Autumn in Sylvania

Given the time of year in Mellowdene, I'd like to share a poem by my friend and workmate Chris Snow-Warren. 

Autumn in Sylvania 

When Summer's eyes grow heavy and the season starts to doze,

when woodlands in Sylvania see Billy Sun work less,

then many leaves decide its time for them to change their clothes

and critters watch the fashion show and (wow) does it impress!

 

The russets, dark and richly red - the elegance of Fall -

that Adrianne (the Hopkins mom) loves 'til the leaves are shed, 

she brings a bottle there to toast the beauty of them all,     

foregoes the Champagne in her name and has a glass of red.

"The leaves are orange like my burger bun," young Aiden claimed.

"That's true," said David Doughty, "or the hairs upon my head,"

"And what about my dress?" Rhianna Dappledawn exclaimed.

"The tree's a Maple; I am too. Related!" Jasper said.

 

Accreditation: Background trees taken from an image by Andrey

So it went on as critters claimed their kinship with the trees,

declaring Autumn's colours as the best that they had seen.

They sadly knew the leaves would go; "it only takes a breeze."

One grey bear smiled. "Not all," he said. One Forest Evergreen.   

o 0 O 0 o

A Ghost Story

Hallowe’en.  It never used to be a thing in Mellowdene. Long before I was born the village participated in the Beastie Hunt, our own tradition that occurs roughly the same time. This still dominates, but as the population has grown to include crittizens from elsewhere in Sylvania, they brought their expectations that Hallowe’en should be celebrated.

Nobody has any problems with that. Even the slightly scary element. After all, the Beastie Hunt is based upon the premise of wild creatures being given treats so that they won’t eat people during their search for the mythical Dreamstone. When I heard about Hallowe’en I was a little surprised how widespread it was throughout Sylvania. Also, when Tara Lapine-Frost told me it was also a human tradition… Ah, never mind.

The point is that we now have an element of Hallowe’en celebrations in Mellowdene. Because of the Beastie Hunt, the so-called "trick-or-treat" aspect of Hallowe’en is effectively redundant. We are left with carving vegetables, bobbing for apples, and a light dabbling with the supernatural.

 

I'm aware that there are some inexplicable occurrences throughout Sylvania. I've experienced some, you may remember. I also understand that Darcy Fielding is working on something that involves our resident paranormal investigator Mulder Honey-Fox. No doubt I'll find out about this soon. 

Exactly why supernatural events should be linked to a single day named Hallowe’en is beyond me, but I accept it. Part of this seems to be the telling of ghost stories. It makes sense that, to be effective, a proper storyteller should tell them. We have an author in Mellowdene and this year she was persuaded to fill that role. Fliss Robinson.

 

Having a son with an active imagination, his interest in fiction and role-play boosted by going to Ken Furbanks' Thursday drama club, it was only natural that my Brendan would want to attend a Hallowe’en Ghost Story event held by Fliss Robinson. It was a small event, and I first heard about it from my cousin Jonathan. Jon has an association with Everett Honeydew at the bank, and as Fliss Robinson's financial adviser, it was Everett's suggestion that Fliss share some of her stories for Hallowe’en. He also suggested that, for added atmosphere, the old meeting room in the chapel annex would be an ideal venue. He was sure Reverend Kelvin Waters would be agreeable.

Somehow this information was leaked to Ken Furbanks - I'm guessing that this was via the Cake Club (Everett's sister and Ken's wife both being members) and he became involved too. That's when Brendan expressed an interest in going.

 

All these associations! No wonder news spreads in Mellowdene. Anyway, that's why I attended the event at the old meeting room, an eager Brendan by my side.  

 

This is what we heard.

o 0 O 0 o

"...and the condensation on the window seemed to shift. Some droplets separated to form opaque shapes on the glass. Others briefly joined together, moving to draw lines as if controlled by the inexplicable draughts. Moving and solidifying to draw the face of... the ghost bunny!"

Fliss half-closed the book to survey the intent faces of her audience. Some were wide-eyed, some were whispering into the ears of their friends. 

Brendan nudged me and mouthed, "Good, isn't it?" and I smiled and nodded in response.

A deep voice intoned, "Why are you here?"

It was Ken Furbanks. He had a copy of Fliss Robinson's book marked with vocal cues. Fliss responded by reading the words of her earthly characters. She used a wavering voice, contrasting well with Ken's ominous vocalisation. 

"We came to ask about the Hallowe'en treasure - we mean no offence, ghost bunny..."

"The Hallowe’en treasure? Assuming you are worthy, why would you want it? It only lasts for a day. Unless..." - Ken paused - "...one of you wants to join me in the ghostly realm..."

"We don't want to take the treasure, ghost bunny."

"No? Then I repeat - why are you here?"

"We heard that bringing pine cones to the treasure's resting place can free you so that you can join your family."

"But then the treasure would never return. You would do this? For me?"

Fliss closed the book and surveyed her rapt listeners.

"Well, children. What do you think they did? What would you do?"

