Flibber T Gibbet

Have you ever met an elf? A real elf, not one you’d see in a picture-book or on TV. If so, you will know that elves can be nasty, nice, devious, honest, helpful, a hindrance, dangerous, delightful, playful, earnest, talkative, glum, tricksters or straight shooters depending on their mood.

Flibber T. Gibbet is an elf – the only living member of the clan Dryadalis Chemainiacus? In fact, he is the most notorious elf in all Chemainus, and will cause the mayhem and confusion about to occur in this story.

Consider yourself warned!

For those of you who have never been to Chemainus, a Google search will take you to a town on the East Coast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia, which is famous for two things: murals, and ice cream.

There’s hardly a building in Chemainus that doesn’t have a mural painted on one of its walls, or a sidewalk that isn’t marked with a trail of yellow footprints, leading tourists from one mural to the next. Go to MuralTown.com and you will see what I’m talking about.

Busloads of tourists flock to the place every summer to look at the murals and take pictures of themselves standing in front of them. And while they’re feasting their eyes, many visitors are also filling their stomachs with delicious licks of  Muraltown’s famous ice cream.

‘There’s a flavour for every tongue to savour,’ could be the town’s official foodie motto. Maple Walnut, Bubblegum, Blackberry Cheesecake and Hazelnut Crunch are just a few of the ‘handmade’ choices posted beside the window of Scoops by the Sea, Chemainus’s favourite ice-cream stand.

So when their mum and dad said to our heroes, Jake and Lincoln, “How would you like to visit Nana West and Grampa Grumps in Chemainus for a few days,” they didn’t whinge or wine. They both like ice cream. And the ‘mural gazing’ adventures their grandparents organized were fun. Plus there was a skate park nearby, and a beach at the end of Maple Street.

“What’s not to like,” they agreed.

Sure, they’d miss their friends, and the wifi signal at their grandparents’ place wasn’t great, and there wasn’t a big screen TV. But the boys figured they could ‘rough it’ a few days while their parents enjoyed ‘a little West Coast getaway’. And when Link pointed out that a ‘getaway’ is something bank robbers planned, they all had a good laugh.

Mural Gazing was one of Nana West’s favourite activities. The outings were never planned. “Let’s go look at some murals,” she would announce if anyone looked bored or restless even for a minute. Then she’d round everyone up, including their excitable beagle Zipper, and hustle ‘the motley crew’ out the front door. For an hour or so they would trek around town, taking turns making up stories to go with the murals they stopped at. The prize for the best story? A delicious cone of Scoops ice cream for everyone.

It was on just such an outing that Flibber T. Gibbet first spotted the Cranston family and marked them as ‘easy prey’ for one of his pranks. Elves love playing tricks on people. It’s part of their natures, and Flibber T. happened to be in a particularly prankish mood that day. “We shall have some fun,” he snickered, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

Everything seemed completely normal to the Cranstons, though. Jake and Lincoln ran ahead, roughhousing and teasing; Nana West called after them to “Be careful boys!” and “Stay off the road!”; Grampa Grumps kept up as best he could, rattling behind his walker, dragged along by Zipper, whose leash was tied to the handlebars.

Not once did any of them look behind as they made their way up the hill into Waterwheel Park. Why should they? Not even Zipper, who Grampa had let loose at the entrance for a ‘snuffle and trot’, detected anything strange in the air that day. They had no idea they were being followed.

Fact is, even if they had looked back most of the Cranston crew probably wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual. Elves, you must know, are perfectly invisible until they cross paths with someone who believes they might exist. Gaudy and loud as they usually are, they can’t be seen or heard by people who have ‘outgrown’ the enchantments and wonders of fairytales.

Invisibility does have its advantages, of course. Who but an invisible elf could replace the mayor’s golf ball with a rotten egg at the tee-off for the annual Poobah’s Celebrity Golf Tournament? And would anyone but an invisible elf dream of becoming a sudden nor’wester, knocking off hats and tipping over sandwich boards up and down Willow Street on a perfectly windless day?

But, antics and spying aside, their invisibility drives elves crazy when they do want to be seen – well, they are half-crazy to begin with and not being visible when they want to be seen only makes them completely so.

So elves spend a good deal of time dashing about, looking for humans who are young enough to truly believe. And it was the very faintly visible footprints of just such an attention-seeking elf that zigzagged in pursuit of the Cranston Mural Gazer crew as they made their way into Uptown.

“If only I can get his attention for even an instant,” Flibber T. Gibbet chafed, “I shall be seen, and believed in, and the fun can begin!”

Lincoln was the human whose attention he sought. “He’s the youngest of the troop, and has the most innocent look about him,” Flibber T. observed. “All I need is a glimpse from him, or a moment to whisper in his ear, I’m sure he’ll believe in me.”

At the top of Waterwheel Trail Nana West and the boys got into a bit of a flap. Lincoln started it, or so they thought, but the real culprit of course was our new friend Flibber T.

Have you ever thought you heard a voice, but couldn’t say exactly who it belonged to; or felt a need for something, but couldn’t say exactly what? That’s the type of queasy feeling that tied Lincoln’s stomach up in knots as the Mural Gazers made their way into Waterwheel Square.

“Yum-yum,” a raspy voice whispered in his ear. “We wants it now!” 

Lincoln could barely make out the hissed words. He thought it might have been a breeze, playing tricks on him. But the more he listened, or tried not to, the more he yearned for… “Ice cream!” Until he was controlled by a gnawing hunger he’d never felt before. “Ice cream,” his tormentor teased. “The chilly thrill of Bubblegum on your tongue. Yum-yum.”

Lincoln would later describe the feeling as a sort of ‘itchiness inside’ that needed scratching.

Already flummoxed, he was even more astonished when a pattering trail of yellow footprints appeared suddenly, darting across the square, heading straight for the Scoops by the Sea. Unlike the tracks which the tourists follow from one mural to the next though, these were pointy-toed, not round. And they weren’t permanent; they glowed for only a second or two, then vanished like invisible ink.

“Why wait?” the voice taunted. “Why can’t we have our ice cream and eat it too? Now! This instant!”

When Lincoln repeated this demand to Nana West, she said, “Let’s look at some murals first, and have our ice creams after we’ve worked up an appetite.”

“I want it now!” Lincoln stamped his foot and pouted.

Before a startled Nana West could answer, Jake complained: “I’m hungry, too.”

“I’m tired,” Grampa Grumps panted. 

“Woof! Woof,” Zipper barked, eager for one of the doggie treats that Scoops owners always offered their four-legged friends.

“Oh! For heaven’s sake!” Nana West opened her purse and rummaged for her wallet. “You’d think you’d crossed the Sahara Desert without a single glass of water between you, the way you three carry on!”

None of them was really listening, though. They were all too excited about licking, shlurping and crunching to their hearts’ content.

“When I was a youngster, we had a chant for delicious moments like this,” Grampa Grumps remembered, between mouthfuls of his Blackberry Cheesecake cone. “It’s a silly little ditty, but…

“I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!” he sang, almost tipping over, dancing a little jig right there on the road.

Even Nanna had to laugh at that, although she was still annoyed.

Then Lincoln joined in, whirling round and shouting gleefully, “Ice cream! Ice cream! We’re all made of ice cream!” waving his cone in the air like a baton until, suddenly, the blueish-pink ball of Bubblegum flew off and landed, splat, on the pavement.

“Noooo!” he wailed. Jake couldn’t help laughing. Grampa Grumps cringed, and looked just a little guilty. Zip sniffed, then wagged his tail happily as he lapped up a treat that had just dropped out of the sky.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Nana West shot Grampa Grumps an annoyed look. “It’s alright, Lincoln!” she soothed. “Grampa will buy you another cone.”

Of course everyone thought Lincoln’s lament had ended because of Nana West’s promise of a new cone, but the real reason he stopped squalling was what he saw on the pavement where his melting ice cream was being devoured by Zip…

Footprints! Again! Whirling round and round like a dervish, then trotting off down the road, disappearing as they went.

“Look!” he pointed toward Flibber T.’s tracks.

“We know, Lincoln,” Nana West consoled, thinking he was pointing at what remained of his upside-down cone. “As I’ve already said, Grampa Grumps is going to get you a new one.”

“But…”

“Just hurry along and make sure he gets you the right flavour,” she said.

Were they blind? Couldn’t they see the yellow prints sprinting off up the road?

