The Ballad of Feather Beard

          The honking began late that morning on the fifth of October at 398 Grainy Lane, home of Mr. and Ms. Periwinkle. Anyone for miles in that area of New England would be able to tell you where this house was, given that the house could be seen through a clearing in the forest, high up on the hill across from the highway. But if you asked anyone, they would say there was something even more prominent in the house's beautiful flower garden than the lovely flower arrangements - its garden gnomes.
          Now there is nothing unusual about having a garden gnome or two, but Ms. Periwinkle had many, many more than that. They were sitting near the pond, standing right by the front gate, hiding in the flowers, and even perching on the porch roof. Every color of the rainbow adorned the many different hats of the small statues who watched over old Ms. Periwinkle's garden. Not one of Ms. Periwinkle's neighbors or close friends could get her to say why she insisted on having that many garden gnomes all over her front lawn. She would just point to her flowers and say that the results of her doing so spoke for themselves.
          Except, at exactly 10:23 AM on October 5th, there were no gnomes in the garden. As if that wasn't curious enough, if you managed to get closer to the cabin you would hear the same amount of honking as coming from the highway.
          Fifteen Canadian Geese.
          It was for the best that Ms. Periwinkle had left earlier that morning to attend a meeting at the local Botanist club... Best for the geese that is, as there hasn't been a single garden invader or pest that has ever survived Ms. Periwinkle's wrath. The geese were ruining her garden - grazing on her lawn, mucking up her pond, leaving droppings all about, and stamping all over her flowers. Mr. Periwinkle, once a proud and seasoned hunter, had never gotten out of bed before noon, so he wouldn't do anything about these intruders. The sounds of happy squawking filled the garden as the geese bathed in the small pond, stamped on her Marigolds, and feasted on the lawn's grass and the hydrangeas. But if you listened closely, you might have also been able to hear squabbling coming from the old gopher hole underneath the porch.
          ~
          Deep into the earth, deeper than the cabin basement even, tunnels ran down into a large earthen chamber. Dozens of pointy heads had gathered near a flat wall, arguing while an individual with a green army camo helmet marched back and forth while tugging at his beard.
          "Enough!" The helmed gnome shouted at the rowdy bunch. The gaze of the crowd flew to the imposing gnome standing before them.
          "Men, these are the facts as I see them. One - those avian abominations have RUINED our front lawn. Two - the garden shed is locked, so we can't get to our weapons to fend off these offensive fowl. Three - The Mistress won't be back from her meeting for three more hours! We MUST find a way to defend our home from these winged raccoons!"
          A voice shot up from the front of the pointy-headed crowd. "Hey Colonel, why can't we just go and wallop the lot of them? We're gnomes, not pansies!"
          The Colonel turned around and smiled at the crowd as he pointed in the voice's direction. "I like your gusto son, but frankly we don't stand a chance. Hunter!"
          A green hat, laced with twigs and covered in splotches of mud, rose at the mention of its wearer's name. Its owner, a short gnome carrying a clay rifle, made his way to the front of the crowd.
          "Yes, Colonel?" The gnome asked.
          The helmed soldier gestured towards the wall. "Please give the troops some intel on just what we're up against."
          "Aye, sir." As he walked to the dirt wall.
          Taking his trusty weapon, Hunter started to carve crude pictures of the birds besieging their home into the dirt wall.
          "I've snuck out on plenty of hunts with the old master Periwinkle, and I know these feathered fiends well. They're twice our size, weigh ten times more than us, and a single smack of their wings could cave our poor hats in." He turned to face the murmuring crowd. "We'd lose eight gnomes before we downed a single one of them."
         
         A gruff, irritated harrumph sprang from the gathering as a particularly wide, orange-clothed gnome waddled to the front. "This doesn't make any sense! Why did those long-necked leeches pick OUR lawn to terrorize? Aren't there enough lakes and rivers in this country for those noisy nuisances to foul up?"
          Hunter frowned at the complaining gnome. "Isn't it obvious, Gourd? They must have been led here by Whitehead!"
