"The Eater of Socks" Blamed by Sir Terry but who or what steals socks, pens, the thing you had in your hand 5 seconds ago. -- Knitnan
There had been six socks in the washtub when Ygrun started hir laundry. Five remained to hang on the line. The chalk was missing from hir reminder-list slate, and ze swore ze had put it on the shelf by the door. Hir knitting was left on one needle, and the other was gone without a trace. Hir favourite clogs were missing, and they only ever went away in one place. That could only mean one thing.
Ze had angered the Nisse.
Ygrun tried to figure out how ze had done it. Ze kept hir house tidy, and managed it well. Ze was ahead on hir projects and not expecting to run out of time for any of them. They had hardly anything to do.
That was the problem. They had hardly anything to do.
Ygrun had to apologise.
Beginning with the legendary cup of gold for the court of auld, as the bards were wont to recite. Ze was a humble crafter, and didn't have enough money for an actual golden cup. Not even a gilded thimble.
Ze did hir best with carefully-polished bronze. Hoping it was enough.
The milk was sweetened with honey and spiced with herbs that ze had been saving for Midwinterfeast. Placed carefully on a small table ze made carefully out of wooden offcuts from hir scrap pile. Likewise placed carefully near the gap between the pantry closet and the wall. Perhaps the extra effort would win their favour.
"I'm sorry that I have left you with nothing to do," ze said to the shadows where ze could not reach. "I shall busy myself with detailed things to gift you. That way, you shall have tasks of mine to help me with. I thank you for your patience and your benevolence." Always a good farewell when talking to the Faekindred.
That much work had put hir behind on three of hir commissioned works. Ygrun refused to rush hir work. Part of the point was to have work undone with a deadline looming. That's where Nisse inserted themselves in the affairs of mortals.
They liked to be helpful.
Ygrun, because of hir best efforts, had deprived them of that joy. Thus, they had fallen to mischief.
Heaven help you when the Faekindred are bored, because that's all who could.
[Photo by Beth Macdonald on Unsplash]
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