Backslider

Chapter 6

Shopping List

"The wheels go round and the sunset creeps behind
Street lamps, chain-link and concrete
A little piece of paper with a picture drawn floats
On down the street till the wind is gone
The memory now is like the picture was then
When the paper's crumpled up it can't be perfect again"

-Linkin Park

Towers of metal sat there groaning under the pressure of a thousand hideous adornments. Long, and thin. Squishy, and cold. Purple, and other shades of purple. Hideously well-polished tile flooring shone garishly beneath it all, serving only to double the perversion reflected in its gleaming surface. Wheels rolled over it, squeaking as children wailed, and bright red liquids that blazed like blood spilled onto the ground.

Such is the supermarket, and Samuel Christophell was trapped in the middle of it all. He was a tall man. Tall and wide. Very wide. In fact, one could park a brand new jumbo jet in his chest cavity, if one could find enough people to scrub the plane clean afterwards. He was very irritated, not that he showed it. This irritation was not one of the skin. No, for this irritation could not be treated by any cream or lotion known to man, because they would have had to be really, really strong. He would have needed a prescription, at any rate. He didn't have one.

An irritated Sam Christophell is not a good thing at all--unless you have a solid brick wall between you and him; though the wall would likely only hide you as he crushed through it, covering you in its bricks. You'd be better off with an old sandwich, and something shiny to distract him.

He was shopping. That wasn't too bad. However, shopping for someone else certainly was.

Only and hour ago, he met with Jonathan Mercier at the Lazy Llama Bar and Grill. Of course, they'd met because something was afoot. Something nasty, certainly. At any rate, Jonathan had received word from the Department of Mysteries that he was to meet with Croaker as soon as possible. Jonathan left for the Felle City right away, but Sam's message had been slightly different. He was to meet with Croaker, but first he was to "Gather some ingredients," as Croaker had put it. Now, when Samuel went to the contact point to receive the list, he'd expected it to contain a wide assortment of weird and mysterious artifacts, chemicals, and organs. Instead, he'd received a slip of paper ordering the purchase of eggs, olive oil, and a number of other amenities. The most exotic item was "Milk-the kind with the green label."

A transfiguration expert, highly qualified secret agent, and member of the most elite group of wizards and witches on the planet or not--he had a job to do and, by gum it, he was going to do it.

Frowning, he squeezed his way through the double doors of the grocery store. The aisles were not meant for a man of his breadth, but he managed. Though he knocked item after item to the floor, he trudged his way down the row, accompanied by the friendly whine of his cart.

Naturally he looked ridiculous. He was much taller (and wider) than your average man, he had a large and imposing face with long blond hair spilling down for several feet, and, above all, was dressed in huge billowing red robes that could have sheltered a lion, a pack of wild wolves, and a bus. Thankfully these things were absent, since he was allergic to cat hair and hated bus fumes. Jonathan was right, he thought. Croaker is an ass. I knew he was nutty to begin with, but this... the stress must be getting to him. Croaker's love of food was legendary the Ministry. Though tall, and gaunt, with a haunted glint in his eyes, the very mention of a hamburger, a pie, or even the latest brand of bottled water would set him off on an exuberant speech proclaiming the glory of all foods, liquid and solid, sweet and sour, spicy and tangy. Mindy Presh had once tried to reason with him, telling him that a Conjured broth is identical in every way possible to the muggle version of French onion or tomato soup. Nonetheless, he held true to his belief that he could tell the difference. From then on, every day Croaker randomly selected someone, regardless of rank or position, to do his shopping. He was the Head of the Department, after all. Even the Directors couldn't be spared his wrath. When Bode had refused when January 27^th rolled around, Croaker managed to transfigure him into a chicken. Croaker's private refrigerator was rumored to contain several thousand pounds of meat alone. Sam was reluctant to think what would have happened had he refused.

Scooping cheeses ("the ones that come in the shiny plastic wrapping") and some desserts ("those thingies with the sprinkles and the frosting on top") into his cart, he checked the list. Noting that everything had been gathered, he turned to leave.

It is now that the author, in his divinely inspired, arcane, and mentally impaired wisdom, would like to take another break from Backslider for an informative history lesson. Quiet down! You in the back! Some of us are trying to learn here!

The 1940's were not that fun. They could have been, of course, if it wasn't for that Hitler fellow. But it wasn't all his fault, you see.

During the eight months between September and May 1941, German planes carried out more than a hundred air strikes on England, seventy-one of which were attacks on London itself. They bombed London for ninety-two nights running, and made heavy raids on Coventry, Plymouth, Liverpool, and other British cities. They did a lot of damage, as 43,000 British men, women and children lost their lives; many historical buildings were destroyed.