 

o 0 O 0 o

Afterwards, many of the children clamoured around Fliss and Ken whilst the seats were stacked. During this period, Everett Honeydew approached me.

"Hello, Jackson. And Brendan, isn't it? I thought that went quite well."

Brendan nodded and I said, "She's a good writer. But whose idea was it for Ken to play a role? It was very effective."

"Fliss and Ken jointly, I think. Nothing to do with me. I think the kids enjoyed it."

Brendan answered for himself, as expected. "It was good. I've never been a ghost in my games. Mister Furbanks was brilliant." He mimicked Ken's ghost voice, "'Why are you here' - brilliant."

A young rabbit joined us. Button Honeydew.

"Ah, my son," explained Everett. "Where did you disappear to?"

"I went to see Mrs Robinson. I had some questions."

Everett closed his eyes and I thought I detected a gentle sigh. He reopened his eyes and addressed his son.

"Button, I hope you didn't pester her too much."

"Of course not, dad. I wanted to know why cutting down a pine tree would make a ghost. Lots of people cut down trees. They aren't ghosts."

"And did you get an answer?"

"Sort of. A combination of chopping a particular tree down at Hallowe’en, the bunny not having Sylvanian values, and the type of treasure. Still seems a bit odd."

Brendan had been listening. "Ghosts are odd. Hallowe’en is odd. They're supposed to be. That's the point of writing these stories. If they weren't odd, they wouldn't be ghost stories."

Button stared. "Yes. That makes sense." He appeared to assess my son. "You're Brendan, aren't you? In the class above me?"

"Yep. And you're Button. I saw your sister in the talent show earlier last year."

"Britney, yes. She's always dancing. Always. Odd."

"Your sister isn't odd, Button," said Everett.

Brendan raised one brow, looking upwards. This was usually an indicator that he was deep in thought. This time, it was clearly a quick thought.

"I wonder if there's a story about a dancing ghost?"

Button smiled. "A dancing Hallowe’en ghost?"

"Maybe."

Button took hold of Brendan's arm. "Let's go and ask Mrs Robinson."

As they sped off, Everett smiled apologetically.

"Button likes to ask questions. Sorry."

"No need to apologise," I said. "My Brendan is curious sometimes."

"I doubt he's as curious as Button. I hope Brendan doesn't regret taking him on."

"He won't. Questions feed his imagination."

We both nodded. We knew our sons. Odd things don't only happen at Hallowe’en. 

 

o 0 O 0 o

Good and Evil (3): The Packbat

 I stared at Mulder Honey-Fox.  He'd met the Packbat on our village green?

"I know, Darcy. I didn't expect to find him there. He fit the physical description in the police files. But there he was, out in the open, no hint of threatening behaviour. He became aware of me and turned his head in my direction."

"Were you scared?"

"No. I saw his face. He'd been crying. The sorrow in his expression was still evident. Although he asked me a similar question."

"What?"

"I think it best I describe the entire encounter."

 

He left his seat and went to a set of shelves where one shelf was full of green ring binders. I was to learn that these documented many of the cases upon which he'd worked.

 

He located one particular binder and returned to his seat.

 

"Right," he said, "Here we go."

o 0 O 0 o 

The Packbat extended his claws briefly but he appeared to have a change of heart. Maybe he expected me to run, or at least drop my gaze. I didn't. He addressed me in a nasal voice.

"Ah. A Sillyvanian. Aren't you frightened to see me? Or perhaps you're a fool?"

 

"I've been called misguided in the past, so you can't rule out foolishness."

He regarded me and he laughed quietly, but there wasn't any humour. I still had the impression that there was sadness behind the facade.

 

 

"Then come closer. Tell me of your foolishness."

I didn't detect any hint of deception or manipulation so I approached him, albeit tentatively, stopping before I was within his reach. I'm not that foolish.

He regarded me. "What should I call you, possible fool?"

"Mulder will do."

"Mulder. Very well. I may be mistaken, but you didn't seem overly surprised to see me. Could it be that you were looking for me?"

This was no mindless monster. There was a brain behind the orange slitted eyes. I was advised to be wary, but that didn't preclude honesty. I answered simply. 

"I was. I didn't expect to be successful so soon, though."

"Hmm. Maybe not a fool after all," he mused. "Why were you looking for me?"

"I want to understand who you are, why you have been terrorising Sylvanian communities, and ask you to stop."

He blinked. "That is a straightforward answer. Any other day I wouldn't reward you with a response, but today is... unusual. And maybe it would help me order my thoughts. Very well, Mulder the Sylvanian. I will tell you."

He straightened his back before continuing.

"It probably won't surprise you that I'm not from Sylvania, but neither am I from the world beyond its shores. I am from a completely different world and am here by accident."

I didn't react, and maybe that didn't match his expectations. He twitched his nose and carried on. 

"On my world, we gain nourishment from the uncertainty, despair or fear of others. We have followers who help enforce this. Not very bright but generally loyal. One of my followers - Gatorpossum - wandered into a forbidden area and like an idiot I went to retrieve him. 

