Gnome for Christmas

Picture: Luise Begas-Parmentier, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Gnome For Christmas

The snail mail was late again. Not that Jack had a home to go to, instead of waiting in the office. With his boots propped on the desk, his hand slid by habit into the drawer and caressed smooth glass. He pulled out the bottle and tipped a measure of the hard stuff into his empty coffee mug. The foxglove nectar slid down his throat like molten gold, and burned in his stomach like poison.

Dawn ran a crack along the horizon before an antenna peeped over his windowsill, followed by Sam Snail.

“Mail for you, Mr Slayer,” Postie Sam said, using his antenna to sort out a pile of leaves from his shell saddlebags.

“All bills again,” Jack said.

Postie Sam dropped the pile of leaves and slid away, barely leaving a track on the porcelain sill. Jack took another slug of the hard stuff. Barely a finger left in the bottle. Given the current state of his finances, he couldn’t afford a new jug from the Bee Brewers.

Fortified, he picked up the pile of leaves and flung them onto his desk. Dropping his feet to the floor, he flipped through the leaves. Best to learn the worst. Bill. Bill. Final Demand. Bill. Bi… No! No one sent a bill on the finest rose petals. Chucking the rest of the post into the compost basket, he stared at the rose letter. Who was sending him a missive?

He slid a finger under the flap.

Help me, Mr Slayer! Meet me at the pond at high noon!

The fancily formed words burned his eyes. It was a Dame. No man wrote in such a rounded hand. Dropping the petal onto the desk, he reached again for the foxglove nectar, then stayed his hand. A Dame needed his help. They always did.

He scrunched the letter and aimed it at the compost basket. Then halted. She needed him. And he needed a wage. He flattened the note. Not a hint as to why? Jumping to his feet, he grabbed his fishing rod. Why not go over there? It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do.

Tugging his red hat over his ears, he bent the tip at a jaunty angle over his forehead. As he walked out of the door, he rubbed a sleeve over the brass plate fixed on the wall.

Jack T.G. Slayer

Private Investigator

For Luck. Even if the Dame didn’t show, maybe he’d catch one of those damned Koi carp this time.

He pulled the door closed on his office. The beanstalk stump house sat with the rest of the cracked ornaments, up against the hedge behind the compost heap. A high-class Dame who wrote on rose petals wouldn’t be seen dead on the wrong side of the garden.

The growing daylight from the rising sun drowned out the flashing fairy lights from the display in the next-door garden. Jack stuck to the path, even though it was the longer route. Frost had hardened the edges of the gnome-waist-high, grass blades. They glistened in the sunlight, like silvery snail tracks.

Jack slipped out from behind the fence that hid the compost heap and set his sights on the pond, a good hour’s walk for a gnome. He wouldn’t want to miss the chance at earning a few pebbles. His boots crunched the ice on the path, and he skated a few puddles, making good time. As he passed the orchard, the summer gnomes, displaced from the front garden by the Christmas decorations, had set up a beach party and BBQ in the sand pit.

At the corner of the house, a King, from the Nativity scene under the bay window by the front door, stubbed out his roll-your-own.

Christmas Decorations, Jack thought. They don’t even wear a proper gnome hat.

By the scent, the King’s smoke was grass and sage, peddled by the Caterpillar from his Mushroom stall in the herb garden. The King and a fellow wise man hauled their third man from the ground and dragged him onto the Christmas Train, heading back to their places in the Stable. Someone had partied a bit hardy last night at The Hive nightclub.

Jack continued on. Round the next corner lay the garden pond. A Japanese bridge crossed it. Underneath, the poor troll stuffed cotton wool in his ears as the Three Billy Goats Gruff trip trapped continually over the walkway. Jack sat on an artfully placed rock and cast his line into the pond, prepared to wait.

