THE BARRIER

THE BARRIER

By

Les Clark

If this were any other fairy tale, this might be its “once upon a time” introduction.

In a towering castle, the king is resting a on polished walnut throne and dining at a banquet table of pearl-gray marble. Sparkling blown glass ornaments are dangling beneath a vibrant burgundy runner whose tassels of spun gold spiral to the floor. Atop silver chargers, mounds of steaming meat on crystal platters are awaiting knife and fork. A court jester is reluctantly making the first taste.

Loyal servants are discretely refilling goblets of plum wine and bowls of sun bright bananas, fragrant oranges and sweet grapes of green and royal purple---seedless of course. It would be an embarrassment of the highest order should any member of the Court be forced to dislodge an errant pit with pick or knife while his Lordship was, well, bloviating. The guards are alert.

Nope! This is ain’t that kind of story.

This was the forest in cool twilight, and the podium was nothing more than a wide tree stump covered in white birch, flattened to steady the speaker’s tankard of ale. It was adorned with verdant green vines, home to grey speckled things weaving their way through the fronds. A second rough-hewn cup sloshed with spring water, beneath whose surface swam a tadpole overlooked by the donor.

Piney McCone, whose nose had been described (behind his back) as a mushroom cap in shape, size and alabaster color, cleared his throat before the throng seated in a grassy clearing on a fan of logs reaching just shy of a stand of oak and maple. The night air was fresh, as a woodsy scent wafted through the trees.

When his thunderous nasal honks (his usual way of attempting order) went ignored, he grasped the owl off his shoulder, avoided its talons, and held it high. It’s klaxon squawks hushed the crowd. His nose, round as a dome, flushed an irritated pink.

“I am calling to order the eight hundred and forty-seventh meeting of we elves, imps, gnomes, sprites, pixies...no, I didn’t forget you little starbursts...and midges to order. The trolls have agreed,” he said, fixing an eye on a hulking trio to reinforce their promise, “not to eat anyone.” There followed a spatter of nervous twitter.

“We have much important business to conduct so I shall suspend the reading of the last minutes because,” McCone cleared his throat and mumbled, “they were, uh, destroyed in a fire a hundred six years ago.” That his young son (“Look, daddy...”) used the parchment for kindling was never disclosed.

Fireflies danced and flitted amongst the audience, hesitating over, and illuminating any unruly speaker who might want to disrupt the proceedings. Of course there was one; there was always one. Pumpkin O’Toole, a toothy imp with a penchant for everything gingham, sprang into their midst like a geyser, her arms flailing for attention. The bugs’ tiny lights winked out in dismay.

“What about that rock wall the humans erected? It’s a barrier to pasture. We have a dandelion crop to harvest. Wine to produce. I have customers.”

“I believe,” McCone, an elf of great strength, courage and humor (and yes, he once bested a hungry lynx drooling over his rabbits) intoned to the crowd, “that you, Ms. O’Toole, are your best customer.” A flight of pixies, hues ebbing and flowing with rainbow colors, spun about sputtering torches. McCone raised his arms, muscles rippling from years of wrestling unwilling tree stumps from the earth’s grasp.

“Well, I never,” she protested. O’Toole’s face, aglow from the meeting’s fire, turned redder still.

“We all know better,” McCone smiled, spreading his arms to the crowd. “Now, who else has something to say?”

A peasant arm waved from the back, his tunic dotted with purple stains. Actually, his arms and feet had the same hue.

“The chair recognizes Vine Man McBough.” It was one of the forest gnomes.

“Ye might not know this but when yer harvesting blueberries, yer loses all track of time, and I ain’t no exception. It’s a juicy business but if yer wants em fresh, I best be left alone. I heard there might be mead at this here shebang so I’m here with no knowledge of what’s the what. Can ye amplify, McCone?”

Like a zephyr caught twisting throughout the saplings, a whisper whipped up and down, in and out of the rows. “There’s mead?” could be heard in every corner.

“Order,” McCone cried. “Yes, there’ll be mead, but Vine Man wants to know our purpose here. Well, sir, you won’t be able to sell your blueberries because a wall of stone has been erected by the pasture folk to keep their sheep from getting lost in the forest where, as you know, things with teeth lie in wait.”

He waggled a finger at the trolls. They grunted in unison, “Who? Us?”

“Not with me scythe by me side,” Vine Man gestured. Many near him nodded their approval. He turned back to Piney McCone. “What sort of wall are yer shaking in yer boots for?” he shouted.

McCone raised his arms yet again. The air sparkled as a multitude of pixies spiraled aloft, coalescing into greys and blues and silhouetted against the night sky. They formed the appearance of rough-hewn stones in a transparent wall as long as a felled pine. The crowd’s oohs and ahhhs hummed like a bow string.

