[Original Novel] Champion of the Little People, Part 1

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^{Note: This is a sequel to All the Little People, which you may recall was posted two weeks ago.}

“It’s all in your mind, dear. I’ve heard from a very reputable source that no such condition exists.” Much as I view Myers Briggs and other tests which purport to organize people into a few categories with suspicion, sometimes it’s tempting to think that’s true.

Aunt Lina, for instance, is the type which doesn’t believe in illness that can’t be seen. These people have the best intentions in the world, but when it turns out they cannot fix you in the span of a few hours they become frustrated and lay the blame at your feet.

If I were in a wheelchair, those people wouldn’t knock me out of it with the assurance that my legs will start working again if I think positive thoughts. “It was a talk show, wasn’t it? The reputable source you mentioned.” She looked caught off guard, then supremely annoyed.

I don’t know where anybody gets off thinking they can swoop into a stranger’s life, quickly solve all of their problems and then be on their way. Especially not when their solution is to declare the problems imaginary. Everybody seems convinced they know other people better than they know themselves. I’m equally convinced that none of them actually do.

Aunt Lina retreated to the kitchen to complain about me to mom. Nothing she didn’t already know. I sealed myself up in my room, turned out the lights, and peered out the window. We’re nearly closer to the forest than the school. I feel foolish for hoping, but if one of these nights I should see little bonfires at the edge…

Unwanted memories of the old crone, strung up to bleed out, surged to the forefront of my mind. All I could think to do before fleeing was to grab that book. At the time I hoped that without instructions, no new Tyrants could be built.

Couldn’t leave that to chance, though. So I returned to the crone’s yurt some weeks later to scavenge what I could. Somebody had already taken most of it. They missed a box full of iron traps however, perfect for the quarry I had in mind. For bait, I carefully crafted little villages of the appropriate scale, with the trap in the center buried under a layer of leaves.

This worked a few times, but then never again. On top of which, dad found the box of traps in my room and got the wrong idea. As I left my room I overheard him speaking about it with Aunt Lina in hushed tones. Something about how small animal torture is a warning sign for something or other.

They told me to stay out of that forest too, but it’s so close there’s no way to enforce such a rule. I can be there and back in less than ten minutes. I began visiting less and less frequently of my own accord, as I gradually lost hope that any of the little fellows had survived.

It’s a surreal feeling to be let in on a secret of that nature only to eventually return to a more or less normal life. After a time, you begin to wonder if you dreamt it. By my first year of Junior High I’m ashamed to say that I only rarely thought of the crone and her tiny creations. I might’ve let it go entirely had I not read all the way through that book.

Most of it was in a bizarre language I could find no match for. But her notes in the margins were in English, as was one of the last few pages. “Travel North Northeast from my home until you reach edge of forest. You should come upon small lake. At bottom is last hope to keep my dream alive.”

Being in junior high, I didn’t see any realistic way to get my hands on a boat. I’d have to swim out. After consulting a map, I determined she’d meant Everton Lake. How deep? What would I need to reach the bottom? Surmountable problems, at least. If there were some artifact down there which could set things right….

Swim trunks wouldn’t cut it, but I didn’t exactly have a wetsuit handy. I settled for layered shirts. After snooping through the garage, I found something I felt ought to do the trick. Dad’s kind of a packrat and tool nut, which always came in handy whenever I felt driven to build something. In this case, I was after his air compressor.

Not exactly the safest way to dive. In fact it’s probably the most dangerous. But it would raise the fewest questions. I could have it back in the span of a half-hour if all went well. The cumbersome device could be carried like a briefcase, flexible orange air hose coiled up around the handle.

When the weekend came I biked into town and spent my saved up allowance on a fresh charcoal intake filter to keep fumes out of the air I meant to breathe, an airhose adapter, and the cheapest scuba regulator at the local dive shop. I balked at spending sixty dollars on something so small but the shop owner explained that's cheap as it gets.

Once home, I went in through the door in the side of the garage to avoid explaining why I’d bought any of this to Mom or Dad. The regulator, when fitted with the adaptor, screwed neatly onto the threaded end of the air hose. The best I could do for a float was to stick the compressor inside of our camping cooler.

Not exactly professional grade equipment, but you go to war with the army you have, not the one you want. She’d never have written what she did if there weren’t something important in that lake. The next day I told Mom I was heading for the lake to catch frogs. “Don’t let me find out you were in that forest again”, she threatened.

For lack of any better means to transport the compressor and hose, with great effort I lifted the cooler with the rest of the gear inside onto my old Radio Flyer wagon. This made the trek out to the lake considerably less strenuous. I almost wished I’d drawn it out further, as once I arrived there was nowhere to go but down. Severe trepidation nearly made me turn around.

No, that’s no good. I couldn’t let her down. Not knowing what I knew. So I topped up the gas, pull-started the compressor, slid my goggles down over my eyes and nose, then popped the regulator into my mouth. Taking a few cautious drags on it I discovered it worked better than hoped. How long the compressor would run on a single tank was a big question mark as I’d never used it before, but I didn’t plan to be down there for long.

I eased the wagon into the water until the cooler began to float. Once free, I withdrew the wagon back onto the shore. Aside from the sentimental value, I knew I’d need it to lug all this stuff back to the garage soon. At least, if all went according to plan.

I cried out in an embarrassing falsetto upon setting foot in the water. I knew it’d be cold, but that’s the difference between theory and practice. Certain parts of me shrunk up inside my body the moment the water reached them. I started to violently shiver. Already? That’s no good. I trudged on until the water was up to my neck.

Then, committing to what I’d come out here to accomplish, I dunked my head underwater. It was a remarkable feeling to be breathing easy below the waterline. My fear soon evaporated and I found myself wishing I’d done this sooner. Step after step, stirring up clouds of lakebed sediment as I trudged along. I estimated I could see perhaps twenty feet ahead before it all faded into a murky green.

As I descended, I popped my ears. Wound up having to do it several times. I wondered if perhaps I hadn’t exceeded some safe depth limit, but was interrupted mid-thought by a bizarre sight. There on the lakebed, amidst gentle waving aquatic plants of some sort, sat an immense glass jug of the type Dad sometimes brews his own beer in.

It was sealed tightly with a cork, and illuminated from within. As I drew closer to investigate the source of the light, I nearly spit out my regulator in shock. The bottom most part of the jug was filled with what looked like lead shot, presumably to weigh it down. Then a layer of some kind of sealant. Then soil. And growing from that soil, a leafy green bush!

Although there was plenty of light coming from the surface, I could also see familiar little green points of light inside the jug. I knelt down and peered in through the glass. Little cottages, arranged in a circle around the base of the plant. And walking to and fro between them, a small population of Homunculi.

I could’ve cried. That crafty old witch. She’d hidden them where no Tyrant would think to search. Where no Tyrant could survive, for that matter. Just beyond it lay several clusters of identical jugs, each one containing a self-supporting ecosystem and some number of little refugees. My heart soared at the sight of it.

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^{Stay Tuned for Part 2!}