The Gnome of Elderberry

by Porphyro

  But the weather really is perplexingly unpredictable around these parts. Ruthie doesn’t have five minutes to wait, Haw, Haw, Haw. If she waits five minutes, The Gnome will be drenched in rain. He’ll catch his death and then he’ll truly never wake up again.

  Has Ruthie been so distracted she missed the clouds? She could have sworn just ten minutes ago, it was all about sunshine. Does the weather even work like that? Can it be so quick? So capricious? So very “yes,” and then so very “no”? Is it possible? It’s the strangest--!

  --thunder! BOOM! CRASH! RUMBLE, RUMBLE! THUNDER SOUNDS!

  They spook Ruthie into action.

  Poor Gnome! If she doesn’t hurry, he’ll surely catch his death.

  She takes a few sacks with her. Like three or four. It feels a little excessive, sure, but you never know. Sometimes prices can be ridiculous. Some places will charge you a full day’s worth of work for a glass of chocolate milk. But that’s me talking. Ignore that. That’s not Ruthie saying any of that. She’ll cheerfully forego the chocolate and even the milk and stick to water.

  BOOM! RUMBLE, RUMBLE! THUNDER, THUNDER!

  RUTHIE. Oh yikes. Is it really safe to leave so much money with you, Mr. Gnome? Are you capable of protecting it? I don’t think you are.

  BOOM! RUMBLE, RUMBLE! THUNDER, THUNDER!

  Ruthie doesn’t have much of a choice. It’s raining pretty hard and the crowds are fleeing, hands over their dripping hands, towards shelter.

 

  What can Ruthie purchase for The Gnome? What can she buy for his protection? Hmm. Quite possibly a little house based on the killing they made at the market.

 

  THUNDER, THUNDER!

 

  She hurries through the various stalls and stores, hands over her dripping head, eyes focused on finding something useful. It doesn’t have to be a little house. The lease would take too long to sign. No, it doesn’t have to be a little house. It just needs to get The Gnome out of the rain.

 

  Suddenly, luck of all luck, she comes across a store selling all sorts of seashore paraphernalia. Is the ocean really that close? Has she really wandered that far? It can’t be….

 

  BOOM! RUMBLE, RUMBLE!

 

  No time to think! A huge beach umbrella catches her eye. It looks like just the thing to save the day.

 

  She rushes inside and points to the beach umbrella. The storeowner looks flummoxed.

  RUTHIE. This one! This one! Please! This one! (she tugs on the umbrella) This one!

 

  Finally, the storeowner gets it. He tries to point her towards one that’s been all boxed up and packed away. But Ruthie doesn’t have the time to set up. She needs the display model.

  RUTHIE. No, no, no! This one! (she tugs on it some more) Please! Only this one will do.

  FLUMMOXED STOREOWNER. Foo ma fey mei?

  RUTHIE. (motioning outside) It’s raining so hard, you see…. And The Gnome.... His nose....! It’s probably filling up with water as we speak! I just don’t have time, sir.

 

  And miracle of all miracles, it seems like the store owner understands.

 

  He more or less shrugs his shoulders and proceeds to pack up the store model.

  RUTHIE. It’s dirtier than a brand new one would be, I know, and has had more use, but I just can’t wait, sir. You know? (she takes out a little sack) How much will it be, sir? 1 coin? 2 coins? 2 and a half?

  For a moment, he looks at her incredulously. And then he practically barks in her face. Is that laughter or disgust?

 

  She opens up the little red sac despite him trying to stop her from doing so. She fingers through the coins.

  RUTHIE. Well? How much, sir?

  Now he really laughs in her face. He opens both his palms, all twelve of his fingers laid out. And then he closes his hands into fists only to reopen them again. What does it mean? Does he mean twelve coins? Seems a little expensive.

 

  As Ruthie tries to take some coins out of the red sack, the storeowner stops her.

  FLUMMOXED STORE OWNER. Tapir yu sho haran.

 

  He takes the red sac from her and delicately reties it. Then he proceeds to do that strangest of hand motions, that opening and closing of his palms. 12, 12, 12, 12, 12.

 

  Is he multiplying?! It can’t be. 144 coins! That’s an outrage! It must be tourist season. Oh if only Ruthie knew enough of the language to barter!

  But wait just one minute. What if he means…. No. That’s unthinkable. That would be criminal. No, no, no.

  ...but what if he does mean that? What if he means 144 little sacks?! Not 144 coins. But 144 sacks?! No. It can’t be!

  ...but it’s not impossible. Hmm….

 

  Ruthie looks around and sees a very handy hemp sack. It looks big enough to fit 144 of the little reds. She’s going to need it anyway to carry all of her money back to this store. Yes, she’s going to need it anyway....

 

  So just to test her theory, Ruthie goes over and grabs the hemp sack.

  RUTHIE. How much for this one, sir?

 

  The storeowner shows two fingers. And so Ruthie gives him two of the little reds.

  She keenly studies his reaction.

  He doesn’t look particularly happy about it. Seems like just a normal interaction for him, really. Business as usual. None of that crook’s excitement about him.

