March, 2025

TERROR FROM THE WOODLAND

by Timothy Heins

“One, two, three, four,
Grab a pattern from the floor,
Trim the leather, pound it supple,
Sew it up and add a buckle!

“Pair them up, for the shelf,
Waiting for the perfect elf.
Buff them up until they glow,
Right shoe, left shoe, next pair, GO!”

Peevish O’Waddles was on a roll with the smell of leather tickling his nostrils. Anticipation of profits brought the taste of gold to his tongue. Fall was fast approaching and the whole town would soon be at his door for new footwear.

“One, two three four …” he turned to grab a hide for the matching shoe, but the pile had shrunk to nothing and the last pelt was too small for the extra-large loafer. Forced to take a break, he stood, yawned, and stretched his aching legs. For a brief moment he thought about wandering over to the pub for some refreshment, but his shelves were still half empty and once he had a pint in his hand his workday would be done. Unlike many of his neighbors, his thirst for profits was stronger than his taste for ale, so he went into the warehouse at the back of his shop for a new stack of leather.

Each night, his leather-master delivered several rows of hanging pelts and stacked the dried ones on pallets next to the cobbler’s workshop. Rows and rows of empty, steel hooks hung from the warehouse ceiling.

“I’ll be jiggered,” he cried. “I been workin’ faster ‘n ever.” A quick check of his ledger confirmed he’d paid Fergus O’Mutton a bonus for an extra delivery. His excitement turned sour when he counted his stock of shoes and he let out a curse.

While his head swam with leprechaun profanity, a movement caught his eye. One of the pelt hooks in the warehouse swayed as if someone had touched it. Thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him he shook his head and took another look. All the hooks hung perfectly still, yet he was sure he’d just seen one rocking.

Convinced it was nothing more than a trick of tired eyes, he stuck his thumbs inside his belt, hiked up his breeches and went looking for the slimy gombeen.

Stomping through the swinging doors of the Granite Mug, Peevish stopped, scanned the room until he spotted Fergus O’Mutton at the far corner table. The villain had a pint in each hand and was bending Rusty O’Shivers’ ear mercilessly.

“FERGUS!” Peevish hollered across the room.

“I paid ye to deliver extra. My warehouse is empty and I need those pelts now or a refund on me fee,” Peevish demanded.

“You said extra and you’ll have extra,” Fergus objected. “I’ll have a double load o’ pelts dryin’ on yer hooks before sundown.”

Peevish charged through the bar, accidentally knocking Cardy McPuzzle to the floor.

“Night,” he said.

Despite living inside the mountain, leprechauns relied on a particular magic to bring light to their town. That light coincided with the sun’s position above MacGillicuddy’s Reeks, meaning when night came outside the mountain, it did the same in Darbrandubh Township. So when Cardy declared “Night,” in the middle of the day, folks checked their pocket watches, just to be sure they hadn’t lost track of time.

Fergus took advantage of the interruption to quickly down the first of his two drinks. Before he could bring the second mug to his mouth, the pint was in Peevish O’Waddles’ hand.

“I can’t make shoes in the dark. If that’s the best you can do, I want a full refund.”

Nods and mumbles of agreement rippled through the room as folks generally agreed that a service paid for deserves prompt attention.

Fergus smiled sheepishly. “Afraid I haven’t any left of your fee.” He nodded at the mug in the cobbler’s hand and cocked his head around the room and then toward Rusty, clearly indicating where all the money had gone.

“In that case …” Peevish downed the brew he stole from Fergus. “Have the leather in my warehouse by sundown and bring a dozen candle lamps to work by.” He dropped the empty mug in Fergus’ lap and started to walk away.

“Well now,” Fergus said. “Seems to me there’s a bit o’ room for negotiation seein’ as you just drank me last bit of refreshment.”

Peevish stopped in his tracks, his beet-red face starkly contrasting his forest-green suit. “Consider that a late fee.”

Back in his shop, with no materials to work with, Peevish began to regret leaving. The brew he’d swiped out of Fergus’s hand had wet his lips and now the thirst began to overtake him.

Waiting for Fergus to deliver pelts, he hit on an idea that would speed up production. Clearing away his tools, he shoved the heavy wooden bench across the dirt floor into the warehouse. Positioned between two rows of pallets, he could work through the whole stock without having to get up once.

After a brief rest, he fetched his tools and was going back for his stitcher when he heard a noise from the far side of the warehouse.

“Who’s there?”

No one answered. Grabbing his cobbler’s hammer and the largest awl he could find, he went in search of whoever might be invading his space. He found nobody, but he was sure he’d heard something.

A twinge of real apprehension needled into his nerves. Was some sprite or fae playing tricks on him? He remembered the swinging hook. And then something occurred to him that he would have noticed earlier if he hadn’t been so upset at Fergus. The leather pieces always came in pairs, but he’d run out after finishing a right shoe with no material for the left. Was someone stealing his pelts?

Normally, he would never notice the slight whistling of air through the room. Just now, it turned the hairs of his beard stiff.

“Here ya go Peevish. Figure I owed ya something,” Fergus said.

The cobbler literally jumped out of his shoes at the sound behind him.

“So I brought you a partial …” He looked down at Peevish’s empty shoes and the striped stockings on his feet. “Are ye not feeling well Peevish?” he asked.

“Was that you in back, just now?”

“In back?”

“Back o’ me warehouse. Was it you makin’ a noise back there?”

Fergus shook his head. “I ha’n’t been on that side o’ the building since …”

“Then what …”

“Why are…”

“Sound …”

“Where should I put these pelts?” asked Fergus.

“Just set ‘em there,” Peevish said, pointing to a spot directly behind his bench.

