Opposing the goblins’ depthless materialism is the Princess Irene’s great-great-grandmother, who dwells in a tower that “does not exist” to most servants and rational adults. The grandmother is arguably one of the most original theological figures in English literature. She is not an allegory for God; she is a literary imago of the divine as immanent, creative, and intimately domestic. She spins, she tends pigeons, she lights a fire, and she bathes. Her miracles are quiet: a lamp that never goes out, a thread that cannot be broken, a room that appears only to those who seek it with the right heart.
"'The king's men are on the road to the Crystal Cave,' said the messenger; 'and we have to get to the old tower before they do. There are strange rumors about the princess; and if she once gets into the hands of the king's men, all will be lost.'" the princess and the goblin
The novel’s climactic flood, in which the goblins’ own subterranean kingdom is destroyed by water from the mountain’s core, is a masterstroke of symbolic justice. The goblins sought to flood the human mines; instead, their own tunnels become their tomb. But MacDonald does not revel in their destruction. The ending is quiet, almost anticlimactic. The goblins vanish, the princess is safe, and the grandmother’s tower disappears from view. Life returns to the ordinary. This is crucial: MacDonald is not writing a fantasy of perpetual magic. The supernatural intervenes precisely to restore the natural to its proper health. The grandmother’s work is done when Irene and Curdie have learned to see rightly. The thread is withdrawn, not because it was unreal, but because its purpose—to lead through a specific crisis—has been fulfilled. The ordinary world, now understood as shot through with hidden meaning, is the true stage for human courage. She spins, she tends pigeons, she lights a