Gnomes On the Loose

The photographer wrestles his gear through a narrow doorway. The darkness of the bar is something of a shock after the blinding white of the afternoon sun. He waits for a moment until his eyes adjust and sees the gnomes, grouped around two tables at the back of the room. One of them – Abner or possibly Squidge – lifts a hand and beckons him over. Each is wearing a nametag. Hello, my name is [blank].

“You look like you could use a drink,” says a guy with a beard.  The photographer notices they all have beards – all but one. She glares at him with beady black eyes and hugs a watering can to her chest. Perhaps it’s a talisman of some kind. Hello, my name is Actyen her nametag reads.

A pitcher is passed around.  The photographer takes a mug the size of a thimble and downs it like a shot of whisky. It is cool and tastes of honey. The gnomes nod their approval. Nobody speaks for awhile. The only sound comes from the air conditioning unit.

“So, you want to take our picture?” someone finally asks. “You want us to share our stories?”

The photographer nods. He looks around in the dimness, trying to locate the source. He notices the wheelchair, over by the juke box. The chair rolls forward with a squeak.  The little man is dressed in a patched brown coat and looks no different from the others in his company, except that he has no legs.

“I am Eldon P. Trunkhat. I speak for the gnomes.”

“He does! He does!” murmurs a chorus of voices.

Eldon silences them with a look.

“Vorgrim,” he shouts. “Play!”

A pair of bushy eyebrows furrows in concentration as Vorgrim pulls out a tiny drum. He lays down a hypnotic cadence.

“This is the story of gnomes on the loose,” says Eldon. He scoots his chair closer to the photographer until they are practically wheel to toe.

“We were given a library quest. Told to chart a course into the hearts of children everywhere. Hide!, they said. Hide among the books! And so we did.”

“We did, indeed,” the other gnomes nod in agreement.

“Travel! Visit all locations! Give to the children a love of books. A love of reading.  A love of gnomes.”  Eldon leans down and massages his nubs.

“But they did not love us.” His eyes narrow. “They hunted us instead.”

He points. “There sits Gnorm, a gentle soul who searches even now for the ultimate root beer recipe.” Clothed in green, the gnome of discussion stands up and gives a little bow.

Eldon adjusts his chair, then continues.  “At Choctaw Library Gnorm went missing. Children found him among the chemistry books and tossed him in an empty field. It took six hours for him to find his way back. Six hours in the blazing sun!”

Eldon’s nostrils flare with anger. Gnorm stifles a sob. The photographer takes another drink.

“And what of Gnathan Gnardo?” Eldon’s voice rises slightly. “He was left unsupervised with NW Library’s teen volunteers. They forced him to go on a joy ride of the sorter. Unceremoniously, he was dropped into a bin of paranormal romance novels. Gnomes do not associate with the undead!”

The gnomes pound their mugs on the table in agitation. The photographer wipes a droplet of perspiration from his forehead.

“Saddest of all is the tale of Ftumch, famed flautist, who tried to serenade Village Library customers with an original composition and had his flute stolen. Stolen, I tell you!” Eldon rams his chair into the photographer’s shins for emphasis. “He saved for 300 years to buy it!”
“Three hundred years!” The gnomes shake their heads sadly.

“Edmond staff found Embrik sleeping on the job. Did they ask him if he was okay? No, they did not!” Eldon shouts. “They reported him! His hard work was for naught! And our reputation as gnomes was sullied.”

The gnomes quiver as they chant: “Gnomes are cute on the outside. But most of them are drunks and thieves.”

Eldon nods. “This is what Outreach said of us.” The phrase stops all gnome activity.

The photographer puts down his drink. “What about you? What’s your story?”

Eldon slams his palms onto his stumps. “They took my legs,” he rages. “Bethany took my legs!” The gnomes stir from their places at the table and bunch together, standing like bowling pins behind Eldon.

The photographer clears his throat nervously and reaches for his camera. “Umm … I just need a couple of group pics …” he says.

The gnomes swarm over him before he can take the cap off his lens. Hello, my name is Spinak raises a silver garden trowel sharpened to a deadly point.

Before he sinks into unconsciousness, the photographer takes note of a beam of light falling on Spinak’s face. It’s at just the right angle. Artistic. Edgy.

He thinks, ‘That would make a really good shot.’