Home, no matter where it is, should offer love and security, and mothers, especially Gnome mothers, go to great pains to protect their homes, and their gnomelings. One Abigail Gnome, however, learned the hard way to stop showing favor to one child over another, when little Unger disappeared. Let's listen to her silloquey. . .

Arthritis, cataracts. I abhore the idea of growing old. And these children! My goodness, how these children of mine complicate my life. That is why we have always lived on the edge of the forest. Life tends to be more simple, less problematic.

Take my kitchen, if you will. Well, I don't mean for you to actually take my kitchen physically, because I really do love it. My husband, Blunderbore, you know--he built it. The fieldstone fireplace is unique in that I can prepare an entire meal in its wide opening, and I simply could never, ever part with my collection of baskets and copper cookware.

Well, anyway, you know children. Bless your heart. Yes, you do. They never listen. At least, one of my two never does. Or perhaps it just seems that he never does. That would be Unger. He runs, and plays, and messes the house, and never comes into the kitchen to help. Ignis, on the other hand, is different. What a good boy.

Ignis loves to help in the kitchen. Why just this morning, quite early, while I was baking bread, he hopped upon a seat and presented me with the most lovely red flower.

I was so taken aback that I stopped my chores and made him a quick breakfast of his favorite gruel, sliced hot bread, and honey butter. Things were moving along quite nicely until his younger brother, Unger, came upon the scene, at which time they began thrashing and boxing on the floor. Then all of a sudden, Unger, thinking he could outrun me took off, with a hot bun, through the kitchen door. Well, I tell you, I am not that old, so I took off after him. Land's sake. I am a good mother, don't you know? My boys don't get away with diddly-squat, especially Unger.

But yesterday, I er, well, I guess one could say that I, er, well, I sort of lost Unger. So young. So restless. So foolish. Unger--that is. I sat on a tree stump to think. Where in the world could he be? Then I decided to let him go. Let him see what lies in the forest denizen. If he disregards my warnings let him get lost. He deserves what the night will bring upon him. Then my thoughts got the best of me because he is so terribly afraid of owls. Of course, owls ARE a natural enemy of Gnomes, so how in the world can I possibly hold that against him. What mother wants her child carried off by an owl, I ask you?

With this thought in mind, instead of returning to our home in the Old Tree Trunk of Skildoo, I wandered deeper and deeper into the black, forbiding forest. In spite of my concern for Unger, I shuddered and considered more than once of turning back. The forest was dank. Shadows with long, boney fingers taunted me, while strange Siren-like noises, that I had never heard before, beckoned me on. I pressed deeper and deeper into the unknown, into the bracken, so thick and dense that my skin became iced from the cold sweat of fear.

I became tired. The thought occurred to me that I must be growing old after all. All of a sudden I pitched head first over a large festering root. After I had regained my balance, and composure, I crawled on my hands and knees, screaming for help. Really, I did not know who it was that was suppose to hear me, for I was dreadfully and hopelessly lost. Yes. I, the mother, was lost! I sat on a large rock and cried. After a good cry, I reached into the pocket of my white apron for my supper of bread, and the few mushrooms which I had gathered along the way. It was too dark to find my way home, so feeling somewhat satisfied, I curled upon a large rock to rest.

It was then that I heard the heavy footsteps, and for one awful instant, I felt to be in a most terrible danger. Sensing the presence before seeing it, I roused myself from my comfort, and staggered across the forest floor, though sluggish from my repast. Oh! How my hip ached.

The faster I ran, the louder the footsteps became. They were behind me, in front on me, on each side of me. It was unclear if they were following me--OR, if I were following them. Oh! I was so confused. I don't know how I made it back to our home in The Old Tree Trunk of Skildoo, but I did. I fell through the front door and latched it. I whispered a short prayer, crept to the window, and pulled back the curtain just a little, steeling myself for what I thought must surely be the messenger of a grizzly, tortuous death.

I awakened the next morning, after having dozed in a chair all night, to the fresh baked aroma of Bonne Bouche--Ignis is such a good boy. My bones were stiff and I ached all over, but I made my way into the kitchen.

"We have company for breakfast, Mama." As I stood gazing at him in open-mouthed surprise, the uninvited guest told me that he must be on his way, and thanked us for the meal. His footsteps, echoing all around me, were heavy as he departed.

I inquired of Ignis what the stranger had wanted and was told that he was looking for a little boy who was lost, but he had found him.

After finding a clean white apron, I opened the front door to admit the fresh new breeze on my tired, aching body. Then calling to the wind, I cried out in anguish, "Where, Oh! Where is MY little boy?"

"Hi, Mommy. What's for breakfast?"

This is a work or fiction by Virginia Marin. It may not be copied, altered, or removed off this site without my written consent. Thank you for respecting my individuality and hard work.

Hosted by   Get your own Free Home Page