[Original Novel] Champion of the Little People, Part 2

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^{Part 1}

I boggled, having steeled myself for the worst. The ones I’d found in the glass jug gathered on the desk before me, no doubt wondering why I’d come back empty handed and tearful. After I heard Dad go to bed, I cracked the door open and snuck downstairs taking care to avoid the creaky step.

From behind every nicknack on the mantle, every shoe by the door and every picture on the shelves, a little green light waved to and fro. I fought back the cry of relief and instead scooped them all up in my hands and, making three trips, transported them upstairs. When I reunited them with their aquatic brethren they seemed floored. As expected. They’d been separated for a year now.

The two groups rushed to embrace one another, formed circles hand in hand to dance merrily and exchanged stories in their inaudibly soft, high pitched dialect. I cradled my head in my hands and simply watched them for a while as nostalgia washed over me.

I recalled the little procession on the table, bringing the marshmallows for my cocoa. The cautious faces peeking out from behind the astonishingly well made miniature tables and chairs on the crone’s shelves. If I weren’t so determined not to harbor foolish fantasies I could almost say that I felt her presence.

I slept soundly that night for the first time in many months. When I awoke, while sitting in bed rubbing my eyes, I began to wonder if it had simply been a wonderful dream. Then their bright little faces poked out from behind various books and toys on my shelves.

I doodled them in my binder on the way to school, performing various dances or tasks. Some sawing twigs for firewood, others playing happily on a set of little drums. At stoplights, out of the corner of my eye I could see dad studying my drawings.

Once or twice he began to say something, but stopped himself. I wondered if he meant to apologize for last night. “It’s okay”, I muttered. “I know it’s hard to have a kid like me.” He furrowed his brow, then returned his gaze to the road.

Morning classes went quickly. There was a test, which seemed to upset the others. I’ve always enjoyed tests. It’s the routine drudgery of homework I can’t stand. The multiple choice ones in particular are quite like puzzles, where the wording of each question carries subtle hints as to the answer the author intends.

I always did very well but never interpreted the results as indicative of anything other than my ability to figure out the mindset of the guy who designed the test. Something I could do very easily with writing, but not at all in person.

When recess came, the ritual began. It’s the same three girls every time. Why do they chase me? Maybe just because I run when they do. I once complained to a teacher about it. He chuckled, and suggested I let them catch me. Not sure what the joke was. Perhaps today was the day to find out.

I abruptly stopped in the middle of a modest grassy field just outside the cafeteria. The girls stopped too, looking on in confusion as I’d never done this before. Their faces turned red. Then confusion became anger. Two held me while the other took off my shoes, then pulled my pants off.

I coped by shutting my eyes tightly and hoping it’d be over soon. They ran off with my pants laughing uproariously, leaving me in the field, searching for something to cover up with. I’d picked a bad day to wear Star Trek underpants.

“Don’t react, and the bullies will stop. They thrive on your reactions.” More sage grownup advice that works only in the realm of thought experiment. Very few gathered to appreciate the spectacle as I walked to the principal’s office in my tighty whities. After all, something like this happened to me roughly two or three times a week.

The girls hid the pants well enough that further searching was deemed useless. The principal called my mom so she could bring a replacement pair. “You know most boys your age would sell their left kidney to be chased by girls every day”. I don’t know how he got the idea that I was in the mood for jokes.

“You must know something about girls I don’t”, I opined. “So far, they’ve been a reliable source of humiliation and not much else.” He shook his head, told me I didn’t understand because I was too young. Maybe so. My mom’s a girl, after all. So was the crone, although it felt strange to think of either having been my age at some point.

Mom arrived with the pants, and scolded me for “losing” yet another pair. I could see her side of it. Pants aren’t free. She and the principal made friendly chitchat as I got dressed. Mostly about me. Nothing I cared to listen to, as I’d heard it all before. They have their own ideas about how stuff like this happens to me and are never particularly interested in my side of it.

I waved as she drove off, then headed back to class. I knew what to expect going in. Even so, it stung. Mr. Conrad did his best to shout it down but there were a solid three, maybe four minutes of laughter until he did. Then came the leering. Oh, what will he do next to entertain us? What enjoyment can yet be squeezed out of him?

I tuned it out and returned to doodling. History class did not require my participation as it’s a strong subject for me and not one I’d ever had to put any effort into for good grades. This retreat was sorely needed. Even without looking I could sense their eyes on me. Faces locked into that maniacal, predatory grin I’ve become entirely too familiar with.

I don’t know what makes me such a tempting target. That’s always eluded me. My last year of elementary passed nearly without incident simply because word got around that I’d beaten up one of my bullies. The others left me alone after that for some reason. I added it to the list of things I’ll never understand about them.

I dreaded the thought of another fight. Would it work a second time? But then I’d have to pick someone to hit. They’d be just as shocked, hurt and alienated as I always am when it happens to me. Visiting pain and fear upon another person just so I can be spared it seems like some perverse sacrificial offering.

Just then I noticed girls ahead of me whispering, giggling and passing notes. One of them I recognized from the field. On the off chance the note included the location of my pants, I snatched it mid-exchange. The girls looked at me in horror. One began to yell, but was admonished by Mr. Conrad to keep her voice down.

I stole a look at it. “Boys we like” at the top, then a numbered list. My name was number one. I puzzled over it until one of the girls leaned over and grabbed it from me. She then tore it into little pieces. The other two were that same shade of red I’d seen before. “It doesn’t mean anything”, she harshly whispered. “Just a joke we came up with.”

