the bakers
Tranquil
“Come, Norther.” The hermit stepped into the forest.
“My shoes are ill suited for… Oh, never mind.” With a deep breath, he followed.
A tremendous thump, like a titan trying to kill a cockroach with a tree, sounded in the distance, and gust of warm air blew. Norther tried not to faint.
After a time, the forest opened onto a small beach. Blue water sparkled under a white-hot sun. A gray disc floated to the top of the lake and took the form of a turtle that poked his head into the air, spit a stream of water, and sank back to the bottom. A pole curled out of the pool.
“Now this,” remarked Rye, “is a fine place to spend your leisure time.”
Cryptid
Norther scanned the wilderness. Charcoal trunks rose straight up, their olive leaves hanging like the tattered clothes of the fisher folk. Oniony effluvium churned over the dirt. The rolling cry of a pumpkin cricket ricocheted. Underneath it all, Norther’s ribs vibrated, as though a sound too low for his ears lined the air.
In the corner of his vision, a large blur swung down from a tree and disappeared into the boiling mist. Norther’s arms went numb, and there didn’t seem to be enough air in the world to quell his body’s need for it.
Aspirations
As Norther stumbled to the bottom of the hill, he was surprised to find young Mickey sitting in a tree, hands on his jaws, trying to turn his head around in a complete circle.
“Nasty knot in your neck there, Mick?”
The boy looked down and blinked. “No. I just want to be an owl, is all.”
Norther nodded. He’d wanted to be a badger when he was Mickey’s age. “Well, Mom says dinner’s ready. Will you swoop down and join us?”
Norther’s shriek took several nearby birds aback as Mickey grinned, spread his arms, and leapt in the fellow’s direction.
séance
“Lower that dubious eyebrow, Norther,” commanded Wallace as they walked through the beaded curtain. “This will be a peach pudding for your soul.”
Mordecai, leading the other two men, nodded his bejeweled head vigorously. Then he very sneakily pulled the wad of golden trouser that had gathered in the epicenter of his posterior. Norther saw and stifled a gasp.
Once they’d circled a heavily candled table, Mordecai declared that he was aware of Norther’s predicament, and that there was no doubt he could commune with the deceased. “We will begin by joining hands,” he hummed.
Norther’s knees shook like acorns in a whirlwind. “I’m afraid we shall not,” he said, tottering from the room.
Later on, Wallace asked, “What in the dickens was that about?”
“Wallace,” announced Norther, “if a fellow can’t see the consequences of spreading germs, he certainly can’t see the dead.”
swamp thing
Wallace Poppy was actually a better fisherman while asleep. As he held the rod, his crocodile snores vibrated the line in such superb fashion that the worm on the other end danced as though it were its birthday.
Something bit and nearly yanked Poppy’s arm off. “I will eat you for displaying such aggression,” sputtered the fellow, beginning to reel.
The creature stood up out of the water and looked at Wallace with olive eyes. It reached into its mouth and pulled out the hook. The water’s ripples reflected off its body.
Wallace’s gulp echoed. “On second thought, you look neither tasty nor nutritious,” he commented before showing his catch how quickly he could sprint.
Balmknuckle
With the upcoming holiday, Norther’s constant kneading made for nagging joints. He looked around the bakery, grunted as he worked the dough, and jumped as a pair of firm hands chopped at his shoulders.
“Be still and relax,” hummed Wallace Poppy delivering another strangely satisfying hack. “You must see my masseuse, Balmknuckle.”
Later, the two bakers strolled up to a cream-colored door. Poppy tapped it with melodious fingertips. A dauntingly muscular man replaced the portal, his skin as smooth and oily as an eel’s.
The fellow reached out and gave Norther’s shoulder a single squeeze. “Oooh, my. You came just in time. Do follow. Do follow.”
Norther gulped and his eyeballs pulsed. “This is Balmknuckle?” he whispered at Wallace.
Poppy winked. “He’ll even light cinnamon incense for you,” pressing his friend forward.
Three quarters of an hour later, Norther cartwheeled out the door, limber as licorice.
More tales of the Hermit.