          This brought the quiet murmur of the gnomes back to a rabble - Whitehead! Canadian Geese had passed through often enough for them to know they all had black-colored heads. All except for one that is.
          Gourd rolled his eyes and crossed his stubby little arms. "There you go again about that stupid bird. How many times do we have to tell you, not every animal old Mr. Periwinkle didn't catch is out for revenge!"
         "Maybe," Hunter remarked, "But geese are intelligent animals! They'd recognize the face of our Master! They could track him back here, and who else would bring back such a gaggle of geese to a lawn like ours except Whitehead?"
         "They're just wild animals, Hunter!" Gourd exclaimed as he pinched the bridge of his clay nose and took his wood pipe out of his mouth.
         "Alright ladies, break it up!" The Colonel barked. "Melodrama is for the Mistress's late-night soaps, not gnomes!"
         The pair returned to their spots in the crowd, albeit with their backs turned to each other.
         "Bareface! Front and center!"
         A beardless gnome emerged from the huddle of his whiskered contemporaries, meekly standing at attention before the Colonel.
         "How long have you been guarding our lawn, son?"
         "Eleven days, sir."
         The colonel laid his hand on the Bareface's shoulder. "Still fresh from the box, huh recruit? Well, this will be your chance to prove yourself!"
         "What would you have me do, sir?"
         "You are going to be the lynchpin in the coming operation. While our comrades are busy out in the garden searching for the key to the tool shed so we can really give those geese goose eggs to remember us by, you'll be heading indoors to find us a monster."
         The colonel was met with the typical blank stare that gnomes gave humans whenever they were around. "A monster? What do you mean?"
         Hunter lifted his green cap to glare inquisitively at Bareface. "Come on now, kid. You were standing guard near the basement window last Tuesday - surely learned about it then."
         A pale grimace waxed over the clay figure's rosy-cheeked face as he slowly comprehended his mission.
         "Oh-ho-ho no, I've smelt that thing's food bowl, and I'm just grateful that I don't have lungs to fill with that horrible stench! What if he tries to nibble me? I'll reek for weeks!"
         "Oh come on Colonel," Gourd said as he shoved Bareface to the side. "The boy hasn't even got a beard! How could we trust him to pull through?"
         A few gasps rose from the crowd, followed by a few snickers. Gnomes prized their beards, clay or not, and Bareface was the only one who lacked flowing locks of facial hair.
         "It's clear this gnome hasn't got the heart for this - none of us even have hearts!" Gourd stated as he gestured towards the fidgeting gnome. "How about you send him up as one of the decoys and leave the monster-wrangling to me, huh?"
         "Can it, Gourd! I always pick the right gnome for the job! YOU just don't want to be bird bait!" Colonel turned away from the wide gnome and looked back to where Bareface was standing. "Now listen up recruit, here's how you'll get that beast-"
         But Bareface wasn't standing there anymore.
         "...outside..." The clay cigar in Colonel's mouth drooped.
         The pointy-headed crowd turned towards the tunnel leading outside just in time to hear fading footsteps and see dirt particles fall to the chamber floor.
         Hunter coughed. "Well, I can't say I didn't see that coming. Little coward." He turned towards the Colonel, surprised to see him smiling. "Glad you don't seem too bothered by it. Now come on, what's the real plan?"
         "Have you got moss in your ears soldier? I just told you all the plan!"
         "Quit pulling our legs, Colonel, that's ridiculous! You are basing the fate of the garden on one beardless babe! You just saw him scurry out of here faster than any squirrel I've ever seen!"
         Colonel marched right up to Gourd and stared at him right in his lead-painted pupils. "I never pick the wrong gnome for the job - and who said he deserted? At least he doesn't need a babysitter to make sure he does his job like you do, you fat opossum!"
         Hunter stepped between the two gnomes, holstering his clay rifle. "Even if that's the case, why choose such a greenhorn for this mission? I'm the one who has the most experience with that thing, why not send me?"
