A Young Boy's Tale

I'm writing a short children's story. Here is the first part. It hasn't been edited very much so please excuse any grammatical errors.

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Back when the world was young and bright and the air was clear and fresh, there abode a small house settled in a rich, green valley. The valley was filled with tall golden pines that swayed gently in the breeze and straight through ran a quick running river that sang playfully as it passed by. The house was a cottage of simple design. It was made from the pines of the valley, save for the stone chimney which often had pretty, white smoke flowing lazily from its top. Around the house the trees had been cleared to allow for a garden which was bursting with vegetables. 

Among the greenery of the garden sat a boy with fresh tear stains on his face who was puzzling over what was to be done. For, you see, the boy's mother was very ill. A few nights before his mother had gone out to gather fire wood from around the back of the cottage. While she was outside she fell and badly injured her ankle and had to come back inside without getting the wood. The night had been very cold, and while the boy had escaped the clammy hand of sickness because he slept so close to the hearth, his mother had not been so fortunate. What was worse, they had no medicine. This was part of the reason the boy's father was not there for the incident, nor for the past several days. He had left for the village market to sell his wares (he was a trapper who sold beautiful furs) and was meant to return the day before but he was running very late.

Thus the boy sat and thought hard upon what he should do. He feared what could have waylaid his father, and if his father would return soon, and if he would return soon enough. Certainly this last fear was not unfounded, for his mother was only getting sicker. 

The boy was just beginning to think that having another good cry might be the best solution when he had a sudden idea. Quickly he got up and rushed into the house. Inside were two rooms. The first was the bedroom where slept the family. The second was the room into which the boy now stepped. It was a kitchen with a large wooden table in the center and a cupboard along the far wall. But to the left there was nestled an iron stove with a large, black pot sitting on top. To the stove the boy hurried. He excitedly climbed a stool and looked into the pot. There was the porridge his mother had made before she had been struck ill. With this and the salted food in the cupboard the boy had been feeding his mother and himself for the past several days. He eagerly scooped the remaining porridge out of the pot and dumped it into a bowl. Then he ran to the cupboard and opened it up. There wasn't much food in here either, but there was still a small slab of butter left. He cut himself a square and plopped it into the porridge. With his bowl in hand he went back outside and around the house to the woodpile. He tapped on the side of the house and from inside the large pile of wood he heard the sound of something stirring. 

"Hello," he called softly. There was no response. He placed the bowl of porridge down and backed away. There was a strong breeze which came then and blew some dust into the boys eyes. He rubbed the dust out and when he opened his eyes again the bowl was gone. 

"The porridge's cold," said a voice from inside the woodpile. The boy smiled with relief, if the gnome was willing to talk then he may be willing to help. 

"Some like it hot, some like it cold," said the boy, reciting a line his mother had always told him when he complained about his cold porridge. He knew a clever joke could put any gnome in a much better mood.

"And some have to eat it when it's nine days old," retorted the gnome. This became such a popular line when the boy told his friends of the encounter later that they all began using it themselves, and you may have even hear something like it today. 

"I don't know how to cook anything on my own yet," said the boy, "and my mother is frightfully ill so that she can not make any herself." 

"Ah, so you have come about that have you?" inquired the gnome. The little boy remained silent. He knew he could not rush the gnome into helping him lest he anger the little sprite instead. The gnome grunted and the little boy felt a bump against his foot. There sat the bowl, emptied of the porridge. 

"She is very sick, your mother," came the voice from the woodpile. "One of the giants to the north was stirring up a great storm that evening, that's why it was so cold. It was too cold even for me, else I would have brought the fire wood in myself."

"That's why I've come to you," replied the boy, "I know you take care of us. Won't you help my mother?"

There was silence in the woodpile for a while.

"She's too sick for me to cure," at last came the response, but it was not one the boy was happy to hear. 

"But can't you use your magic?" asked the boy. The tears were building up in his eyes again.

"Just 'cause I have magic doesn't mean I can do everything," came the curt reply. The boy sniffed and the voice softened a bit. "I can't heal her with my magic. Wait until your father comes home he'll bring medicine."

