Beneath the Beneath: Three Gnomes and a Goblin, #1

By Peter C. Church

A FORGOTTEN DOOR, FORSAKEN LORE, AND A FAILING WARD…

 

Marial is too nice for her own good. Tucked away in the woodland paradise of Danderroot she lives the perfect life. But her gnome family has forgotten what they left buried under their happy feet. Marial, along with her friends Pickwick and Willifurd, must descend the forsaken paths and investigate the deadly dangers that lie Beneath the Beneath.  Ideally by supper time.  But armed only with a ukulele, hope, and a hairbrush, Marial is more likely to become dinner…

 

She discovers a dark world crawling with rotten things who can't even spit out the word "nice". Faced with failure and ruin, Marial weaves wonders, wins over an unlikely ally, faces hard truth, and abandons nice for good.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter C. Church
• Release date: Apr 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9781778034046

Peter C. Church

Peter Church endeavours to live each day. Author of BENEATH THE BENEATH, the first instalment in the GNOMES series, and the autobiographical CHURCH LADIES: THREE SISTERS GROWING HOME IN NOVA SCOTIA.   He and his exceptionally patient wife live in the wilds of Nova Scotia with a small flatulent dog, a pond full of belligerent goldfish, and the occasional raccoon mama in the attic. He is convinced little people live at the foot of his garden and, if the giggles are to be believed, his basement.  He grew up in Halifax and has lived in such near-flung places as Los Angeles, Brussels, and London. He writes early each morning in the hope of catching up with his imagination. @church_writer peterchurch.ca

Book preview

1

Danderroot

Marial did not dream, she remembered.

The red glow of dawn peeked over the distant hills and crept across the grove while the collective memories of her gnome family poured away like sand through tangled roots. The Great Sadness was again smothered by the Forgetting and put back to bed. She came fully awake and could not recall why there were tears in her eyes.

Marial sat up in bed, pushed her tangled hair out of her face, and chased the eye boogers away. The early rays of sunlight streamed through the open window, dividing her wall into a glowing sunrise etched over a pool of darkness. She smiled, stretched, and made a shadow duck paddle across the wall. She laughed and felt better. It was silly for a gnome to wake up sad.

Sunny days were the best way to wake up, though she also loved the patter of rain on leaves, and the whistle of wind over freshly fallen snow. She decided she loved it all and waking up the most. Her thoughts raced about like sugar-infused squirrels, busy making plans for the day. It was a happy day, a branching out day.

She hummed a tune while washing her face and sang aloud whilst combing out the tangles from her untamable hair. She held up her silver hand mirror and smiled at her reflection.

Good morning you!

"What a lovely day to be you!" said her reflection.

Today you get to garden with your best friends.

"Indeed, you do. Your face is going to get dirty!"

I don’t mind.

"Your hair is going to get all tangled!"

I’ll put it up.

"Your nice work pants are going to be filthy!"

Marial looked at herself sternly.

What else are work pants for?

She laughed with her reflection, wrangled her hair into a semblance of order, and gathered up her things. She, Willifurd, and Pickwick had been working on a vegetable patch further up the River Piddle. This was no small task when the carrots grew taller than her, but she loved every moment spent under the sky.

At this point, her room decided to give a little jolt. More of a wiggle really. Marial felt it shimmy up through her toes and paused to look around. The water in the wash basin rippled and her brush jumped closer to the edge of the counter. She caught the agitated brush and slid it back in place. Marial smiled; everything was back in perfect order. No worries.

She returned to preparing for the big day. Pickwick wouldn’t bring enough snacks, so she wrapped some dried apple slices in a cheesecloth and then, on second thought, packed some more. Pickwick was insatiable. She stuffed her sandwiches and snacks into her canvas satchel and strapped her favorite trowel to the side.

She slung her ukulele over her shoulder, an invaluable instrument for every occasion, and headed for the door. She paused with her hand on the doorframe and, on a whim, stuffed her silver mirror and brush into her satchel. She laughed at herself for bringing all her favorite things to a workday.

The morning air was crisp, and the sunrise blazed over the treetops, its fiery light filtering down to the forest floor. Marial took a deep breath of fresh, dewy air, squinted into the glare, and declared the day nice.

That’s the word, yes, nice.

Everything was nice in Danderroot. The neighbors were friendly and nice. The brightly painted doors were nice. Even the garishly colored skimmer bugs on the Looking Glass Lake were nice. Both to swim with and snack on.

The gnomes of Danderroot lived happy lives. They preferred it that way.

