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

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“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.

The jug I lifted out of the muck wasn’t terribly heavy in water, but once I got it to shore, it was excruciating to move any real distance. I wound up using the wagon to make multiple trips to and from the house. First to return my impromptu diving gear, then to bring the gigantic burdensome jar. “You’re back so soon?” My Mom called out. “Yeah I uh...it was colder than I thought it’d be.” I heard chuckling. I wheeled the jug into my room, then used a set of pliers to carefully work out the cork.

It came free with a satisfying “thoonk”, belching air in my face that’d been recirculated within that jar for who knows how long. A year, at least. Some of the little guys were already at the top of the plant, having climbed it to greet me once the cork was out. I cupped my hands to serve as a platform, then ferried them a few at a time from the lip of the jar to my desk.

As I did so I took note of the water dripping from my body all over the carpet. Adrenaline must’ve distracted me from the cold, but it was now making itself felt. I opted for a quick hot shower, then returned to my room to discover the rest of ‘em had gotten out on their own. Six stood at the base of the jar, in addition to the four I’d moved to the desk.

I scooped up those six and united them with the rest, who it seemed were now busily drawing on some papers I’d left out. Those particular papers weren’t important to me, so I didn’t interfere. To look upon them, alive and healthy after what I’d witnessed in the woods last year was exilhirating. A wound, hanging open since then, only now beginning to heal over.

Leaning over to inspect the drawings, I immediately recognized them for maps of the area. There was the lake, and the forest. The school, and my house. But why? As if to answer, with the little bit of graphite in its miniscule hand, one of them began to mark specific locations in and around the forest. He couldn’t mean….but what if?

Despite the hour, I snuck out in a thick coat with my flashlight in tow. Chosen because, as a consequence of running on four D cells, it also made a serviceable club. One which had already seen some use against Tyrants, as the crusty red stains on the handle attest to.

It occurred to me that I might’ve planned the outing more carefully only once I was already deep in the woods. Moonlight reflected off of various pairs of large, round eyes. Owls, I hoped. The last time I’d ventured in this far, the forest floor was caked in crunchy dead leaves. I encountered ferns this time, and undergrowth so thick as to trip me twice.

How would I find them in this mess? If I’d known it would be so overgrown I’d have brought some shears. It only took me by surprise because trips to the woods had been strictly verboten since the night I met the witch. Nothing could keep me away, but the first couple of whuppings at least impressed upon me the importance of stealth.

A compass also would’ve been nice. When I found the first shelter it was only because they were expecting me. At first I thought I’d imagined it. Then again, in the periphery of my vision, a blinking green light. Same color as the little lanterns in the first village I’d found, so long ago.

Delirious with excitement, I dashed towards it, slowing as I drew near for fear I might step on one of them. I found no village to speak of. Instead, at the base of a tree whose roots had been exposed somewhat by erosion, I spotted a little round hatch. Originally from some container meant to secure valuables, by the looks of it.

Just outside stood a single Homunculus with a shuttered lantern. He waved to me and I knelt to get a better look. The little fellow scampered over to the hatch, beat on it for a bit, then it opened. This proved to be a long, laborious ordeal. I could guess why. It wasn’t so much to keep them inside, as to keep certain unwanted visitors out.

Once the first few saw my face and called back to the rest, they poured out of the opening in a deluge of little pale bodies. All covered in dirt, shielding their eyes from my flashlight. How long had they been underground? I examined the rest of the tree’s roots and found numerous spots where something must've clawed at the soil, furiously trying to get inside.

Those nearest me tugged at the edges of my coat. When I placed my hand at ground level, they piled onto it. Without any proper container to carry them in, I settled for my pockets. It was quite a warm, soft jacket so I felt it suitably safe and comfortable. In spite of the size difference, my pockets nearly weren’t enough. By the time I carefully stood, laden with little passengers, they were piled right up to the brims and peering over the edge.

Once I made absolutely sure I hadn’t left any, I gingerly trekked home, taking great care not to let any of them spill out. The shears went exactly where I remembered finding them before I’d left. Nothing out of place, no evidence I’d been outside. It proved to be in vain.

“You went to the forest, didn’t you.” Dad sat in his recliner, faced away. I mustered the courage to ask if mom was awake too. “No, she doesn’t need to know about this. But I need to know what your problem is. The more we tell you to stay out of those woods, the more attracted to them you become. Does my authority as your father mean nothing to you?”

I assured him it did, and slowly began edging towards my room. He was up in a flash, his hands gripping the edges of my coat. My heart leapt into my throat and instinctively I gripped my coat too. It only encouraged him. He tore it from me, shook it violently and threw it to the floor.

“No cigarettes or booze. That’s really what I thought all this sneaking was about, I guess I should’ve given you more credit. What’s wrong now? Why are you blubbering?” I knelt at his feet, tears rolling down my cheeks, feeling at the pockets for survivors. They were flat as could be. “I don’t understand you. We got on so well when you were younger. I just want-”

I clutched the coat to my chest and ran from the room, up the stairs and into my bedroom. I only didn’t slam the door for fear of waking mom. My eyes red and puffy, salty streams still snaking down my face, I turned the desk lamp on my jacket and began carefully checking the pockets for blood. Instead, they were empty.

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^{Stay Tuned for Part 2}