 

  So it really is 144 little reds for the umbrella! That’s unbelievable. He should be ashamed!

 

  *

  Well, we won’t go on and on about how Ruthie went about getting that beach umbrella for The Gnome. We won’t go on and on about how miserably annoyed the store owner was for having to count each bag one by “who’s this goofy girl?!” one.

 

  In the end, she managed to secure the umbrella for The Gnome. Not without wasting all of their money, however. Every single bag--gone!

  RUTHIE. (pouting under the umbrella) Now we’re really done!

  5.

  It’s been hours since it started raining. DROP, DROP, DROP, RAIN, RAIN, RAIN! Oh bother.... What a bore.... What a thief of time, this weather!

  All the while, Ruthie’s been hoping it’ll just go away as quickly as it came. Minute by minute, she’s been pleading with the sky: “Won’t you just give us a quick reprieve?” She’s been squeezing her wet little palms together and clutching herself tight as a sign of earnest supplication. “Please?”

 

  But she pleads in vain. DROP, DROP, DROP--the rain’s persistent. Or perhaps it’s just deaf to the wishes of a thoroughly inconsequential girl.

  “But she’s not thoroughly inconsequential,” you say. And I would normally agree. I would! But you must think about things from the perspective of the rain. From up above--way up there in the firmament--Ruthie does look thoroughly inconsequential. You can barely see her, even if you squint your raindrop eyes. And even when you tumbledown the clouds and approach the ground--she looks BIGGER, sure, but not much more impressive.

  See, though Ruthie might not be inconsequential, she certainly looks inconsequential, which really does her no favors. Remember: often to be is not as important as to seem. Or, rather, scratch that: often to be is not as important as to seem. That’s shallow advice. Here’s something better: if you are, then make sure you give the impression of being, too.

  Because boy oh boy...does Ruthie sure appear inconsequential: she’s crammed under the beach umbrella, ragged knees touching her tattered chest. The Gnome’s right beside her, too--stiff like a stone, nudgeless, unawake. He has the bunched-up hemp sack as his pillow now. It’s not those little red sacks anymore. She couldn’t afford to keep a single one under his dozy head.

 

  Not a sing
le one….

  They look like a pair of ragtags. They really do.

  RUTHIE. ...sigh.

 

  Ruthie’s been thinking how expensive her purchase was. Or, at least, that’s what she’s been trying to think.

 

  Because let me tell you a secret. Hush up about it, OK? What she’s really been thinking about--though she won’t even admit it to herself--is how cheap her goods sold for. She put it all that effort and barely got much of anything out of it.

 

  It was a precedent set by the boy--the one with the jaunty, jaunty, jaunty little caboose. Had she refused his little red sack, no one else would have tried getting away with paying so little. Little red sacks.... How dare that boy! How dare that jaunty, jaunty, jaunty little butt!

 

  Are there other sacks of different colors? Given how GREATLY ANNOYED the flummoxed storeowner acted, Ruthie figures there are; I mean, it was like she was giving him a hundred pennies instead of a dollar. He heaved heavy sighs, and groaned indulgent groans, and even slapped his face as encouragement for the great task ahead.

  Maybe there’s a little blue sack out there that represents a hundred of the red sacks. And maybe there’s a purple sack that represents a hundred of those blue ones. And a silver one that stands in for a hundred of those….

  RUTHIE. Hmm.

 

  How much was The Gnome’s ticket home? How many years would she have to work to afford it? He said it was quite expensive….

 

  How much was her own ticket?

 

  But nevermind any of that! Because The Gnome never said anything about working for years and years. The only thing Ruthie agreed to was pulling his cart all the way into town. She had been nice to even sell one of his thoughts. All of that little red sacks stuff was extra. It wasn’t a part of the agreement.

  RUTHIE. (nodding) That’s right.

 

  Ah! But what was the shoddy agreement anyway? Wasn’t it just that he’d show her the way home? He never mentioned anything about buying her way home. Or guarantying her way home. He only mentioned showing her the way. At the time when he had said that, Ruthie suspected it was just a road around the corner. Now she wasn’t so sure. This world was so very different from her own. As a result, it must be so very far away.

  How did she ever get here? How did she ever get here so quick?

 

  That’s what she wants to know.

  Will she be able to leave without The Gnome’s help?

  RUTHIE. That’s especially what I want to know.

 

  But alas, thunder doesn’t care what you want. It doesn’t answer your questions or resolve any of your too-many problems. All it does is BOOM! and RUMBLE, RUMBLE!

  Sigh, sigh, sigh. Ruthie looks up and sighs. Useless thunder.... What if this storm won’t let up? What if in this world, it’s months of bad weather for every single sunny day?

  SMASH! BANG! CRACKLE!

 

  Whoa-ho! YIKES! That was much closer than any other bolt that had, up until then, CRASHED! and BOOMED! It felt like it was right on top of them! Perhaps it had even hit the umbrella itself...!

  THE GNOME. (beginning to stir) Ooooooh.

  The Gnome! He’s beginning to stir!

  Oh! Nevermind about all of that “thunder not caring” stuff! Nevermind about “useless thunder”!