"But my father is late coming home and my mother is getting worse," cried the boy, "If there is nothing done now it may be too late when done later!"

"Hush, hush boy," chided the gnome, "That is all that can be done."

"There must be something else!"

"Not for you, no my boy. You are too young still and so you must stay home."

"Too young? I will never grow old if I do not have my mother!"

"You have your father, he will..."

"He has yet to return, and what will I do until then? After he returns he often needs go out for many days to check his traps. With out my mother I shall die!"

"Tut, tut now. Drama such as this does not suit a man. All else fail you will have me to look out for you while your father is away." 

"As you looked out for my mother?" And soon as he said it the boy wished he could swallow those words back up, but it was too late. The words ran off his tongue with the swiftness of a dart, and there returned only silence from the woodpile.

"I... I..."

"Leave," said the gnome, and that was all that the boy could get out of him.

The next morning was the coldest morning there had been since the night of the incident. The boy rose from his bed and shivered. He grabbed a scarf and wrapped it around himself, then set to his chores. He went to the cupboard and took stock of what they had left. There were a few slices of bread, some cheese, salted meats, and one shiny, red apple. He grabbed the bread and some cheese and then walked over to the stove. The boy climbed onto the stool and grabbed the ladle in the pot, but the pot was empty. The sudden realization hit him that he had given the last of his porridge to the gnome that refused to help him.

The boy sank back down to the stool and sat in silence for a while. Then he heard a moan from the bedroom and the boy remembered his duties. He brought his mother the food they had and placed it beside her bed. She looked worse that day then the last.

"It's the cold, it is. Today is freezing," the boy thought to himself. He grabbed the blankets from his bed and added them to the pile on top of his mother.

He busied himself with other work such as sweeping and gardening, but mostly he spent the morning at the front of the house looking down the river way towards the village hoping to spot his father. When the sun had climbed high into the sky the boy went back into the house and readied lunch. He took the plate into the bedroom, but most of the food he had brought for his mother that morning was still there. He sighed, hoping she would at least finish the plate by the end of the day, then turned to leave. But something troubling caught his eye. There was no longer a flickering flame left in the fireplace, only dying embers. He needed to bring in more fire wood. 

The boy returned to the kitchen with the plate of food. He opened the cupboard and was putting away the bread when he spied that apple sitting on the shelf. He though for a moment, then grabbed it and, taking a deep breath, headed out. 

As he stepped out of his house the boy was met with a gust of wind that lifted his scarf up and very nearly away, but he caught it just in time and pulled it back down around his neck. He then set off through the garden checking the plants as he went along. He listened to the crunch of his feet as they met the dirt of the path, and felt the rough pebbles through the souls of his shoes. When he reached the corner of the house he paused once more, looking down at the apple in his hand. He didn't know it, but his face was just as red as that apple, and not entirely because of the cold. The boy gritted his teeth and rounded the corner.

Before him sat the woodpile. Once again he glanced at the apple in his hand. He shook his head, grabbed some wood and turned to leave. He didn't leave, however. Instead, without turning to face it, the boy rolled the apple towards the woodpile and waited.

"No porridge?" came the voice.

"None left," replied the boy.

"Humph." There came a snort from the woodpile, then the definite sound of the crunch of an apple. The boy turned around. The woodpile stood before him just as before but the apple had disappeared. 

"Your father has yet to return?"

"He's not come back, no."

"Humph."

There came another crunch of an apple from deep inside the woodpile.

"What is this?" asked the gnome.

"An apple."

"Why haven't I been given these before?"

"We had porridge before."

There was a brief moment of silence before the voice returned, quieter than before. "You should bring me apples more often."

"When my father comes home from his trips to the market," said the boy, "he brings a bag of apples and oats for the porridge. That first night after he returns, my mother always cooks apples into the porridge."

"That... sounds very good." 

"It is very good."

"Hmm." Some more crunching.

The boy waited, but it seemed the gnome wasn't going to speak any more. The only sounds coming from the woodpile were the sounds of crunching and chewing. The boy sighed and began walking back towards the house.

"You're very young."

And that was it. The boy turned, puzzled.