         Colonel glanced at his old friend's worried face and shook his head. "You are the best tracker we've got, but you're too noisy. That's why you had to sit in Mr. Periwinkle's hunting bag whenever you went scouting. Otherwise, you'd never get close enough to anything without it hearing you!" Colonel pointed towards the surface tunnel. "But you saw and heard what I did just then when he left - nothing. He'll be in and out of the house in no time. All we have to do is wait for him to lure out that furry behemoth and bring him to those winged wretches."
         "And how exactly was he supposed to do that?" Gourd inquired.
         The Colonel opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. He hadn't told Bareface how to do it - the young gnome had left too quickly! He turned around to face the dirt wall.
         "Bah! I'm sure he'll find a way!" he said half-heartedly, hoping that the other gnomes wouldn't notice his wavering confidence.
         Just then, a mud-covered gnome came sliding down the entrance tunnel and ran into the crowd of gnomes. "Colonel! We've found the key! It was under the stone turtle by the pond!"
         The Colonel stood dazed by this information for a moment, then put on his usual stoic face.
         "Alright cupcakes, change of plans. We make for the toolshed and give those Geese a real American welcome party!"
                                                            ~
         While a pair of geese nibbled at the hedges near the window, a rattling sound came from the gutter pipes. A wheezing Bareface came climbing out, grasping at the gutter corner to catch his breath.
         "You'd think I wouldn't run out of breath; I don't even have lungs!" He exclaimed as he looked out across the garden.
         Most of the geese were focused on tearing apart the water shields that floated across the pond surface, snapping up the contents of the seed pods hanging underwater. At least that would occupy them for a while.
         Bareface began to climb up the roof until he found the entrance to the old squirrel infestation. It had been cleared out last month by the other gnomes, thankfully. Slipping through the hole made by the missing roof tile, Bareface scurried across the dusty attic floor toward the stairway. Bounding down the stairs with a silence unnatural for a clay figure, he pushed through the ajar door and peeked out into the upstairs hallway.
         If his ears weren't failing him (how could they? He didn't have any eardrums.), Mr. Periwinkle was still sleeping like a log, his snore rattling across the entire floor like the gentlest of chainsaws. Content knowing that he wouldn't be caught by him, Bareface rounded the hall corner and began hopping down the stairs towards the kitchen.
         He paused as he passed the glass doors to the backyard.
         "Colonel! Is that you?" Bareface exclaimed.
         The moving plant pot lifted to show the Colonel, who palmed at Bareface in an attempt to shush the young gnome.
         "Whisper, soldier!" the Colonel hissed. "Geese have better ears than you'd think!"
         Bareface's hands went to his mouth. "Sorry, sir! But what are you doing outside of base? Did we already find the toolshed key?"
         "Astute observation, soldier. We're heading there now to arm ourselves. We'll be waiting for you to bring out the big guns!"
         "I still can't believe we're really going through with this part of the plan." Gourd's voice came from the plant pot behind the Colonel. "There's still time to send someone else in."
         "Zip it you wide wobbler! I know who's best for the job!" Colonel barked.
         Everyone went still as a black head on a noodle-like neck peered around the house corner in the direction of the voices. No movement... No more sounds... Just some pots on the porch. Must have been its imagination - and geese do have very active imaginations. It turned around and waddled back to its peers on the other side of the house.
          "Listen carefully," Colonel said in a hushed voice "The best way to get that creature's attention is to bait him with his favorite ball! Now get to the beast, soldier! We're counting on you!"
          ~
         Bones. "So. Many. Bones." Finally, after all his years of service, George was getting what he deserved. Their glorious calcium scent filled his nostrils, it was almost dog heaven. "What's this smell? Soil? No that can't be right, all he could see were -"
         "No! Why are the bones burying themselves?" George hadn't even gotten to nibble them! "Come back!" He barked in vain. "Where is all this dirt coming from? No! NO!"
         George the Chesapeake Bay Retriever snapped out of his nap, desperate to nab even one of his imagined bones. All he tasted was air.
         "Oh. It was just a dream," George thought (since dogs can't actually speak). He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and sat up from his mangled plush bed.
