The Golden Hedgehog

Once there was a Golden Hedgehog.

He had prickles of gold which glinted in the sun. His fur was also golden, and even his snuffling nose was gold.

He lived in a forest, and, in other respects, he was much like any other hedgehog (other than weighing rather more). He ate a well-balanced diet of slugs, worms, bugs and other yummy creepy crawly things. He slept in a hollow lined with moldy leaves. In winter he would curl up and hibernate, and would emerge in spring, well-rested but hungry, and start searching for slugs.

He was quite easy to spot, even amongst the thick undergrowth of the forest. But still, the hawks and the foxes and the other creatures that hunted in the forest would leave him alone, because, golden or not, his prickles were, well, prickly. The other hedgehogs in the forest did not treat him any differently or pay his golden prickles much mind. Hedgehogs are a very open and accepting lot.

Now one day an Emperor was taking a walk in the forest. He had a large retinue that followed him wherever he went, and fauned on him constantly. He noticed the glint of gold in the bushes and told one of his servants to investigate.

The servant returned. “It appears to be a golden hedgehog, your Eminence,” he said.

“Bring it to me,” said the Emperor. “A golden hedgehog must be lucky. With it I will have great fortune and riches!”

“But, Your Magnificence, you already have great fortune and riches,” said the servant.

“No matter,” said the Emperor, “with a golden hedgehog I will have multitudes of grand palaces and castles!”

“But, Your Awesomeness, you already have multitudes of grand palaces and castles,” said the servant.

“With it, I will rule over the whole land, and all will bend to my will!” said the Emperor.

“But, Your Superlativeness,” said the servant, “you already rule over the whole land, and all do bend to your will.”

“Enough!” cried the Emperor. “The golden hedgehog must be mine! Capture it and bring it to me.”

The servant found a cardboard box, and with the aid of a nice juicy slug as bait, he got the golden hedgehog into the box and followed the Emperor back to the palace. (Of course he poked some air holes in the box first, and lined it with soft leaves.)

When he returned to the palace, the Emperor looked at his crown of gold and jewels, which suddenly seemed dull and ordinary compared  to the wondrous hedgehog. “Destroy that,” he said. “I will have a new hat made, so that I can wear the golden hedgehog as a crown.”

And so it came to pass. The Emperor wore the golden hedgehog as a crown as he ruled. When foreign dignitaries or princes visited, asking for trade, he would sneer at them. “What would we want from your puny land? Does your ruler wear a hedgehog of gold?” he would say.

Unfortunately, like most hedgehogs, the golden hedgehog had fleas. In fact, because they had to bite through the hedgehog’s golden skin, the fleas that lived on it had developed particularly strong and powerful bites.

Soon the Emperor’s head was itching uncontrollably. Then his neck, and his back and chest started to itch. Before long the Emperor’s whole body was itching. He was too proud to take off the hedgehog, or to admit that he had fleas, and so he started to scratch and fidget constantly, even during important meetings and state banquets. Those who saw him thought their emperor must have some grave malady and started to wonder if he was fit to rule.

Worse still, the Emperor was constantly distracted by the itching, and unable to think clearly. When asked to make a decision, he would blurt out the first thing that came into his mind. When the farmers came to tell him their crops were failing, he told them to plant daffodils instead. When the city planners told him the roads needed repair, he said “Dig a tunnel underneath”. When the treasurer told him that merchants weren’t paying their share of taxes, he said “just tax the poor.”

There was discontent throughout the land. Soon enough the muttering turned to protests and the protests to a popular uprising. The Emperor was deposed and forced into exile in New Jersey. He fled the palace wearing only his pajamas, and leaving the golden hedgehog behind. In his place, the people created a new democratically elected parliament, who quickly established mutually beneficial trade agreements with neighboring countries, and built a new social welfare and public education system. The country became prosperous and the people were happy.

With no further attention being paid to it, the golden hedgehog left the palace and spent the rest of its years living in the palace gardens, which soon became unkempt and overgrown, and were home to many particularly tasty slugs.

