I believe I can say with some confidence that I am among the very last of my kind. Over the years my kin have dwindled and diminished. Some were hunted and killed by your kind. Out of fear, or fun, or to take our power. Others seemed simply to grow weary, lost their passion for the world and its ever decreasing wonders, and in time faded away. A few of us still remain of course, the world is after all a bigger and stranger place than your kind give it credit.

We each of us have, or had, our role or duty. Some of us hung the dewy cobwebs on a fresh spring morn. Others conducted the sonorous rumble of a thunder clap. Or dusted the delicate patterns of a winter’s frost upon your window pane. Gave every star in the sky its twinkle.

All these things still go on of course. But no hand guides them, no mind directs what arrangement or composition should look most pleasing. Now it is nothing more than brute nature at play, without intent or artistry. If your elders tell you that the world used to be a more vibrant, beautiful place they are correct. The world also used to be a far more dangerous and capricious place, so make of that what you will

I don’t know if the need for us has diminished, but it certainly seems that the desire for us has. The world that your kind has built no longer seems to want us in it. Day by day we find a little less space for us, a little less welcome for us. Nevertheless I still go about my appointed duty, humble as it may be.

My purpose, if you wish to consider it that, is to set the course of the glittering motes which dance and twirl in a sunbeam. It is graceful work, perhaps not as showy or bombastic as others. It has never attracted much attention, and I have not the notoriety of some of my fellowes such as Jack Frost or Jack o' the Green. I was never well known at the best of times, my name long since lost to history. No, I shall not divulge it here.

I believe I have an entry in Munroe's Glossary of the Occult, though he does include one or two inaccuracies. Even so, I doubt any copies remain. It is for the best, there is a power in names. To know a thing's name is to single it out amongst all of the wide world, to rip it free from it and hold it in isolation. It is no mere thing.

Which is why it was an immensely distressing feeling to hear my name spoken without warning or preamble, for the first time in nearly a thousand years. I felt myself being summoned. It was an irresistible pull. Every piece of my being, grasped at and dragged screeching across the world. My very nature contained and held upon the tip of someone’s tongue. I had only a moment to divest myself of the quotidian attire I wore and robe myself in my formal raiment. In the blink of an eye I was there.

I stood before a young girl, no older than five or six.

She paid me no heed. She sat on the floor, her attention focused on some crude rag doll held in her hands. I allowed myself a moment to gather my thoughts and take stock of my new surroundings. A simple garden, grass neatly trimmed, a wooden fence, its paint well faded. Ahead of me, a rather ugly looking box of a house.

“Ahem…” I politely coughed, hoping to attract the attention of my summoner. Startled by the noise she looked up and saw me before her. The mild look of apprehension on her face dissolved in an instant, her eyes grew wide and a joyous smile lit up her face.

She repeated my name, which I shall not record here, in an excited cry and awkwardly clambered to her feet. I bowed low as etiquette and custom dictated.

“You have summoned me. Though I know not how you have come across my name. By the roots of the rivers and the bones of the earth, I am bound to heed your command.”

She merely giggled. Undaunted I continued:

“Where did you learn my name? From which ancient tome or loose lipped spirit was the information pried?”

“It’s your name silly, nobody had to tell me it.” the girl replied. She thrust forward her hand, in which was gripped the dirty rag doll. Peering closer at the repugnant trinket I did begrudgingly notice a crude similarity in garb and mien between it and myself. I began to form an awful suspicion in my head.

“You named this doll yourself I suppose?”

“Yes! It’s a funny name. Do you like it?”

“Quite so.” My pride well and truly picked, I made ready to put this embarrassing situation far behind me. “Well if you would excuse me I would depart” So spoken I drew myself up to my full height and tried to maintain as dignified an air as was possible given the circumstances.

“No I want to play” she exclaimed, as I felt myself sag in response.

The old rules dictated that I was unable to disappear without her leave. I was for all intents her prisoner though she didn’t know it. I would obey her commands until she was satisfied with my service and let me go.

“Very well child, if that is what you require of me, then we shall… play.”

With that, she skipped off towards the bottom of her garden where a small hawthorn copse lay. She paused and beckoned for me to follow. Reluctantly, though unavoidably, I accompanied her.

It has been two years since that day and she still refuses to dismiss me. In that time I have discovered that I am quite proficient at ‘Hide & Seek’ and though I am loathe to admit it, I do pride myself on the quality of my flower crowns.

Now I‘m afraid I must leave you. I have a tea party to attend and it is rude to keep one’s host waiting.

Fourteen cats seemed like a good round number. Loth had just enough kibble in the giant bag he carried to fill each bowl with the appropriate amount.

Gar, an orange tabby he'd rescued from a garbage bin meowed in protest at the amount.

Loth bent over and hissed. "The vet says you're getting too fat. Don't blame me."

