Before the White Peaks: A Gnoman March
“Are ye sure ’tis this way, Shane?”
“Aye, I’m sure. Keep up with me. Don’t drag your feet.”
There were five gnomes, the tallest in the lead and the smallest at the rear. It was the second who paused, scratching his head.
“Why mustn’t I be dragging my feet now, Shane?”
“Because,” said the first, “this marshy land is cursed. If any of us gets the mud from this marsh on the toes of their shoes—be ye warned—none of us will leave.”
The three smaller gnomes looked alarmed. The second was compelled to reassure them.
“But isn’t it the good Queen Aibreann who will save us, then?”
“Aye,” Shane allowed. “But not till Tuesday. That’s when she’ll be passing to the white peaks.”
The littlest gnome squeaked. He had gotten marsh mud on the top of his shoes.
Shane threw up his hands. “I knew we should have left ye behind, flat-footed plod!”
“Wisht now, you fat bully,” said the second. “I’ll not complain at a good rest and neither should you. I’ll be seeing ye, friends, in five moons. Sleep well and may our dreams be warm.”
As the sun rose, the morning light gleamed on the heads of five low stones.
This fic is written in response to the Thursday photo prompt on Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo.