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Willoughby

My garden is ruined! That wouldn't be so horrible if I weren't a garden gnome. Gardens are very much our thing.

Plants everywhere. Dirt upturned. My cottage isn't even close to the hullabaloo up on the hill where the big fight between the monsters of Moonfall Isle and the monsters of the mainland took place last night. I'm down at the bottom, on the other side, in a meadow where the trees don't cast too much shadow to keep me from planting. But a big boulder and a bunch of small rocks still managed to get thrown far enough to crush my beautiful patches.

Sorrow lances through me as I catch sight of the most egregious offense of them all. My pumpkins—the ones I've been tending in hopes of bringing the best to the annual fall festival—are crushed. The poor little gourds have split open, their slimy guts are strewn across the ground.

I fall to my knees beside what had been the beginnings of the largest pumpkin I'd ever grown. Tears spring to my eyes. I fully admit that it might be ridiculous to weep for a pumpkin, but it isn't really the pumpkin I'm weeping for. It's the labor, time, and love I've put into it, from planting and tending the seeds to growing the sprouts under heat lamps in my basement. I even come out here some evenings to talk and sing to my pumpkins to make them grow better. Mine are always the largest at the festival.

"Ugh, what a mess!" a clipped voice intones from the other side of the stone garden wall.

I flinch.

Randy isn’t a gnome; he's a leprechaun, but that’s not the issue. I don't consider myself speciesist. The problem is that Randy is quite speciesist and feels very superior simply because his lineage includes ten generations of pure leprechauns—or so he says. His cellars are supposedly full of gold; again, so he says. He's lucky the local dragon is such a shut-in, or he might not be able to claim so much gold as his own.

A chest-rattling snuffle chooses this inopportune moment to force its way out of me.

"What's that?" Randy whispers, likely to Morty, his old, perpetually angry gray cat.

Over the stone wall pokes a pale, freckled face with a long, hooked nose. Slicked-back red hair tops his head. His bright green eyes spot me as I wipe the tears from my face, hoping to play them off as a speck in my eye, even though I must look a mess.

"Oh, it's you, Willoughby. Can you believe what's happened? I—" He suddenly cuts off mid-complaint. His emerald eyes settle on my face, scrutinizing it. I hastily drop my gaze, pretending to study a piece of orange pulp beside me.

"Willoughby, are you all right?" he asks, and it's absolutely the worst question in the world. I want to say yes. I want to shrug, act nonchalant, and magically pull myself together. I don’t want to cry in front of my neighbor Randy, who constantly complains and acts like he's the center of the universe.

But my nerves are frayed, and Randy's looking right at me, and he asks like he cares, so of course I can't help the single humiliating tear that falls. It opens the floodgates, and soon my face is in my hands and I'm weeping again. After a few moments, I manage to pull myself back together. When I finally look up, Randy's gone, and all I can taste is the acidic reflux of humiliation.

Randy

Willoughby is crying. He's sad. I know what you're supposed to do when someone is grieving.

I pull out the flour and sugar.

An hour later, Willoughby isn't in his destroyed yard anymore. The sun is higher. I wonder if he's gone into town, a dangerous prospect after such a night. Still, I approach the door. Willoughby's house is shaped like a pumpkin, which seems particularly ironic considering he was just weeping over them. The doorway is arched, with a window on either side. The stem at the top is a cleverly placed chimney.

I knock, but there's no answer. I try again, slightly more forcefully. The knob turns and the door cracks. Big brown eyes meet mine and, oh, I could drown in them every time I see them.

"I, um..." I hold up the basket in my hands. "I brought treats." I pull back the small towel covering the basket, which I've used to keep in the warmth.

The basket is full of gold.

Perfectly golden-brown honey scones, warm from the oven. Willoughby stares at them.

"Oh, thank you, Randy. I..." He sniffs. "Um, do you want to come in?"

No, I really don't, but Willoughby looks utterly distraught, and I can only imagine that if I refuse, he'll burst into tears again. I cannot take more tears, so I enter.

The inside is exactly what you'd expect from an autumnal garden gnome. The living area to my right has two plush reading chairs flanking the fireplace. The loveseat is floral and appears to contain approximately twice as much stuffing as any loveseat reasonably requires.

Everything is soft, from the throw rugs to the maple leaf curtains. The kitchen is painted in browns and deep oranges. It's cluttered with copper pots hanging on the walls, little wooden vegetable figurines lined along the windowsill, and other knickknacks that serve no discernible purpose.

I set my basket on the counter. When I turn, Willoughby is pulling out two plates.

"Oh, no need. They're for you," I insist.

"No, they look too good. Please have some with me." I hesitate a moment longer before sitting on the dark green stool he offers. One of the fundamental differences between us is his hospitality, like sharing gifted food. But as with most social rituals, I find this tedious. I performed my duty and brought the baked goods. I would rather go home to my books.

But I sit. I don't smile because I've been told my forced smile makes me look like I've been run through with a sword. And right now, a smile would be forced. I don't have many reasons to truly smile.