The sun was overhead as the dame approached. A white cloak shrouded her from head to foot. Mud clung to the base. It looked like a handkerchief that had fallen from the washing line. Watching her advance from the corner of his eye, Jack kept watch on the fishing pole, trying not to scare off a potential client who approached so hesitantly.

“Mr Slayer?” the voice was sweet and low. It sent shivers down his spine.

He glanced up and forced himself not to laugh. Time to show how good an investigator he was. “Good morning, Miss Peep.”

The woman gasped. “How did you know?”

“I have my ways, Miss Peep.” She was carrying her shepherdess’s crook. “How can I help you today?”

He hauled in the line and laid the rod against the rock. No sign of the Koi carp.

“It’s my sheep! They’ve gone missing,” Bo Peep said, flinging aside the cloak. Underneath, her flouncy blue and pink skirt was clean with fresh paint. Truly a loved ornament, compared with the peeling paint on his beanstalk. Her golden ringlets dropped artfully from the poke rim around her pink gnome cap. “I’ll do anything to get them back!”

She clasped her hands over her heart and nearly brained herself with the crook.

“It won’t come cheap,” Jack said.

“I said anything, and I meant it.” The Dame unhooked a frilly messenger bag from over her shoulder and upended it. Ten green pebbles tumbled with a crash to the ground. He scooped one up and bit the edge. Real dyed quartz, not resin.

“They glow in the dark too,” she said.

They’d look good around his beanstalk stump. Maybe good enough to get him out from behind the compost heap. He shook his head and let the pebble fall to join the others in the heap.

“They’re too valuable,” Jack said. “No one will accept them. These won’t cover expenses. Informants and information cost.”

She stomped a dainty foot. Then she flung a pouch at the ground near the pebbles.

Mixed colour gravel spilled on the ground. “This is all I have.”

Jack eyed the fresh paint on her skirt and hair, but made no comment. Fresh paint cost more than information. However, he crouched and scooped the gravel back into the pouch. “When did you last see your sheep?”

“They were in my plant pot, the day before yesterday, then yesterday, they were gone!”

“Under your nose?” He hefted the bag of gravel. A decent weight of information in there.

She blushed prettily. “I took a minute to talk to Little Boy Blue in the wild flower garden and when I got back. They were gone.”

More than a minute he’d guess, but Jack didn’t judge. He tucked the pouch under his belt. “I’ll get back to you. Where’s your home?”

“My shepherd’s hut resides under the box topiary near the rose arch on the back path.” Bo Peep clutched her shepherdess crook. “You really think you can help?”

Jack nodded, then picked up his fishing rod, as Bo Peep trotted away. She left behind the ten glowing pebbles.

Into the silence, the troll under the bridge screamed at the goats to stop their racket.

Jack scooped the pebbles into his sack. Hitching it and the rod over his shoulder, he set off. He’d make the Hive bar by happy hour at this rate. With a stipend to buy more foxglove nectar.

As The Hive Bar was in the orchard, Jack stopped off at home to drop off his fishing rod and pack. He took time to polish up the paint on his shabby cap. Winter dark oozed over the garden as he joined the crowds in the hottest night club in the cul-de-sac. Five motorcycle gnomes from Mrs-three-doors-up’s garden sang karaoke near the juke box.

Jack pushed through to the bar worked by the Three Bears. One drink, and then he’d start his investigation. He laid a piece of pink gravel on the counter. Mama Bear tapped it with a claw until he placed a second piece next to it.

“That’ll cover your tab,” she said scooping up the two pieces. “The usual will cost another gravel piece.”

That ate into his info fund, but Jack still slapped a third piece of gravel on the counter. Mama bear signalled to Goldilocks, who slid a jug of foxglove nectar down the polished wood. Mama bear set a small glass next to it, and walked away. Jack tipped a measure into the glass, then stoppered the jug and slid it under his gnome cap.

“Those next doors.” A shepherd wept into his barley water. “They’ve spent hundreds on their display and we have to reuse last year’s decorations. We’ll never win Best Display at this rate.”

