Where the Path Leads-Chapter 19

Very Small People

            Even though it wasn’t very cold, Emily lay shivering on the mossy bed beneath the oak tree most of the night, whether from the dampness of her clothes or from uneasiness, or both, she wasn’t sure. A slight breeze murmured eerily through the leaves, and she kept hearing unfamiliar sounds nearby—scratching, hooting, baying, and once, the scream of an animal that was surely being killed. 

            She continued to turn over in her mind the task she’d taken on and how she would accomplish it. How was she to find the abyss? What was to stop her from just leaving?  But she pictured Sophia locked away on the third floor of the manor house. The Seneschal was counting on her not forgetting her friend.

            And she wouldn’t.

            Images of  sunlight slanting in the doorway of Sophia’s cottage came back to her. The earthy smell of the continuous cauldron. Sophia bending down showing her how to milk Blossom. Sophia sitting at her loom, her work worn fingers slipping through the threads, hardly looking at what she was doing half the time. No. She wouldn’t desert her. She reviewed her plan. Tomorrow, try to find Annamund, then go together, or alone if Annamund could point the way, towards the abyss. She really hoped Annamund would be her guide. She really hoped she could find her. So much hinged on that. And she had to be back by All Hallows Eve. Could she do that? How had she ever gotten into this?

            Despite her worries, the steady hum of crickets lulled her and she couldn’t stop yawning. Finally she closed her eyes and the forest sounds receded from her consciousness.

            She awoke with a start, aware that she had dozed off but was now on high alert. What had woken her? She strained to see and hear in the dark. There was something near her. A sound, just to her right. Rustling. Snuffling. She froze, although her instincts were screaming–RUN! Whatever was making the noise might not realize she was there, though she wondered if it heard the loud thudding of her heart. Now the rustling was right beside her. Instinctively, she began drawing away, but then a twig snapped.

            The snuffling sound stopped. 

            Straining to see, she could barely discern the outline of a creature, and now it knew she was there. Hardly daring to breathe, she lay motionless, staring into the darkness to determine its next move. Gradually, she saw something long and curving. Oh my god! Boar tusks! In that frozen instant of recognition, all the tales of Thea and Will came flooding back to her, about boars’ love of acorns, about their viciousness, about how they could attack so quickly that the thought of escape couldn’t even cross a person’s mind before the boar had sunk in its killing tusks.  This one was right next to her, close enough that she could smell its foul pig odor.

            Her mind went blank and she broke into a cold sweat, slowly backing away on hands and knees. But the boar began to make a low guttural noise, like a growl.  Or . . . was it coming from somewhere else? From something else? Her stomach quivered like jelly. Something . . . behind her! 

             With a sudden brush she felt whatever it was behind her lunge, and she screamed as the dark streak hurtled past, hitting the boar with tremendous power, the two exhaling on the force of impact, then instantly becoming a howling, snarling, twisting mass within the darkness, fighting with a viciousness she could barely endure. As they thrashed and struggled, she leapt out of the way just as their howling mass crashed towards her. For an instant she saw the gleaming white tusks again in the darkness as the boar ran towards her, but the other animal intercepted it before it reached her, only this time whatever it was took the blow of those killing tusks, howling piteously. 

            She wanted to get away, to run from there as fast as she could, but she was paralyzed with fear, and something else. Curiosity? Concern? Had some creature saved her twice now from being attacked by the boar? It sounded like whatever it was had been seriously injured. Shouldn’t she try to do something before it was killed?

            Searching desperately in the darkness, she ground her fingernails into the earth and loosened a large rock, hefting it as high as she could into the air. Using all her strength, she lobbed it at the dark mass of the boar as it ran towards the other animal, now lying motionless on the ground.

            The boar was a moving target, and in the dark. She had never been able to throw very accurately but by some miracle the boulder connected with the boar’s head and knocked it sideways onto the ground with a resounding humpf.  For moments both animals lay without moving, then the boar struggled to its feet and retreated from the oak tree as fast as its short legs would carry it.

            She remained there trembling, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, and for a long time didn’t move. Was the other creature dead? If it was mortally wounded by those tusks, there was nothing she could do for it, and she wasn’t about to stay here anymore tonight. Finding her way slowly, carefully in the dark, she finally sat with her back against another tree some distance away, resolving to go back in the morning and check on her rescuer, at least find out what it was.

            After the boar fight she didn’t think she could sleep . . . but somehow she did. When she awoke, the trees were visible, though it still seemed half dark. A fine drizzle had begun, adding to the gloom and amplifying her terrifying experience.

            She rose stiffly from her slumped position on the ground, shivering and rubbing her arms for warmth. She dreaded going back to the scene of last night’s fray; nevertheless, she had to see what had saved her.  As she set out, her heart began to thud. It was easy to find the oak tree from the night before, but she slowed down when approaching it, still wary.