Lincoln would have protested but, even before his Nana finished her sentence, the elfin tracks rounded the corner onto Mill Street, leaving not a trace, so that he wasn’t quite certain himself he’d really seen them.

He glanced at Grampa Grumps and Jake, but they both looked puzzled, like they thought he was acting kind of strange, which made him think maybe he was.

“Let’s go get that ice cream,” Grampa suggested.

“Thank you, but I’m not really very hungry anymore,” Lincoln said.

They all looked at him, surprised.

“Now then,” Nana West clapped her hands enthusiastically, after a long pause. “Let’s get on with the serious fun of mural gazing.”

Lincoln tried not to look out of sorts. After all, his grandmother loved outings with him and Jake, and mural excursions were fun because of the stories she and Grampa had to tell… But he couldn’t help thinking about the mysterious yellow footprints, wondering who had made them, and where they went, and why nobody else had seen them. Maybe I am going nuts, he thought.

“Alright,” Nanna West cheered them on, “whose turn is it to lead?”

“Mine!” Lincoln shouted, and before anyone could object he darted off in the direction the yellow footprints had disappeared. “I’ll choose the murals for today.”

Have you ever thought you heard a voice, but couldn’t say exactly who it belonged to; or

felt a need for something, but couldn’t say exactly what? That’s the type of queasy feeling

that tied Lincoln’s stomach up in knots as the Mural Gazers made their way into Water-

wheel Square.

“Yum-yum,” a raspy voice whispered in his ear. “We wants it now!”

Lincoln could barely make out the hissed words. He thought it might have been a breeze,

playing tricks on him. But the more he listened, or tried not to, the more he yearned for…

“Ice cream!” A hunger, the likes of which he’d never felt before knotted his stomach. “Ice

cream,” his tormentor teased. “The chilly thrill of Bubblegum on your tongue. Yum-yum.”

Lincoln would later describe the feeling as a sort of ‘itchiness inside’ that needed

scratching.

Already flummoxed, he was even more astonished when a pattering trail of yellow foot-

prints appeared suddenly, darting across the square, heading straight for Scoops by the

Sea. Unlike the tracks which the tourists follow from one mural to the next though, these

were pointy-toed, not round. And they weren’t permanent; they glowed for only a second

or two, then vanished like invisible ink.

11“Why wait?” the voice taunted. “Why can’t we have our ice cream and eat it too? Now!

This instant!”

When Lincoln repeated this demand to Nana West she said, “Let’s look at some murals

first and have our ice creams after we’ve worked up an appetite.”

“I want it now!” Lincoln stamped his foot and pouted.

Before his startled Nana could answer, Jake complained, “I’m hungry, too.”

“I’m tired,” Grampa Grumps panted.

“Woof! Woof,” Zipper barked, eager for one of the doggie treats that Scoops owners

always offered their four-legged friends.

“Oh! For heaven’s sake!” Nana West opened her purse and rummaged for her wallet.

“You’d think you’d crossed the Sahara Desert without a single glass of water between you,

the way you three carry on!”

None of them was really listening, though. They were all too excited about licking,

shlurping and crunching to their hearts’ content.

“When I was a youngster, we had a chant for delicious moments like this,” Grampa

Grumps remembered, between mouthfuls of his Blackberry Cheesecake cone. “It’s a silly

little ditty, but…

“I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!” he sang, almost tipping over, danc-

ing a little jig right there on the road.

Even Nana had to laugh at that, although she was still annoyed.

Then Lincoln joined in, whirling round and shouting gleefully, “Ice cream! Ice cream!

We’re all made of ice cream!” waving his cone in the air like a baton until suddenly the

blueish-pink ball of Bubblegum flew off and landed, splat, on the pavement.

“Noooo!” he wailed. Jake couldn’t help laughing. Grampa Grumps cringed and looked

just a little guilty. Zip sniffed, then wagged his tail happily as he lapped up a treat that had

just dropped out of the sky.

1213“Now look what you’ve done!” Nana West shot Grampa Grumps an annoyed look. “It’s

alright, Lincoln!” she soothed. “Grampa will buy you another cone.”

Of course everyone thought Lincoln’s lament had ended because of Nana West’s promise

of a new cone, but the real reason he stopped squalling was what he saw on the pavement

where his melting ice cream was being devoured by Zip…

Footprints! Again! Whirling round and round like a dervish, then trotting off down the

road, disappearing as they went.

“Look!” he pointed toward Flibber T.’s tracks.

“We know, Lincoln,” Nana West consoled, thinking he was pointing at what remained

of his upside-down cone. “As I’ve already said, Grampa Grumps is going to get you a new

one.”

“But…”

“Just hurry along and make sure he gets you the right flavour,” she said.

Were they blind? Couldn’t they see the yellow prints sprinting off up the road?

Lincoln would have protested but even before his Nana finished her sentence, the elfin

tracks rounded the corner onto Mill Street leaving not a trace, so that he couldn’t be quite

certain himself he’d really seen them.

He glanced at Grampa Grumps and Jake, but they both looked puzzled, like they

thought he was acting kind of strange, which made him think maybe he was.

“Let’s go get that ice cream,” Grampa suggested.

“Thank you, but I’m not really very hungry anymore,” Lincoln said.

They all looked at him, surprised.

“Now then,” Nana West clapped her hands enthusiastically after a long pause. “Let’s get

on with the serious fun of mural gazing.”

Lincoln tried not to look out of sorts. After all, his grandmother loved outings with

him and Jake, and mural excursions were fun because of the stories she and Grampa had

14to tell… But he couldn’t help thinking about the mysterious yellow footprints, wondering

who had made them and where they went and why nobody else had seen them. Maybe I

am going nuts, he thought.

“Alright,” Nanna West cheered them on, “whose turn is it to lead?”

“Mine!” Lincoln shouted, and before anyone could object he darted off in the direction

the yellow footprints had disappeared. “I’ll choose the murals for today.”

Lincoln jogged on and on, giving them barely enough time to look at one mural before herding them off to the next, all the while looking for the elf’s capering footprints. After an hour or so everyone was tired and wanted to head home, but Lincoln kept going, until his Nana finally said “Enough! Just one more.”

“What the heck are you looking for?” Jake complained.

Lincoln couldn’t very well explain he was trying track down whatever or whoever had made the disappearing footprints in Waterwheel Square, so he put his head down and scuttled on like a bloodhound with its nose to the ground. But the only prints to be found were the bright yellow ones painted onto the sidewalks for the tourists. Not a trace remained of the elfin tracks he’d seen in Waterwheel Square.

“Goodness, Lincoln,” Nana West panted. “Where on earth are you taking us now?” Jake muttered something rude. “Wait up!” Grampa Grumps called, rattling after them as quickly as he could, towed along by Zipper.

Come on! Where are you! Lincoln wanted to shout at whatever had made the phantom prints.

Have you ever wanted something so badly, you felt it might break if you wanted it any harder? That you’d best give up, or the very thing you desired would turn into something you hated because it hurt so much not having it? That’s how Lincoln felt, searching miserably from one mural to the next, as if the creature he was chasing might actually pop out of one of the paintings.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Nana West asked.

“Looks like you swallowed a slug,” Grampa Grumps teased gently.

“Hush, Harry,” she scolded.

Feeling defeated, Lincoln stopped at what he knew would be their last mural of the day, The Hermit’s Trail, which is painted onto a wall at the entrance to a quiet courtyard off Willow Street in the town centre.

“My favourite mural!” Nanna West sighed gratefully.

“Mine too,” Grampa agreed. “Specially since it’s the last one I’ll have to look at today!”

Sad as he was, Lincoln couldn’t help liking the mural, too. He imagined himself walking down its shady trail with the hermit, who reminded him just a little of his Grampa. What could the ancient fellow tell him about the forest’s strange blueish light? What secrets did its cool breeze whisper? Had the Hermit seen things no one else in the world had seen; heard voices no one else had heard…? Was he the type, who might see vanishing, yellow footprints?

“Where is that place?” he asked, forgetting for a moment how glum he was.

“The Hermit’s Trail? It’s up above the E&N railway, over that-a-way.” Grampa Grumps pointed over the rooftops.

“Can we go there?”

His Grampa smiled sadly. “Too many hills and roots for a rickety old geezer like me,” he said. “But your mum and dad can take you there, and I can show them the way on a map I’ve got at home.”