         George had been Mr. Periwinkle's faithful hunting dog for thirteen years, and whatever his master caught, George was always given a juicy piece. But there were no prizes this year. Mr. Periwinkle had hurt his back trying to carry a big bull moose back to his pickup truck last fall, and he hasn't been hunting since. No game meant no meat, and George had to settle for his usual kibble. "The dog treats just aren't the same." He huffed. Not only that, but since Mr. Periwinkle was the one who got George out of the house most often, he had been stuck watching the relatively dull lives of his owners, and nothing even remotely interesting happened before lunch.
         A yawn escaped George's mouth as he laid his head back down on his plush bed. "Maybe I could find those bones again." He thought as he sniffed around, searching for them waiting for his dream to return.
         Except the dirt smell was still there. George's eyes opened once again to find a small, clay figure suddenly standing in front of him. It had its back turned to him, unaware that it had woken him up. It was looking around the basement for something.
         "Oh, it's just one of those things," George thought. Every now and then he'd see these small people walking out in the garden when his owners were away. If a dog could smirk, George would most certainly have one right now. "It's always fun to spook them."
         George had done this enough times to know how to get the best reaction out of the midgets. First, he began to growl softly, just like he would when Ms. Periwinkle reprimanded him for digging in the garden. The figure went completely still, slowly turning to face George, who was looking at the gnome with wide, green eyes.
         The next part - the best part - was simple enough.
         George let out the biggest bark he could, and a shrill scream escaped the miniature man. Bareface scurried across the basement floor and up the standing lamp, jumping onto the bookshelf. "Satisfying as always." George thought as laid his head on his forelimbs, content with his meager mischief.
         "Wait a minute," George realized, "That small man is on my shelf of favorite things!" George shot up onto all four legs and walked right under the shelf, looking up at it, wondering what he might knock down. The gnome walked over to George's toy basket, full of the mangled remnants of many old friends, and began to shuffle through its contents. Was he going for the tug-of-war rope? The rubber bone? The squeaky chicken?
         Wait, why was that thing looking at the line of Ms. Periwinkle's old gardening magazines now? "Come on, pick something already!" George thought as he shifted around in anticipation. Alas, while gnomes are magical creatures, they cannot hear the thoughts of animals, so it hopped out of the toy basket and walked behind the books. Disappointed, George turned away and began to walk back to his bed.
         Faint - so soft - was the sound of a hollow orb heard by George's suddenly attentive ears.
         "NO." George thought. "It couldn't be - She had gotten rid of it after last time!" George whipped his head around and watched the gnome come out from behind the old magazines. Held high in its hands, the small intruder had the unholy idol of George's desire - his favorite green tennis ball!
         George couldn't believe it. He had all but annihilated poor Ms. Periwinkle's garden the last time Mr. Periwinkle played with him with that ball. It wasn't George's fault - honest - he just got tunnel vision whenever he saw it. "That sly old dog!" George realized. "He must have hidden it back there since she never reads them again once she's done!" George rushed back under the shelf, eagerly bouncing from paw to paw.
         "Please, oh please give me the ball" George tried to say. Since he was a dog, however, all that came out was a whine of anticipation.
         The midget leaned back and heaved with all the might its tiny little arms could muster to propel the ball out the basement window.
         All thought ceased in George's mind. The ball, the apple -er, bone of his eye had just disappeared once more, and he was NOT going to let it stay that way. The dog's aged body moved like a blur under the window and up the wall, grasping at the window ledge. He wiggled and grasped the earth outside with his forepaws, and he was slowly making his way out of the basement and into the front yard towards the garden.
         The midget must have grabbed onto him because he felt two tiny hands holding for dear life onto his tail. But George didn't even notice. The sole focus of all his refined canine might and willpower was that Bouncy. Green. Tennis ball.
                                                            ~
         "Get down!"
         Colonel grabbed Hunter and dove into the shrubs just as a black-tipped goose wing swung at the pair. Colonel picked Hunter up off the ground and dusted him off. In the background, Colonel could make out the war cries of his fellow gnomes, the belligerent honking of their foul, feathered opponents, and the screaming of Gourd as two geese played tug of war with him.
