They called her Ma, and it wasn’t just a title; it was a role, a rhythm, and a weight she carried every day in the holler.
Ma Goblin was mostly gentle, but not soft. Her wooden spoon tapped out warnings like a metronome on the porch rail, her eyes watchful beneath a headscarf. She didn’t bark orders, didn’t puff herself up, but when she spoke, even the hogs quieted down to listen.
To the outside world, if they even believed such things, the holler hill creatures were just stories. Appalachian whispers. Goblins that lived somewhere past the abandoned mines, or inside them, in a place humans couldn’t quite reach and didn’t want to explore. Some called them cryptids, some called them curses, and a few just called ‘em holler goblins. But inside the holler within the holler, life went on with barns, woodsheds, spells, and clan meetings.
Some figured Ma had the final say because she was often the one speakin’, the one others came to. But truth be told, she almost always said, “Check with Pa.” She trusted him that much. He was the mind behind the plan; she was the steady heart that made sure everyone was ready for it. If someone needed troops, spells, or just a good word before headin’ into a raid, or even after makin’ a mess of one, Ma already had it waiting.
Strategizing wasn’t her strength. She couldn’t size up an enemy base and tell you if it was trouble or not. Often, she couldn’t even judge that for herself. Pa tried to coach her through it, patient and calm, walking her through strategies step by step.
Uncle Kinxy, on the other hand, was convinced she was a born raid queen. At least at first.
“You gonna smoke these guys, Ma,” he’d say, after lumbering in from scouting on his rusty old tractor, a few goblins straggling behind him coughing and sputtering from having ridden on the back, plumes of black puffing into their faces. “That base don’t stand a chance.”
She’d nod, smile, do her best. And then she wouldn’t “smoke ‘em”, yet Uncle Kinxy would say the same thing again next time, his confidence in her more than her own in herself.
Sometimes.
Always seemed when he’d lose that confidence or say “I reckon you’ll get ‘em if you do it the way we discussed,” that she would surprise them all with complete devastation of the enemy base.
“Two-star queen,” Pa said once, not unkindly, but she could sense his frustration during close battles when every star counted. Or perhaps that was just her own frustration, mirrored in his silence. Either way, she took it to heart and practiced religiously, determined to improve. Studying the war scrolls of past battles, trying to figure out where her problem was.
She followed every instruction. Used the right weapons and enchanted troops they’d get from the old mountain witches that lived deep inside the mountains. Threw the spells she brewed where she thought she should. But somehow, her timing was always a little off. She’d hesitate just a half second too long. Her funnel slipped wide. Still, Ma never gave up.
And truth be told, while her attacks weren’t always fearsome, her defenses were fairly solid. Many a rival raid fizzled out on her turf, with her traps and rigged up crossbows holding firm like mountain stone. If her spoon didn’t stop them, her base usually did.
What she lacked in firepower, she made up for in something rarer: reliability, order, and care. She tracked war timers. She kept a ledger of who needed what and when. The younger goblins in the clan knew Ma would have their donations ready before they even asked. Sometimes she’d even pack them a lunch if they were gonna be gone for quite a while. And when Pa’s reprimands cut sharp or the sting of failure hit too hard, it was Ma who softened it somewhat, never undermining him or his ways but reaffirming his message in a slightly gentler way.
“You’ll get there,” Pa said to her once, after a particularly tough loss.
“We’ll get ya there yet,” Uncle Kinxy added, nodding. “We see how hard you’re tryin’, Ma.”
Ma, spoon in hand, nodded once. “I know I will. Just so frustrating, is all.”
She meant it. Frustrating didn’t even cover it.
Uncle Kinxy took to coaching her before each attack, giving her exact entry points on her specific target as well as when and where to deploy spells and troops.
Back in the early days, panic got the better of her. She’d send troops too fast, toss spells in a flurry, hoping to salvage what she could before it was too late. But she studied. She learned. Funneling got better, and she learned to wait. To let the battle breathe before making her next move. Her lightning spells became more precise, most of the time.
There was that one time she tried to follow Uncle Kinxy’s advice and take out three defenses at once. Wound up hitting none of ‘em. Wasted the whole spell batch. During war.
She still got the 3 stars.
She didn’t say much when it happened, but Pa raised an eyebrow, and Uncle Kinxy tried to spin it into a teaching moment. “You can’t fumble it,” he told her.
She took it on the chin. Then she went back to practicing.
All that effort paid off. Her base was nearly maxed now. The walls alone had cost a small fortune in elixir and time. And not long ago, all that work catapulted her into the so-called “prestigious” Legends League.
Ma didn’t much care for it.
Now the Legends League? That’s a whole ‘nother beast.
Word around the holler was that once you reached a certain level of notoriety, the mountain spirits marked your name down on a special scroll, one that floated between realms.
You didn’t get to choose your enemies no more. Each sunrise, eight challenges were set before you like it or not, and you had to take ‘em all, no matter how mean or mismatched. And worse, your own base got raided while you weren’t lookin’, like ghosts tryin’ to tear it down behind your back.
If you did good, the holler gods gave you more honor points. But mess up? You’d lose ‘em faster than a greased hog in a thunderstorm.
Folks called it “prestigious,” but Ma called it what it was: a daily dance with mountain mischief and no say in the song.
But still, she showed up. Because that’s what Ma did. The other goblins told her to deliberately fumble to come out of it, but her standards wouldn’t allow it.
Then came war.
They were close. Real close. Every base had been hit. All had fallen with three stars except one. And it was Ma’s turn.
She studied that base long and hard, breathing slow, spoon tapping against her knee, heart racing at the win being determined by her attack. Waited until the perfect moment, sent in the troops with care, guided them with spells brewed early morning under a waning moon.
Three stars.
A perfect war.
Even Uncle Kinxy cheered.
But pride’s a funny thing. The next war, Ellie Mae dropped three stars on a base higher than hers, bringing her wards in with pride. A base that Cletus had attempted earlier, despite it being Ellie’s official target and way above his level. For his bravery, he was tagged “most heroic attack”, until Ellie swooped in and hit it and took the title of “most heroic”. She was beaming, bouncing during fireside chat, proud as a possum in a pumpkin patch.
Cletus scowled.
Uncle Kinxy said, “No congrats unless you bring in six stars.”
Ma didn’t say anything. Just packed Ellie an extra piece of cornbread for the next raid. Let the girl know someone noticed.
These days, Uncle Kinxy had gotten a little more bossy. Too big for his britches, she’d say. Not always rude, but sharp-edged. Especially during war. He once fumbled a base she might’ve been able to clean up but wouldn’t let her have the shot.
“I’ll make you hit the first target before I let you hit that one,” he’d said curtly. She wasn’t sure if it was meant kindly or not.
And so she did. One star, because it was a bigger base. Tactically, it was a good call, as she was the only one who was equal in strength to that target. She didn’t doubt the call to hit it, but it was the way it was instructed that left her a bit perplexed.
She said nothing. During war, she always deferred to Uncle Kinxy’s directive, as that is where his authority lay. In those instances, she followed directives just like the other goblins because she recognized that order matters, and that war was not an area where she excelled.
But in the privacy of her kitchen, she tapped that spoon a little harder, stirred her potions a little faster, and gave thought to smacking that spoon upside Uncle Kinxy’s head next time he got mouthy with her.
Still, Ma didn’t hold onto things that way. She knew how to keep peace as much as she knew how to keep wards.
She didn’t need to shine. She just needed to show up. And she always did.
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