Disappointed that he couldn’t go see the Hermit’s Trail right away, and knowing it might be weeks, even months before he visited Chemainus again, Lincoln’s spirits sank, and – try as he might not to show it – he saddened.

“What do you think you’ll find there?” Nana asked.

“A hole to crawl into,” he grumbled.

Again, they all looked surprised, then puzzled, then worried upon hearing his sullen reply. Even Zip’s tail drooped like a lowered flag.

I’ve ruined everyone else’s day, he lamented, upset with himself, and resentful of the creature that had made him so miserable. Why won’t you leave me alone? Lincoln demanded. Go away! 

At that precise moment, as if summoned by his anger, the elfin prints reappeared. They danced crazily, a wild ballet performed by an invisible lunatic. Round and round they pattered and leapt, teasing one moment, threatening the next.

If any of the others had seen the mad dance, they weren’t saying, and Lincoln held in the urge to shout and point again because he knew Jake would tease, and Nana worry, and Grampa joke. They’d all look at him like he was crazy, so he kept his mouth clamped shut. But he couldn’t keep his eyes from popping, staring at the spot directly in front of him where the footprints suddenly stopped, waiting.

“I knew the fella in that mural,” Grampa Grumps was saying. “He was a nice enough sort, if you didn’t expect much in the way of conversation. But he had a real talent for building things – walls, stairways and such – out of stone. And as for his gardening! All by himself he created what some folk consider a little bit of Eden right here in Chemainus…”

Lincoln tuned out his grandfather’s monologue. Not deliberately, but like you would a radio, dialled into a chatty talk show in another room. Only one person in the square mattered that day, a not quite human being suddenly materializing like a hologram atop the elfin footprints Lincoln had been staring at. The creature was decked out in a pair of very yellow boots; black and white striped long johns; and baggy blue shorts; all topped by a red cap with a tassel and bell that jingled every time the outlandish sprite moved.

A pinched, ruddy face with a long hooked nose, crooked yellow teeth and twinkling blue eyes stared at him out of this outlandish costume. Hello, it said cockily, without moving its lips. I’m Flibber T. Gibbet, ‘Flibber T.’ to my friends. And who might you be?

The creature raised a finger to its mouth. Shhh! it gestured, and Lincoln somehow knew he didn’t have to speak out loud to be heard. Just think what you want to say, and I’ll hear you, the elf confirmed.

I’m Lincoln. he thought.

Flibber T. scowled and stared hard, arms akimbo, the way Miss Starky did when you gave a stupid answer in class. I didn’t ask your name, boy, he snarked. I asked who you might be?

Now, as you know, elves can be nasty, nice, devious, honest, helpful, a hindrance, dangerous… and so on, depending on their mood. So when an elf asks ‘who you might be’ you can never be sure what he’s getting at or why he wants your information.

Never having met an elf, Lincoln didn’t know how to answer, but fearing the annoyed elf might disappear in a huff, and a bit put out himself by Flibber T’s uppity manner, he said the first thing that popped into his head, I might be Super Mario, he declared. But I’m not.

Flibber T. laughed at that, doing several backflips, and hooting gleefully at the top of his lungs, as if there was someone in the sky above to hear him. Oh! He’s a saucy little sprat, the elf celebrated. We shall have some fun.

Then, without another word, he spun round and vanished, become nothing but a disappearing trail of yellow footprints dashing through the courtyard, daring Lincoln to follow…

Wait! Come back! Lincoln panicked, remembering how Flibber T. had vanished after the first sighting and determined not to let his mysterious visitor get away again.

Grampa Grumps was still rattling on about the ‘fella in that mural’ when Lincoln took off, following the fading yellow footsteps through the courtyard and out into the lane at its far end. He didn’t even try explaining. There wasn’t a moment to lose. Besides, he didn’t have the faintest idea where he might be going? And he was sure his Nana and Grampa would have said “No!” if he asked their permission. 

He would have got clean away, too, except Zip, ever alert to the patter of human feet, glanced his way, and Jake, who happened to notice Zip’s sudden interest, followed their best friend’s eyes just in time to catch the astonishing sight of Lincoln galloping round the corner and out the far end of the courtyard.

“Link!” he shouted. But just as he was about to dash into the lane after his brother a horn blared and a big delivery truck rumbled in front of him. Startled, Jake recoiled a step or two, watching anxiously as it lumbered past. It juddered to a stop, its cargo door at the entrance to the courtyard. Jake darted through the narrow space between the truck and a brick wall, but by then, Lincoln had disappeared.

Running to the end of the lane, Jake looked desperately up and down Mill Street. No sign of Lincoln anywhere. “Link!” he shouted again. But he knew his brother couldn’t hear him, and wouldn’t have answered if he could.

“What happened?” Nana West panted, when she caught up with him. “Where’s Lincoln?”

“Don’t know! He just took off for no reason.”

“Right, then,” Grampa Grumps said, joining them just in time to hear Jake’s explanation. “You head that way Jake,” he pointed up the street. “Go round the block, then wait for us right here. Don’t go anywhere else, and don’t cross any streets, okay?” Jake nodded. “Bernice, you take the next block up, circle round and meet us here.” She nodded. “I’ll have a look up on the E&N trail, see if he’s there.”

Jake did as he was told, looking from left to right and into shop windows as he flew past. But a hopeless feeling weighed him down. We’re looking in all the wrong places, he figured. Why did Lincoln run off like that? Almost as if he’d been lured out of the courtyard by something or someone?

To get the right answers, you have to hit on the right questions. Asking where a ship might be on the vast Pacific Ocean is as useless as trying to hit a bullseye on a dart board from a hundred yards away with your eyes closed. First you have to take a guess where that ship isn’t. Then where it might be going. Then how far along that course it might be. 

What could have lured Lincoln? What might he find ‘irresistible’? Bubblegum ice cream, race cars, soccer balls, dogs, cats, ponies… the list went on and on. Video games, silly YouTube clips, macaroni & cheese, ghost stories…

Jake stopped at that one. “Ghost stories?” he repeated, as if saying the words out loud would make his guess more convincing… and it did!

He rewound their day, remembering their trek up Maple Lane, and on through Waterwheel Park. Nothing there; Lincoln was his usual oddball self… except he did seem to be acting a bit strange at the top of the hill, when he got so mad that we couldn’t have our ice cream cones right away?  That wasn’t normal, even for Lincoln the weirdo. Then came the big splat. Yeah, so he crybabied about losing his Bubblegum scoop. Big deal. But? There’d been that strange look right after, as if Lincoln had caught sight of something or someone heading down the road.

“He saw something weird!” That’s why he wanted to lead us on the mural walk, Jake guessed. Lincoln never wanted to lead the way, always refused. So why now? He puzzled. He was taking us on a ghost-chase! He saw his ghost again and took-off after it when we were all looking at that Hermit’s Trail mural.

“That’s it!” Jake figured. “I know it!”

Lincoln didn’t really want to go farther. He knew his Nana and Grandpa would be upset and angry when he made his way back to their house on Maple Street. But he just couldn’t stop, and certainly didn’t have time to think. The yellow footprints hustled along at a gallop, barely visible on the crunching gravel of the trail that ran beside the E&N rail line.

“Slow down!” he complained.

But the pace quickened, as if the footprints were trying to lose him, either that or draw Lincoln on and tucker him out at the same time. He fell behind at one point, making his way up a steep grade, but rallied and caught up, hurtling down the other side.

Then, suddenly, the footprints deked off the main trail, plunging into the bordering forest. Lincoln lost his footing, changing course so quickly on the loose gravel. He fell and skinned his knee. “Ow!” he cried out. But there wasn’t a moment to lose. He scrambled to his feet, looking for the elusive elf between two boulders at the head of a side trail, which veered into the bush.

For an instant Flibber T. Gibbet made a ghostly appearance there, spinning wildly atop one of the boulders, taunting, daring, cheering, Lincoln on. Then he took off again, become an infuriating set of vanishing footprints.

Lincoln resumed the chase, gasping for air, warding off the clinging, stinging blackberry canes. On and on he ran, plunged deeper into the wood, desperate to keep up with the manic elf. Common sense warned him to stop. Give up. “No way!” Instead, he urged himself farther and farther up the Hermit’s Trail.

