It is said that, among other things,
the Fae can smell gold, and desire it above all things, beside the indulgence
in trickery.
Now, it can be debated as to whether those local grimkins, those wopnots, those pot scrapers, the indigenous Plaidies are indeed members of the tribes of Fae. But if function provides definition, well there you go! As one does, so one is!
Trickery and greed will both be dealt with here.
It happened one day in the spring of this very year that a Plaidie somewhat more intellectual than his fellow set to devising a plan. He smelled gold and he knew where it was. It was near unto the Great Forest, but not actually in it. He realized that Ralph’s song held no sway at the Ranger Station, ruled as it was by Ranger Rick. It should be a simple matter to surface somewhere on the grounds, yet to be determined, and so to gain access to Rick’s small hoard of Mexican Pesos. A very small hoard indeed. Three shining, beautiful coins in their display case hung on Rick’s office wall.
This Plaidie, Ribber Gof, by name, was a young fellow, and as is often the case, more clever than wise.
Ribber sniffed and snuffed, he dug new tunnels with his shovel-like hands. He followed the scent of gold at last to the roots of a dying maple tree. It was rotted in its heart which was indeed hollow. “Bingo!” thought Ribber, and up into the hollow heart of the old maple tree he wriggled and grunted, tearing hunks of rotted heart wood out of his way and dropping them down where he had started from. At last Ribber exited the dying maple through an open knothole. He breathed the fresh air of the upper world.
It was the chilly crack of a spring dawn, before sunup, when he popped out into the tree line near the campground, in fact, quite near to where Hannah Tucker had just set up housekeeping in the small mobile home attached to the campground.
He smelled coffee, and gagged. By that bare fact you know that he can’t be right.
Hannah’s door popped open suddenly.
Ribber went flat on the asphalt, feigning dead matter. A doll, apparently.
The light was poor, so he fooled Hannah. She, thinking him some camper’s child’s poppet, carried him down to the dumpster, and actually dumped him therein.
“Nearer my gold, to thee,” he might have thought, were he a wit.
He crawled up out of the dumpster, feeling the effects of being perilously near Ralph’s personal domain and somewhat besmeared. He crouched and waited. He had a simple plan. He knew someone was going to open that office door eventually. He would zap in behind their heels and hide. How he would get his wicked little paws on the gold and secrete it out of the building would depend on conditions and happenstance.
Just then Ranger Rick drove in and parked in his spot right beside the dumpster. While he was getting himself out of the driver’s seat and locking up the cab, Ribber went into his abandoned doll act again. He lay there as if tossed aside by some child, limp and inert.
Rick started when he saw Ribber.
“Man alive, they make some ugly dolls these days!” he said aloud into the morning air.
Then he threw Ribber Gof right back into the dumpster.
As fate would have it, this very morning was garbage day at the Ranger Station. Oh, let’s give this camp area a name, shall we? Let it be known as Maple Heart Camp, somewhere in the Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest.
“Oh,” said Rick. He jumped back in his truck, and backed out of the way of the big garbage truck so that it could pick up the dumpster, and you know the rest. Into the heart of the garbage truck went Ribber and that week’s trash.
Oh, Ribber, poor Ribber. Had he at last achieved that which he had feigned?
Quite still, he lay, dressed in his finest wee plaid coat. Those shovel-like hands lay on his little tummy, his immoderately large bare feet dangled down amongst the detritus of the campground. His long braid lay stretched out behind him. Were his icy blue eyes closed forever?
As always, with Plaidies, it’s all a matter for conjecture and debate, but a sensible course would be to remain dubious, for among those susceptible, the scent of gold is compelling indeed!
Now, it can be debated as to whether those local grimkins, those wopnots, those pot scrapers, the indigenous Plaidies are indeed members of the tribes of Fae. But if function provides definition, well there you go! As one does, so one is!
Trickery and greed will both be dealt with here.
It happened one day in the spring of this very year that a Plaidie somewhat more intellectual than his fellow set to devising a plan. He smelled gold and he knew where it was. It was near unto the Great Forest, but not actually in it. He realized that Ralph’s song held no sway at the Ranger Station, ruled as it was by Ranger Rick. It should be a simple matter to surface somewhere on the grounds, yet to be determined, and so to gain access to Rick’s small hoard of Mexican Pesos. A very small hoard indeed. Three shining, beautiful coins in their display case hung on Rick’s office wall.
This Plaidie, Ribber Gof, by name, was a young fellow, and as is often the case, more clever than wise.
Ribber sniffed and snuffed, he dug new tunnels with his shovel-like hands. He followed the scent of gold at last to the roots of a dying maple tree. It was rotted in its heart which was indeed hollow. “Bingo!” thought Ribber, and up into the hollow heart of the old maple tree he wriggled and grunted, tearing hunks of rotted heart wood out of his way and dropping them down where he had started from. At last Ribber exited the dying maple through an open knothole. He breathed the fresh air of the upper world.
It was the chilly crack of a spring dawn, before sunup, when he popped out into the tree line near the campground, in fact, quite near to where Hannah Tucker had just set up housekeeping in the small mobile home attached to the campground.
He smelled coffee, and gagged. By that bare fact you know that he can’t be right.
Hannah’s door popped open suddenly.
Ribber went flat on the asphalt, feigning dead matter. A doll, apparently.
The light was poor, so he fooled Hannah. She, thinking him some camper’s child’s poppet, carried him down to the dumpster, and actually dumped him therein.
“Nearer my gold, to thee,” he might have thought, were he a wit.
He crawled up out of the dumpster, feeling the effects of being perilously near Ralph’s personal domain and somewhat besmeared. He crouched and waited. He had a simple plan. He knew someone was going to open that office door eventually. He would zap in behind their heels and hide. How he would get his wicked little paws on the gold and secrete it out of the building would depend on conditions and happenstance.
Just then Ranger Rick drove in and parked in his spot right beside the dumpster. While he was getting himself out of the driver’s seat and locking up the cab, Ribber went into his abandoned doll act again. He lay there as if tossed aside by some child, limp and inert.
Rick started when he saw Ribber.
“Man alive, they make some ugly dolls these days!” he said aloud into the morning air.
Then he threw Ribber Gof right back into the dumpster.
As fate would have it, this very morning was garbage day at the Ranger Station. Oh, let’s give this camp area a name, shall we? Let it be known as Maple Heart Camp, somewhere in the Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest.
“Oh,” said Rick. He jumped back in his truck, and backed out of the way of the big garbage truck so that it could pick up the dumpster, and you know the rest. Into the heart of the garbage truck went Ribber and that week’s trash.
Oh, Ribber, poor Ribber. Had he at last achieved that which he had feigned?
Quite still, he lay, dressed in his finest wee plaid coat. Those shovel-like hands lay on his little tummy, his immoderately large bare feet dangled down amongst the detritus of the campground. His long braid lay stretched out behind him. Were his icy blue eyes closed forever?
As always, with Plaidies, it’s all a matter for conjecture and debate, but a sensible course would be to remain dubious, for among those susceptible, the scent of gold is compelling indeed!
🍁
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