The Tigers, the Crocodiles and the Grandmother

I found this while looking through my Google drive at some half-finished stories. I wrote it a while ago, and put it aside with the intention of drawing some illustrations to go with it. Perhaps I still will sometime, but, since I haven't drawn any yet, I figured I should just post it as it is.

At the time, I did send it to my parents and my mother seemed to like it a lot. I think she thought it was about her, but I'm not quite convinced myself. 

Once upon a time there was a grandmother.

She was a ferocious and brave grandmother, in the way that grandmothers can be.

When she stood straight it was as if she had a steel rod in her spine. When she walked it was with big, purposeful strides. (She walked with a cane, but it was mostly for effect since she didn’t need it for balance.) She had a way of looking at people over the top of her half-moon spectacles that could make even a grown man’s knees turn to strawberry jello.

The grandmother lived next to a forest, and her granddaughter lived on the other side. It was a Dark and Dangerous Forest. There were many Wild Animals: tigers and crocodiles and rodents-of-unusual-size. The last time her granddaughter had visited she had met a wolf, who had caused endless problems. But, of course,  grandmothers do not know the meaning of the word fear…

One spring morning the grandmother decided it was time to visit her granddaughter. She packed her purse with a ball of yarn, two knitting needles, a box of peppermints,  a handkerchief, a thermos of tea and a packet of digestive biscuits. She checked that the stove was turned off, put out food for her cat, picked up her cane, locked the door of her small, cozy cottage, and set off into the Dark and Dangerous Forest.

It was a cool morning, in early spring. The grandmother had not bought a shawl and was feeling the morning chill. After walking a little while, she sat down on a log, took out her needles and yarn and started knitting. Fifteen minutes later she stood up to assess her work, gave a curt nod of approval, and, wrapping a new, pink, fluffy shawl around her shoulders she continued on her way.

At the edge of the forest two tigers lay in the sun. The first flared her nostrils. “I smell something coming,” she said.

The second tiger jumped to the top of a rock and looked out. “It’s a strange animal walking on its hind legs,” she said. “It looks tasty,” she added.

The two tigers crept silently towards the grandmother, invisible in the tall grass that grew along the edge of the forest. The smaller tiger circled round behind her to block her escape. Then the tigers emerged, their lips curling back to reveal their enormous, razor sharp teeth, their sinews tightening as they crouched back on their hind legs, ready to pounce.

“Yes?” said the grandmother, “What can I do for you?”

“You can prepare to be EATEN!” said the larger tiger with a blood curdling snarl.

The grandmother looked sharply at the tiger over the top of the spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. “That,” she said, “is NOT a polite way to talk to an old lady.”

“Oh,” said the tiger, feeling rather confused. “...um ...I mean, er, would it be ok if we ate you, please?”

“Certainly not!” said the grandmother. “I didn’t go through all this trouble just to become kibble for a pair of overgrown cats with teddy-bear ears. The very idea!”

“Oh, um, well…,” the first tiger trailed off and turned its head away, no longer able to meet her gaze.

“And you,” said the grandmother, turning her withering look on the second tiger, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Oh, well…, um..., it’s just that we were terribly hungry you see,” she said lamely, and looked away.

“Yes,” added the first tiger, “all we’ve eaten since breakfast were two bison and an antelope, and... well... we just thought,...” Her voice trailed off.

“I see,” said the grandmother. “You may have one peppermint each, but that’s all.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” said the two tigers together.

The grandmother pulled the tin of peppermints out of her bag, and handed one to each of the tigers. The tigers quickly left for the forest, to warn the other creatures of the strange and frightening animal that was its way.

As she continued on her way, the grandmother heard murmurs in the forest around her. A pair of big-eyed lemurs peaked out from the high branches above, and whispered to one another that this was the strange creature that had frightened the terrible tigers. A snake hissed and slithered further up its tree for safety. Some monkeys put an offering of bananas on the ground ahead of her, to try make sure they were in her good graces, and swung away quickly as she approached.

The grandmother stopped and sat on a low rock to drink some tea.

A wide, muddy river ran along the far side of the forest. The river was home to large crocodiles with evil smiles who spent their days lying in the water pretending to be logs, and to logs that spent their days lying in the water pretending to be crocodiles. The crocodiles took little interest in the forest creatures, other than wondering about their nutritional value, and did not listen to their chatter.

