered, “One. Two. THREE!”

And Joan of Arc sprang to attack.

She was magnificent. She leapt into the thick of it. Squirrels were all around her—on the left, on the right, in front of her, behind her—but she saw to her mark and ran straight for the little white squirrel with pink eyes that was at the top of the big curly-twisty slide. She ran right up the slide, her claws clinging to it so that it was like she was running up a hill of grass and dirt and not a slippery slide. When she got to the top of the slide the little white squirrel was no longer there. Defeat? Never! She stopped, sniffed, and looked. There it was, on the ground not far away. It was running for the copse of trees on the other side of the playground. Missing no beat, Joan of Arc jumped to the ground to chase after the little white squirrel. She landed in the middle of a group of worried squirrels. She was like a great beast. She was like a giant powerful predator amidst a herd-horde of lesser doomed beings. Her prey. She howled. She began her chase, gaining on the poor creature with every bound. The little white squirrel didn’t dare look behind it. It ran with every ounce of muscle it could muster toward the trees, terror in its little pink eyes, foam at its little mouth. Some of the other squirrels tried to confuse Joan of Arc by running close to her. One or two of the little heroes bravely bumped her nose, but Joan of Arc—the mighty beast—would have none of it. This was her day. This was her night-day. The little white squirrel reached the copse of trees with the terrible dog only a few steps behind it and scampered up the tree the way only a squirrel can. Joan of Arc stopped, dead in her tracks, and panted heavily; she howled. The little white squirrel laughed and said, “Not today, not today, not today and not any day”. But the dog would not be thwarted. Crouching on her hind legs and letting loose another immense howl, Joan of Arc leapt. She flew. She was in the air. She was growling and her teeth were bared. She was a great leaping monster. The aim of her jump was perfect and she snatched the little white squirrel in her jaws while still in flight. Then dog and squirrel and leaves and branches fell to the ground. Joan of Arc was victorious.

Babe—now clad in a suit of wet sand—had come out from below the pirate ship and was dancing. Right foot in the air for two jumps then left foot for two more, he was dancing a dance of joy; a magic dance to adore his amazing dog. He was singing “Joan of Arc, Joan of Arc, she could to it in the dark. Joan of Arc, Joan of Arc, she could do it in the dark.” Then he stood with his hands on his hips shouting at the top of his lungs. “Hot diggety! Yay! Yay, yay, yay! You’re the best dog, Joan of Arc. Joany is the best dog. Joan of Arc is a good girl!”

Joan of Arc calmly trotted over to her admirer and dropped the little white squirrel with pink eyes on the ground at his feet. The vanquished squirrel was to scared to move. It lay on it’s side panting.

“Is it a boy or a girl.” asked the boy.

“It’s a boy.” said the dog. And she licked her chops.

The squirrel said “Are you to eat me? Please no, please, no please no.”

“Of course not, I would never eat you. I’m a good girl.” said Joan of Arc. “Now run away. Run away and tell the others to fear the great Joany. Fear the great Joan of Arc. Tell them to fear the mighty hunter.”

Babe echoed: “Mighty hunter, might hunter.” And his sand suit became an ancient armor, gleaming in the sun-moonlight

The little white squirrel with pink eyes waited only a scant moment and then ran. It ran right back the copse of trees where it’s friends and family were waiting for it. After a few seconds the taunting began. All the scurry of the copse began taunting Joan of Arc and Babe. Shouting things like “Coward!” and “Not a good girl! Not a good girl!” and “Not a big boy! not a big boy!”

Babe shouted back “Of course I’m not a big boy, I’m a little boy. But I’ll be big some day. Just you see.”

And Joan of Arc shouted back “I am too a good girl. I come when I’m called and I don’t pee in the house.”

Joany and Babe stood there for a long time laughing until the squirrels grew tired of taunting and went silent. The boy and the dog smelled the air and considered the fiery lake. They howled at the moon and they danced on the sand.

Then Babe said, “I have to pee.”

“Go ahead.” said Joan of Arc.

“No. I mean really. I have to go.”

“Go then. I’ll stay here. I like it here.”

“Okay. I’ll try to come back.”

“It’s hard, I know"

“Okay, bye." said the boy, leaving. And then he turned and said, "You are a good girl you know.”

“Yes. I know.” said the dog.

And so Babe woke up. He was staring at the bottom of his brother's top bunk.
"Carter?" he said, "Are you awake?". But Carter didn't answer.