Chapter 1

Wil counted tomatoes instead of sheep.

Only forty-two tomatoes. Last year spawned sixty-one, the year before that eighty-five.

Despite the gnome's attempts to immerse himself in the purity of laborious work, and in the visceral beauty of the world, the burden of numbers weighed on him. He had to be a better leader. This year the garden must stun with its color and abundance so he could hold his head high.

Wil gave up sleep, rose from his nest, and stretched. The beginnings of a spring sunrise filtered through the window. After removing his blanket and folding it into a perfect square, he laid it on the foot of his bed with the edges parallel to the bed frame. He rubbed his forehead and yawned.

Two squirrels tore through his space and across his bed, knocking his blanket into disarray.

"Have you no respect?" He lifted his blanket by two corners and examined it. Those dirty squirrels.

They scurried along the attic rafters and jumped out the window.

At least the squirrels ran from him. The insects would never respect him, and the birds continued to sate their appetites with worms. No matter how many charms he used to ward off Roddy, the insolent rabbit still devoured the plants, and the Big Ones trampled the garden with their cloddish feet. After the disasters last year, he needed a new approach. I must be stern.

He leaned out his window and savored the sweetness of the forsythia buds wafting upwards from his kingdom below. Underlying the fragrance lay the reeking sour secrets of the Far Woods.

From this vantage point, not a speck of green brightened the emptiness of the garden, and bits of broken mirror sparkled in the mud to scare away Rossos, the large, red, demonic birds. A city of nests in the large walnut tree loomed over the edge of the garden plot, an ugly reminder of his failures.

A cracked egg lay under the tree. The exposed Rosso's pathetic little wings lay spread in an imitation of the flight it would never achieve. He couldn't wait until its carcass crawled with ants.

In the distance beyond the woods, the hill peaked with bright yellowy rocks; on the other side of the garden lay the fenced-in cow field with the lone bull at watch. The whole farm topped a hill; streams rushed in torrents down to the river when it rained.

The cold gray day matched his mood. Thunder echoed in the far distance, and deep inside him, a hum started, first as a tickle, then a roar. The hum filled him from the top of his head down to his feet. It was time!

Wil jumped out the window and hurried down the trellis on the side of the house. The chill of the early spring air bit into his cheeks as he raced through new grass to the garden. Wil veered off the path to stomp on the egg. "Take that." He winced when the shell ground into his foot with a satisfying crunch. The thrumming was louder now, and rhythmic.

He stood at attention; his focus shifted inwards as he slowly stepped to an internal beat.

"The worms come," he declared, hands held high. Although only the size of a large raccoon, in the gloom he towered over the garden. Queen Coon would envy his magic if the spell succeeded this time. His soles tingled and grew numb in the cold mud. He spun until his vision fogged and the landscape blurred. Delirious, he collapsed to the ground and sat, breathless and eager for the rain offering. Expecting a drink, the trees turned their budding leaves upside down and outwards, painting the forest a pale green.

A cold drop of water splashed his bald head, so icy it shivered deep inside his mind.

"Drop one."

He stiffened as another hit. "That's two."

He counted until the numbers hit the hundreds. Water collected across his forehead and slid into his eyes, blinding him like the old befuddled scarecrow. He rejoiced at the taste of spring on his lips. Water dripped down his back, washing away his winter boredom and cleaning the haunting thoughts from his mind.

"Perfect day for a birthing." He gauged the interest of the Rossos lining the branches of the walnut tree as if ready for attack. Water glistened off their scaly bodies. Others mottled the sky in swooping, bloody circles. The garden waited. Animals breathed slowly in unison to avoid scaring off the rain. Rodents quieted, hunkering down under nearby bushes.

The sky would birth worms in the slow hiss of the morning drizzle. Wil's gut clenched in a protective panic. He scanned for pale pink writhing in the muck. If only someone could help with the rescue.

A few feet away, a worm struggled in a small puddle. He ran to it and dropped to his knees, mindless of the immediate shock of cold spatter. Trembling, he whispered, "All is well."

He cupped the worm in his hands and folded the ends of his shirt to form a pouch to hold it against his warm stomach.

Copyright © 2007 Parker Owens.