Cooked Goose

Lipgit Stornkork Nosewhiskers Davadel – who everyone called Nosewhiskers – handed Maltpol Kerchef Toblyn Ronsk – who everyone just called Malt – his glasses as he adjusted his hat. Malt had been adjusting his pants, tightening his belt by one notch and tilting his orange woolen hat back, revealing a balding scalp and some tufts of gray hair that puffed like cotton out around his ears. “You are never going to win against a giant.” Nosewhiskers’ voice was tired from repeating the same argument while Malt prepared himself for the confrontation.

“He is not a giant, just a human.” Nosewhiskers stared at Malt flatly. “Just because both are taller than us doesn’t make them the same.” Malt adjusted the thick glasses, pushing them back as far as he could on his pointed nose. Nosewhiskers still made no response, nor did his expression change. “Well, it is obvious you are not going to help me either way. That is my riding goose and we both know that Jorn will not keep Gallant Gasswan–” Malt didn’t bother finishing the goose’s full name, he didn’t have time and he needed Nosewhisker’s help. Given the implacable expression that his friend had maintained since the start of the conversation, Malt wasn’t sure finishing the goose’s whole name would win him any favors. “Look, we both know he is going to stuff Gallant and cook her.” There was still no response from Nosewhiskers. “Fine, I will go it alone.” Malt began marching through the meadow towards Jorn’s cottage.

It was true that Jorn was no giant, but he was a tall, thin man. He lived alone, in a small cottage next to the river. Jorn was old, and to say he had a sour disposition would be an understatement. He had never been fond of the gnomes in the woods beyond the meadow, but his wife had been friendly with them. Jorn had gradually softened towards the gnomes until his wife died, at which point he became quite a thorn in their sides.

Malt spied Jorn working in his yard. He straightened his cap once more, put on his bravest face, and strutted up to the human. “Now, see here Jorn, that goose is mine. The saddle even says my name.” Malt stood as straight as he could, his cap barely reaching the tall man’s knee. 

“I was nice last time by just flicking you. You keep bothering me and I will step on you.” Jorn turned from his vegetable patch toward the front door, easily outpacing Malt and shutting it in his face. Malt, panting, finally stood before the massive door that was both closed and latched. He gave it a hard shove to confirm, but it barely creaked. He banged on it and kicked it, but the door didn’t budge. He began circling the house, looking for another way in.

The collision could have been avoided. Nosewhiskers was looking to his right, to the front door and where he assumed Malt was. Malt was staring up at the house, still circling like a broken-winged vulture. Malt’s chin smacked Nosewhiskers on the back of his head and they tumbled into one another, tangling themselves as each tried to get away from their attacker. As the small dust plume settled, Nosewhiskers had fewer whiskers and Malt had a swollen bottom lip. “What is wrong with you?” Nosewhiskers inquired, as they realized who the other was and released their grip on each other’s tunics.

“Nothing,” Malt shot back, touching his lip gingerly. “Are you here to help or just to beat me up?”

Nosewhiskers debated leaving, but Malt was his friend and if they couldn’t save Gallant, they would at least get vengeance. From the sounds of boiling water and crackling fire inside the cottage, that goose was cooked. “So, what’s the plan?” Nosewhiskers ventured to ask as Malt stared at the firmly closed door.

There was a loud commotion and honking. Nosewhiskers realized the incorrectness of his earlier assumption. “Follow me!” Malt ordered and he hustled around to the back of the cottage where a dog flap covered the only possible entrance. 

“Wait!” Nosewhiskers tried to interject as he understood Malt’s intention. “If that is the dog flap then surely on the other side will be the—?”

Malt didn’t hear the end of the question as the flap swung shut behind him and he came face to face with a row of glistening, ivory canines. Malt skidded to a stop. The large hound snapped at the panicked gnome. A quick roll to his left brought Malt under some cupboards, but it wouldn’t save him. As soon as he exited, the dog was going to make him a snack. The dog flap swung up and back down as Nosewhiskers entered, yelped at the sight of the dog, and ran back for the flap. Unfortunately for Nosewhiskers, the dog had seen him. Fortunately for Malt, it was a great diversion. 

Back through the flap, Nosewhiskers went, his heart pounding and the dog howling behind him. A gopher tunnel gave Nosewhiskers a moment of respite and he dove headfirst into it, thanking the Earth Mother for the gopher that had left him an escape tunnel. 

Malt was dealing with a new challenge. He could see Gallant from his position under the cupboard, but she was being held in a massive cage. It had wire sides, a wooden top and bottom with supports to hold its shape. Malt took a moment to look around the cottage, hoping to see something that would help him free Gallant. Jorn was facing away from him, cutting a few misshapen potatoes and small onions from his vegetable patch. He wasn’t indifferent to the commotion his dog was causing as it circled the gopher hole outside, but he wasn’t going to scold it for keeping rodents out of his house. Since the rodent had apparently left, Jorn had gone back to preparing his meal.

Malt loved Gallant, as much as any being can love a goose, and desperately wanted to rescue her. But, as he peered around the dingy cottage, he felt a pang of sadness for Jorn. A pang that grew as the gnome realized that Jorn had not always been the grumpy old man who terrorized the gnomes. Malt saw old pictures of Jorn and his wife; the smile on the man’s face and the glint in his eyes made Malt question if this was even the same person. There was a set of knitting needles in a basket with a half-used skein of orange wool. A blanket of the same orange hue hung over a well-used armchair. A matching chair sat next to the first, dusty and unused. Malt felt that it wouldn’t be so hard to get another riding goose and perhaps a few good meals would make grouchy old Jorn a little happier. 

Malt crept out of the cottage, sneaking back out the dog flap. He circled a little wider than necessary to reach the meadow, not wanting to disturb the hound that still had his nose deep in the gopher hole. Malt headed for his home in the woods, already considering names for his next goose. “Nosewhiskers won’t be happy I didn’t save Gallant after all his help, but he will be happy he was right. I wasn’t going to win.”