Suddenly, Flibber T. dodged into what seemed an impenetrable thicket. Lincoln stopped, allowing himself a fraction of a second to think, then dove in, warding off the clutching branches, leaves and thorns with his arms, crouching low to the ground, where glints of light penetrated through the dense vegetation. He’d only advanced a few steps when, without warning, he broke into a clearing. Dazzled for a moment, it was too late for him to react before he realized the ground had sloped away from under him. For a puzzled moment he pedalled desperately in midair, then pitched forward, tumbling down what he realized through his battering descent was a flight of stone steps.

“Yaagh!” he cried out and flapped all the way, amazed to find himself coming to rest on an earthen terrace, looking up into the clear blue sky through an overarching canopy of trees.

The first thing that frightened Lincoln about the place he’d landed was… no pain? Bruised and sore as you’d expect to be, having landed with such a thump, he didn’t feel any pain at all, really. Just a dull throb, like the memory of a past injury. He floated in a sort of trance, which soothed any pains that might have made him wince or groan. A brook babbled somewhere nearby.

What is this place? he wondered.  

He tried turning his head to get a better sense of his predicament… Tried again, but couldn’t move. No matter how hard he strained, his muscles wouldn’t respond. What’s happening! he panicked, desperate to twitch a finger or even an eyelid… Imagine yourself a stone with a brain, able to see and hear and smell everything around you, but totally paralyzed, and you’ll get an idea of the state Lincoln found himself in.

What would you do? What could he do, but pray for help, like a man buried alive!

“Seems a bit of a long shot.” Grampa Grumps shook his head. “You’re saying Lincoln saw a ghost in that mural and went looking for it up the Hermit’s Trail?”

“He must have seen something,” Jake argued. “Then he followed it into the lane. Link’s always seeing things. Whatever it is, I bet it lives up that Hermit’s Trail.”

“Doesn’t make any sense,” his grandfather said. “And we can’t afford to go on any wild ghost chases, Jake. Not now! Your brother’s gone missing and we have to find him. Your mother and father will be out of their minds with fear.”

“But…”

“We’ve gotta call the cops! Every second counts. Gimme that cell phone of yours and let me dial 911.”

Jake fished his mobile out of his pocket and handed it over. His grampa looked at the screen frowning angrily. “Where’s the buttons?” he demanded.

“Huh?”

“How do you punch in the numbers.”

“You swipe to open the screen, then hit the phone icon in the bottom left corner, then…”

“Here,” Grampa Grumps handed the phone back to him. “You dial 911, then give the phone to me.”

Jake did as he was told, then while Grampa talked, he looked up and down the road where they had come back together after their hasty search. “How far is it to the Hermit’s Trail?” he asked Nana West.

“Sorry hon, what trail?” she said, confused by his question because she had been tuning in to the exchange between Grampa Grumps and the emergency services dispatcher.

“The Hermit’s Trail Grampa talked about when we were looking at that last mural, just before Lincoln took off.”

“It’s up past the E&N Railway,” she nodded toward a hillside at the edge of town. “Why do you want to know, dear?”

“I think that’s where he might be.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because we were looking at that mural when he saw whatever it was made him take off. It’s like he wanted to run into that mural,” Jake explained. “I betcha he’s gone looking for the real place.”

Nana sighed and drew him to her. “I know you’re worried about your brother and want to help find him, love, but our best hope is to let the police take over… I don’t dare think what might happen if we don’t find him quickly. There’s no need for panic, but we do have to get a proper search started immediately.”

“Can I go look for him, Nana?” Jake pleaded. “I know where he is.”

Alarmed, she held him at arm’s length, shaking her head sadly. “No!” she said. “We have to let the police take charge dear, and not add to their problems…”

She went on about Amber Alerts and search parties, if it came to that, but Jake hardly heard what she was saying. He’s there, I know it, he couldn’t help thinking. On the Hermit’s Trail.

He looked up, through a little plaza with its pond and First Nations mural; across a street named Chemainus Road; between two dancing trees that reminded him of the Dr. Suess stories their Nana used to read to him and Lincoln when they were little; then up a narrow, twisty drive to what she had called the E&N Railway.

“Jake!” Nana West snapped him out of his wayward thoughts. “Your grandfather is talking to the police. While he waits for them here, we’ll go look through town some more. Maybe he headed to Waterwheel Square, or home? Who knows? What I do know is we don’t need a second grandson gone missing, looking for the first, do you understand?”

He nodded.

“Promise you’re not going to go looking for your little brother on your own.”

Jake froze. He should have agreed, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Promise me you won’t go looking for Lincoln on your own,” she insisted, holding him in her gaze.

But hard as he tried, he just couldn’t get his head to bob up and down, or force the words she wanted to hear out his mouth.

“Jake!” she demanded.

He stared back. Finally, after what seemed like several forevers, he managed a nod, and mumbled, “Okay.” But it made him sick at heart to have to lie to his Nana like that.

“I smells something good,” Gnash said.

“Mmm!” Gristle agreed. “A little too fresh, perhaps, but delightfully delectable just the same, eh?”

“Still living, me thinks, but we can take care of that when the time comes.”

“Hee-hee! That’s almost the best part, ain’t it… ‘taking care of it’?” 

Gristle looked fondly at her mate and the two of them smiled, content for the moment to imagine the source of their pleasure, not wanting to stir from the bit of swamp where they’d been snoring away the day, half-submerged in the mud.

“A young-un, I’d hazard?” Gristle said.

“Oh yes. Shall we investigate?” Gnash agreed, hoisting himself out of the greenish-brown sludge. “Not that there’s any need for us to hurry, mind. I detects a whiff of paralysis about our prey.”

“Speaking of whiffs though, my dearest dumpling, don’t you pick up another sort of odour in our musky air? The scent of a creature that galavants all over town, one who owns a crabby face, with a hawkish nose, and a mouth full of crooked teeth? In fact, my lovely morsel, I think if you listen close, you just might hear his jingling.”

Gnash tilted his warty bullfrog’s head to one side, cocking his ear in the general direction of Lincoln’s scent and sniffing. His bulgy eyes bulged a little more, and a drooling leer transformed his ugly face into something even more devilish. “Ah!” he chuckled. “Elf?”

“Frightened elf, I should say,” Gristle offered.

“An elf whose silly prank has gone astray, do you think, my loveable lumpkin?”

They giggled, wrapping each other round in a slithery embrace, smooched like a pair of mud suckers, then padded off in their hunched, half walking gait to meet their dinner.

Try as he might, Lincoln couldn’t break the paralyzing spell. He strained like an Olympian to raise his head, or wiggle a toe, but every particle of him weighed a ton. He was being squashed flat by gravity.

Suddenly Flibber T. Gibbet appeared, leaning into his field of vision. Get up! he hissed. Stop lying there like a sack of bones, get up on your shanks and RUN!

Can’t move! Lincoln had to wrestle the words out, as if his thoughts, too, had become heavy as buckets full of stones.

They’re coming, Flibber T. pleaded. Please get up!

I’m trying. I just can’t move.

Oh, why didn’t you look where you were going? How could you be so clumsy? Now everyone will think it was me lured you into the lair of Gnash and Gristle…

It was you! Lincoln protested. Then, alarmed at Flibber T.’s tone, he asked, Gnash and Gristle?

I didn’t mean for you to tumble into their snare. That was your doing, clumsy boy. I just wanted to scare you, have a little fun, make you yelp.

I am scared!

Me too! Flibber T. cringed, looking over his shoulder. They’re coming, he whispered. Oh my! Oh my! They’re coming!

Who’s coming? Lincoln demanded. What are you talking about?

The trolls. The ones who set this trap. I can’t stay. I have to run. Get help. It’s our only hope!

And leave me here, all alone? Lincoln whimpered.

Don’t you see, if I stay, they will catch me too, and then all hope will be lost. There will be no one to alert others to your danger.

With that, Flibber T. turned and fled, his yellow footprints running up the embankment stairs, into the underbrush, and out of sight.

Coward! Lincoln hollered after him, the silent accusation chasing the terrified elf back down the twisting course of the Hermit’s Trail.

“Oooh,” Gristle salivated, “what a lovely bit of meat.”

Lincoln couldn’t see the trolls yet, but their gravely voices carried downstream, mingling with the babble of their brook. He struggled even harder to break their paralyzing spell, but the more he strained, the more weak, helpless and desperate he felt.

Then he caught a whiff of them, a stink like rotting fish, garnished with a plop of poop. Ugh! He would have wrinkled his nose and scrunched his face in disgust, but his paralysis wouldn’t let him.

“Perhaps we should tuck in right away, my sweet,” Gnash suggested. “Enjoy a late lunch or early dinner, if you prefer? I can’t hardly wait, it looks so scrumptious.”

