ripening toward the knife and the triangle eye and the singeing candle.
—Ray Bradbury
“Stay away from the old Hess place.”
I watch Gemma caution Billie, the same way my mother used to caution me. I know Marion Hess is no witch and it’s silly for Gemma to carry on the tradition. I hate that kind of small town foolishness that singles out someone simply because they’re different.
While I’m reflecting on all this, Billie’s out the door and off to wherever seven-year old boys go to have adventures. Gemma looks over at me sheepishly, but I just sip my coffee and feign interest in the newspaper.
“He goes out every day ‘for a picnic’ and it’s always the same fare—devilled eggs and tomato juice.”
I arch a brow, as if to say, why are you letting him?
“Kids go through phases,” she says with an embarrassed smile.
“Something doesn’t add up here, Gem.”
She nods, brings her coffee over to the table and sits down across from me. “I’m worried about him, Paul—it’s kind of weird—it started about a week ago.”
She proceeds to tell me about the change in Billie—especially his tastes in food.
As we sit at the table, it starts to rain. It’s one of those overcast days when you’re tempted to turn on a lamp, but feel guilty doing it because it’s the middle of the day.
“I hope he has sense enough to come home,” she says, looking at me.
I sigh and get up from the table. “I’ll go find him.”
I grab my coat from the hook near the back door and start out. It’s already starting to come down heavily.
We live on a farm close to where they’re building new houses. The roads and curbs are already in, but only five houses are under construction—they’re just wooden frames looking lonely in a dirt landscape filled with puddles.
I figure Billie’s taken his bike and gone there. I hike to the subdivision, but he’s nowhere in sight. The wind has now picked up and the rain is slanting into my eyes. I turn and head back.
He could have gone to the Whyte’s farm or to fish in the creek, but I also know he could have disobeyed and gone to the Hess house.
I go past our gate and head toward Whyte’s farm, but when I round a bend in the road I see Billie pedaling back furiously—he’s coming from the bridge at the creek.
“C’mon home, before you get soaked,” I shout.
He waves, blows past me on his bike and by the time I get home, I’m the one who’s thoroughly soaked.
Gemma’s drying his hair with a towel. “What were you doing?”
“Nuthin’.”
“He was at the creek bridge.”
She looks at him. “I told you to stay away from the Hess place.”
“Didn’t go there—just to the bridge.”
Her anger flares. “You know that’s on the edge of their property.”
He shrugs.
“Okay, that’s it for you young man—no more picnics till you learn to obey.”
His eyes grow wide in panic, “No Ma, you can’t do that—I won’t disobey again.”
“I warned you. Now you go to your room.”
We watch him sulk away and listen as he angrily stamps up the stairs.
She turns to me, her palms open. “What’s gotten into him?”
“Probably just testing his limits.”
The worried look on her face tells me she thinks it’s more than that.
The next day, Billie’s grounded. He puts up quite a protest, but Gemma’s adamant.
“I know it’s foolish, but I was warned away from the Hess house and it didn’t hurt me any.”
I’m tempted to say she was also warned away from me, but I don’t want to push that button.
The following day, Tim Whyte drops by. “I see you’ve had some vandalism.”
I stare at him dumbly.
“Smashed pumpkins from your south patch—they’re all over the road by the creek.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope—cleared most of the mess from the road, but you lost quite a few—more than you’d expect from kids.”
“I’ll go out and take a look.”
Later, when I get out there, the number of ruined pumpkins on the roadside appalls me. It’s a spiteful act and shocking because I can’t imagine local kids being that destructive.
To my surprise, the same thing happens the following day.
Now, I’m angry.
I decide to watch the field that night and try to catch the culprits. I stay out till after midnight, but no joy. All I see is a crescent moon about the size of a fingernail and spend my time hearing the wind in the trees.
The following day, Tim Whyte drops by again and tells me the same sad story. I’m dumbfounded. In the country, even teenagers don’t stay out past midnight on a school night. I decide to watch again.
This time I stay until almost three am. By the time I get home I’m so exhausted, I collapse into bed. The next morning, Tim Whyte phones and tells Gemma more pumpkins have been smashed. I hear the news when I get up.
I’m totally exasperated.
“Who the hell would stay up till the wee hours of the morning to smash pumpkins?”
“It has to be someone really malicious,” Gemma reasons.
Billie’s been watching and listening.
“It’s Gwyn,” he says in a quiet voice.
We both stare in astonishment.
“Gwyn who?” asks Gemma.
“ Gwyn Brownie. He knows Mrs. Hess. I was fishing one day and he stole my lunch. He lives under the bridge and told me if I didn’t bring him lunch everyday, he’d wreck your field.”
I look at Gemma and she smiles. We’re both thinking the same thing—nice try, Billie.
Normally, I wouldn’t be too concerned about petty vandalism, but it’s ten days before Halloween and the huge Farmer’s Market in nearby Willow Grove has offered to buy my remaining pumpkins. I intend to load and ship them in the next few days, but I also don’t want to lose any more of my crop.
Night falls and I decide to camp out and watch my field armed with a flashlight, a huge thermos of coffee and enough sandwiches to last until morning. I find a comfortable vantage point on a nearby hill overlooking the pumpkin patch and settle in to wait till dawn.
Just after three am, I hear a commotion in the field and watch in disbelief as a dwarf-like creature begins hurtling twenty-pound pumpkins from the field onto the road. I turn on my flashlight and holler as I scamper down the hill.
The small figure takes off and heads toward the bridge. I follow and catch up to him just as he’s disappearing beneath the arch. I clamber down the creek bank and shine my flashlight beam into the recess. My blood freezes.
A small elfish creature, about half the size of a man confronts me. He’s completely covered in brown hair and has these grotesque long ears. He might have been an amusing sight were it not for his eyes. He stares back at me with a hatred so malevolent and violent I’m instantly repulsed.
I drop my flashlight and run as fast as I can and don’t stop till I’m halfway home.
It’s been a few weeks now and I still have no idea what I saw that night. I returned the next day, but saw no trace of the creature. I decided to be proactive though and left his favorite food and drink at the bridge. I did it for several days and each day the lunch disappeared. No further damage to my crops occurred.
In the meantime, I’ve done some reading and despite how incredible it sounds, I’m convinced the creature I saw was a goblin. I’d never have imagined apart from fairy tales, such creatures might exist. I guess a lot has changed in the way I see the world.
Now, if Billie tells me he wants to go out to go for a walk or to ride his bike, I’m the first to warn him to stay away from the old Hess place.Have I succumbed to small town foolishness? I don’t think so.
Actually, I believe I’ve learned to embrace the wisdom of the locals.