"I am young. Young boys need their mothers," he returned.

"But young boys," said the gnome, "should not leave the home to seek out more dangerous places."

"What are you saying?" asked the boy.

"Hmm..." the gnome muttered, and the boy waited. "There is... I know of... That is to say..." A heavy sigh. "Your father has traveled west along the river, he has tracked east over the mountain, and to the south he is well known among the men that live there. But to the north? There have I stricktly cautioned your father not to go, as I cautioned his father and his grandfather since your ancestors first built this house and called me from my place in the forest many years ago. There to the north can you go to save your mother, but there to the north can you meet more dark a fate than I feel willing to send you to."

"But, if I can save my mother..."

"And if you fail?" the gnome's tone was darker. "Not only will your father loose his wife, but his own son."

"Then if not I, could not you travel into the north in my stead?" pleaded the boy.

"I am bound to this house, boy, from here I cannot go."

"Then there is no hope for me." And once again, the great pain the boy felt weighed heavily on him and he felt the stinging tears return to his eyes.

"But there is a hope," replied the gnome, "And that is indeed my dilemma. For if you were to travel from here into the north you may return with your mother's cure, or you may meet her fate. But if you do not leave there is no medicine of man which will cure her now. I can guess your answer, but you will need my consent or never will you find the cure even were you to search a hundred years. That is the situation into which we are placed."

"Give me your permission! Let me save my mother."

There was silence as the boy stared at the woodpile. Deep inside he though he could see a glimmer, like that of a curious eye peering out, studying him.

"I will need some more time to consider this," said the gnome. "Come back at the rising of the moon and I will give you my answer."

The boy nodded, grabbed the wood, and hurried back inside.

When the time of the gnome's decision came the boy was bristling with excitement. He had busied himself the rest of the day with taking care of his mother and paid her such special attention that some of her color returned, and her face glowed with the happy glow he so joyfully remembered. The boy was out of the house and through the garden the moment the first rays of moonshine shone between the mountains. He rounded the corner of the house and walked swiftly towards the woodpile, each step accompanied with that excited skip children will often get when eager for news. Now was the time for the gnome's answer, and he hoped beyond hope the gnome would answer positively. The boy knocked swiftly against the side of the house.

"I know you're there," came a slightly irritated voice.

"I have come for your decision," said the boy and it would have been impossible not to hear the tremor in his reply.

"I know why you're here as well. It has not been so long since I last spoke with you. Are you sure the moon is even up?"

"Positive."

"Humph," the gnome sighed. He only paused for a moment, but to the boy it seemed like the night would pass before he received his answer.

Finally, "I cannot let you travel into the north, child that you are."

The boy felt crushed, his last chance to save his mother was gone. Just when she was beginning to look better, just when he thought the gnome would agree, just when... But no. None of that mattered now. It was the end for the poor boy.

He sank to the ground and wept as no child had wept before. When later his tale was told, many were the songs sung in memory of this boy's mourning and few events have sparked the despair of the poet such as the reply of the gnome.

"I thought you would let me go," cried the boy.

"Hush, child! Hush! You'll wake your mother!" hissed the gnome.

"I will never wake her again!" and still the boy wept.

"Boy," said the gnome, "I didn't say I wouldn't let you go entirely, but I can't let you go as you are!"

The boy paused at that. The tears still came regularly and he still wheezed and sniffled, but he had stopped wailing. "You -didn't- say I couldn't go?" he asked.

"Well, yes and no," replied the gnome, obviously ruffled by the loud outburst of the child. "I can't send a child alone into the north, not now while the giants are composing storms and the wolves are out on the hunt. I would not loose you as well as your mother. But if you had help, could travel this rode with my aide, then might it be much safer."

"But you cannot leave the house," replied the boy, "You said so."

"I know what I said, and I know what I can't do," was the irritated reply, "Don't interrupt me and we may get you away and on your journey before the night ends."

"Sorry," mumbled the boy.

"Now," said the gnome, "You are quite right, I cannot travel with you into the north and leave the house... But my magic can."

"Your? Your..."

"No interruptions." 

"Sorry."

