Now it may be assumed that a home underground would be dark and dank, but not so a Gnome hole. Warm, cosy and bright are the words that Gondell frequently used to describe his own personal abode. It is an art long lost, that is if man ever knew the process, but Gnomes warmed and illuminated their homes with lamps and heaters that were fed directly from the abundant tree roots that also acted as supports for their vaulted ceilings. Lamps affixed to the thick vertical columns of root burned with an even golden glow as they fed on the constantly flowing sap, and heaters at the base generated adequate warmth to keep the stone clad rooms both dry and cosy.
Gondell loved his hole, inherited from his father, and his father before him, “The place has been in my family forever.” he would tell admiring guests. How his ancestors had managed to secure such a prestigious stretch of the river bank had been lost in the mists of time and to the best of his knowledge his family had never been particularly famous or wealthy.
“Most likely just good luck at the time,” he often replied when the question entered envious conversation, but it was not a matter that occupied his thoughts too much, I am comfortable and want for little, he would content himself, I have no great need for explanations!
If Gondell had known the illustrious heritage that the name of Lenzen carried he would have given family history more than a cursory thought, but he was simply Gondell Lenzen, the owner of a desirable and inherited river side hole in a better stretch of the bank.
Selecting his favourite pole, lovingly sanded and freshly varnished during the idle months of ice, he strode through to his entrance hall and carefully propped it against the wall alongside his woven willow creel, I have everything now except bait, he nodded and began to wonder if the ground had thawed sufficiently for worms to be stirring, “I doubt it,” he muttered, “But bread will be just as good... and I can exchange a few slices for a decent supper!”
Returning to his bedroom Gondell set his damp clothes on the drying rail above a wide heater and rummaged through a spacious wardrobe. As a race that inevitably get themselves drenched every time that they enter or leave their homes, Gnomes have clothes in abundance. Not that being wet is any discomfort to them, and they rarely feel the cold, they simply love clothes. For indoors their attire is generally bright, reds being a favourite. Gondell felt most comfortable relaxing in his carved wooden rocking chair wearing soft tan leather breeches, an embroidered white shirt and his scarlet silk robe, but of course it was considered ostentatious to wear such trappings outdoors.
And so Gondell selected black mole skin breeches that reached half way down his calves, cinched tight at the bottom with leather laces, a drab waterproof olive shirt and a stout yet flexible leather waistcoat dotted with numerous pockets. He held the sleeveless vest aloft and studied the emblem embossed on the breast pocket. This strange mark was the only part of his heritage that ever caused his wondering to become more active.
“Never forget this mark.” his father had told him as a young boy, “I cannot explain it's special significance, but my father told me the same thing when I was a boy, and his father told him, and so it has always happened in our family.”
So the emblem of an ornate sword surrounded by a wreath of oak leaves became a mysterious feature of his life, along with the promise that he had made to pass on the knowledge to his own son when the time was right. “I need a son first,” he chuckled, “Before I start worrying about that promise.” Yet tradition demanded that he continue the memory, scant in detail as it was, through the line of Lenzen. I wonder what it really means, the thought drifted into his mind but only fleetingly as the desire to catch his supper usurped his inquisitiveness.
Gondell passed the small cave that housed his boat but dismissed the notion of an early launch. I don't need it today, his thoughts ran to the hours of maintenance that he should have done during the dark days of winter. But I never felt the inclination, he told himself quickly attempting to justify his months of inactivity, winter is such a dreary time, I shall enjoy the work more with the sun on my back.
He didn't need a boat for what he had planned, a few relaxed hours watching a red painted cork float drifting past on the steady current as he sat comfortably on the river bank.
Whistling a merry tune, one that he had made up himself, and was really quite proud of, Gondell climbed a short flight of steps cut into the steep river bank. “What a glorious day for fishing,” he announced to the world in general as he stepped onto short rabbit-cropped grass and picking up the main path that led the full length of his little hamlet, and strode eagerly toward his favourite hole, hoping that no others had felt the same urge. “I want to relax, not chat,” he told himself, baulking at the thought of company.
Now, to an inexperienced eye, the hamlet of Hendle upon Risser would remain unnoticed, no more than a casual investigation would reveal simply a series of holes in the red clay river banks, but look closer and the tops of small chimney stacks would become obvious peeping out of the turf above, the only outward sign of habitation. But this is how Gnomes liked things, quiet and private, to live their lives away from prying eyes.
And so, Gondell Lenzen. Of number sixteen River View, (not very original I know, but I did warn you that Gnomes are rather narrow minded), in the fair and gentle county of Hevershire, after little more than ten minutes walk, settled himself down upon his little willow creel and cast out his line.
Hidden from view in a tall stand of reeds, rather shabby looking reeds, the old growth from the year before, Gondell waited patiently as his float drifted slowly by. This is the life, he sighed contentedly, and lifted his line ready to cast back upstream.