But what if Adolphus Hitler, and the Germans weren't totally responsible for all this death? Of course, Hitler's Holocaust alone left millions upon millions of people dead or wishing to be, but these things were more complicated.

It was at this time that the Dark Lord Grindelwald began his War. An alliance of muggles and wizards, elves and ghosts sought to destroy Grindelwald forever. But it came at a price--a price that would have been greater had they not acted at all.

Grindelwald did not create Hitler. He merely gave him the knowledge, charisma, and will to do destroy all living things. He tricked others into ignoring the German threat, and let his wickedness and evil mature. He discovered, and created, Dark Magic to poison, destroy, subjugate, and distort. The most famous breed of magic he used was Distortion, mentioned earlier. This brand of curses allows the caster to reshape the very intrinsic laws of natural life. Vampires and bodachs had existed for millennia, and wreaked their own terror in their own way, but it was Grindelwald who learned the powers to create Trolls from trees, and the Dementors from muggle men tempted by the power he promised. By the age of 50, Grindelwald had to his credits the creation, or friendship, of thousands of Dark Creatures, such as Goblins and Gryphons and Giants.

Of them all, the goblins were his most prized followers. Hideous, rage-filled, and powerfully magical, they were Grindelwald's ideal servants. Their smile could curdle the blood and their laugh could make milk sour and cause fruit to fall off trees. Grindelwald knew that they were desperate to prove themselves to their Dark Lord.

And so began the Last Goblin Rebellion.

Thousands of goblins: tiny, fast, and vicious, ruinous fiends left their mountain dwellings deep beneath the Earth, where unimaginable horrors still live unknown to the oldest ghosts. They tore through the forests and over rivers, destroying everything in their path. They hated the light, and they hated the dark even more. The smell of blood was all that drove them. That, and their adoration for their Master. Finally, they came to the great cities of England. There, too, did they wreak their havoc, destroying churches, and homes, and businesses. Out of the 127 so-called "air strikes" upon Britain, only thirty involved planes.

1940 will live on forever, in the memory of no one actually, as the year of the Rebellion. Ogres, Trolls, Goblins, Werewolves, and Dementors... About 30,000 British citizens were slaughtered at the hands of these vile creatures, but their killers would never be known--or at least remembered.

The Ministry of Magic, in the largest mobilization of its forces in history, systematically erased the memories of the goblin attack from every muggle brain, and destroyed all evidence of their involvement of existence, and sealed them in their mountain prison, ensuring that the truth could never be known. All those lost lives were simply attributed to German bombers. A number of goblins, those who were far more well-behaved or unaffiliated with the Rebellion, were doomed to a worse fate: a century of servitude at Gringotts Wizard Bank, under the supervision of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.

What Samuel Christophell saw at that moment was, indeed, something very rare, and positively unheard of: a goblin, intent to kill. Not for sixty years had a one looked upon a human being with such a murderous gleam in its eyes.

Sam didn't care to have this honor, but the goblin laughed. The milk three aisles over swiftly expired. Sam looked like someone had poured red ants in his robes.

This isn't that bad... Sam thought as cheerfully as he could. Thinking back to Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Gugnam, he remembered that although a goblin was violent (and strong enough to pull violent off reasonably well), a fully trained wizard would have little difficulty. Back in 6^th Year, Professor Gugnam, a delightful fellow, had locked each of his students in separate dungeons for their final exam, and released a variety of Dark Creatures; nothing excessively violent, of course. Sam's exam consisted of a nest of vampires, a cave troll, a pair of werewolves, and a goblin, for example. The vampires were relatively easy (wooden spike + heart = POOF!), and Sam had an interesting conversation with the troll about how Machiavellian politics apply to modern art movements ("Oog oog!" and "Glug!" are more expressive than one might think). However, since the end of term exam was on June 8^th, the pair of werewolves were, in fact, several lawyers out from Manchester. The goblin actually posed the most difficulty...

It'd leaped at Sam's neck first, but he knew that wasn't a good thing at all, and went on to apply his fist to the tiny monster's head, flinging it across the room. In the end, though, the only way to stop the seemingly inexhaustible goblin was to levitate it six feet in the air, and bounce the screaming mass off the walls.

Readying his wand to Wingardium Leviosa the goblin into the frozen foods aisle, he found that during his pensive romp down Memory Lane, something nasty had happened: there were now two possibilities:

1. Goblins can split in two, four, or even eight (hundred) other ones

2. The original goblin had friends; lots of friends.

Sam was inclined to go with the latter, as revoltingly pale or sickly green goblins were pouring into the aisle giggling as the muggle shoppers and employees ran screaming out of the store.