"Yes, my magic." There was the sound of rustling from in the woodpile and suddenly the boy felt something fall on his foot. Looking down he beheld three items.

"First is my hat," said the gnome, and the boy picked it up. It looked like a nightcap, with a long tail the length of the boy's arm. It was a deep red with golden stitching along the hem and a small gold tassel at the end of the tail. "My hat can turn you invisible when you put it on," said the gnome, "but that wont save you against wolves who will sniff you out without much problem, invisible or not. So the second item is for them."

The boy picked up a small brown pouch made of thick wool. It did not seem particularly remarkable, and when the boy looked inside, it was empty. "What is this for?" he asked.

"That," said the gnome, "you must fiercely guard and make sure not to drop. Where you are going there are those who would very much like to get a hold of this bag, but they mustn't. When we are done speaking you must go out to the water's edge. Dip the bag into the river where the moonlight has landed and scoop up some of the water. If the wolves come after you, the moonlight will send them off your trail."

The boy nodded solemnly. He had been told fairy stories by his parents when he was younger, and knew he could not err in his duty lest the results turn disastrous. He looked down at the next item and picked them up.

"Those are my shoes," said the gnome, and they were very fine shoes indeed. They were small blue boots made of a very soft hide with brass buckles and wooden soles. They were embossed with intricate floral patterns from their pointed toes to the flared tops. The boy held them in his hands marveling at them while the gnome explained, "These will bear you quickly out of harms way should the other two methods fail. Be warned, they are indeed quick, but long strides can outmatch sprinting children's legs." The boy nodded. 

"Well, there you are," said the gnome. The boy could hear shifting in the woodpile as the gnome settled back down. "Even with these I would caution against your going, but if you cannot be dissuaded then I shall help you as I can."

"Thank you," gasped the boy.

"Do not thank me," returned the gnome sharply, "I don't feel right about this, magic gifts or no. But I have given them to you now, and there is no turning back if I had to guess. Lastly I must tell you where you are to go, so get on my shoes while you listen.

"Look to the north. Do you see that mountain with the ring of dark clouds above it? That is Stormburg, most dreaded of the mountains in this region. You must scale its great slopes until you reach the Vedir pass. Take the pass around the mountain. There is a fork in the path towards the end, continue along the higher path. This is the first danger of your trip, a simple one to avoid, but dangerous if not followed, don't go down the lower path!

"Once you have passed the mountain you will need to be very careful. The Great Red Forest truly lives up to its name in its vastness. You will never come back out if you don't follow my guidance. There are a series of stones that form a chain through the forest. They would lead you all the way to the utter north if you so chose. You must mark them once you enter the forest, they are easy to spot. Follow them and don't loose sight of them. 

"They eventually lead to a large clearing with a slight rise to the far side. There is a stone house situated on the rise. The clearing floor is coated with what looks like a thick, dark moss. That plant is what will save your mother. Pull up the plant, root and all, and with it return here in haste. Beware the tenant that resides in the house, and don't step into the light of the windows."

"Who is the tenant?" asked the boy.

"Never you mind," was the curt reply. "Just listen to what I say and come back quickly. Can you do that?"

"Yes," said the boy.

"Good." The gnome's tone lightened. If the boy could have seen the gnome then he would have perceived a small, sad smile on his face. "You're very brave for a boy of such young age," said the gnome, "Your mother is lucky to have you as a son."

The boy blushed at the compliment and looked at his feet. "I just want her to be all right."

"I know," said the gnome, "Keep that in mind as you travel north. Now you must depart. Hurry to the water and fill the bag, then follow my instructions carefully. I will see you when you return."

"Yes," said the boy, then: "I still wish to thank you for your help, but if you don't want me to, I won't. At the very least, however, I will thank you for giving my mother a chance." And while he was not very practiced at it, he bowed as low as he could go and as gracefully as he could. Many before have bowed more skillfully, and many since have thrilled their lords with elegant flourishes, but few lords remember these with as much fondness as our gnome remembers that awkward and clumsy bow by the young boy.

"Humph," the gnome grunted, and the boy ran off into the night with a smile.