They were very close now. Lincoln heard the plash of their webbed feet in the water, then the flap, flap, flap of their steps along the terrace, where he lay trussed like a turkey. Two ugly faces loomed into view on either side of him, green splotchy faces, topped with big, bulbous eyes that showed not the slightest hint of human feeling.

“Patience, my plump pudding,” Gristle advised. “You know how much better a meal goes down when we’ve had a chance to sharpen our claws and our appetites. Thinking on it will only add to our pleasure. Remember the saying, dear: once eaten, the meal is gone; anticipation is a feast prolonged.”

“Never much liked that one,” Gnash grumbled. “But,” he quickly added, “coming from your sweet lips, it sounds like the wisdom of an angel, my heavenly dove.”

Lincoln couldn’t quite tell by the ghastly contortions of Gristle’s face and the gargling that emerged from her throat whether she was smiling or snarling at her mate’s endearments. But a voice deep down urged him to: Say something!

I promise I will try to taste better if you just give me time, he blurted, hoping they would be able to hear his thoughts the way Flibber T. did. I won’t think of anything else but tasting good if you allow me time.

“It talks!” Gristle yelped, and for the teensiest fraction of a second Lincoln thought he detected a spark of delight, perhaps even affection in her eyes.

“Only to save itself,” Gnash groused. “You won’t hear anything coming out of its mind but weasel words and desperate lies. We should gobble him up before his thoughts become tedious.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, my one-and-only stick in the mud, surely a talking supper will be a gorgeous treat?” Gristle argued. “We’ve devoured meals that squeak and squawk and yowl and snap, but never have we tucked into a thing that actually talks. Surely we should savour this new dining experience.”

“Your wish is my command, my most Majestical Highness,” Gnash gave in grumpily. “But I do hope we’re not talked out of our supper.”

“Don’t be silly!” she scoffed, not quite convincingly.

“Well then,” she said, coming to her senses. “Shall we go sharpen our claws and appetites in time for dinner, my dear? Then we can return and see what our supper has to say for itself.”

Gnash couldn’t argue with such a reasonable plan, so he and Gristle flapped back into their brook, leaving Lincoln alone in his desperate plight.

Flipper T.? he pleaded. I do hope you weren’t lying about going for help. And please, please hurry!

Police cars, search and rescue trucks, a television crew, the town was in an uproar. How could Flibber T. find the boy, Jake and the dog Zipper in all that commotion?

He wished more than ever that he could make himself heard, even by humans who didn’t believe in elves. But he might as well have shouted into a hurricane. Everyone was so busy being busy, they had no time for a frantic elf, who could lead them to the exact location they needed to go to save Lincoln…

Where I must urgently get them before dinner time! He wrung his hands anxiously.

His only chance was to find Lincoln’s older brother and their grandparents’ dog… children and pets are so much smarter than adults when it comes to ‘make-believe’, he thought. Why, they can spot an elf like me before the elf even knows he exists, Flipper T. declared. As for trolls, kids just naturally fear ‘em.

Every child has a troll lurking under his bed, doesn’t he? he thought. Or in her closet? Or in a dark, dank corner of the basement?

Since he couldn’t ask where Jake and Zip might be, all he could do was race around town, looking for them… 

Well, surely that’s not all I can do! he suddenly realized, remembering Jake, Lincoln and Zipper walking up from Maple Lane, through Waterwheel Park that morning with what he took to be their grandmother and grandfather. He had followed them from there to Scoops by the Sea.

They live in Old Town, Flibber T. figured.

Then he remembered them talking about a park they played in, on a beach, with a little island you could walk out to at low tide. Kin Beach, he recalled.

They must live somewhere near here, he supposed, retracing that morning’s walk down Maple Street, following his instincts… and it wasn’t long before Flibber T. chanced upon Jake and Zipper. They sat together on the front stoop of what looked like a snug and cozy house surrounded by a colourful garden, the two of them looking very glum indeed.

“Caw! Caw! Caw!”

Lincoln heard the raucous calling of Corvus, then the feathery whooshing of her wings before he felt the tingle of her claws on his chest. She peered down at him with intelligent, beady eyes.

Well, she clacked, strutting toward his feet, then back into view. What nest did you fall out of, child?

He’d never talked to a crow before, if you could call their silent communication a form of speech.

Why not? Corvus demanded, accusingly. Bat got your tongue?

For the same reason he’d never actually seen an elf, or been frightened by a real troll, he supposed. Nobody ever told me I could talk to creatures other than humans.

And you needed to be told?

Yes. How else was I to know that this… this… thought-talk might be possible?

Well, never mind all that. The important question is: How did you end up under the spell of Gnash and Gristle?

Lincoln recounted his mad dash through the forest and tumble down the stone steps, but Corvus cut him short. Yes, yes, she croaked impatiently. The question becomes: How do we break their spell and get you home?

She hopped up onto his chin, then pecked his nose. Ow! Lincoln objected. Why did you do that?

If you prick your finger on a thorn, what’s the first thing you do? she asked, in that irritating tone Ms. Starky sometimes uses when she thinks the answer should be obvious.

I say ‘ouch!’, I suppose.

And?

He remembered pushing through the dense underbrush along the Hermit’s Trail, just before he’d tumbled into the trolls’ trap, the prickly blackberry canes pulling at his sleeves, piercing the exposed skin of his hands, the pain… You pull away, he said, pleased with himself.

Correct, Corvus agreed matter-of-factly. And since you didn’t react to my pecking, didn’t even flinch, we can conclude you are caught up in a deep spell, not some sort of waking dream.

I could have told you that, Lincoln complained.

But then I wouldn’t have known it was true.

She hopped back onto his chest, ruffled her wings, refolded them, and resettled onto her perch.

What are you thinking? Lincoln asked after a while.

I’m trying not to think, and you’re not helping, she scolded. There’s a time for thinking, and a time for letting thoughts come to you. That’s something you humans would do well to learn.

Again she ruffled her feathers and slipped into what he took to be some kind of meditation. He couldn’t say how long she’d been gone – time didn’t seem to work the same in the land of elves, trolls and crows as it did in places where there were traffic lights, school buzzers and ticking clocks.

But at last, Corvus’s eyes opened, and he knew she had something very important to say. She held Lincoln in her gaze for a moment, until he understood she cared for him in her own way. That she loved him, just because. Then she asked, Can I tell you a story?

He said yes, and would have nodded enthusiastically if he could.

It will have to be shortened, but I do think it’s important you hear it, she began…

The Jester’s Challenge

Once upon a time, there was a king who proclaimed himself the smartest man in the world.

“If there’s anything that can be thought, I can think it. Is there anyone in my kingdom who can come up with more or better ideas than me?” he boasted.

His jester, who rarely let pass an opportunity for a good joke and wasn’t too afraid of losing his head, replied, “Your Most Intelligent Highness, can you present to me the Most Beautiful Thought that can be imagined?”

“And what will you do with that beautiful thought, once I present it to you?” the king asked.

“Well, Your Majesty, many days I wake up and feel dreadfully gloomy. If I had a Most Beautiful Thought to bring to mind, I might be able to cheer myself up,” the jester replied.

“Ahh,” the king agreed. “Come back tomorrow, and I shall make your wish come true. You shall hear the Most Beautiful Thought imaginable.”

“Oh thank you, my Most Majestical Mind!” the jester bowed deeply, backing out of the throne room with a smirk. “Your gift shall cure all my life’s sorrows and make me the happiest of men.”

The king didn’t think much of his jester’s challenge. “I’ll simply imagine all the beautiful things I can, and chose one of them as the most beautiful,” he declared.

Then he went for a walk through the palace gardens, admiring the brilliant flowers, the elegantly pruned trees, the fragrant air. “This is very beautiful,” he thought. “Could anything be more beautiful than this? Surely even an imaginary stroll through the palace grounds would restore my jester to his natural, happy state.”

The king hadn’t even finished thinking this, when he spotted his wife, walking toward him, smiling, her eyes bright in greeting. The queen held their infant daughter in her arms. His heart stirred. “I hate to leave the gardens out, but surely nothing compares to you two, my love, for beauty,” he sighed happily.

“You have spoken unwisely, my love. Your praise is false and you tempt me with your flattery.”

“How so, my dear!”

“Surely your jester, who has a wife of his own, would not bestow the title of ‘most beautiful’ on me! And they have children, too, so he wouldn’t consider ours the most beautiful daughter on the planet?”