Jack sipped his nectar and considered his next move. With no warning, a sharp object stroked the back of his neck like a knife.

“The bozz needz to zee you.” A hornet enforcer landed on the back of the chair next to him. Not a knife at his neck, a sting.

“What about?” Jack demanded.

“That’s for you to find out,” the enforcer said.

Another sting stroked his neck. He swatted it away. The enforcer behind him scraped a line over the back of Jack’s hand. But didn’t inject venom.

Jack threw back the amber shot and slammed the glass on the counter. “Fine, I’ll go see the boss.”

Hornets hummed around his head. Everyone in the bar edged away from his path to the back room. The motorcycle karaoke gang fell silent. The hornets buzzed him through a door at the back of the bar.

The room beyond was filled with damp, mossy couches. Frogs played roulette and cards. Snow White ran a black jack table in the corner. The hornets directed him to a booth at the back, where the Frogfather crouched waiting for him. Hanging on a daisy chain around his neck was a huge buttercup medallion bling. He watched Jack’s progress across the speakeasy with an unblinking gaze.

A princess, with a golden crown around her gnome cap, draped over him. If Jack remembered his fairytales, it must be the shallow princess. Her golden ball stood on the table. Jack halted and waited to be acknowledged.

The Frogfather licked his eye with a long, sticky tongue. “Siddown.”

Jack glanced at the damp moss. “I’d prefer to stand.”

The hornets buzzed at him pressing him into the mossy couch. Jack crouched, frog-like, hoping to spare his breeches from a soaking.

“Better,” the Frogfather said. “You took the Bo Peep case.”

It wasn’t a question, but Jack gave a single, sharp nod anyway.

“I insured those sheep,” the Frogfather said. “Find them, and your bar tab is paid until next Christmas.”

Jack blinked. That was generous. Too generous. “What are they insured for?”

“Not your business,” the Frogfather said. “Find those sheep, get them back to Bo Peep.

I’ll throw in a new paint job for you and the beanstalk stump.”

New paint could mean a move out from the slums around the compost heap. Jack left the Hive with the bottle of foxglove nectar in his cap. He had a lot to think about. Not least, that the Frogfather hadn’t said what would happen to him if he failed to locate the missing livestock.

Next morning, Jack caught a ride on the Christmas train. Even trundling around the front of the house would be faster than walking to the rose arch which stood on the opposite side of the garden to the compost heap. He skirted the closed cattle carriages and hopped into the caboose, leaving the passenger carriages for the nativity display personnel. The shepherd from the bar last night scampered along the train and clambered aboard just as it was leaving. The three kings must have spent the night in the stable, because it was only a couple of townsfolk and Santa who joined the shepherd in the first-class seating.

The train halted at Christmas Town Station. The nativity people jumped down and ran to their places before the House Folk woke and saw them moving. Further along the train, some thumps suggested unloading supplies from the closed cattle trucks. For all the shepherd complained that this was a recycled display, the houses were brightly painted, each with their own lights. All the characters were polished. Jack couldn’t see a chip out of place. The Stable was positioned halfway up a polystyrene hill. Patches of white snow were artfully placed around some olive tree models. The characters skittered to their poses as the train pulled away and continued its trundle around the house.

Jack jumped off near the back patio and walked to where the rose arch crossed above the path leading to the vegetable garden. It was still early morning. If he’d walked, he wouldn’t have reached here before noon. Bo Peep was singing to herself. Jack watched as she fluffed up the patio roses in her pot and threw the fallen leaves and petals out of the bowl.

She glanced up and saw her observer. She pulled a look of hope over her face. “Mr Slayer! Have you found them?” Fingertips touched over her heart.

Jack strode forwards. “Not yet, ma’am. I’m here to search the crime scene. Has there been a ransom note?”

She wiped a finger under one perfect eye, as if dislodging a stray tear. “Nothing.”