He stood upright, the bones in his back popped like fireworks. He wasn't sure if being a lich made his back hurt more in the bitter cold but it didn't help. He missed flesh some days. Or rather he missed the memory of warmth.

With the last of the food gone he'd have to bike into town or the rest of his cat herd would resort to murder and there were some very tasty looking kids in the suburb that had sprung up near his cottage several years ago.

Loth put on his heaviest robe and a pair of pink mirrored sunglasses. He had just enough magic left for a mirage spell. People saw a wizened old man with a hump and a shuffling walk. He added a multicolored scarf he'd knitted last winter to the ensemble.

He rode on his ancient red Schwinn, his robe a billow of black behind him. The closest town wasn't much of a town. Just a few stores and a post office. He went to Maggie Cooper's general store because she stocked the organic food his horde of kitties demanded.

He waved to her as he pondered a pink mouse cat toy. Goober or Gary might be into it. He heard a gasp from somewhere behind him and turned to see an old woman staring at him with her hand over her mouth. Her face was haloed in wrinkles, leaving only two small black eyes.

"Mishko Velnias?"

Loth looked down and away. "You are mistaken madam."

"No please. I have paid the price. I have sacrificed so many. But you never answered me," she sobbed.

He'd gone deaf to prayers ages ago and had been thankful for the silence. So many voices all saying the same thing: I want I want I want.

Loth shrugged. "I am not the one you named." He shuffled to the counter with his bag of cat food and one single orange. Maggie raised her eyebrows at him as the old woman followed him, pleading and crying.

"Lois, do you want me to call your grandson?" she asked the old woman.

"No, I want him to give me what he's supposed to," she yelled back. Her eyes were red and swollen as she pulled at Loth's robe.

He felt his image flickering, sputtering as his worshiper tore into him. His eyes glowed red. His horns sprouted, dripping with red. He roared and she cowered, kneeling at his feet.

"Please," she whispered.

He reached with his spirit, pulling hers free from her withered body. Her soul, black and liquid, funneled into his open mouth.

He left her body on the floor, taking his sack of kibbles and his orange. The bell on the door heralded his exit.

When he got home he touched the orange with his bone fingers, imbuing it with a tiny piece of the old woman's soul. The orange split, sprouting a small sapling bud in his palm. He would plant it next to the other fruit trees the cats liked to climb.

Ain’t none who knows of me no more, my name been lost too long. My job is simple, I keep the magma flowing; keep the ice from freezing all the land.

Not much to it, I’m not a volcano god just a simple magma spirit. Used to be something more though, I used to be married to a great giantess. I was her real first spouse, well before the incident that is. See my land was altered, I’m not sure if you understand what that means because those reading this are human. When land changes certain spirits are directly affected. Some die, others change, the lucky ones can go elsewhere.

Me? I was changed so much my own wife did not recognize me. She cast me out of the house claiming we were never married. My very existence was rewritten, and of course time erased what little knowledge of me existed from history.

For centuries, no eons since then I’ve simply gone through the motions. Tending my magma fields and lava tubes. Keeping the ice from freezing everything, heating the land from below so life can flourish.

So imagine my surprise when a few days ago an exhausted human appeared near the edge of my domain screaming out my long lost original name. My first name of all things. That’s the last thing I ever expected to hear. My name was that of a long gone forest on a long altered mountain from which my magma now flows, yet this human somehow knew it.

Curious I appeared before them. Trying my best to appear intimidating I asked “How dare you speak my name? What do you want from me human?”

The small mortal fell to its knees and began posturing like a beggar. Weeping it pleaded “oh please great first yet forgotten husband of Gryla, aid me. Her sons with her most recent spouse have been wreaking havoc across the lands. Please I’m begging you, make them stop.”

Hearing my ex wife’s name stirred something in me, but that was not enough to make me want to do anything about her kids with whatever husband she was on now. I mean the few children she had with me are dead, and she doesn’t remember me.

Yet still, I felt like I might have it in me to help this human if they gave me a good enough reason. So I asked it “ What could these sons be doing that could be so horrible you would seek me out? I am a forgotten spirit, twisted and lost; why ask me for help?”

The human started wailing off all the things these thirteen little brats had done, and by the time they were done I decided to help. Bowl licker, Spoon Licker, and Pan scraper are part of the reason sure.

But the real reason is Door Slammer, what he does is just wrong. And since my ex wife and her now ex husband refuse to do anything, I guess it’s only right I help put a stop to this mess.

I just hope the humans don’t mind the fact magma and fire will be involved. The one who begged for my aid and boon said they won’t mind, but it can’t be that bad right?

Turns out it was that bad, in fact it was worse. But the human begged me with my long forgotten name so I’m going to try to help stop these rampaging lads. After all it feels good to hear it after so long, and maybe if I do a good job helping them out they’ll add me to their traditions.

A forgotten folk spirit can dream, now it’s time to discipline some horrible no good very bad lads.

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