His Highness had to admit her observations were true.

Frustrated, the king looked to his wife and asked, “Tell me, dearest, if you were in my place, what would you judge the Most Beautiful Thought in the world?”

At that moment their baby daughter, cooed sweetly and laughed joyfully. They followed her delighted eyes to the fluttering of a brightly coloured butterfly, dancing in the air above them.

“If I were sad and needed cheering, I could remember this as one of my most beautiful thoughts – in the garden, with my loving husband, and our wonderful babe, watching the magical butterfly that so delights her – and so, restore myself to a happier state of mind.”

“And what might our jester imagine to raise his spirits?”

“Why, his own wife and family, garden and butterfly, I suppose.”

They laughed at the stupidity of the king’s boast, and the cleverness of the jester’s challenge. Next day, when the jester appeared, ready to hear the king’s pronouncement, the king said humbly, “There are many Most Beautiful Thoughts that can give us hope when hardships besiege us and drive us toward despair. Each of us must conjure up the best vision he can imagine, and look to that as his beacon in the darkest of times. But always, among these consoling thoughts for me, will be a friend who has the courage to show me my own folly.”

~The End~

Why did you tell me that story? Lincoln asked, even though he was glad to have heard it.

Corvus shrugged, as only a crow can, Because that’s what came to me, and it needed to be told, she said thoughtfully, then added, Perhaps it’s because your kind think themselves the most intelligent, beautiful creatures on the planet, lords over all others… even though the air closes in on your passing just as swiftly as it does behind my wings…

Or maybe it’s a story that will give you strength and courage?

But enough of that for now! Urgent matters need attending to, she said. I must go and look for help, but you will not be alone. There are many eyes and ears in the forest. Be brave.

But what if the trolls come back? Lincoln pleaded.

It’s not ‘what if,’ but when my friend, and I can do nothing to help by staying here. All my flapping and cawing will not stop them. They will drive me off as if I were a fly. I need to bring you help.

Be brave she repeated. Think the bravest, happiest thoughts you can. Don’t give in to the fears that besiege you, for fear has a scent and whets the appetite of a ravenous troll. She bobbed, then flapped her wings, and took flight.

Grampa Grumps refused to listen.

Nana West told him he was too old to go on the search, and that he’d only get in the way, but he said, “I’ve got eyes that can spot a bird on the highest branch. And ears that can hear a cricket in the outfield. I’m gonna go look for our grandson!”

And when the search commander said it would be ‘against procedure’ to have ‘an untrained, elderly gentleman’ on the team he retorted, “I’ll make my own team then, and go looking for my grandson.”

And even though his body ached – muscles weary, joints sore, voice raspy from yelling – Grampa Grumps pushed on. Even when he thought the others might have been right, he pushed on.

“I know my grandson better than anyone, know these woods better too,” he told himself, looking as far as he could into the tangle of branches, tree trunks, salal and ferns that crowded in on the Hermit’s Trail. “Won’t give up,” he stumbled on over the network of roots that were forever tripping him up.

“Damn!” he cursed again, just managing to keep his balance, propping himself up with his cane. He’d left his walker parked at the entrance to the trail, but without it his progress was an exhausting blunder from one near fall to the next. 

“Lincoln!” he called out, disheartened at how feeble his voice sounded in his own ears. “Pathetic,” he sighed.

Steadying himself with both hands on his cane like a human tripod, he looked round to get his bearings. The winding track he’d followed curved out of sight ahead and behind. He mopped his brow on his sleeve to get the stinging sweat out of his eyes. “Come on, man, think!” he said impatiently. “Where would Lincoln go?”

As if in answer, a crow suddenly appeared, flapping in a panicked attempt to find a suitable perch on an overarching branch. “Caw! Caw! Caw!” it shouted, tipped almost upside down. It clacked at him crossly, as if judging him a particularly stupid human.

Grampa Grumps wasn’t one to believe in talking birds… at least he hadn’t been til then. But the crow was so frantic and persistent he couldn’t ignore it. He examined more closely the tangle of underbrush where it had landed.

And there it was! The faintest of trailheads. “Is that where you want me to go?” he asked.

“Caw! Caw! Caw!” Corvus affirmed desperately.

Grampa Grumps didn’t hesitate. He attacked the resisting underbrush with his cane, swept it aside with his bare hands. “Lincoln!” he shouted, his cries penetrating the forest like the roar of a bear in search of her cubs.

He fell. Struggled to his feet. Fell again. His hands bled, their skin torn by branches and thorns, and with each fall his struggles to get up became more impossible, until he simply had to rest. Slumped on the forest floor, not knowing what to do.

“Caw! Caw! Caw!” Corvus urged from behind.

Get up! the furious bird demanded. Get up now! Grunting, Grampa Grumps righted himself one last time. Get help! the crow’s raucous cries persisted. Quick! Get help!

Tottering back onto the main trail, Grampa made his unsteady way toward town, back to the only place where he might find someone to believe his crazy tale… home. He was astonished but grateful when Corvus roosted on his shoulder, chattering encouragements in his right ear. Hurry! Hurry! Grampa Grumps’ companion cawed. There’s not a moment to lose!

That Corvus was a bird of omen, Grampa Grumps knew in his heart. What he dreaded to find out however, was if the raucous crow was leading him to good news or something too horrible to think.

“Lincoln!”

Grampa! Lincoln tried desperately to respond, but the trolls’ spell tightened round his throat, not allowing so much as a whisper or even a croak emerge. Nor would his grandfather be able to hear thought-talk like Link’s new found forest friends. The old man was calling out to him from another world.

Then, after much thrashing and cursing, his grandfather’s voice faded. He’s given up, Lincoln guessed, feeling his own spirits sink, a sense of hopelessness and despair setting in.

I’m never going to escape from here, he lamented. I’ll be dinner for a couple of ogres and that will be the end of me.

Just then he felt a pair of tiny claws tugging at his pant leg and heard the chittering that could only have been made by a squirrel. Lincoln would have smiled if he could. He loved squirrels.

Don’t worry, his little visitor joked, speaking the silent language of the forest. I haven’t come to eat you.

Well, it’s good to know I haven’t been mistaken for a nut.

The creature giggled in its cheerful way as she scrabbled up onto his chest, paused a moment to shake her tail and look about, then settled onto her haunches, just below his chin. Well, she quipped, I suppose that depends what species of nut you’re talking about.

They laughed. Actually I’ve come to cheer you up, if I can. Overheard Corvus’s tale and thought: Squirrels are better storytellers than crows. So I’ve got a story of my own to share about one of my very distant relatives, Pteromyini…

Peter-O-Who-Me, Lincoln laughed.

Ptero for short, Squirrel said indignantly. It’s rude to make fun of someone’s friends and relations, you know.

Sorry Lincoln smirked… or would, if he could have moved a muscle.

Forgiven, Squirrel shot back. After all, you’re only human.

She chittered again, and Lincoln joined in. Then Squirrel continued with her story.

The Squirrel and the Owl

Ptero was going about her business one evening, searching for nuts, berries and tasty insects to eat, when – whoosh – Bubo, the owl, swept down and snatched her up in his talons.

She struggled and squirmed, but he held her fast in his powerful grip, and she knew she could not survive long. Ptero had to think quickly if she was ever to see her nest again.

‘Bubo!’ she gasped. ‘Bubo, why would you bother eating a scrawny little squirrel like me? Winter has just ended, and I’m not much more than a skeleton right now. Let me go, and I promise to return in three months time to the very branch you snatched me from. Then I will be plump and delicious, and make a mouthful… er, a beakful.’

Because squirrels always keep their word, Bubo agreed to Ptero’s request, setting her free. He returned on the appointed evening to find his prey, plump and well-fed, on the same branch where they’d first met. Bubo swooped down and carried Ptero off again.

‘Bubo,’ she pleaded. ‘Why would you tear me to pieces and eat me up now, when it is the season I am preparing to make many meals for you?’

‘Explain yourself, and be quick about it, for I am hungry,’ Bubo demanded.

‘It’s springtime, and I must mate. Three more months, and I promise to return for you to carry off a third time. But by then there will be many more like me, scampering about in the branches for you to catch and feast on after you’ve pecked my bones.’

To Bubo this made good sense, so he returned Ptero to their favourite branch. ‘I shall see you in three months, my little friend, then – sadly – I will have to gobble you up, for that is my nature,’ he said, flying off.