            The drizzle was a bit heavier now and moisture dripped from the leaves. She brushed it from her face and hunched her shoulders. Pausing, she scanned the scene of last night’s battle. The oak tree and surrounding undergrowth looked normal, as if nothing had happened, but to someone who knew, the signs were there: broken branches, long ruts in the ground from the boar’s sharp, cloven hooves, spatters of blood on the leaves. And to one side, partially concealed by a hawthorn bush, a dark mass lay motionless on the ground, twigs and leaves stuck to its fur as if it had dragged itself there.         

            The mist on her face made her feel like she was walking through a cloud, and a sense of unreality pervaded the place as she tiptoed towards the still mass. It was a black dog, but not just an ordinary dog, the most enormous dog she’d ever seen, more the size of a small pony.  It was bigger even than Big Ben, but its wiry black hair was stiff and matted with blood. Just as in dreams there is no logic, she now suddenly knew, without anyone telling her, that the dog had been sent to help her.

            Kneeling beside it, Emily first tried to determine if it was still alive. She bent low to see if it was breathing but was immediately confronted with the pink and red of the exposed flesh of its injuries. Her initial response was to recoil, but she forced herself to watch the dog, relieved to finally see the barest rising and falling of the chest, though the eyes were closed, the mouth partially open, and the tongue hanging out. She stroked the head with the barest touch and gasped, jerking her hand back as the dog opened its yellow eyes and drew its tongue back in. But instead of a growl, it whined softly.

            The long gash from the boar’s tusk ran across its shoulder and, although it was no longer bleeding profusely, trickles of blood still made their way down the dog’s side. One of its ears had been slashed too, and she couldn’t tell what injuries it might have on the other side.

            “Poor dog.” Her head was swimming with thoughts, but even as she wondered what to do, the black dog looked at her inquiringly, and weakly thumped its tail.  She smiled, remembering how afraid she’d been at first of Big Ben. Although this dog was even more fearsome, it had helped her, and now she had to return the favor. But how?

            She stood up and sighed, crossing her arms thoughtfully. She started walking just to help her think. He, it must be a he, weren’t male dogs bigger than females? He was too heavy for her to carry, and she had no idea how to make a litter. If she left him here and came back, would she be able to find him again? Would some other animal bother him?  And whom could she get? Not Will or Sophia, and no one in the village would even talk to her. Her mind full of thoughts, she was not paying attention to where she was walking, and she stepped on an acorn, her heel landing on it squarely.

            “Owww!” she exclaimed. “Darn those bergfolk!” For having taken her shoes. She picked up the acorn and threw it.

            “Ouch!” came back a voice.

            Startled, she looked around, but couldn’t see anyone. She thought wryly, next the trees will start talking. “Who’s there?”she demanded. 

            A faint chuckle made her look down.

            Not far away stood the smallest man she’d ever seen. He came only halfway up her shins. His face was browned and wrinkled, as if weathered by the outdoors, but was also partially covered with a long white beard and mustache. His tall, pointed hat was easy to see in the woods because it was red; he also wore a blue coat, tan pants, and the most interesting shoes she’d ever seen, made of birch bark.

             “Did I hit you?”  If she had, that would make two things in as many days.  Her aim must be improving.

            “You did,” he said laughing, rubbing the back of his head with a small, gnarled hand, then peering at her curiously, his sparkling black eyes making him look like a miniature Santa.

            “Umm . . . who are you?” She really wanted to ask what are you, since she had never met anyone so diminutive, but she thought that sounded rude. Besides, she was beginning to realize that this forest was home to many strange beings.

            “Well, it’s been a long while since I’ve made a new acquaintance, but now I don’t think that’s how it’s done. You’re supposed to introduce yourself first, before asking me my name. Isn’t that how it goes?”  

            She smiled at his insistence on formality which seemed so incongruous with their surroundings and with his size.

            “I’m Emily,” she said, with a slight bow.

            “How do you do, Emily.” He bowed in return. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Oderic the gnome, at your service. Truthfully, I’m as surprised to see you as you are to see me. Does Baron Longsword know you’re walking in the forest? It belongs to him, I‘ve heard.”

            Her forehead puckered in a frown.  “Well, no, but . . . .”  She wasn’t sure how much to tell him about why she was here, the task assigned by the Seneschal, or how she had to do it to save Sophia. But then she remembered the dog. “Actually, there’s an animal here that’s been injured, a dog. I was trying to decide what to do.”  She gestured behind her, unsure how much the small man could help, but perhaps he’d have some ideas. “Do you know anyone who could help him?”