When the grandmother reached the bank of the river she looked upstream and downstream. There was no safe place to cross. “Hmmph,” she thought. “I shall need a bridge. I’m certainly not going to spoil a pair of perfectly good shoes and socks wading through this.”

She noticed that the log nearest the bank had an unblinking yellow eye watching her. “You,” she said, nudging the log with her stick. “Time to make yourself useful.”

“Yeess?” said the crocodile, raising its head from the water and revealing its mouth full of jagged, ugly-looking teeth. “How may I be of ssservice?”

Two more crocodiles swam up, and looked her up and down, showing their ghastly smiles. “I wonder what this isss,” said one of them. “Not much meat on it,” said the other. “But ssoo sssuuculent,” said the first.

“That’s quite enough of that!” said the grandmother, giving each of the crocodiles a sharp wrap on the nose with her cane. “I’ve no intention of being eaten by you or anyone else today. Is that clear?”

“Yess ma’am. Ssorry ma’am,” the three crocodiles muttered, their smiles fading, and being replaced by more glum expressions.

“Now you,” she said, pointing to the first crocodile, “swim over there with your nose to that bank.”

“You,” she said, pointing to the second, “in the middle, with your nose to his tail.”

“And you,” she said to the third, “turn around with your tail pointing this way. Quick about it! I haven’t got all day.”

“Yess ma’am,” said the crocodiles, and, grumbling to one another, they lined themselves up, nose-to-tail across the river. The grandmother stepped onto the tail of the nearest crocodile, and nimbly trotted along their backs, while the crocodiles were still trying to think what to do.

“Now,” she said, turning back to look at her makeshift bridge, “thank you for your assistance.” She gave each of the crocodiles a digestive biscuit.  “And we’ll have no more of this talk about eating little old ladies,” she added. “Understood?”

“No ma’am,” said the crocodiles sullenly, and they swam away munching their biscuits.

It was almost lunch time when the grandmother reached the cottage where her granddaughter lived, and knocked on the door.

Her granddaughter had just finished packing a basket with food, and was putting on her favorite red cape and hood, when she opened the door. “Oh Grandma,” she said, giving her a warm hug, “I was just coming to visit you.”

“I know dear,” said the grandmother, “But it was such a nice day, and I didn’t want to put you through any trouble. Besides, I do need the exercise.” She looked at the basket. “Oh good,” she said, “I’m just in time for a picnic.”

The Old Oak Tree

Once there was an old, old oak tree. It was tall and broad; its branches were twisted and gnarled; its bark was bumpy and knotted.

It stood in the middle of a small forest, which the animals who lived there called simply  “The Forest”. The old oak was by far the biggest and tallest tree in the forest. The animals called it simply “The Oak Tree”. It had been there as long as any of them could remember. It had been there as long as their parents, grandparents and great grandparents could remember.

The oak tree looked after the animals of the forest. Its branches provided shelter from the rain in spring and the heat in summer. Its fallen leaves kept the earth warn and lined the burrows and nests of the animals in autumn. Its acorns fed the chipmunks and squirrels through the cold winters.

In the high branches of the oak tree, an old Great Horned Owl had found a nest and moved in, while, a little lower, a starling had made her nest and raised her chicks, A chipmunk lived in a hollow near the base of the tree, which she filled with nuts and acorns to last the winter. And, amongst the oak tree’s roots, a fox made a den for herself and her family of cubs.

The animals would not hunt or chase each other beneath the branches of the old oak tree, for they knew it was a special place. They would walk slowly by, greet each other politely, and sometimes would nod to the oak tree. Even the fox would stop to say “good evening” to the smaller animals as she left for a night’s hunting.

The oak tree’s roots spread far and wide throughout the forest, for they had had many years in which to grow and spread. Through them the oak could sense much of what went on in the forest. In the spring it would feel snow melting, and the new life of the young plants that burst from the ground. In summer it would feel the earth dry and crack. In autumn it felt the warm leaves cover the ground, and the paws of the animals as they scurried back and forth, gathering food for the winter. And in winter, as a blanket of snow covered the ground, it felt the cold and the stillness that spread throughout the forest.