"Um... yes, so... um..." Sam began (rather cleverly under the circumstances, he thought).

The goblin leader, identified by his particularly large size and particularly green skin squinted his red eyes into cruel slivers.

Sam continued, "On behalf of the Ministry of Magic, I order you to stop where you are! You are under arrest!"

A note to the reader: the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures does not recommend ordering or threatening a goblin horde. Sam didn't know this, so he did it again.

"Stop right there!" he cried as the goblins tightened their circle around him. They'd already overturned a shelf, splattering apple juice onto the polished floors. Sam was wondering what would be next to splatter onto the ground, and hoped it wouldn't be something... of his.

With resolve, courage, and supreme foolishness, Sam decided to make a break for the door. He hadn't yet lifted his right foot when several dozen (not that he cared to count at this point, by the way) of the screaming goblins leapt onto his robes, biting and scratching into the cloth.

Realizing that running away would be highly painful and quite likely to fail, Sam plans took a turn for the more interesting.

"Gibaurack!" he shouted desperately. Although the intended effect would have been to scare the goblins off with a bright flash of light, a number of them suddenly transfigured into wondrously shiny balls of aluminum foil who floated off his arms and legs (which was still a success of sorts, in his book). Samuel Christophell realized something rather fortunate here. Of all his numerous skills, (including manual labor, being odd looking, and collecting interesting picture frames) his foremost was transfiguration. For reasons unknown, he'd always been strangely gifted in turning things into something altogether unnatural. Perhaps it was that he had an overactive imagination, but it was not something one analyzes when being attacked by evil and deadly monsters.

Waving his wand frantically, he happened to launch a range of squishy, sticky, and smooshy things at his attackers. Yet, for every goblin he sent flying off his person more were ready to take its place.

In desperation and inspiration, he remembered a charm Professor Hulmo had taught him over winter break to fight boredom, which he affectionately remembered as the Fruit Smoothie Charm.

"Litus!" he summoned. With a whiz, every product in the store containing so-called "natural fruit flavors" flew towards the frantic wizard. Ice cream ("with new lime flavor!"), hard candy ("now with real lemon!"), and, of course, every banana, apple, pear, and, most happily, pineapple, formed a tornado of deliciousness spiraling about his figure. A flick sent the ice cream hurtling to the left, a swish pelted the hard candies to the right, and a thwip plunged everything else at Sam's cloak.

It is noteworthy that Sam had the presence of mind to use the Smoothie Charm, since, among other things, goblins abhor natural fruit flavors. Of course, though he was also totally unaware of this fact, it was a good idea.

The damage was already rather severe. Most of the shelves had been knocked over by flying goblin torsos or airborne produce. The walls were cracked in parts, though whether that was the result of the goblin infestation or negligence on the part of the owner remains to be discovered. However, one thing was certain: Sam was certainly not covered with goblins anymore, which is, as anyone who's been in Sam's situation would affirm, an excellent thing.

Most of the goblins had either been scared off by the strawberries or levitated to and then dropped from the ceiling. The goblin leader, squinting through his sickening eyelids had run off to Aisle 3 to regroup with his biggest soldiers.

Six aisles to the left, Vice-Plimf Gorbag Borra was not a very happy goblin. Of course, to anyone who knew goblins, they weren't exactly known for their positive outlook on life. More aptly, then, we could say Gorbag Borra was more unhappy than usual.

Goblins are long lived--which is good for their race since they spend so much time biting and maiming, maintaining a stable population usually takes second place. One might expect that a species who so enjoys making mayhem and being generally unsavory would be pleased as punch (evil punch!) to be set loose from their mountains to the north. He was actually, but there was still something bothering him.

Three days earlier, a man appeared at their doorstep, robed in black. His face covered in white, he claimed that he could, and would unlock their dark gates in return for their temporary servitude. Like most humans do, he thought he was being exceedingly clever, telling them what they wanted to hear, and only those things he carefully chose to say. Yet goblins, like most magical creatures, rarely listen to the words of men, for their emotions and innermost secrets are laid bare before them. It was his heart, full of hatred and malice and long-suffering that convinced them to accept his conditions.

But it was not their murderous mission, to kill a wizard named Samuel Christophell that was disquieting, for goblins generally enjoy murder and devastation. Instead, it was the man's final request, which, in return for freedom, the goblin leaders were more than willing to oblige. Deep in the core of the mountain, lay all their mightiest treasures. Artifacts as ancient as their people lay there, lost or forgotten in the shadows. Yet this man, an outsider, knew precisely what he wanted: A red stone, lit from within by some unknown flame.

