Dummy
(June 2014)
4-When in Rome
Skerro was a Gnome. Until recently he had been an underground, or feral, Gnome, but his family had decided to get out of the mole-people-haunted tunnels and join the Civilized folk up on the surface. Skerro was almost twenty-five, the Gnome equivalent of a rebellious teen, and he did not always, or even often, listen to his parents.
Fresh from the underground, Skerro was one of those wild spirits who would not only live in trees, but would climb all the way to the topmost branch of a giant Woodpecker-Trap Tree, braving the inviting cavities (which, should one venture in, would instantly snap shut and start to secrete digestive juices) and flimsy limbs, just for the frinna* of it.
Anyway, quite early in the morning, before sunrise, Skerro was hunting. He was not yet proficient at this, since below ground the Gnomes tended to live on insects and fungi, roots and such food as could be seized during quick forays topside and hauled back into the tunnels. He had his heart set on capturing a rabbit or possum, or possibly a skunk. Gnomes found skunks piquant eating, the way a Scoville-daring fan of peppers might begin to drool at the sight of a pizza adorned with Carolina Reaper slices.
However, no such luck. After a couple of hours of stalking and not catching up with various prey, Skerro did stumble across a recent road-kill squirrel. It was one of those tragedies of nature that might have been avoided had the squirrel been a little smarter.**
But meat was meat, and Skerro could always tell his fellow miniature delinquents that the animal had been fierce, a bull squirrel, and he'd had to beat it into submission in a desperate fight before overcoming it. He peeled the squirrel off the pavement and then, already having learned something about the drivers of Gravity Falls, he took the meal with him into the fringe of the forest. The Civilized Gnomes preferred their meals cooked, but you know teens. They'll eat stuff raw if it disgusts adults enough. Heck, they've been known to consume laundry soap.
Skerro had his Gnome army knife handy, and he began to skin the squirrel.***
He was not aware that something was watching him. It had been walking through the forest, but froze when he came close to it. It watched as Skerro removed the outer covering of the small animal and then start to carve and consume the flesh.
Perhaps that is the kind of thing the living things of this place do. Perhaps that is the kind of activity that this living thing should do. If it is living. It is certainly a thing.
The movement caught Skerro by surprise, as did the two, well, call them hands, they're at the ends of the arms, anyway, when they clapped together, clasping him.
They held him tight. Too tight. He couldn't breathe. In his fading vision, Skerro saw a face, not human, staring at him. He tried to say "Please," but emitted only a plaintive grunt before things inside him broke from the pressure and he went away, hopefully not to one of the assorted frinna.
After all, he was just a kid.
Though he did not survive to see it, the thing that had caught him now tried to imitate his actions with the squirrel by eating him.
It did not succeed. In order to eat, one needs a mouth.
Had Skerro's death occurred a couple of years later, Jeff would have gone straight to Dipper and Mabel for help. However, human-Gnome relationships were still touchy. And no one knew what had happened. No witnesses.
Jeff and Shmebulock decided at last that the mangled young Gnome must have tried to cross the highway in the darkness and been struck by a human vehicle. "Shmebulock," said Shmebulock bitterly.
"Maybe not," Jeff said. "We're sometimes hard for humans to see. And sometimes this part of the road has a lot of ground fog covering it at night. It might have been an accident."
"Shmebulock?"
"The way I see it," Jeff replied, "is that the boy—what's his name?"
"Shmebulock."
"Really? Skerro? That's an old-fashioned name."
"Shmebulock Shmebulock Shmebulok. Shmebulock."
"Oh. That explains it." Jeff sighed. "Well, I'm not sure, but I think Skerro must have been chasing a squirrel. They both ran into the roadway, and a human vehicle struck them both. There's squirrel mixed with the remains. I'll stay and watch to make sure no scavengers come. You run back and bring a burial party to take the boy home."
"Shmebulock."
"Yes, you're right. You wait and guard the body and I'll go bring the burial party. They'll probably understand me a little better. Do you think—if you think it would make things any easier on the family—um, I could ask the Queen for permission to give the boy a state funeral."