“So where were the sheep when you last saw them?”

She swung a dramatic arm to embrace her pot. “Here! Right here!”

With a run up, Jack launched towards the pot’s rim and swung over the top, narrowly missing the white-painted wicket fence. Green pebbles crunched under foot as he landed. They really enhanced the shepherd’s hut on wheels that stood under the topiary bush. A slight chip in one of the wheels had been covered by piling up pebbles. The fact that he saw the chip at all suggested where she had obtained the ten pebbles she had offered for his fee. Other than that, it was immaculate. He gave a wistful thought about the peeling paint on his beanstalk stump.

Bo Peep sniffed at his shabby appearance on her territory, and drifted away as if pretending he wasn’t there. Good, he wanted to search the scene without her peering over his shoulder

Parting the tiny oval leaves of the box topiary plant, he peered through. Maybe someone had hidden here, waiting until Bo Peep had left. A lamb's tail lay on the leaf litter. Jack step through and let the branches close behind him. A sift through the fallen leaves led Jack to a ram's horn and some pieces of fleece that had chipped off. Dirt was ingrained in some of the cracks. These weren’t recent breaks from the sheep theft. Interesting. Brushing off his trousers, he stepped into the open and searched for Bo Peep. She leant on her picket fence, staring wistfully at a distant hedge.

“Where were you?” he asked.

Bo Peep blushed. “I was over there with Little Boy Blue. In summer it’s a wildflower hedge row, but it’s just a mess in winter.”

Jack studied the lines of sight. Little Boy Blue lay asleep next to a ceramic haystack. Jack nodded to Bo Peep and let himself over the edge of the pot, dangling with his hands then dropped the last couple of centimetres.

He strode over to the Haystack. Little Boy Blue was a new gnome this last summer. He too should be looking after sheep, but while he slept, they ran away. His curled trumpet hung from a hook on the haystack. Jack turned and checked the sight lines back to the topiary pot. From this angle, it blocked the view of the top. Someone could have taken the sheep off the back, especially if Bo Peep and Little Boy Blue were romping in the hay.

Thoughtful, Jack strode off towards home. The pond lay on the direct route. He sat on a rock and stared at the bridge. Today the troll was striding about on the walkway, ranting about something. The goats had made themselves scarce. The Koi carp made ripples on the surface of the water. Typical, they’d rise when he had left his fishing pole behind.

“You there!” the troll shouted. “You’re that detective!”

Jack nodded warily. The troll stomped off the bridge and around the pond towards him. He stood as the troll came closer. The troll gnome was massive. His green cap dangled damply over one ear. Jack didn’t have his giant killing axe with him. He glanced at the grass, but even the weak midday sun had melted the frost, so no blade there for him.

“Someone has stolen the goats!” the troll shouted.

“Pardon?” Jack said.

“The goats,” the troll boomed. “Nasty little things. Always trip-trapping over my head until I can’t think. Someone lured them away last night.”

“Maybe they just decided to take another route across the pond,” Jack suggested.

The troll rolled his eyes showing the greens. “Sure, they did. Sure, they talked among themselves about a land full of carrots. You’re a detective, find them.”

“Did you have them insured with the Frogfather?”

The troll glared at him. “I may be a stupid troll, but I’m not that stupid.”

Jack nodded. Yes, that bothered him about Bo Peep’s deal. Why would an intelligent lady take up an offer from the Frogfather?

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jack said.

He strolled along the path, thinking through the problem. Sheep and now goats gone missing. That had to be related. The Christmas train hooted as it came around the house again. Steam shot up from the funnel, in puffy white clouds. It was of course fake, like the fake snow on the hillside around the front.

Then his jaw dropped. It wasn’t fake snow on the hillside. The Christmas Carol.

Sheep on the Hillside were whiter than snow.

And an overheard conversation.

