The Legend of the Relic Bloom:
Being the First of the Gnomeshire Faerie Tales

By: E.R. Scrivener
Illustration Copyright © Benjamin E. Richards

All of Gnomeshire was a garden. From the western fields bursting with golden rod to the village streets lined with dahlias, every inch of the little colony breathed life in all its hues. It seemed to be in a gnome’s blood, to serve the soil and cultivate its beauty. But often, Timothy wondered what was wrong with him, for he noticed that he was not like the other gnomes at all.

          Grubs were disgusting, spiders scared the schnitzel out of him, and he absolutely detested dirty fingernails. While other gnomes were studying crop rotation and pollination, Timothy was reading tales about the far edges of Gnomeshire, where secrets grew amid the evergreens, white wolves howled from the hollows, and magic could be found in a fairy’s flutterings. And beyond? Well, one day, he would find out what was beyond Gnomeshire, and the Relic Bloom would be his ticket.

          The Relic Flower stood at the center of Gnomeshire, its teardrop bud towering above them. But yesterday, a small crack had pierced its surface, something that had not happened in a hundred years. Since then, the entire colony had been thrown into a tizzy—there was much to prepare, much to make ready for the legendary Relic Bloom, something for each gnomeling to contribute. Timothy could be found waiting in line with the other recruits, waiting to be drafted as a Bard. Waiting to be handed his ticket.

          “Timothy Piddlefoot,” read the centurion from his scroll, his voice booming over the heads of the anxious recruits, “Gardener.” 

          “Aye, sir!” said Timothy with a hasty salute.

          The centurion put a single clothespin into Timothy’s hand and shuffled down the line without a backwards glance or second thought.

          Gardener?

          So, Timothy would not be spreading tales of glory to the distant corners of Gnomeshire, sowing seeds of anticipation for the once in a lifetime Relic Bloom.

          Gardener?

          If Timothy couldn’t be a Bard, then he had at least wanted to be something respectable: a Mason, restoring the amphitheater to its former glory, or a Keeper, wielding gleaming sword and shining shield in defense of the Relic Flower. Or even a Gladiator would have been preferable, the toughest of the tough, fighting each other for the best seat in the house.

          But alas, it would not be. 

           Gardener.

          Trimming grass with a hand clipper. Digging up weeds. Warding off grubs. Lumbering about with dirty fingernails, pit stains, and a cumbersome watering can…

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