So Ptero met a mate, and they had a family, and after the three months passed she returned for Bubo to catch again.

‘What am I to say now,’ Ptero fretted, shivering with fright. She thought and thought, but no new ideas came to her before Bubo glided silently overhead and snatched her up a third time.

‘So Ptero,’ the owl said as they flew away, ‘what reason are you going to give tonight to keep me from my dinner?’

Ptero had nothing to offer, so she went limp in Bubo’s talons, closing her eyes, and preparing for her grisly fate.

‘Before I devour you, let me ask a question,’ Bubo said.

Eager to postpone what was surely coming, even for a heartbeat – and I  can tell you, a squirrel’s heart beats very quickly when she is afraid – Ptero replied, ‘Please ask, and I will do my best to answer.’

‘What time of year is it, my scrumptious little morsel?’

Now, to Ptero this seemed a silly question. But she pretended to be puzzled, taking as many wing beats as possible to answer. ‘It is the season of long days and warm weather,’ she said at last.

‘Indeed,’ Bubo agreed. ‘It is also the season of abundance, is it not, when an owl can catch more food on a single night’s hunt than he could eat in a week.’

‘True,’ Ptero agreed.

‘And what season will arrive in three months’ time?’

‘Why, that would be the season of falling leaves and withering fruit.’

‘So what might a wise owl do – and there is no such thing as an owl who-hoo-hoo isn’t wise – what might a wise owl do with a bit of prey, if his stomach and larder were already full but winter was on its way?’

Ptero hesitated, fearful of making a bad guess. But she finally screwed up enough courage to say, ‘He might return a little squirrel to her branch and come back again in three months’ time, when his larder and belly will both be empty?’

‘Ah!’ Bubo hooted happily. ‘Excellent idea. Why, if you weren’t shaped like a plump little rodent, I might mistake you for one of my kind.’

And so for many seasons Ptero and Bubo have been getting together for their pleasant flights, and neither has figured out in all that time why one should eat the other. You could even say they’ve become good friends.

~The End ~

Lincoln and the squirrel had lost track of time during the telling of Ptero and Bubo’s tale. But a cool breeze and the lengthening shadows in the forest reminded them evening was coming on, and dinner time.

I will keep you company as long as I can, but alas, when Gnash and Gristle do return I will have no choice but to flee. The most I will be able to do for you then is chitter angrily from the branches… and I shall have to abandon you completely before the awful prospect of a troll’s feeding begins in earnest, for that I cannot bear to even think of witnessing.

You must believe in a different ending to your story, my human friend. Believe it with all your heart, and do not give in to fear, the squirrel said.

Lincoln thanked the squirrel for her bravery, amazed that he wasn’t more frightened himself at what was to come. Like Ptero, I might be able to trick the trolls, he said. Your story has given me courage.

“What am I waiting for?” Jake wondered. “Chicken!”

Evening was coming on, and there he sat on his grandparents’ stoop, Zipper laying glumly on the front walk at his feet.

“Somebody has to be home if Lincoln shows up,” Nana West had explained sensibly when Jake objected to leaving uptown as the search for his brother was being getting underway. “And that somebody has to be you and me, dear.”

Her consoling, common sense tone irritated him, though. He wanted to shout now is not the time for common sense; it was time for action. And there he sat, while others were out beating all the wrong bushes, searching for his brother.

Zip whimpered sympathetically, and there they lingered in sullen silence, their spirits ebbing toward sunset and an anguished night, knowing Lincoln was out there, lost. “We have to go find him!” Jake vowed.

But he didn’t quite know where to begin, and was getting more and more angry with himself for dithering. He’d looked up The Hermit’s trail on Google Maps, and sort of knew how to get there, but didn’t have a clue where he would even begin his search in the acres and acres of dense forest that showed up in ‘terrain’ view.

Suddenly Zipper bolted upright, ears cocked, nose twitching.

“What’s the matter, boy?” Jake coaxed, following Zip’s excited stare up the walk to Nana West and Grampa Grumps’ front gate, half expecting to see Lincoln standing there. “What do you see?”

Barking, Zip rushed down to the gate. He sniffed excitedly, then turned and seemed to be tracking something back Jake’s way. “What is it, Zip? What do you see?” Jake encouraged, puzzled when Zipper sat in front of of him at a distance, as if someone was there, between them..

You know of course, that elves cannot be seen unless you truly believe they exist. Jake wanted desperately to see what Zip saw, whatever it was hovering in front of them. So he squinted, straining to detect something. Anything! 

And that’s when it happened, a mirage coming together in the form of a strange being got up in yellow boots, baggy blue shorts, striped long-johns, and a red cap. “An elf!” Jake cried out, astonished.

The creature looked tormented, gesturing urgently for Jake to follow him.

Zipper barked in agreement. Hurry! he urged. So Jake dashed into the front porch and grabbed the dog’s lead off its peg by the door. “Come on, boy.” He snapped it onto Zip’s collar. “Let’s go!”

They charged out the yard, Zip pulling frantically after of the phantom, which Jake took for certain to be the very same sprite that had lured Lincoln astray. Was it leading them into danger, too? Or did it want to help them find Lincoln? Jake was teetering between these two possibilities when they rounded the corner at Oak Street and ran straight into…

“Grampa!”

“Where are you off to, like a fire truck on a call out?” his grandfather demanded.

“Taking Zip for a walk,” Jake answered, gawking at the crow perched on his grandfather’s shoulder.

“This here’s my new friend, Corvus,” Grampa said.

Jake barely heard him though, he was so alarmed at the state his grandfather was in: his shirt muddy and torn, bloody smears on his hands and arms, his hair a wild tangle… And his eyes! His grandfather looked haunted.

The old man smiled, feebly, watching Jake watching him. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “sometimes we have to risk the bird we’ve got in hand to find the one that’s lost in the bush.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll explain when you get back from your ‘walk’.” The old man patted Jake on the shoulder. “You just promise you won’t do anything stupid on this walk of yours, or get lost and not come back at all, d’ya hear me?”

He stepped out from behind his walker and stooped, hugging Jake hard. As they said their goodbye, Corvus hopped from Grampa Grumps’ shoulder onto Jake’s.

“I promise,” Jake said.

“Corvus is a good friend and Zip too. Let them be your eyes, ears and nose. They’ll bring you home, safe.”

“Okay, Grampa,” Jake said, pulling away. “I’ll be careful.”

Then he hurried on his way, not daring to look back over his shoulder.

Have to go! Squirrel said suddenly. Sorry, but flight is part of my nature, and to fight in this case would be a pointless sacrifice.

You hear them? Lincoln quavered.

They are coming, Squirrel affirmed, touching Lincoln’s chin with her paw. I will do what I can from above, she glanced into the branches, arching over the terrace where Lincoln lay. I won’t leave you; I’ll do what I can from up there.

You are one brave squirrel. Lincoln tried to cheer her. Now go!

With that Squirrel scampered off into the bush and up into the forest canopy, where she rustled amongst the branches of a Douglas fir, directly above.

Sometimes terror strikes like a jolt of electricity… You jump out of the path of an approaching car without thinking about it. Other times it approaches step by dangerous step AND THERE IS NO ESCAPE! All you can do is prepare to meet your creeping fate. Lincoln heard the sloshing of Gnash and Gristle, making their ways down Askew Creek, then guttural snippets of conversation, and at last the slap of their leathery webbed feet on the terrace.

“Ah!” Gnash slavered. “Our dinner awaits, my precious pumpkin.”

“He won’t have to wait much longer, my sweet dumpling,” Gristle chortled. “My claws have been sharpened and my fangs, too. I am ready for my supper.”

They laughed affectionately, if you could call their cackling and grunting a sort of laughter. Then they appeared on either side of Lincoln’s head, leaning over him, glaring hungrily at their prey.

“How shall we begin, my turtle dove?” Gristle asked.

“I’ll start at the top, you nibble your way up from his toes, and we’ll have a race toward the middle,” Gnash suggested. “First one there gets to eat his liver!”

Now, the thing about creeping terror is it paralyzes. We cower, giving in to the awful thing about to befall us…

Don’t! Lincoln commanded, keeping his wits about him, bottling up his fear, which he realized was exactly the thing that would whet the appetites of Gnash and Gristle. Alert, he rummaged his thoughts for a plan… Any kind of plan!

Is that really fair? he suddenly asked the trolls, just as they were about to tuck in.