And so the years passed. The oak tree became older still, and, in its way, it thought and considered and pondered, until one day, as summer was coming to an end and the leaves of the forest turned to red and brown and gold, it thought to itself “It is time”.

The oak tree dropped a single acorn in front of the fox’s den. “Please take this acorn,” it said to the fox, “and plant it at the edge of the forest where the stream runs.”

The fox was proud to be asked to do such an important task. She took the acorn gently in her mouth and set out, with her tail held high.

She had been walking for some time when the fox picked up the scent of a young rabbit, and stopped, trying to decide what to do. “If I leave the acorn here the squirrels will get it,” she thought. “But I need to find food for my cubs. If I miss the rabbit I might not get another chance.”

Just then the starling landed on the branches of a tree, just above the fox. “What are you doing?” she chirped. The fox explained about the acorn she had promised to plant, and the rabbit she needed to hunt. “I can take it,” said the starling. “I’ll fly it there”.

The starling swooped down, picked up the acorn in her claws and headed out to the edge of the forest where stream bubbled and burbled. Landing by the banks of the stream, she started to scrape and peck at the earth.

The chipmunk appeared, emerging from the undergrowth, and asked the starling what she was doing. “I’m trying to dig a hole for this acorn,” she said, and explained about the old oak tree and the fox.

“Let me help,” said the chipmunk Together they dug a small hole, placed the acorn in in it, and covered it with earth. Then the two returned to the old oak tree together.

Soon enough winter followed the autumn, and soft snow covered the ground. All the forest seemed to sleep, awaiting the arrival of spring. The snow melted, and the forest creatures emerged from their winter’s sleep.

The horned owl, flying over the edge of the forest, saw the leaves or a young oak sapling, and returned to the old oak to tell it what she’d seen. The oak felt content.

As the year passed the owl continued to fly out to the edge of the forest, and report back. The old oak listened to all that the owl told it, and it reached out with its roots towards the sapling, and it waited.  By the time winter came again, the young oak was already as tall as the deer that would come to drink from the stream.

The following spring, the young oak was taller still, and started to reach out with its own roots, exploring and searching. The old oak tree waited. A small robin landed on the young oak’s topmost branches  and sang a song to welcome the spring.

As the spring turned to summer, and the summer to autumn, the young oak’s roots spread further until, just before the first flakes of winter snow started to fall, they touched and entwined with the roots of the old oak tree. It seemed as if a change came over the old oak, as if it had found something it had been waiting for a long time.

Throughout the winter the old oak told stories of the forest; of the plants, and the bees that carried pollen from one flower to the next; of all the animals from the mighty stag that had once run through the forest, to the tiniest beetles; and of the eb and flow of the seasons. The young sapling seemed to absorb these stories, as it absorbed the water and food from the earth. When spring came again, it seemed to those who saw it, that the young oak stood taller and straighter than before, as if it had a purpose now, and knew what must be.

And so the years passed, the forest spread, and the young oak tree grew tall and broad. In time it became taller than all the surrounding trees. One of the cubs of the old fox decided to build her den amongst its roots, and there raised her own cubs. A hawk built a nest in the high branches, and, when it left, a young great horned owl took up residence in its place.

Soon enough the animals became used to having two oak trees to look after the forest, sheltering them from the rains of spring and the heat of summer, giving them warm leaves to line their nests in autumn, and acorns to feed them through the winter. Perhaps none could remember a time when there was just one oak tree.

But still, the animals would always call the oak that grew by the stream “The New Oak Tree”. To them the older, gnarled and knotted tree that stood deep in the center of the forest was always simply “The Oak Tree”.

The Wizard's Hat

There was once a Wizard. He lived in a small town by the sea where he owned a wizarding shop. There  was a sign over the door with “Wizard” painted in gold, curly letters. Inside the walls were lined with dusty shelves, overflowing with ancient books, and jars of spells and potions. The floor and ceilings were covered with strange, mystical symbols - pentagrams and octograms and other-sorts-of-grams. The Wizard himself lived in some small but well-appointed rooms above the shop.