Fergus followed the line of the cobbler’s bony finger, leaned over and let go of his small stack of leather. The stack fell to the floor and vanished.

Peevish yelped and Fergus stood still as stone as the two leprechauns struggled to weave their minds back to a lucid state.

Fergus raised a brow. “Peevish, if you think I’m giving you credit for hides that get lost in your own warehouse, you are sorely mistaken. I make deliveries in good faith according to contract. What happens to them after that is not my concern.”

“That’s got to be one of me holes,” Peevish said. “How’d it get there?”

Fergus looked down at the spot where he’d dropped the pelts. “How far down does it go?”

Peevish edged up across from the tanner and looked down. “Never measured it.”

“You should keep those somewhere away from the warehouse. Must cost a lot to keep losing material like that.”

Peevish went to a tall, silk-lined barrel in his workshop and reached inside.  “Nearly full. Could be one or two holes missing. No more.” He pushed his wide-brimmed hat back on his head and scratched his scalp. “But how would one get from here over to there?”

“You messin’ around with sprites?” Fergus asked in a jittery voice.

A series of thumps echoed through the cavernous room behind them. Teetering on the ridge of the hole, they barely managed to avoid falling through before diving under the only cover in sight. Too small to cover even one of the round bodies, the collision was spectacular. Tools flew in every direction, pummeling the two elves from head to toe before the workbench landed upside down on their backs. Despite the beating, Peevish watched in dismay as his favorite heel iron disappeared into the hole.

Something small and furry hit the floor, inches from where they lay and bounced past. They looked up the wall to a small shelf where they saw it.

“A harbinger from Queen Mab,” they shouted as one.

Legs shaking like buttercups in a windstorm, their screams had little effect on the monster who merely stared at them, chewing on a nut.

“You’ve got to get rid o’ that before it summons the queen herself,” Fergus said.

“And how exactly do we do that?”

“Seems to me we’ve got it trapped in yer warehouse. If we shut the doors, he’ll be locked in and we just go our merry way.”

Peevish didn’t relish the idea of losing his warehouse. More than that, he couldn’t bear the thought of a thing like that living right next to his workshop. He’d never be able to sleep and he certainly couldn’t concentrate on his craft. On the other hand, if they confined it to one space, maybe someone in town could eradicate it. Blarney was good at that sort of thing.

Struggling with a particularly troublesome nut, the treacherous brown creature sat barely six feet beyond the open barn door.

“Who’s going to close the door?” Peevish asked.

Neither willing to venture that close, the job fell to Peevish, since it was his warehouse after all. He took a tentative step forward. Before his short arms could reach the door, the dreadful thing dropped the troublesome nut and launched itself off the shelf in pursuit.

Peevish couldn’t hear Fergus over his own screams as the creature ran figure 8’s around the petrified leprechauns before dashing out through the workshop and into the street. Moving quickly, but not too quickly lest it return the same way it left, Peevish and Fergus went to the shop door. They looked down the street just in time to see its bushy tail wagging up and down and disappearing into the Granite Mug.

Transfixed, they watched and waited. Shrieks of terror rang from inside the pub. Patrons poured out into the street, nearly trampling Mayor Warty McGovern who was just going in. Even Whispers O’Breen, the softspoken archivist was hollering at the top of his lungs, “They’s a squirrel loose i’ the Granite Mug!”

Within minutes, a large crowd of leprechauns stood in the street. Before long, the mob began to thin as folks moved on to some of the smaller drinking establishments. Some undoubtedly fled to the safety of their own homes. A few minutes later, Peevish heard a collective gasp from the remaining crowd as Cardy McPuzzle sauntered out of the bar. He held up a wooden cask with its cover tied down.

“Crush,” he said, and they all understood the animal was safely inside. Still, when he set the cask down on the ground and went back in, no one followed.

Mayor McGovern pushed his way to the front. “Clearly the bucket here is a temporary solution. Someone’s got to take this thing outside the mountain, so, to provide incentive the town’ll give a hunder … uh … fifty coins to the one who’s brave enough to do the deed.”

The only person Peevish could imagine taking up such a challenge was Blarney Wheedle. But he was nowhere to be seen. And despite the fifty coin incentive, no one stepped forward. In fact, as the small prison had begun bouncing and tottering, onlookers were moving off in greater numbers.

 At that moment, Fergus hiked up his breeches and stepped out of Peevish’s shop. Drawing close to the dozen or so who remained, he called out, “I have an idea.”

“Well, let’s hear it,” the mayor said in his stern, “official” voice.

Reaching into his pocket, Fergus pulled out one of Peevish’s holes.

“Ye can’t throw a hole at it. You’ll kill it and all our magic with it,” Whispers O’Breen protested.

“I know. But we can do this.” Fergus dropped the hole on the street, then picked up the cask and dropped it in. Then he bent over and picked up the hole.

“Where’d you get that hole?” Peevish had worked up the nerve to follow him down the street. “You pilfering my stock when I’m not looking?”

“I bought that from ye weeks ago. Just never used it. But it served its purpose now, so I’d like to return it.” He held the hole out at arms length.

Peevish eyed the hole suspiciously, uncertain about where exactly the other end might be, and took a step back. “It’s used,” he said. “And I don’t give refunds.”

Now it was Fergus who looked uneasy about the thing in his hand. “Suppose we take it back to your shop and drop it down that other hole?”

Peevish shook his head. “You want to use my shop for a disposal, you’ll need to deliver three loads of pelts before sundown. And don’t forget the candles.”

“The deal was two.”

“That’s before you wanted to drop this in my warehouse. Besides, you’re already delinquent on the first order.”

By the time they reached a settlement, they were sitting at a table inside the Granite Mug trying to convince the Mayor he owed them 50 coins – each – for ridding the town of a terrible beast.