“Oh, I dunno.” The goblin gave an enormous shrug. “I never thought to ask it its name afore.”

“But you just said…”

“Don’t jump in. And I wouldn’t! Filthy blighter, the Poddle.”

Pocket found his mouth hanging open.

“Now if I was to kill meself I would go with…,” the goblin’s fingers dragged at an imaginary beard, “…drowning!”

Pocket looked at the river and then back at the goblin. “But…”

“Not by the river! By somewhat more exotic. Keg of ale, no…wine! Oh no wait, the blood of a thousand vanquished foes. No, too terrible. Fresh cream! Ooohhh!” Pocket watched as the goblin did a little jump and pointed at him in excitement. “Teats!”

“Teats?”

There was gold in his smile as well as in his ear. “Teats. Only way to drown, I say. In mounds of soft, warm, round, unblemished flesh.” There was an awkward moment where Pocket watched the goblin close his eyes and revel in a pantomime of his preferred demise. The hand gestures were very specific. At last the goblin stopped the charade, but kept his eyes closed and his face uplifted to the sky as if bathing in the warmth of the sun.

“Sir?” Pocket asked after a moment.

The goblin opened his eyes and looked at him. “Sire!”

“Sire?”

“Are you not a king?”

“No.”

“And I am no knight! No more sirs, sire.”

Pocket was having trouble keeping up. “But I do not know your name.”

The goblin leaned down slightly. It was not a long trip, he was hardly taller than Pocket, but his bulk made it a bit alarming. “I will tell you it today, since we just met, but henceforth you must guess it.”

“Alright,” Pocket agreed reluctantly. “What is it?”

“You must guess.”

“But you said you would tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Your name.”

“What is my name?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well guessed! Clever lad, my name today is Muckle. How ever did you know? And what should I call you?”

“Pocket.”

“Oh this,” the goblin reached in his pants. “It’s just a fish.”

“No.” Pocket could not help but laugh. “It’s my name.”

The goblin straightened abruptly and wrinkled his considerable nose. “Your name is Fish?”

“No. Pocket!”

“Oh!” Muckle breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank Girth and Moan for that.”

Pocket did not know what that meant but was afraid to ask any more questions.

“That’s why I would not want to drown in the river,” Muckle told him. “You’d be ate by fish.” He regarded the dead one in his hand with intense scrutiny. “Fish are cheeky. They never blink. Nothing cheekier than a bloke who won’t stop staring.”

Pocket could not help himself. “Why do keep one in your breeches?”

“I like cheeky.” Muckle winked and tucked the fish away. “So, what do you reckon? A high fall? Poison? Tell a coburn it’s nothing but an overgrown chicken?”

“What?”