  Because the thunder--being so devastatingly loud--just woke him up. Thunder, kind thunder! Ruthie had tried everything up until then. Everything! She had plugged The Gnome’s nose for a whole minute, and she would have gone for two whole minutes, too, but The Gnome was starting to turn blue, so she stopped. She had even held him upside down and had given him a good three or four shakes. Shake, shake, shake. It did nothing but endow The Gnome with a funny, floppy hairstyle. Nothing had worked, nothing. At least not until the thunder just knocked about and woke him up. Maybe the proximity of all that electricity did something to The Gnome. Galvanized his noodles! Who knows?

 

  Either way, The Gnome’s beginning to stir.

 

  Ruthie feels awful embarrassed now. What if the bad weather heard her thoughts? What if the bad weather wanted to prove her wrong? Yes, perhaps thunder has a way of listening to you and trying to resolve your worries.

  Hmm. But wait a minute.... Ruthie thinks about it.

  She’s assuming that The Gnome waking up is a good thing. A beneficial thing. But The Gnome might be furious at Ruthie for spending all of “his” money on a beach umbrella. So The Gnome waking up might actually be a bad thing. A terrible thing! Hmm.

 

  Well let him be mad! If he wanted something better, he should have sold something himself. Hmph!

 

  Ruthie preemptively crosses her arms. Hmph!

 

  (But even she doesn’t buy into her own argument.)

  THE GNOME. (stirring) Oooooh.

  RUTHIE. Hmph!

  THE GNOME. OOOOOOOH.

  RUTHIE. …HMPH!

 

  The Gnome doesn’t seem to even notice her. He groans and moans and whines and rubs his head and stretches his neck. But he never looks towards Ruthie. He’s too consumed by some abstraction or another. His eyes are distant; he doesn’t have the aspect of a man who’s really all that there. Not right besides you, at least. More like a hundred miles away deep in the mist.

 

  The brain’s bigger than any city. Don’t you know? A man can travel for an awful long time inside it. He gets dirty, too; it just doesn’t leave any traces on his shoes.

 

  Well Ruthie’s willing to wait. He has to snap out of it at some point. Just like he snapped out of his strangest of slumbers. It was only a matter of time. ...well, time and thunder.

  THE GNOME. Rrrrrruffff. (he scratches his neck)

 

  And what do you know! Before long, The Gnome is actually doing stuffs. Physical stuffs, too!

  RUTHIE. Watcha doing, Mr. Gnome?

 

  But it’s obvious what he’s doing: he’s putting his nasty little fingers into the wet ground and rolling an array of dirt balls.

 

  He’s patient with it, which is admirable to watch. Each ball is as smooth and sphere-like as a muddy clod can get. Yes, it’s admirable to watch. But also sorta gross; Ruthie can see now why he has such grubby fingernails.

  RUTHIE. Forming your thoughts, eh?

 

  It would have been a mean joke had I said it, but that’s because I’m an idiot; I would have really meant it as a joke.

 

  But Ruthie’s a smart one--remember that. She isn’t half-joking or even quarter-joking. She really does suspect The Gnome is remaking everything he’s lost.

 

  Lucky for a man to be able to do that.

  RUTHIE. Mr. Gnome? Mr. Gnoooooome? Hello? Can you hear me?

 

  But The Gnome is still deep inside his own head.

 

  He’s muttering and cursing and whining and bickering. Bicker, bicker, bicker. It’s a nasty noise, especially with of all of the ambient clatter up above. CRASH! BOOM! THUNDER! RUMBLE, RUMBLE! followed by pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter (it’s raining, after all), and now this, this latest instrument in this symphony of din: bicker, bicker, mutter, mutter. It makes for quite a racket.

  RUTHIE. Please stop that, Mr. Gnome! I know it’s not the most pleasant of weather conditions, but it really isn’t anything to be so upset about. You’ll burst a vein in your forehead from all of this anger. It really isn’t any good, sir. It really isn’t.

 

  Oh but how quickly she’s proved wrong! Because within seconds of saying nothing good would come from his curses and bellows and groans, the balls of wet earth begin to glow with a
n eerie, wicked light. They begin to harden--or crystalize, more like it. And they also begin to grow, and grow, and grow.

 

  And the more he curses and bellows and groans, the more the balls glow and harden and grow. It’s a remarkable thing to watch.

  RUTHIE. Oh, Mr. Gnome! That’s wonderful! Wonderful! …but imagine, sir…. Just imagine how much more wonderful your creations would be if, instead of cursing and bellowing and groaning, you whispered sweet nothings to them. You might even form thoughts of a beautiful rosy color, sir! You ought to at least give it a shot. Oh, give it a shot, Mr. Gnome! Give it a shot!

 

  But The Gnome is doing no such thing, nor would he ever. He curses and bellows and groans his way back to a handsome amount of heavy, cumbersome thoughts: a nice collection of orbs.

  THE GNOME. (caressing his thoughts) Oh yes.... Oh yes....

 

  And so now well-equipped, he is himself again, all rude and vicious.

  THE GNOME. (looking straight at Ruthie) Bah!

  Ah, what a relief!

  RUTHIE. I’m glad to see you’re awake, sir.