 

"It's forbidden because it's considered an unstable area in my world; wild energies crackle there. I should have left Gatorpossum to his fate, but no - he thought he was doing something to help  me, and I felt obligated to haul him out of there. Of course, with his luck we were caught in a discharge. 

 

It's unclear what they do, but this one stunned us and upon awakening we found ourself in an underground chamber." 

He paused, perhaps to gauge my reaction. I moved my head a fraction, merely to indicate I was listening, and he carried on with his story.

 

"Leaving the chamber we followed tunnels and discovered creatures I know now to be grey Sillivanian cats. We chose to avoid them and looked for a way back to our world. We found a round doorway and Gatorpossum started to pass through. 

 

"I didn't get a chance to follow because he fell back, declaring it was a land of giants - panicking as he'd seen an immense feathered creature. He smashed something and the doorway closed. 

 

"Eventually, we found another way out, following one of the grey cats. It was only later that I discovered that we hadn't emerged back into our world. We were in Sylvania."

"Well, that sort of explains how you got here," I commented. "Are you wanting to get back to your own world?"

"We have tried, but with little success. I've discovered that doorways seem to be in mountainous areas but they are not always visible. In the meantime I have to control Gatorpossum's excesses whilst finding communities where we can feed."

"You said that you do this by frightening Sylvanians?"

"That's part of it. Although I find that generating fear is over-indulgent. Insomuch  as you may find over-rich food bloating. Unsettling a community suits me better."

He moved a little closer to me. "Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

I stepped sideways to maintain the distance between us.

"It explains who you are and why you do what you do, but it doesn't tell me what would persuade you to stop unsettling Sylvanian communities."

"We need to feed. The problem is that you Sillyvanians are too goody-goody and support each other too well. It's getting harder to unsettle you all. We've had to resort to eating vegetables - ugh. Gatorpossum is becoming unruly. He's gone off by himself to sulk."

"I see."

I remembered his earlier comment. "And why is today unusual? Something about Mellowdene?"

"Well deduced, Mulder. I was looking for something to unsettle the village..."

"And you discovered the local belief in the Snow Queen, bringing you to the statue."

"I'm impressed. Yes, almost. But not the statue. I wanted to find the chapel so that I could find out about the Snow Queen, and the beaver that took me there showed me a shiny rock he called the Dreamstone."

 

At that time my research had caused me to hear of the Dreamstone myth but I did not realise it was a real rock. I didn’t show my surprise. "Oh? And what happened?"

"He said I was a seeker and that I'd learn what I needed to know if I touched it whilst thinking about what I loved. So I thought of home and touched this Dreamstone."

"And?"

"It's not something I can explain in detail. It didn't show me the way home, or how to scare your villagers. But I was filled with an overwhelming dose of Sylvanian values. I couldn't cope. I ran, and ended up here." 

"Are you saying you now understand us? Empathise?"

He drew back. "This isn't what I wanted. How can I effectively continue as before? Nourish myself?"

I couldn't help myself. "Vegetables?"

His eyes narrowed. "That isn't funny."

"I'm sorry. But maybe you're going about this the wrong way. If you now have a greater understanding of Sylvanians you should realise that scaring them isn't helping you. We want to help each other. That's what being a Sylvanian means. If you're looking for a way home, isn't it easier if Sylvanians help you look? Maybe those grey cats?"

"That is... crazy."

"After the Dreamstone experience you described do you really believe that?"

He remained silent. I suspect he was having an internal argument with himself. Then, staring at me, he nodded sharply. 

"Mulder Sylvanian. You are not a fool. I will ponder your words. But for now, I must find Gatorpossum."

 

He turned, extended his arms and flew into the air.

 

"Farewell, Mulder."

o 0 O 0 o

I must have looked surprised as Mulder Honeyfox laughed. 

"Darcy Fielding. I do believe you're speechless."

I shook myself. "He touched the Dreamstone?"

He put the folder down. "Yes. It really does exist. I've seen it."

"I know. I've touched it."

"Indeed? We must discuss it one day." He noticed the time. "But not now. I promised Clara - I need to do some shopping."

"Right, thanks... oh, just one more thing?"

"Is it quick?"

 

"I just wondered if you'd heard anything since about the Packbat?"

"Not much, and not recently. He could still be about but I can't confirm that. When I did hear reports I had the impression that he was showing some restraint." He stood. "Hope that's satisfied your curiosity."

 

I suspect you know me by now. Regular readers will. My curiosity is rarely satisfied - but I know when to stop. I thanked him and left.  

o 0 O 0 o

Conclusions? Interesting but I'm not sure I'm any wiser regarding what constitutes good and evil. I doubt the Packbat considered himself evil even though he clearly went against Sylvanian values. Did he consider us evil because we restricted the way he feeds? Is it all about different values? Possibly, given that the Dreamstone seemed to have an effect on him.

Oh, I don't know.  Maybe Kelvin Waters could help in understanding these philosophical issues. On the other paw, maybe it doesn't matter. After all, Bisto Wildwood doesn't seem concerned and he's the Sheriff.  And yet...

 

Oh, the trials of being a nosey Sylvanian!

o 0 O 0 o