Throck, a tree-dwelling sprite, twitched his pointy ears in the cool night. He smoothed his green tunic before hopping onto McCone’s tree stump. He pressed a stubby finger under a most bushy mustache for silence. His voice was but a peep. McCone, like many of their previous conversations, had to bend for the tiny man to whisper in his ear.

“What do you want to say, my little friend?” McCone said kindly, blinking as Throck’s tweets and squeals echoed in his ear. “Goodness, you’re loud.” Having made his point, Throck fluttered back to a tree hole he shared with a woodpecker.

McCone stood tall on his stump. “Listen, my friends. Throck has a gaggle of moles we can use to burrow under the wall. Is there any discussion?”

Barka McCone, standing aside the stump, reached to yank the hem of her husband’s jerkin. She clambered up and stood beside her mate of three hundred forty-seven years. It was noted, by the forest citizens, he often (and quickly) complied with what he called, her “suggestions.”

“Should you think for a second, husband, that you expect me and Miz O’Toole to crawl through tunnels gouged by them little furry things, your gruel will contain what them things leaves behind.”

Her voice carried all the way to the back and returned with waves of tinny laughter ringing in Piney’s ears. “A well-made point, my love.”

In the third row, a meaty, rotund elf stood. Piney McCone announced, “The stump recognizes Stoney Brook. What say you, sir?”

The other three Brooks brothers stood: Rocky, Pebbles and the loudest, Rubble.

“DOWN WITH THE WALL!”

Their bellow dislodged leaves as if it were the first frost. A family of squirrels, hoping to fetch some of the night’s refreshments of cooked hen-of-the-woods, scattered in a bushy cloud.

“Shush, men,” Piney McCone admonished. “You’ll wake the pasture folk.”

The elves turned. “IT’S THEM THAT BUILT IT.” Their voices were an avalanche of sound.

Across acres of bent grass, and wildflowers closed for the night, a corral of sheep, eyes wide with fright, started their bleating cries. A lit candle appeared in a window of the thatched farmhouse, then another and another until the family, previously deep in slumber, were now rudely awake.

Baby Florence bleated, “Was that thunder, Father?”

Anne pulled her covers close. “I felt the earth move, my husband.” Harold, a brawny farmer, soothed her flushed cheeks.

“I need my lantern and pitchfork, wife. You and the children calm the sheep while I see to this...to this...whatever it is.” And off he went into the night. He strode across his field, flattening the grass under his boots. He headed towards the barely visible flickering flame ahead where there should never be a fire. Living far from the town, he would never know it was really warming a strange collection of beings. The villagers knew of them but when searches were conducted, they were gone.

Harold’s long strides furrowed his field, a straight path he cut quickly towards the forest on the other side of his newly built wall. He pinched the lantern’s flame, easing one leg, then the other over the rough stones. Before him, row after row of little people of every shape and size, sat enthralled as a Piney McCone, half the farmer’s size, conducted the business of his people.

“Well, what is going on here?” Harold boomed. “Who scared my flock? And who is in charge?” The trolls shifted nervously as the pitchfork pointed in their direction.

Piney McCone stood atop his tree stump, still two feet shorter than the stranger, and raised his tired arms to quiet the audience. Elves and imps clutched themselves in fear as the giant towered over them. The sprites and pixies flew aloft and formed a colorful protective ball.

“I’m the leader,” McCone shouted bravely in a deep, shaky voice. “We met tonight because there is a wall of stone cutting us off from the fields beyond. We were making garlands of the flowers, wine from the dandelions and yes, we were milking your sheep for our youngins. We were thriving until someone built that wretched wall.” Heads nodded in agreement.

The farmer thrust his pitchfork into the soft earth. “We built the wall so my farm animals wouldn’t get lost or eaten by things in the woods.” Harold looked at strangely expectant faces.

“You can’t fix this if you don’t ask,” he whispered, hoping his voice would soften the shock of his appearance.

Barka McCone strained her neck. “We can’t ask because it’s in the way.”

Pumpkin O’Toole pushed her way to the front. “I make the best wine from your yellow flowers. I can’t no more.” Then, the farmer bent, facing her. She took a tentative step back.

Petal, a honey-gathering sprite, buzzed near Harold’s ear. He resisted swatting her away. “Do you know what your sheep’s milk and our sweetness make?” she squealed, making him blink.

The farmer suffered many minutes of protesting squeaks, screeches and even some tiny tears. He thought for a moment. “When daylight comes, I will solve this problem for you.”

With that, Harold hurried back to his family with a story he was forced to repeat again and again to scads of villagers affected by the Brooks’ bellowing.

By the next afternoon, the farmer’s family and friends had not only removed a gnome’s arm width of rock but installed a small gate sheep couldn’t bridge. To celebrate the solution, a rainbow arch of pixies joined both sides.

The gate required immediate repair when Stoney Brook alone, declared it, “PERFECT!”