            Oderic walked towards her, his bushy white eyebrows suddenly drawn together with seriousness.

            “Yes. I can.”

            She must have looked skeptical because he followed that up with a command.

            “Show me where he is. Or is it a she?” He looked around.

            Emily began walking back to the dog. “This way.” She explained that she didn’t know the dog’s gender but assumed he was a male because of his size.

            Suddenly, Oderic was in front of her and she found herself hurrying to catch up, surprised at how quickly he walked.

            “Fortunate that I came this way today. I wanted to see my birth tree.  Just checking to see how old I am,” he said garrulously. “Not that I concern myself much with age, but I thought I might have a birthday coming up.”

            She looked puzzled. How could he not know his own birthday? “How does a tree tell you how old you are?”

            “It records when I was born, of course.”  He acted as if that were the most natural thing.

            Emily thought of the large, spreading oak he’d been standing near when they met. She didn’t know much about trees, but the oak tree in their front yard at home had grown very little in the six years they’d been renting the house. They must take a very long time to get big.

            “How old are you?” 

            He stopped to look up at her. “Mistress Emily, that’s the second time this morning you’ve forgotten your manners. Have they gone out of fashion with all of you?”

            “All of who?”

            “Mortals, of course.” He began walking again.        

            What a strange thing to call her, she thought, as she hurried to catch up with him again. “Sorry.”

            “That’s all right,” he said. “You just took me by surprise, asking your elders their age, and I’m definitely your elder.” His eyes twinkled as he looked up at her again. “According to the tree, I’ll be 275 within the month.”  When her eyes widened, he chuckled, a small belly laugh.

            However, for someone so small and so old, he was sprightly. 

            “Are there other gnomes in the forest?” she asked, trying to keep up.

            “Oh yes. Plenty,” he said, holding his tall red hat as he ducked underneath a tree trunk lying near the ground.

             She had to step over it, but before she could ask any more, they came to where the dog lay unmoving but with its yellow eyes open. Oderic stood beside the dog considering the wound thoughtfully. 

            “Boar tusks.”

            She nodded, wondering how he knew.

            “They don’t realize how sharp they are,” he said, shaking his head as he took off the woven basket he carried like a backpack, then took off his blue coat, and finally rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “’Course you can’t blame them much for not liking dogs, given how the hunters urge great packs of them to torment the solitary beasts. But he should’ve known Gabriel here.”

            “You know him?” she asked, amazed. 

            Out of the woven basket he took a knife, a large needle, and a ball of fine thread. “Goodness, yes. Most everyone in Blackwood and beyond knows Gabriel Ratchet.

Though they hope not to be the one to hear him yelping. Usually you find him with the Mistress of the Creatures, though.”

            “He’s Annamund’s dog?”

            Oderic looked up from what he had started doing, scraping slowly and carefully with his knife around the dog’s wound to remove the nearby fur. “I didn’t say he belongs to her.” He resumed scraping away the fur. “He just usually accompanies her.”

            “Why don’t they want to hear him yelp?”

            “Well, the saying goes that if you hear Gabriel Ratchet yelping in the night, someone is going to die. And if you’re the one to hear it up close . . . ,” he shook his head.

            “Are you a doctor?” she couldn’t resist asking.

            “A what?” He looked confused. “I’m just a friend to animals.” 

            After he was finished with the tedious business of scraping fur from around the edges of the wound, he rummaged in his woven basket again until he took out something that looked like an acorn with a stopper in the top. Gabriel lifted his head off the ground to look curiously at the gnome who carefully climbed atop the dog’s shoulder and, removing the stopper, poured the milky liquid from the acorn bottle all along the edges of the wound.

            “What’s that?” She said, curious.

            “Poppy milk. An anesthetic so he won’t feel the needle. Now Mistress Emily, how about building a fire, so we can boil this needle properly and clean it before I stitch Gabriel here back together.”

            “I . . . I don’t know how,” she confessed.

            “How have you been getting along then, child?”  Oderic seemed amazed.

            It relieved her embarrassment when this very small person called her a child, and she shrugged.  

            “How do you cook your food? Where is your food?” He looked around. “No store of provisions? When she shook her head, he said, “You come into Blackwood forest with no stores? Are you running away from something?” For a moment concern filled his small brown face, but then he brightened again. “Never mind. You can tell me later, after we cook something to eat.” 

            The promise of food made her heart leap.

            “For now,” he continued, “We’ll build a fire while this comfort aid takes effect.” He slid down from the dog’s shoulder. The poppy milk already seemed to be relaxing Gabriel who had laid his head back on the ground, his eyes drowsy and half closed.

            Emily wondered if the dog could be saved. But then–who knew what secret remedy Oderic might be carrying in his backpack?