Year of the Gnome: The Mule Skinner

The Gnome had spotted the massive bull days ago. He’d heard him bugling in the first light of dawn and watched as he chased cows up and down the mountainside and bashed antlers with competitors. The bull never lost; he was massive and proud, crowned with seven hulking points on either side of his head.

“Gnomey old boy,” he told himself, “We’re going up the mountain to get that big, rutty sonofagun.”

The thought of fresh elk heart cooked over the coals made his mouth water. He stewed over how the meat would easily last him through the winter and smiled about how nice those antlers would look adorning his moss-covered hut. He couldn’t help but hum a tune as he loaded up the mules.

With a black bear skin over his shoulders to stay warm and a necklace of claws around his neck for good luck, he felt as ready as he could. It was still dark as he hopped atop Thelma, bow slung over his shoulder, and began the ascent, Louise in tow.

Far up the mountainside, the trees parted ways into an open meadow. Summer’s lush, green grass lingered in the opening, and a small, roiling stream edged along the side. The Gnome knew he could leave the mules here without worry, they’d eat till their bellies burst in a pasture like this. He finished hobbling them just as the sun began its sure but steady climb over the craggy mountain peak.

Just as he shouldered his bow, both molly mules spooked, skittering sideways, bound by the hobbles around their front legs. Thelma let out a wheezy bray, Louise a snort. Both looked across the meadow, ears flicking, nostrils flared.

The Gnome knew better than to doubt his mules, so he squinted in the same direction and looked around into the surrounding forest but saw no movement. He figured they smelled the elk nearby and were just being skittish. Once he was done with the butchering, he thought, he’d throw the hide of that big bull over them to make sure they got used to the scent. That’ll teach ‘em.

Just as the Gnome turned to leave his mules and begin his stalk up the mountain, he was tackled to the ground by a fury of brown hair, claws as long as his finger, and teeth sharper than sin. He reached for the knife strapped to his side, but the bear stepped, crunching as he pinned the Gnome’s arm to the earth. A stream of rotten slobber from the boar’s gaping mouth dripped into his eyes, and he was partially blinded, but he could just barely see the hind end of Louise pointed in his direction.

The mule crow hopped, then kicked with one hind leg, sending the bear flying off the Gnome. He whipped the drivel from his eyes and gazed in awe as the mules moved to stand before him. The bear stood and gave his massive form a shake, the fatty hump atop his shoulders shuddered with the movement. He pawed the earth, scrunched his body up like a great accordion, and leaped into the air.

The bear flew, claws outstretched, and one paw sunk deep into Louise’s hindquarters as his mass struck the ground. The mule let out an agonizing bray that echoed off the granite above. It was so loud, in fact, that you could barely hear the thwack of the Gnome’s bow string and the arrow finding its way right into the bear’s chest.

The bear dropped. *Thwack. *Another arrow, a hare’s whisker to the left. *Thwack. *One more for good measure. The bear didn’t move after that.

The mules heaved great, relieved breaths. Louise’s hind end dripped bright, blood red, painting the green grass with every drip, drip, drip. “Oh my Sun and Stars, Louise!” The Gnome said, inspecting the wound. “I’ve got nothing to sew you up with.”

Cursing himself for his unpreparedness, he looked around and saw the long, drooping profile of Old Man’s Beard hanging from the limb of a nearby pine. He grabbed a few strands and draped them over the fresh wound and fashioned a saddle bag around her leg atop the lichen in a makeshift bandage. It wasn’t much, but it was something for now. He then removed the hobbles from her and Thelma’s legs.

He looked down at the heaping brute of a bruin lying on the ground. Well, it wasn’t the bull he was after, but his mind quickly filled with the prospect of bear grease biscuits and the jar he’d set on his window to guess what the weather had in store. Fatty roasts slowly cooked over the fire of his hut would keep him full in warm through the winter, and he’d have a few more claws to add to his necklace. He pulled his arrows from the hide, doing his best to keep them intact, and flipped the bear onto its back.

He unsheathed the skinning knife from his side and carefully began to gut the beast. He did his best to keep the hide nice, it’d make a fine winter coat. As he pulled on the esophagus, the guts slid from the cavity onto the grassy ground. He realized, to some dismay, there wasn’t much heart left to eat, it’d been punctured by all three of his arrows. But he was thankful that his old ram’s horn bow shot so true.

As he loaded the bruin onto Thelma, she wheezed at the weight and balked at the aspect of carrying the very critter that caused such a ruckus. She quickly calmed and allowed the Gnome to hop onto her back as well. He didn’t grab the lead to Louise, she’d follow at her own pace. Poor old gal deserved a few more bites of grass as well. He’d sew her up back at the hut and be sure to give them both a few of the sweet, fat carrots from his vegetable garden. They were as good of mules as an old mountain Gnome could ask for.

Want to celebrate the Gnome in all his glory? Click here to get the Mule Skinner Gnome T-Shirt. We’ll be dropping new shirts and stories every month to commemorate the Year of the Gnome.