Where did he learn what riches they hoarded? How could he break the seals placed on their Door, when the mightiest goblin magic could not? What lay beneath his white mask? Something was wrong, here. Yet he hadn't the slightest idea what.

Six aisles to the left, Gorbag Borra was not a happy goblin... and with good reason.

Sam was encircled by a group of cackling and giggling monsters, screaming in delight, and jumping around. He had to get out of here. Yet he hadn't the slightest idea how. He knew that goblins, like elves, contained powers near that of the average wizard. Combined with their huge numbers, a struggle against a goblin attack would seem hopeless. Yet their disadvantage, however, lies in the fact that their powers are buried deep within their spirits, and are highly unfocused. Therefore, to all but the oldest among them, deliberate goblin magic would be negligible; like a gun with a jammed trigger. But sudden bursts of anger or fear, however, could be explosive... literally.

He knew he'd have to make his attack fast, powerful, and soon.

Stepping forward, the leaping goblin soldiers hissed and growled angrily. Angry is just what we're not going for here... So, he switched strategies.

"Come here, little goblin!" he said. One of the goblins seemed thoroughly bemused and taken aback, like someone who is approached by a grizzly bear in the forest, who, for some reason, thinks you're her long lost cub.

Nonetheless, the goblin did inch forward, for goblins, excepting those accountants at Gringotts, are not renowned for their formidable wit. This particular goblin giggled cheerfully, making Sam struggle to hide a tortured grimace. "Come here!" he cooed, making baby noises. "Googy googy gooooo! Who's a good widdle gobwin?"

The goblin pointed at himself.

"That's right! And a smart widdle gobwin too, right?"

The goblin nodded ecstatically. He was a Red Cap; tiny, energetic, and malevolent, they're easily recognized with their fiery red eyes and hat, believed to be dyed in the blood of their victims. This one, of course, fit all the criteria, but seemed tinier, younger, and, if possible, stupider than the others.

"Would my cute widdle gobwin like some candy?"

The "cute" and "widdle" goblin seemed to understand, and screamed in delight. Sam reached for some packaged meat and passed it to the creature, which swallowed the filet, along with its Styrofoam container and plastic wrapping.

Lightly brushing his wand, now concealed in the folds of his robes, he coughed, "Euphonos," a variation on the Confundus line of mind control charms. Specifically, Euphonos forces animate objects to believe and do whatever they are told, though this only works on genuine idiots.

He pulled the dazed Red Cap closer, and murmured, "I want you to tell me, quietly, your name."

In a startlingly high-pitched and far-away voice, it replied, "I am Tarogol..." he poked at Sam's beard. "It is a nice wizard..."

"And what are you and your... friends doing here?"

"Tarogol is here... Tarogol was told."

"By whom?"

"His Master..."

"Who is?"

"Master Gorbag... nice, kind, Master..." the goblin answered distantly.

"Why is 'Master Gorbag' here?"

"Nice Master is here... to kill... nice wizard...."

Sam thought that was a fairly obvious answer. In hindsight, it was also a fairly obvious question.

"Me? Why does he want to kill me?"

"The Black Gate... black man..." responded the Red Cap dreamily. "Black man told Master... kill... nice wizard."

"But why?" Sam sighed.

"Tarogol doesn't know, he doesn't... no..."

"Alright... now who is this 'black man?'"

"He came... to the Gate... white mask... freed us... took a red Stone..." he explained.

"What kind of stone?" Sam asked.

"Tarogol doesn't know."

"Okay, then... go with your friends, and tell your Master that you poisoned me."

Tarogol trudged over to his compatriots, and asked them to do something that sent them scurrying off six aisles to the left howling amusedly.

A few minutes later, Tarogol returned with a surly Vice-Plimf Borra at his side. Unfortunately, Sam was unconscious, or pretending to be. With a well placed curse, Borra sent Tarogol on his way, reluctantly leaving the "nice wizard" behind.

Vice-Plimf Borra squinted (more than usual) at Sam's motionless body. Apparently, Borra had believed the story, and chose to poke Sam with a long package of straws.

With a jerk, Sam leapt to his feet, grabbed Gorbag Borra's neck and lifted him into the air. The Vice-Plimf sqealed in horror.

"Do not struggle. Do not scream," Sam explained. "And I will not do anything... unnatural to you." Sam drew his wand with his free hand and transfigured some apples into water bottles, and then into electric fans which transformed into giant purple lizards. They scurried off never to be heard from again. He cast the Malleus curse on a case of Coke cans, which compressed themselves to the size of a messy, sugary, aluminum thimble.