Oh. Well, that makes sense of it. What else could it be but a joke? I’d been foolish to entertain any other interpretation. “So I’m a joke to them”, I thought. What had I been before? Was this a step down, or up?

I resolved not to give it further thought, and buried my face in my binder. I was nearly finished with a busy drawing of the little fellows throwing some sort of festival. Not one I’d ever seen, but it would certainly be in their nature from what I knew of it.

The bell sent waves of relief washing over me. I’d made it through another day. I recalled my dad once telling me that ‘day by day’ is no way to live your life as there’s no thought given to the future. He’s got me there. For me, the future means three more years of days like today. Then highschool. I try to think about that as little as possible.

When I got in the car, I sensed something in the air. Dad was driving as he and mom alternate and I guess they’d agreed that her mid-day visit to deliver my pants counted. As we turned onto the freeway, he broke the ice. “I heard what happened today.”

I didn’t confirm or deny it. I figured he’d say his piece either way. “You got into my tools, didn’t you. The air compressor wasn’t where I remembered.” No point in denying it. I’d only get punished more for lying. I told him I’d rigged it for diving. To my surprise, he laughed.

“That’s pretty clever. I don’t want you doing it again though, you can hurt yourself real bad that way if something goes wrong. You understand?” I nodded. No sense in bringing up the rest of those jugs until I had someplace safe prepared for their occupants anyway.

“Your mother threw a fit that morning. Did you know you tracked muddy water in through the kitchen?” I didn’t, and apologized. That was it from him for the rest of the ride. I felt relieved he hadn’t gone into detail about the whole pants business.

Aunt Lina was there when we got home. I scowled involuntarily. Mom came out to mediate. “Aunt Lina’s brought you something!” In fact, she had. It was a beautifully giftwrapped package nearly as big as myself. “We had a misunderstanding the other day. I thought I’d surprise you with something nice to smooth it over.”

I made a point to sincerely thank her. Perhaps it really was just a misunderstanding. I peeled away the paper, tearing it as little as possible so it could be saved and reused. Inside was a model train set. “I read you guys really have a thing for trains”, she explained. You guys? Me and who else? I shrugged it off, thanked her again and dragged the immense brightly colored box up to my room.

On the way up I heard Lina say to mom, “I’m still on the fence. Supposing he does it for attention? And for gifts! If so, he played me like a fiddle. Oh, don’t look at me that way. Although, I did hear there’s some connection with vaccines. You didn’t vaccinate him, did you?”

They took some coaxing to come out of their hiding places. Mom must’ve been through to clean once or twice while I was at school. I told them all about my day. I doubted they understood, but they seemed able to tell I was upset about something. About a dozen sat in a semicircle before me. One was struck by a falling tear, which absolutely drenched him.

He burst out laughing. So did the rest. It proved infectious and before long I forgot my troubles. I rejoiced in their company, and began to appreciate how the crone could live in the woods for so many years. She’d not been the least bit alone, had she? I felt as though she were smiling down on me as I played with the little ones. It got me to thinking what more I could do to build a future for them.

I broke out the sketchpad and began to brainstorm ideas for fortifications. They wouldn’t be safe here forever. I also didn’t want my parents becoming a target for unknowingly harboring refugees. Most of the tiny, immaculate drawings they’d done while I was away depicted the forest. Many would gather around and look on, wistfully.

Returning them to the burrow beneath the tree didn’t seem like an acceptable solution. What sort of life would that be? Still, some sort of emergency refuge was a good idea. Most of my concept drawings had several underground shelters spaced evenly so that everyone could get to safety at a moment’s notice should an unwelcome visitor appear.

I then set to prototyping the shelters. My first idea was to simply superglue walls to a cinderblock, with holes just large enough for them to crawl through into one of the two hollow cavities. But while they’d be safe enough from a single Tyrant, several would probably be able to lift and carry the whole thing.

I eventually settled on building the settlement around the tree with the burrow under it. Better they should have someplace to retreat to should all other defenses fail. I also wound up revisiting the cinderblock, but as the basis for a home which could not be crushed underfoot. While it wouldn’t stop a Tyrant, it would at least stop cats, raccoons and other probable threats.

I found the cinderblocks in the garage, just where I remembered. When mom walked in on me assembling the first one, I told her it was a birdhouse. “I’ve never seen somebody make a birdhouse from a cinderblock” she remarked. “Well, now you have” I replied. Seemed to satisfy her.

I had the little fellows inspect the first completed house, then suggest changes via drawings. One obvious one I missed was the necessity of drilling a hole through the floor for waste disposal, as well as another in the ceiling for the stovepipe. A group of them spent the evening figuring out how to furnish the prototype so that result could be quickly replicated for the rest.

If I could find an opportunity to set these up around that tree sometime soon, I could begin relocating some of the little ones. They could then do much of the rest of the work themselves, from resources gathered on-site. The burrow beneath the tree doubles as a mine, and as soon as a defensive perimeter of some kind could be established they might begin to farm.

I still felt they would need supplies for a while before they could become self sufficient. Even the glass jug some of them called home for a year contained buried caches of dried meat and other provisions to live off of until someone came along to release them.

All at once, it struck me. The train! I turned and studied the cover of the colorful box. Aunt Lina was, for the next four seconds, my favorite person in the world. With enough track I could discreetly send loads of building materials, food, and whatever else they needed from the backyard directly to their settlement in the woods.

^{Stay Tuned for Part 3}