The Wizard was, for the most part, everything you might expect a Wizard to be. He had thick, bushy eyebrows, and a beard that flowed down to his waist. He had a wand that glowed blue in the dark and left a trail of sparkles when he swished it, and his robes were long, the colour of midnight, and embroidered with hundreds or silver stars and moons. His hat had a wide brim and would have, been tall and pointy, but, and it was a big BUT, the point always flopped over.

Of course this is a big deal for a wizard. You wouldn’t go to a wizard without a pointy hat, and neither would I. When he walked down the street, children would laugh behind the Wizard’s back, and throw stones at him, not being the least worried that he would turn them into a newt, or a duck, or a bowl of clam chowder.

The Wizard tried everything he could think of to make the point of his hat stand up: he starched it; he stuffed it with straw; he reinforced it with sticks and cardboard, but all to no avail. No matter what he did, his hat would not stay pointy.

One day, while the Wizard was sitting behind the counter of his shop drinking green tea, the  mail arrived. There was the usual collection of bills and catalogs, but, at the bottom was an invitation to sit on a panel on advanced disenchantments at the Annual North-East Regional Wizarding conference the next week. At first the Wizard was very excited. The conference was always a great place to see the latest wizarding parapharnalia, try out new beard-conditioning products, and catch up with old friends and colleagues, and to be invited to take part in a panel would be an honor. But then he hesitated; how could he take part when the point of his hat flopped over so. Sadly he decided he would have to decline the invitation.

Feeling despondent, the Wizard decided to go for a walk in the enchanted forest that bordered the town (in those days there were many more enchanted forests, and fewer enchanted shopping malls about). As he walked he tried to imagine what other wizards would say, seeing his floppy hat, and how he could possibly attend and be taken seriously.

After he had been walking for a little while, the Wizard heard a sound of crying through the woods. He followed the sound till he came to a grass-covered glade. In the middle of the glade lay a white unicorn with rainbow tears flowing from her eyes.

“What’s the matter?” asked the Wizard. 

“My hoof hurts,” sobbed the Unicorn.
“Let me look,” said the Wizard. He came closer and examined the beast’s hoof. “There’s a stone in it. I’ll soon have it out,” he said.

He took out his special edition wizard’s swiss army knife (one big blade, one little blade, scissors, bottle opener, and a miniature, telescoping wand for emergencies) and removed the stone.

The Unicorn jumped up and started prancing round the glade. She popped a passing bubble with her horn. (Most evolutionary biologists believe that unicorn horns are a means of defence, but, the truth is, they evolved them solely for the purpose of bursting bubbles, which is a favorite pastime of unicorns.) She tossed her head and whinnied.

After a little while the Unicorn paused and looked at the Wizard. “You look sad,” she said. “What’s the matter?”

The Wizard explained about the Annual North-East Regional Wizarding conference, and about his floppy hat.

The Unicorn thought for a minute. “You know,” she said, “we unicorns lose our horns every winter, and grow new ones in spring.”

“Of course,” said the Wizard who had studied unicorns and other mythical creatures in wizarding school (but didn’t understand about the bubbles.)

“I think I still have my horn that fell off last winter,” she said. “We could try that.”

The Unicorn left the glade, and returned a few minutes later carrying a large and very pointy horn in her teeth.

We the help of the Unicorn and a roll of duct tape, the Wizard fastened the horn to his head. He put the hat over it. The point stood up, sharp and true. The wizard returned home with a spring in his step, to admire himself in the mirror.

And so, the following week, the Wizard attended the Annual North-East Regional Wizarding conference. He examined the latest wizarding paraphernalia. He tried out several new beard conditioning products, but decided to stick with his old standby. He spoke eloquently and authoritatively at the panel on dissenchantments. And, at the end of the conference, after the awards for most-innovative new spell, and for special services to wizarding where awarded, the organizing committee presented him with the annual award for pointiest hat.

The Wizard proudly carried the trophy back to his shop, and placed it on the shelf behind the counter, between the books on dragon-calming and invisibility spells, so that it would be the first thing that anyone coming into the shop would see.