Mtenda Lion, Creature
Illus. Stuart Griffin

"Would you like that, goats? A counting game, like a child with stones? All right, let us begin. We have goat One of Eight, of the old years and patchy wool. Two of Eight, nanny to my sister's yearlings. Three of Eight: yes, you still have the sad broken horn. Goat Four of Eight, I wonder it was not you who ate the Yellow Rock; you consume anything. Five of Eight and Six of Eight, twin daughters of the first goat I herded with a twig in hand. You, accursed Seven of--Wait, where is Eight of Eight?"

"All signs point there," comes a voice behind me, and I whirl in place. An old goblin, green and lumpy like the mitab, stares down the meaningful end of my hunting stick.

"Signs? What signs? You know where my goatlet strays?"

"I know much, little one," the green one says. "I am a soothsayer. My divinations say you will find your goat on that rockridge. Some goat, at least."

"Some--Oh no." I look to the rockridge and see a Mtenda lion, hunter of hunters, roaring to her mate. They roar when they have food for their prides.

My hands quake with frustration. My herd has been halved. I must find the wise woman under the monkeytree; she is my hope. Unless . . . .

"You!"

"I knew you would say that."

"You are a soothsayer!"

"And you want to know your future."

I stare in disbelief. This soothsayer, he knows all.

"The future is set in the earth, little one. The hard part is choosing how to get there."

"Please stop calling me 'little one,'" I say. "I stand half a man taller than you. Tell Jojo, goblin of sooth, how may he lose the curse of curses, the Curse of the Yellow Rock?"

The fellow's black eyes sparkle. "You have a yellow rock? Give it here!"

"Give? Of course I cannot, soothsayer. It resides in my goat. You must know that."

"Hmm? Oh yes yes, that I knew. Now, please, I must divine. Close your eyes and cover your ears."

"Close--"

"Now, little one! The portents embrace you! Close your eyes!"

I close my eyes, cover my ears, and gnash my teeth. The soothsayer has ways I do not understand, omens I do not see--and why do I smell blood?

"Nope, not in this one," the little man says.

Goblin Elite Infantry, Creature
Illus. Robert Bliss

"Hmmm . . . future looks bleak," the old one says as he sniffs a spleen.

"Oh, yes. Yes it does," I growl, and advance on him with bone knife out.

"Calm now, seeker of sooth," the fellow says, turning and backing up. "Sometimes the future is not what we desire. But hey, if you want a different future . . . ."

"Run."

He does, goat-lung in hand. I watch him run to two more fellows of his height and color. They talk for a breath, and then they all run.

I survey the remnants of a promising herd. My future looks bleak. I have now six goats. What could possibly go wrong?