“Hey ho Gondell.” A voice broke into his peace and tranquillity, “I should have guessed that the first bit of decent sun would have brought you out.”
Of all the bothersome nuisances, he sighed before turning with a wide smile, “Tindell. What brings you this way?” he replied, his heart sinking as he noticed the pole in his friends hand.
“Need you ask,” laughed the young Gnome as he began to scramble down the bank sending clumps of earth and stones tumbling down amongst the reeds and splashing into the quiet water.
Well, that's scared away all the fish for miles around, groaned Gondell silently as he pushed aside the thought of fresh fish for his supper. “So what's the news?” he asked politely as Tindell slumped down at his side.
“This and that,” replied Tindell as he threaded a hook.
I'm surprised he ever catches anything, thought Gondell as the younger Gnome shuffled and crashed around in the reeds looking for his bait box that had slipped down almost to the waters edge.
“But if you had bothered to come to the meeting last week, you would know everything that's going on. Quite a discussion we had, that's for sure!”
“Oh aye,” replied Gondell, secretly wishing he hadn't asked the question, he avoided the regular village meetings for a reason. Nothing but nonsense and gossip, he thought, suppressing a shudder as he remembered his last evening in the village hall. Except the village didn't have a hall, Hendle couldn't boast such an extravagance, not like the cavernous meeting place beneath a huge and ancient elm tree in the town of Rissermouth downstream. The inhabitants of the village used a clearing in the woods nearby. Quite cheery on a summers evening, he admitted, but only a fool would go outside in the middle of winter to hear old Mayor Wisherton pontificating.
“By all accounts there's trouble brewing in the north,” continued Tindell, “That's the rumour anyway, how much truth there is to it, I know not.”
“There is always talk of such things,” Gondell replied, concentrating hard on his float as it passed by, “But what happens up there is no concern of ours.”
“Mayor Wisherton says that there could be war brewing.”
“Old weasel Wisherton just makes these things up to sound important,” snorted Gondell. He wasn't on the best of terms with the mayor since a heated dispute over access to the best stretch of the river, the mayor
thinking he could mark an exclusion zone. “A stretch reserved for county officials only,” the wily mayor had announced. Gondell had won the debate with a unanimous show of hands when he pointed out that Hendle only had one county official.
“Maybe your right,” Tindell nodded, “But it sets you thinking, what with all the disappearances and all!”
“Disappearances?” questioned Gondell as he re-baited his hook with a pinch of crust.
“So they say,” Tindell nodded, “Lot's more have vanished over the winter, even old Nobbler, up and left without so much as a word... and he always seemed so happy here.”
Now that is news, thought Gondell, I never expected that of Nobbler. “Does anyone know why they're leaving?”
“Only rumours, Mayor Wisherton says they're going north, back to their old lands, back to the Goblins.”
“Well that just proves what a fool he is,” chuckled Gondell, shaking his head, “Go back to being slaves! Anyway, the Goblins got chased away centuries ago, from what I've read there's nothing up there now except for ice and snow, and a few wolves and bears.” he added with a small shudder.
“I don't know about that, but all the Hobbies are going somewhere. That's for sure, he isn't making that up.”
“True enough... it's a mystery” A mystery that Gondell didn't need to solve, he had never had a Hobgoblin in his service, so their sudden disappearance troubled him little.
“A mystery sure enough.” replied Tindell as he cast his line, the big float landing with a resounding splash.
No fish for me tonight, Gondell sighed deeply, a sound of resignation as he glanced at his young friend, a decent enough lad, he acknowledged, but so clumsy!
The fair weather held, and very soon no trace of the winter remained upon the land. Spring bloomed in all it's glory, woodland glades were filled with nodding bluebells and delicate white anemones. Fresh tender grass sprouted in the meadows and hares gambolled and play fought, filled with exuberance, the long winter behind them, spring rejuvenating the land, and soft eyed does on their minds.
During the two weeks since the weather finally broke Gondell had been busy. Dragging his small sailing boat out onto the sandy shore before his entrance hole, he laid out a series of wooden trestles and overturning the craft began to sand. Stripping the old paint away, rubbing and scrubbing until natural wood shone out, the deep lustre of seasoned oak, the feel of it warm under his loving fingers. This is not simply a boat, it's a work of art! Made by his father, only the finest materials had been used, let others paddle about in their pine hulled skiffs, he laughed as he stroked along the fine grain, but this beauty will still be sailing long after those others have rotted away to nothing.
And his pride was fully justified, for there were few boats afloat on the Risser that matched his own.
The same routine every spring, he nodded to himself, and the same thoughts! Such a shame to hide this wonderful wood. Always he felt a deep regret as he applied the first coat of bright blue paint, blotting out the deep grain, but it is necessary protection.
And so, one fine morning in late March, Gondell loaded his freshly painted and varnished pride and joy with everything that he would need for a day afloat, and with a feeling of optimism in his heart, pushed out into the river and let the current carry him toward Rissermouth, and the wide lake beyond