“Is what fair?” Gnash wanted to know, glaring impatiently from above.

Well, if it’s a race to my liver, shouldn’t you both begin from the same end of me?

“Why’s that?”

Well, how do you know it’s the same distance from the top of my head to my liver as it is from the tip of my toes? I think Gristle would have farther to gnaw if you start the way you’ve suggested, Gnash. Don’t you?

“Oh, stop this blathering,” Gnash complained, “and let’s get on with it. We don’t want to end up dining in the dark, do we, my pet,” he coaxed Gristle with a revolting smile, batting his bulbous eyes.

“Now hold on, my dearest goose,” Gristle protested. “Surely the thing has a point, don’t you think? I mean, wouldn’t it be fairest if we both started at the bottom and ate our ways up? You take its right leg and I’ll start on the left?”

“Your wish is my command,” Gnash growled, “but for goodness sake let’s get on with it. I’m hungry as a hyena that’s missed its lunch.”

Gnash was waddling angrily down to Lincoln’s toes when…

“Ow!” A pine cone bounced off his head, followed by a chittering challenge from the shaking branch of Squirrel’s tree.

“Stop that, you little blighter, or so help me, I’ll climb up there and make an appetizer of you.”

The chittering persisted, and a second pine cone bounced off his nose.

“You asked for it!” Gnash bellowed, making for Squirrel’s tree.

“What are you doing!” Gristle shouted at her mate. “We’ll have the rodent for dessert. Right now we have a main course to devour, my dearest dunderhead!”

“That’s easy for you to say, my pouty peach. You’re not the one being bombarded, are you?”

“Don’t be such a baby. I’m sure a pine cone isn’t going to injure a strong, healthy troll like you. So let’s get down to dinner.”

Gnash grumbled, but agreed, swatting another of Squirrel’s projectiles away.

Wait! Lincoln piped up, when they were about to begin again. Aren’t you forgetting the best part of your banquet?

Gristle frowned; Gnash rolled his eyes. “What part would that be?” he demanded.

I promised to think of all the ways I could make myself taste better, so I’d become the most delectable talking dinner you could imagine, remember?

“And so?”

If you let me tell you all those delicious thoughts of mine – like Bubblegum ice cream, for example, or my Nana’s famous apple crumble – you will take that much more pleasure in eating me. I will provide the relish for your feast.

“It does have a point,” Gristle ventured.

“You’re not falling for that nonsense, my horrible henpecker, are you?” Gnash fumed. “At this rate, I won’t be eating ‘til breakfast!”

“Now, now my lumpy lout, it can’t hurt to listen to it for a minute or two, can it? After all…”

“What did you call me, my gullible nincompoop?” Gnash threatened, his face contorted onto a fearsome scowl, hands balled into fists

“Nincompoop!” Gristle shrieked, and before she’d even finished uttering her final compliment, her sharp claws shot out and raked his cheek. A trickle of green blood oozed out of his wound, down his neck.

“Now look what you’ve done, my sweet!” Gnash howled.

For a very long moment they exchanged a look of horror. “You made me do it!” Gristle yowled. “Oh my darling, why did you carry on so?”

Then suddenly they were on each other, scratching, biting, kicking, clawing, snarling, a ball of rage rolling around on the terrace, devouring each other chomp-by-vicious-chomp until nothing remained but two morsels, that wriggled like earthworms into the dirt.

Although he was glad not to be eaten, Lincoln couldn’t help feeling sorry for Gnash and Gristle. They were trolls, after all, so who could blame them for behaving like trolls?

And it’s true, when you think about it… the world would be a pretty boring place if we didn’t have trolls and witches and ogres to frighten us, and play their parts in our scary stories.

I’m just glad I wasn’t born a monster! Lincoln sighed.

But even with Gnash and Gristle gone, his problems were far from over, for the trolls’ spell hadn’t weakened one iota. Strain as he might, Lincoln still couldn’t move a finger, and he wondered if it would have been better to have been eaten than to be forever trapped in his paralyzed body in a place where no one would ever find him.

Exhausted, he stopped trying to escape, willing himself to simply rest for a while. Perhaps, if I fall asleep, I’ll wake up from this terrible dream, he thought.

“Link!” Jake yelled. “Link, where are you?”

Flibber T.’s watery footprints had become almost impossible to follow in the gravel of the E&N path, then on the packed earth of the Hermit’s Trail. So Corvus took the lead, gliding from branch to branch above, cawing excitedly.

But why would Lincoln have gone down this narrow, overgrown track? Jake wondered. Could the crow be confused, or was he conniving with the unpredictable owner of the yellow footprints?

Jake couldn’t say. But sometimes you just have to go on instinct, he reckoned. It was either trust his new companions, or give up. Where could he even begin his search, if Corvus and Flibber T. weren’t taking him in the right direction. He had to follow, even when Corvus strutted down a barely visible rut that disappeared into a dense wall of underbrush.

“Down there?”Jake wondered. Corvus cawed imploringly. Zip didn’t hesitate either. He sniffed once, yipped, then with a sudden lunge, pulled the leash out of Jake’s hand, darting out of sight into the forbidding thicket.

Jake crouched, looking for a way he could squeeze through too, and there on the ground he spotted a torn bit of cloth. “Grampa!” he judged by its pattern. His grandfather had tried to get down this trail already.

Hunkering down, he plunged into the tangle of branches, leaves and thorns like a rampaging bear, arms in front of him for protection. Only a short way in, the trail opened out again, just in time for him to pull up short before he tumbled down a steep set of stone steps.

And there at the bottom lay his brother, on his back, looking as if he were… as if he were… “Lincoln!” Jake hollered, charging down the stairs two at a time. “Lincoln, wake up!”

Do you ever wonder where you really go in your dreams? Worlds, peopled with knights, and monsters, and wizards, and queens appear, but then a door bangs shut, or somebody snores too loudly, or you have to take a pee, and – poof! – the whole fantasy, castles, enchanted forests and all, collapses without a sound.

Lincoln’s dreamworld wasn’t like that. It wouldn’t let go of him. Even though he could see into his ‘real’ world, hear his brother’s shouts, feel Zip’s rubbery nose snuffling his cheek, and Corvus’s claws tingling on his chest, he couldn’t free himself. The blue sky and shivering trees above were in a different universe…

He looked out on them from his nightmare and thought, I’ll never wake up! But then he remembered how he’d tricked Gnash and Gristle, how he’d kept his wits about him.

Where am I? he asked. Why can’t I move? He had to break the trolls’ powerful spell. Gnash and Gristle were no more, so how could their dark magic keep him trapped like a creature frozen in a block of ice?

Lincoln could hear Zip barking, Corvus cawing, Jake shouting, Squirrel chirping, all of them cheering him on like fans, rooting for their favourite team in the Stanley Cup Playoffs. He zeroed in on their cries, drew strength from their shouts and calls for him to join them in their real world…

My world! he remembered, concentrating all that energy into the muscles of his right index finger, his only hope. He strained… believed with every nerve and fibre of his being, concentrated like a weight lifter attempting a World’s Record hoist, strained until…

His finger twitched the tiniest fraction of a millimetre, a movement not even a microscope would have detected, and the spell broke – shattered like glass.

Lincoln gasped, his eyes opened wide, and he bolted upright, surrounded by his brother and their friends, who gathered close round, welcoming him with their happy hubbub.

When they told their parents the story of Flibber T. Gibbet, Jake and Lincoln left a few bits out.

For instance, Jake forgot to mention that Grampa Grumps had let him go searching for Lincoln; and for his part Lincoln never fessed up to deliberately tracking down Fibber T. after he saw the elf’s footprints near Scoops ice cream stand in Waterwheel Park.

Why ruin a good story by ratting out other people or even yourself? they thought.

Their Mum and Dad didn’t quite know what to say, once the boys had reached the end or their tale. On the one hand, they were both proud of their sons’ courage and cool-headedness in a crisis; on the other, they thought they should use the incident as a teachable moment and lecture them on the dangers of running off after yellow-shod elves.

Grampa Grumps settled things once and for all. “Well,” he praised them, “I’d say you young fellas didn’t get lost on the Hermit’s Trail. I figure the both of you got found!”

And everyone agreed.

I’m glad you’ve enjoyed reading and listening to Flibber T. Gibbet. Please consider making a Voluntary Royalty Payment before you leave. And if you want to receive updates about new releases and events, visit my Connect page …

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