Jack ran back to the topiary pot. He knew where Bo Peep’s sheep were. He also had a dim idea of why they were there.

Bo Peep stood at the base of her pot. She glanced over to the Haystack as if wondering whether to trot over there, when Jack arrived.

“Mr Slayer! What’s the hurry?” Bo Peep said.

“Come on. We need to be ready to catch the Christmas train when it comes back around,” Jack said. He grabbed her wrist and towed her along. “I know where the sheep are.”

She lifted her shepherd’s crook to prevent it tangling in her feet in the rush. “Can’t you just return them, without dragging me along?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know the first thing about herding sheep. You’ll be needed to bring them back. And the goats from the troll bridge.”

“Eww, goats are nasty.”

Despite her foot dragging, he got Bo Peep to the station, just as the train was drawing up. He handed her into the empty first-class carriage and joined her, staring out the window at more topiary pots, covered against the frost. They whisked past at the speed of the train.

Once at the Christmas Town Station, Jack jumped out. This side of the house blocked even the midday sun in winter. The neat lawn still contained patches of frost. A glance at the hillside showed fewer white patches than earlier.

“Come on,” he said.

“But it's daylight,” Bo Peep objected. “The House Folk might see us moving.”

Jack sighed. “The train's about to start moving again. You’ll get a chip in that pretty skirt if I have to drag you.”

Bo Peep glared at him as the train whistle sounded. Delicately, she jumped down with an angry set to her shoulders. “So where are my sheep?”

“This way.” Jack led her through Christmas Town, inching from shadow to shadow with a wary eye on the House. Lights and laughter, streamed through the windows, but no human looked out. The villagers glared at them each time they moved. Bo Peep gave an apologetic smile at each one, miming that it was all Jack's fault. He chose to ignore them all.

They reached the polystyrene mountain and found the shepherd dragging the smallest Billy Goat Gruff towards the stable. The other two were tied up to an olive tree.

Jack grabbed the shepherd. “We're taking those goats home, and the sheep you've stolen.”

“If I don’t organise a proper display, we won’t get a prize in the street competition,” the shepherd snarled. He released the goat and snatched Bo Peeps crook. Two-handed, he swung the head at Jack. Jack dodged.

“Mind my paint!” Bo Peep shrieked, tottering backwards.

The shepherd brought the crook around for another swing. The Youngest Billy Goat Gruff lashed out and kicked the shepherd in the shin. Jack dived for the grass. He plucked a sharp, frost-hardened blade and squared up to the shepherd.

The Billy Goats Gruff bleated. The youngest skipped around the fight determined to get a hoof in. Jack lunged at the shepherd, who parried with the crook. Jack slid the grass sword down the shaft of the crook, as the youngest Goat got a kick in on the shepherd’s rear.

The crook flew out of the shepherd’s hand. Jack’s grass sword touched the shepherd’s throat.

The shepherd swallowed hard. “You can take the stupid goats, but you won't find any sheep here, except for the ones they provided for the display.” He flung his arm towards the mountain where his little plastic sheep grazed on astroturf. “It’ll be your fault when we lose the competition.”

Jack grappled with the rope and tugged the youngest Billy Goat Gruff to his side. The other two Billy Goats strained at their leashes towards him.

“See, Mr Slayer, you've dragged me all the way out here, for no reason.” Bo Peep stamped her foot, but the angry hunch to her shoulders had relaxed.

“The sheep were here this morning,” Jack said. “I saw them.”

The shepherd snorted. “Oh, those sheep, they've wandered off. Probably joined the display next door.” He glanced spitefully at Bo Peep and shoved the youngest goat away from him as it tried to eat his sleeve. “Take your goats and go.”

Bo Peep strode towards the station, jubilant that she had been right, and her sheep weren't here. Jack pulled her into the shadows.

“Be more careful, the House Folk still might see us.” The Billy Goats Gruff were willing enough to be wrangled between hiding spots, but Bo Peep was determined to get home.