         "Eyes open, soldier! Don't want you shattering on my watch."
         "Things aren't looking good for us sir, there are twelve geese out there, and we're already down two good men - reduced to shards by those foul fowl."
         A terrible beak jabbed in between the two, snapping as the goose reached for the gnomes. Colonel grabbed the trowel from his back and thunked the invader on its head. While it was stunned, Hunter jabbed his clay rifle into the goose's eye. The wounded bird squawked in pain and retreated, unwilling to suffer further wrath from the gnomes.
         "Chin up soldier, the calvary should arrive any second now."
         "Let's hope your faith in the greenhorn isn't misplaced. Now lets-"
         A high-pitched squealing rang out across the garden. The Colonel peered out from the shrubs and saw a green ball bounce over near the pond, where Whitehead was nudging the pieces of his latest victim. Just then, barreling out from the side of the house came George. Hanging on to his tail, Bareface was belting out his non-existent lungs as was flung around harder than the flag in a windstorm.
         "Gadzooks! What is the man crazy? He'll get himself smashed like that!"
         Just like that, as if Hunter's words triggered it, Bareface went flying over the pond, embedding his sharp pointy hat into one of the geese that were harassing Gourd.
         Everyone, gnome and goose, stopped to look at what had just burst into the yard. Whitehead looked the dog straight in its eyes, a proverbial deer in the headlights, and turned to face this new threat. If only he knew what he had just put his webbed foot on.
                                                            ~
         His pride. His joy. His favorite of all favorite things. George's tennis ball was sitting under the webbed foot of a Canadian Goose. (Of course he'd know what it was - he was a hunting dog after all.)
         His tunnel vision faded for a moment, and he looked around, seeing all the frozen geese staring at him, and the mess they had made. The hydrangeas had no flowery heads, the marsh marigolds were covered in mud and goose residue, the bluebells were black and blue from being trampled over, and the tall towers of white "James Compton" Baneberry were laying on the ground. He glanced back to the foot holding his ball and looked up to see its owner.
         "Y O U." A powerful growl escaped George's mouth.
         That one goose that Mr. Periwinkle didn't catch. The one who left after biting George's nose and defecating on his head. The one that threw its head back, sending taunting honks back at them as it dodged Mr. Periwinkle's shots, disappearing into the briar bushes on the other side of the lake. Whitehead.
         The ruined garden. His old enemy. His ball. No one can perfectly understand the inner machinations of the canine mind, but I would dare to say he thought his old enemy was setting him up to take the blame for their handiwork. Don't ask me why, it's just a hunch.
         Because George wasn't going to have it. Because George finally had a hunting target, and he was ready to go in for the kill. What happened after those three seconds of tense silence would be remembered for the next seven years as the Great Garden Massacre.
~
         It was over in less than a minute. The pond had been dyed red with goose blood, as the corpses of half a dozen waterfowl littered the yard. The gnomes rejoiced at the arrival of their furry savior, savoring the carnage of the very angry dog as it tore through the birds that dared to oppose him and his righteous crusade for his holy tennis ball. The few birds that didn't have a death wish managed to fly away before George could catch them, as the remnants of the flock fled past the tree line on the other side of the highway, never to be seen again. Whitehead's head was never found after George had flung it over the fence onto the hillside. George himself was content to drag the rest of that bird's body back into the house through the pet flap.
         Chipped and ashamed, Gourd abashedly admitted that the Colonel did know better than he did, and congratulated Bareface on a job well done. Except he wasn't called Bareface anymore. His goose-cushioned landing had earned the new gnome a beautiful fluffy feather beard, held on by the blood and... refuse... of the invading avian. From that moment onward, Colonel and the rest of the garden gnomes would call him Feather Beard, the flying gnome. Thus the gnome that was once called Bareface faded from existence, as everyone gathered around the young champion to celebrate their victory. Feather Beard would never again know the shame of being beardless.
         ...For a whole two hours before Ms. Periwinkle got back, screamed in horror at the state of her garden, and hosed the mess off Feather Beard's face.