In Search of Nectar
by
Kirkus MacGowan
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Kirkus MacGowan
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Kirkus MacGowan.
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Diapers, Bookmarks, and Pipe Dreams
Dedication
For Johnny.
In Search of Nectar
Saturday was a fine day to mow the lawn: sunny, seventy degrees, and only a few clouds in the sky. I took my time, no wife to hurry back to. Not that I don’t want a wife, I just haven’t met the right woman yet. Winkleman works me to the bone lately anyway, but there’s only so much accounting one can do, so they gave me the weekend off.
When I finished mowing, I sprayed off the chunks of accumulated grass from the mower blades. Reveling in the productive day was easy while listening to my MP3 player.
Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” blared through my headset when something hard poked my knee. Thinking it was a bug, I kicked at it with my other leg. Sharp pain exploded in my shin. Clutching at my leg, I tripped over the water hose and landed on the water sodden grass. Water soaked through my shirt in seconds. Next, I became the unfortunate receiver of a right nostril yank.
I plucked my ear-buds out. "What the hell do you want?" The countless vulgar words I planned to say caught in my throat. Inches from my nose, stood a twelve-inch tall gnome statue, arms crossed with a broad smile pasted on his face. The same gnome that normally stands in my neighbor’s garden, complete with his cascading white beard and black boots. As far as I know, plastic gnomes generally don’t move much… or poke and kick people in the leg for that matter.
I picked myself up and rubbed my stretched nostril. I squinted and leaned forward for a closer look, to see if he was breathing. The gnome squinted back. I stepped backward and did the obligatory search for cameras or people hiding in the bushes, expecting someone to jump out and yell surprise. No cameras, no friends, and no surprises.
The gnome tapped his wee black boot.
“Um…I'm sorry.” I shrugged. Does he expect me to talk to him? “I didn't mean to yell, but you startled me. In case you haven't noticed, you’re a gnome. And either someone is playing a tasteless joke on me,” I searched for the culprit again, “or somebody slipped a powerful narcotic into my diet soda.”
The gnome stood silent, surveying me. His calculating eyes moved up and down the length of my body. He nodded. "You'll have to do… I guess."
I jumped three feet backward. The deep, gravelly voice resonating from his tiny body was impossible. If there had been any food in my stomach, it would have stained the yard.
The gnome pulled his shoulders back, right arm crossing his midriff with palm open and facing toward the cloudless sky. With considerable dignity, he bowed low; far enough that I thought his red suede hat would fall. "Greetings, Wilburn G. Walsh, I am known as Hedwicket, Fourth Counselor of the Fifth Generation of the Third Company of Gnome Literalists. I come to you in an hour of great need for all of Gnome-kind. I implore you, please help before the hour is too late and all is lost."
I spent much of my life dreaming of the day a stranger showed up with the direst of needs and a power only I held could fulfill their need. Of course, the only powers I have are the accounting powers I’ve used at Winkleman Plastics for the last twelve years. I guess you could say I’m good at picking out tasty foods since I'm kind of pear-shaped. Regardless, when I heard those words leave Hedwicket’s small plastic lips, my fate was sealed. My miraculous destiny came to fruition.
Still unsure if I’d endured a psychotic breakdown, I searched for cameras again. "Maybe we can discuss this inside? People might find it strange that I'm standing here talking to a gnome.”
"Don't worry about it, Wilburn. Nobody can see me.” Hedwicket waved his hand.
If nobody could see him, how much of “him” was in my imagination? Had someone spiked my soda?
"Talking to my lawn mower will still cause some heads to turn."
Hedwicket growled. "Enough. Nobody will think you’re crazy, nobody is watching you, and nobody pays attention to you. Trust me, I would know. Who else has a front row seat to all the goings on in your neighborhood?"
He had a point, but that didn't make it hurt any less. "Okay, great and powerful gnome, tell me what I need to do.”
“Sarcasm is judged discourteous by gnomes, Wil." His arms stiffened.
"I'm sorry. This is a bit of a shock.” What happened to Mr. Dignified Gnome? “First you give that friendly greeting, and now you treat me like one of the moles in your garden."
The strength of the raucous laugh reverberating from within the gnome’s tiny body was unexpected. I took another involuntary step back.
"Don't pay attention to the greeting, it's the way we've been taught to greet humans.” His stubby legs pulled him forward so he stood close to me again. “That doesn't change the fact I need you more than words can convey.” The serious expression returned. “I would have you give me your word that you will do whatever it takes to procure the elixir to save many Gnome lives."
I lowered myself to the ground next to him, marveling at his lively, dark brown, eyes. They held a rare depth of knowledge and character. How could I tell him no? “I'll do whatever it takes.” I held my hand out in agreement.
Hedwicket slapped it away and sprang back, a dagger materialized in his hand. I crab-crawled backward. He lunged forward and put the tip of his dagger through the toe of my shoe, pinning me in place.
"Why did you do that?" the gnome demanded.
"Do what? What are you talking about?" The words came out strained through my adrenaline-tightened vocal cords. I shook my pinned foot then kicked at him with the other, but he held tight, dodging my attacks with ease. Apparently, gnomes are stronger than they appear.
"You showed me the ancient Flurdrod!” Spittle flew from his mouth. “You declared a blood feud. Every gnome knows when you hold your palm open, facing north, you declare your intent for war."
"I’m not a gnome! That’s how humans make an agreement.” I yanked on my foot again, the tendons and muscles in the gnome’s small arm flexed taught in response. “How could you not know about shaking hands if you spend so much time watching us?"
Hedwicket pulled the dagger free and twirled it into the green leather sheath at his belt. He stepped back, hands up, and evil glare gone. "I don't pay much attention, but none of that matters; you have agreed to embark upon the quest." He pulled a pen and paper from his pocket. “Write this down.”
Are all gnomes like Hedwicket; or is he the only one akin to a wild animal? I was willing to trust Hedwicket, but he scared me to death. I spent too much of my life cowering in fear, I wasn’t willing to lose my last chance at glory.
“Your quest begins now, Wilburn.” Hedwicket straightened his dark blue vest. “Your task is to unravel this secret code. I believe determining the significance of the first symbol will go a long way toward telling you where the nectar awaits, the key to our survival. Are you ready?"
I nodded.
"Please write this down, I do not wish for you to forget; 2...5...3...7... r...y...e...a...v...e. That's it."
"Are you serious?"
"Of course I'm serious." Hedwicket puffed out his
chest. "Do you think this is a jest?"
"No, I just forgot there are aspects of our culture you don't understand. The secret code is an address. That must be how it leads to the nectar."
Hedwicket leaned back on his heels, mouth agape, and bushy white eyebrows climbing to the top of his head. He leapt three feet into the air, legs already moving when he landed, kicking left, right, and then left again. It reminded me of an Irish folk dance.
"That's spectacular, Wilburn G. Walsh," Hedwicket tittered. "We've spent months deciphering that code. What does it say?" His feet stopped, and he peered at the paper in my hands.
"2537 Rye Avenue, Dr. Franchet’s address, the town dentist. He lives that way about a mile." I pointed over my shoulder to the pine trees behind my house.
"That is where you must go, Wilburn. That is where your destiny lies."
“Tell me what I need to do.”
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