They reached the station and huddled in the shadows until the return of the train. Bo Peep jumped into first class, but Jack climbed into freight with the goats. Bo Peep was remarkably relaxed about his not finding her sheep. He was beginning to think his suspicion was correct. The journey around the house seemed to take longer when he couldn't see out. When the train stopped at the Back Patio Station, Jack climbed out with the goats. Bo Peep skipped towards her flower pot, ignoring Jack and the goats.

However, a delighted troll raced over to meet him, running on all fours. He caught all three goats in a giant hug. “You found my goats! I'll make sure I chase one of the Koi carp onto your fishing pole next time you're here.”

The troll unhooked the goat leads and chucked them in the pond. The goats ran back to their bridge and trip trapped over the wooden slats.

Well, that was one job done, now he had to find Bo Peep's sheep. He had an idea where they were and it wasn’t next-door’s garden. Heading towards Bo Peep's flower pot, he saw Bo Peep and Little Boy Blue kissing under the rose arch. Jack frowned at them. Bo Peep’s fresh paint and the chipped sheep told two different stories. She was happy that the sheep were gone, but Bo Peep hadn’t remembered the rest of her rhyme.

Along the path to the vegetable garden, several somethings bleated. He’d guessed right. With a grin, Jack picked up the pace. He saw the horror on Bo Peep's face as her six sheep trotted home, wagging their tails behind them. Except for the one with the missing tail. The shepherd shouldn't have left them alone, Bo Peep's sheep always found their way home.

“There you go, Miss Peep,” Jack said. “I've found your sheep.”

Little Boy Blue wrinkled his perfect nose. “Are those your sheep? They're so chipped and broken. Are you an old garden ornament?”

Jack contrasted the shabby sheep with Bo Peep's fresh paint and nodded his agreement.

Little Boy Blue backed away. “I can't date an old lady. Alice is new this year too.” He turned towards the herb garden.

Bo Peep caught his sleeve. “Don’t go!” she begged. But Little Boy Blue tugged his sleeve out of her grasp, straightened his blue gnome cap and strode away.

With an angry shout, Bo Peep swung her crook at Jack. He ducked. Those shepherd crooks were a nasty weapon.

“I was going to get new sheep with the insurance money,” Bo Peep shouted, wildly flailing the air around Jack with her crook. “Not all the fresh paint could hide the missing horn and the broken tail. The House Folk are going to glue them together, rather than buy new sheep.”

“Miss Peep,” Jack said, dodging to the side of the path. “I found your sheep, as the Frogfather ordered me to do.”

Bo Peep stopped her wild swinging and stared in horror towards the Orchard. “The Frogfather knew?” Bo Peep whispered. “I just wanted fresh paint. That’s why I told the Christmas Shepherd he could take the sheep.”

“Next time, don't try insurance fraud.”

Jack headed home. He'd fulfilled two contracts, even if only one of his clients was satisfied with the result, but his hat sagged in defeat. The satisfied client paid in Koi carp, and Jack needed gravel to keep body and soul together. Maybe he’d find someone who’d buy the glow-in-the-dark pebbles. It would take Bo Peep sometime to think up a new scam to get some new sheep, but he wasn't taking that contract.

He rounded the corner of the hedge which hid the compost heap. A hive of activity surrounded his broken beanstalk stump. Squirrels scampered over it with paint and brushes. A robin bobbed over to him.

“Mr Slayer! Did you want the glowing green pebbles set into the edges of your path?” the robin asked.

Jack's mouth was open but no words came out. He’d forgotten the Frogfather’s promise for finding the sheep. The tip of his hat perked up. A new coat of paint on his stump, the chips filled in. The House Folk would move him into the main garden next year, looking this good.

He turned to the robin with his hands on his hips. “Yes, why not?” he said with a satisfied nod.

ENDS

Merry Everything and a Happy Always from Vanessa.