Shmebulock wiped a tear from his eye. "Shmebulock," he agreed softly.
Where did it go, where did it go? Mabel was driving herself nuts, well, nuttier, trying to figure that out. I shouldn't have taken it from the locker. But who knew that it could even move? It must be a robot. Or what's that word Dipper uses, an automotromaton? Can't be. Old Man McGucket would have called it a robomajigger.
Anyway, I've got to find it.
I just wanted something to take my mind off Russ . . . .
"Dude," Wendy asked that morning, "is Mabel OK?"
"She says she is," Dipper replied. "But I don't know. All that stuff hit her so hard."
They were setting up the gift shop for business. The Shack opened at nine, and three or four early customers showed up in the next hour. Then T.K. O'Grady came in for his turn as cook in the snack bar. He didn't look rested. Behind his black-rimmed round spectacles, his eyes were nearly as baggy as Dipper's.
Dipper had just finished showing the few tourists through the Museum, and they had lined up to buy souvenirs. Teek looked around. "Mabel's still not working?"
Dipper shook his head. "She's kind of racked up, man."
Teek shrugged and went to start the grill and the deep fryer. Dipper walked with him. "I think she's still mourning. If you get a chance today, try to talk to her."
T.K. gave him a baffled sort of look. "Uh. I'm not real good at talking to girls."
"Anything would help. Just don't talk about the Banshee and all that. Maybe ask her to help you cook? She'll probably want to sample everything, but—or just talk about your school or whatever."
"I'll try." T.K. swallowed. "Um, I like her, you know."
"Yeah, I kind of got that," Dipper said. After a pause, he added, "I know how hard it can be just to talk to a girl. But compliment Mabel's sweater and ask how she can knit things like that, I guess. Or ask her does she like doing arty things. If you can get her started, I know she'd love to chat, just to stop herself from remembering."
"I'll try."
Back at the counter, where Wendy was now idle, having bagged the tourists' souvenirs and told them "Drop in again next time you're out this way," Dipper said, "I'm getting worried."
"You're always worried," Wendy said. "Where is Mabes? Still in her room?"
"She went out this morning. I don't know where. I hope she's not—you know, visiting the place where we buried Russ."
They waited for a while, Dipper leaning on the counter, Wendy sitting behind it. Then she said, "If business doesn't pick up, let's use our lunch break to go find Mabel. I don't like the idea of her roaming around on her own."
"Think we can track her?"
"We can try." Wendy reached over to ruffle the hair on the back of Dipper's head. "You're needing a trim, dude. Tell you what: Let me call Candy and see if she and some of Mabel's friends will come over. I really think Mabel needs to be around people right now."
"I should have thought of that."
"We'll take care of her. Don't worry."
Mabel had walked a long way, down the Mystery Trail, back, short-cutting through the woods over into Gnome territory—when she stopped and gazed through the trees.
A big assembly of Gnomes had crowded into a clearing. Jeff, standing on a stump, was talking to them, but in Gnomish, which she did not understand. Then she realized that the Gnomes were all holding small pots of something and now and then ritualistically dipped tiny spoons in the pots and ate something—
"Jam," she said. "OMG!"
Back when she had first met Jeff, then known to her only as Norman's head****, his face had been smeared with red jam.
Only later did she learn that Gnomes at jam rarely and ritualistically.
At funerals, for example.
*In Gnomish, "frinna" means "hells." Plural. They have nineteen of them, none of which involve fire and brimstone.
**Unfortunately, when on a road and confronted with an oncoming car, instead of easily running off the highway, the squirrel will dash right, then left, then right again, then left again, then splat. This is because the squirrel brain operates on one AAA-sized battery, and not the lithium kind, either.
***A Gnome army knife has one short blade. It's a small army.
****Five Gnomes, with the help of clothes from the dump and a couple of carved fake hands which were cleverly articulated, had posed as Norman. They were looking for a new Queen, and Mabel just blew them away. Literally.