It wasn’t that unhappy things didn’t happen. They did. The gnomes embraced sadness in a hug until it felt better, then sent it off to play. It wasn’t that they didn’t get hurt. They did. All the gnomes, dented and whole, put the hurt one back together as best they could. It wasn’t even that they didn’t get mad. They did. But once spent, they let go of anger like an autumn leaf for the wind to blow away before it could settle in their hearts.

Marial twirled on the path with arms spread wide, taking in the riot of life all around her. Root and Branch, she said out loud to no one in particular. All things grow. It was her favorite saying and the motto among the Family.

Gnomes took a long view of their long lives. They planted deep today for their family to branch out tomorrow. They loved all things that grow and considered no living thing evil. It was a hard philosophy to beat in Danderroot. The Creator had made the gnomes the shepherds of all things that grow, so the Family took great care of their little patch. Their garden thrived even as the world around them faded to concrete and steel.

Marial made her way among the towering trees and through the damp leaf mulch not making so much as a crackle beneath her wooden clogs. She whistled tunelessly along with a robin who abandoned his treetop in search of less invasive accompaniment. Marial shrugged and danced to the rattle of wind weaving through the poplar branches.

Others of the Family were up and about. They waved and called out Good mornings! to Marial as she marched down the path, not that anyone except a gnome would see or hear them unless they wanted to be seen. Her gnome Family lived in a world surrounded by giants and so had to take care. It was not that the giants were particularly bad, they were more often unaware and careless.

The Gnome Family have lived in the grove of Danderroot for ages beyond reckoning. The earth there is sweet and blossoming with all kinds of plant and animal life. It is a place of refuge for the hunted beasts of the forest floor and provided safe nests for birds above. The trees there are strong with great, deep roots for they are well watered and favored by the early morning sun. The River Piddle rushes down from the Giant Foothills over a stony rapid and spills into a round lake the Family called the Looking Glass. It was profoundly deep and so clear that it shone as if there were a mirror at the bottom.

There were places in Danderroot where things would not grow. Ancient stumps of colossal trees remained, scattered throughout the forest, now petrified with age. Nothing would grow in the circle of their tortured roots. On the other side of the Looking Glass, there were hills of earth piled high and poisoned by blackened sludge. Only a thin layer of sickly grass and stunted briars would grow on them. Even the beasts would not trespass on their bald heads.

Marial avoided these places for from them the Great Sadness spread like a stain. She preferred to delight in the unchanging bliss all around her.

She emerged from the trees to the wide village green sloping down to the Looking Glass. Danderroot stirred around her and many were already setting out their handiwork and harvests for sharing. Old Willi sat in his usual spot on the lakeshore, extending his fishing pole over the gently lapping water. It had no line on it. Willi was a free spirit. He wore a shocking red cone hat and bright blue jacket, no self-respecting gnome would be caught dancing in. He liked to show off to the tourists, though no one had the heart to tell him that there was no such thing as tourists.

Morn’n! he called to Marial and waved cheerfully. She waggled her fingers in greeting and hustled on before she got trapped in a prolonged conversation with Old Willi. She recalled the time she missed both lunch and supper sitting beside him listening to his looping tales of fish never caught.

A jolt in the earth jarred Marial from her thoughts. The ground shimmied and shook, sending her sprawling with a crash and twang of ukulele.

Another tremor.

She got up and dusted herself off. All across the green, gnomes gathered themselves up and laughed at the silliness of falling down. Old Willi, however, had been launched into the lake and was now doggy paddling his way back to shore. She rushed over and yanked him, sputtering, onto the grassy bank.

Are you OK? she asked while wringing his hat out and plumping it soggily back on his bald crown.

Course. That was a laugh, eh? Shakes things up a bit round here, don’t you think?

Marial bit her lip. I’m not sure that is so good a thing. Around her gnomes were already getting back to normal after gathering up their scattered handiwork. She forced out a half-hearted laugh. Still, everything is fine. Just a little soggy right?

But Old Willi wasn’t listening. He had already sat back in his usual spot and cast his imaginary line over the now turbulent water splashing over his knees.

Good day for fishing though, the tourists will be by shortly. Reminds me of that time those funny people were digging. He paused, straining in thought. Never mind. I forgot my reminding. Good day for fishing though, those beauties will be biting now I can assure you! Shakes things up a bit.

Marial gave him a damp hug and moved off swiftly, leaving him to his tattered reminisce. She loved Old Willi’s carefree joy of life. Still, an uncomfortable knot pulled a little tighter in her tummy.