Gorbag stopped struggling, and Sam set him down roughly.

"Now, Gorbag, I've had a word with your very own Tarogol, and he told me something quite interesting about you."

Gorbag shifted uneasily and replied in a deep, rumbling tone, "What did that grelping snerlk tell you?"

"It seems you're trying to kill me..." Sam said, placing a shimmering invisibility charm around them. "Now, I want to know precisely who it was who sent you."

"I do not know."

"And I don't want to have to put a charm on you to get my answers, nor do I wish to insult your intelligence, but if you don't tell me what I want to know..." Sam trailed off and set some napkins on fire for theatricality.

"I am telling you the truth," Gorbag sighed angrily. "I do not know."

"So, you didn't care to learn who it was that set you free?"

"It was not my place."

"What did he look like?"

"I do not know. He never removed his mask."

"His mask?"

"Yes... a white mask."

"I see."

"No... you do not," Gorbag frowned

"What do you mean?" asked Sam.

"The man who freed us sent us to kill you. Yet you believe he is a Death Eater."

"Possibly... so what?"

"If he is a Death Eater, he would, as we are told, be doing the will of the Dark Lord Voldemort?"

"How do you know of Voldemort?"

"We were imprisoned beyond the Black Gate, but the earth, and the air, and His very own snakes tell us many things. He desires to kill The Boy Who Lived, does he not?"

"I'm asking the questions, here."

"And yet they are not very good ones, wizard," Gorbag mocked. "You would kill me... why would I withhold information that could save my life?"

Sam gazed into Gorbag's red eyes. Its fierce untamed eyes, or perhaps the magic that seemed to glow between them with some revealing light, convinced Sam that this goblin was different from the others. Perhaps he possessed some sort of hightened intelligence, or intuition, but Sam strangely felt that his eyes held no secrets, only cold rationality.

"Do you want to kill me?" Sam asked.

"Most definitely."

"Would you kill me if I gave you the chance?"

"No."

Sam was confused. "Why is that?"

"I do not believe it is wise. You could kill me, and perhaps would do so if I outlived my usefulness... but I do not belive you would think it wise to do so either..." After a lingering pause, the goblin continued, "I would not kill you, but I would kill the masked wizard..."

"I see..."

"No you don't. That wizard, I'll have you know, released a plague of goblins upon his own people. That is something that not even the worst goblin could have done. You, however... do grocery shopping."

"Where is this masked man now?"

"He told us he had business to attend to... that he planned to use the Stone to accomplish that goal." Gorbag clarified.

"What was the stone he took?"

"Tarogol speaks too much... I do not know..."

"I don't believe you."

"Finally, wizard, you use some intellect." Gorbag grinned horribly. "The Stone is a treasure that was gifted to us by Lord Grindelwald in return for our service. It allowed us to create limitless stores of food and riches or even destroy cities with a flick of the wrist."

"The Last Goblin Rebellion..." Sam thought out loud.

"Yes... we were reluctant to part with it, but he was adamant. And he did break the Black Gate. We felt is was a fair exchange. That Stone has the power to create, but also to ruin. We had survived without it for millennia, and Plimf Vurdoc felt it was little more than a toy."

"You gave him a weapon? It isn't a toy, is it?"

"No, it most certainly is not." Gorbag frowned.

"Surely you knew he could use it against you!"

Gorbag fell silent.

"You agree with me, don't you? Voldemort does not keep his promises. Nor do his Death Eaters. Voldemort wants power, but the goblins, and the trolls, and the giants will all threaten that power eventually! I could kill you if you outlive your usefulness, but you told me you knew I wouldn't. Voldemort would, and you know that too!"

Gorbag stared pensively at the ground. "Samuel Christophell, I believe you. Vurdoc is a fool, and these most recent decisions make that clear. However, unlike your people, goblins do not tolerate ignorance, foolishness, or mistakes. I will help you." Those words had a sense of finality that made it apparent that Gorbag's pledge was one of urgent necessity and desperation. "Perhaps my people should reevaluate our opinion of humanity. Perhaps you are not all as stupid as you appear... I will go with you, and, as long as I continue breathing, Voldemort will never see the Goblins outlive their usefulness."

With that, Gorbag stomped away, and ordered his soldiers to hide. They were to hold silent and unknown until he sent word.

Sam wiped his hand across the invisibility wall, silently shattering their. He turned and winked at Gorbag Borra, and led the way to the Department of Mysteries, hoping he wouldn't regret this.