She looked over the roiling lake and was glad she was not swimming in it. She then saw the twins’ Homeboat tossing on the waves and broke into a run.

2

Homeboat

The Homeboat bobbing on the Looking Glass Lake pulled gently against its anchor rode in the early light of dawn. The fragrant smoke of a wood-fired oven enveloped Pickwick like a shroud as he prepared another breakfast. He had already eaten breakfast for breakfast and felt another was in order. He was a gnome of simple thoughts and plentiful tastes. He loved the joy of putting something, anything, on his tongue and relishing the taste. This often led him to try truly questionable things. His insatiable curiosity to taste test just to find out was well known throughout the Family. He could tell a great deal about the nature of things with his tongue.

He licked the back of a skimmer bug.

Tangy with hints of hyperactivity.

He nibbled on a banana peel.

Tastes like slipping down a hill on a hot summer day.

He slurped up an early spring worm.

A rubbery feast of viscid ickiness with a wiggly aftertaste.

He then had another.

Pickwick was a beanpole of a gnome, which explained his ability to digest anything. His digestive tract was a vertical thrill ride. He treasured his long straggly beard which doubled as a convenient snack repository.

Today he and Willifurd would join Marial to tend to the new garden patch where a cornucopia of delightful tastes was springing from the earth.

It’s going to be a big day! said Pickwick as he scurried around his kitchen.

Hmmm, right you are. The turnips are coming up nicely, said Willifurd from his half of the Homeboat.

Turnips alone are good for a lick or two, but better woven with chives and snail goo.

Willifurd cringed at that dreadful combination and offered a noncommittal, Hmmm.

Willifurd and Pickwick were twins, yet opposites like the two poles of a magnet. They shared an inseparable bond but could easily repel each other when turned the wrong way.

They lived in the boat they built together out of driftwood and miscellaneous junk dredged up from the lake. To call it a boat was generous, though technically it floated and went places. It was an ungainly thing with a barge deck from which a structure of wooden slats, scraps of canvas, spindly branches, and bits of bottle glass ballooned up to form a grand cabin. It resembled a particularly well-fed hippo wallowing delightedly in the muddy shallows.

The watercraft had an open deck at each end where the brothers sat out or punted around the margins of the lake. They called it the Homeboat because they felt most at home there. The feeling of home anchored the twin’s souls and brought harmony to their floating lives.

Willifurd examined his rotund form in the full-length mirror hung in his orderly half of the deck. He worked hard to maintain his perfectly balanced avocado shape. A low center of gravity suited him, it kept his feet firmly on his beloved earth. He gave himself an experimental twirl, causing his mustache to whip around and slap against his ears.

The Family did not consider Willifurd a speedy gnome, he was always careful to look and look again as he stepped through the world. There were always things to see when you looked. A less observant gnome could look at a bush of ripe raspberries and fill their vision with tasty goodness but may not see the hungry ginger cat silently crouching in the undergrowth waiting for a tasty gnome-sized snack. Willifurd had saved Pickwick more than once over the years; Pickwick’s eyes were wired to his taste buds.

The Homeboat was divided loosely down the middle, as the brothers had opposing views on housekeeping. Willifurd loved order and not a mote of misplaced dust dared grace his well-polished floor. His half served, at varying times, as his bedroom, tool shed, gathering place, and sanctuary. There is a sturdy table at the center of the room, shelves lined with books ordered by subject, walls filled with useful tools arranged by usefulness, and a big pantry cupboard holding everything from jars of pickles to various teas prioritized by tastiness. It was warm, welcoming, and practical.

Pickwick, on the other hand, was a child of chaos. He could barely move among the piles of interesting things he had collected. His cobbled-together work surfaces were covered in half-finished disasters in progress. The walls hung with discarded projects that could charitably be art but were more likely budding monstrosities. Pickwick loved the idea of making things, though he didn’t have a clue how to do so. The practicality fairy studiously avoided Pickwick, for the sake of the world at large.

Pickwick kept an extensive kitchen on the stern of the boat where he conducted his various experiments in weaving tastes. He had much more luck when it came to cooking, for while many of his creations were an offense to nature, many more were truly inspired.

Gnomes are gifted in all forms of weaving, the sixth delight. The Creator gave us all five senses through which we may delight in the world: sight, sound, scent, taste, and touch. The sixth delight of weaving was a gift just for gnomes. They could take the other senses and weave them together to protect, inspire trust, bring hope, persevere through hardship, or heal harm.

Pickwick