LittleFork Chronicles

By D.E. Gilmore

Somewhere between the tiny northern Minnesota towns of Littlefork and Ray, flows the raging Rat Root River. If one was to follow the river north toward International Falls one would come upon an animal kingdom called Timbertown. This is not really a town in the sense that we would know it, but more a collection of dens and burrows and beaver houses, where animals who have lived in harmony for some time, have learned to congregate and communicate.
There are probably many such animal communities in northern Minnesota, however Timbertown is different because it has a story to tell. There is a legend that came out of Timbertown about a bear, a beaver, and a boar. I don't know when this legend started, for I, of course, wasn't there, but I think it was some time ago, many generations ago, perhaps.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369402948

D.E. Gilmore

D.E. Gilmore was born Minnesota and educated at a small Christian college outside of Chicago where he earned a degree in archaeology. After college, he became an officer in Army Military Intelligence during the Vietnam War. Later, he was an occupational butterfly for many years as a village historian, community activist, railroad worker and the manager of a bus and valet company. He then began a thirty year career as a parole and probation officer, finally retiring as a lieutenant for the Nevada Department of Public Safety in 2009. D.E. Gilmore began writing as a past-time almost thirty years ago and has written four novels, including Dragonkeep, Spit Corner Blues, Assassin’s End and A Portrait of Murder. He is presently working on a book with his wife Bonnie and they reside in Carson City, Nevada.

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Copyright © 2023 by D.E. Gilmore. 842136

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Rev. date: 07/18/2023

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 The Bank in the Basement of the Building by the Bridge Over Beaver Brook

Chapter 2 Becky Bonner and the Beast of Badwoods

Chapter 3 The Clothes in Mr. Clump’s Closet

Chapter 4 The Monster Of Medievel Manor

Chapter 5 The Bear From Where

Chapter 6 The Sphinx Stinks

Chapter 7 Tiny and The Terror of Timbertown

Chapter 8 Lord Lostalot and the Lance of Larceny

Chapter 9 A Dearth in the Girth of the Earth

Chapter 10 Orville Yorville’s Zoo

CHAPTER 1

The Bank in the Basement of the Building

by the Bridge Over Beaver Brook

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I n the far north of this great country lies a place called Minnesota. In the farthest northern reaches of Minnesota is a tiny little town called Littlefork. It is so far north that it is but a few miles from the beautiful Rainy River, which separates Minnesota from Canada. The tiny town of Littlefork rests gently in a crook of the Littlefork River, a rocky, slow moving ribbon of water that ambles through northern Minnesota until it joins its bigger brother at the border of Minnesota and Canada.

At the time that this story takes place, over sixty years ago, there were four roads that led into the tiny town of Littlefork, one from each direction of the compass. On three of these roads, one must cross a bridge to enter the tiny town of Littlefork. Two of these bridges crossed the Littlefork River, but not the third. This bridge crossed Beaver Brook, and it is at Beaver Brook that our story begins.

At the south end of the bridge over Beaver Brook was a farm owned by the Popcornys. The Popcornys consisted of David Mada Popcorny and his wife Sheba Eve Popcorny. The Popcornys raised Brahma bulls for sale as well as pigs and chickens. I don’t know if this was profitable or not, for this is not what made them known by the people of the tiny town of Littlefork.

The Popcornys lived in a house right next to the bridge over Beaver Brook, and in the basement of this house was a room that was used as a bank for children. The room in the basement of the house by the bridge over Beaver Brook that was used as a bank for children was not big. In fact, it was very tiny; more like a root cellar than a room; but it had a very thick wooden door closing it off from the rest of the basement. The door had a combination lock on it and when it opened, the room behind it looked like a bank vault except that it was made of clay and had dangly roots poking through it. The back of the room was always dark and somewhat foreboding. But that was just the opposite of the Popcornys, who were always cheerful and full of joyous noises. They were an older couple who had never had children, but nonetheless loved children.

The bank in the basement of the house by the bridge over Beaver Brook did not advertise, but somehow word got around to the children in the tiny town of Littlefork that it was there and open for business. It was not your typical bank.

It didn’t deal in money; only in good wishes. For every good wish a child deposited in the bank, an adventure was given. This sounds kind of silly, but it wasn’t. Not to a child anyway.

My older brother learned of the bank first and brought me to it. He had been there several times already for he was far more adventurous than I and always seemed to discover things more quickly. I was timid; he was not. I liked to read about things, he liked to do them. He was quite often in trouble with our parents who were very strict and religious and very strictly religious. They wanted us to be good boys and not embarrass them in front of the other grown-ups in the tiny town of Littlefork.

They took themselves very seriously and wanted everyone to take them very seriously as well. This is not to say that they were bad parents or mean or anything like that. They just wanted people to think that they were on the side of God and not on the side of pranksters or ner-do-wells or people who gossiped outside their houses.

Of course, my brother defied all convention and visited the bank as often as he could get away with doing so. At first it wasn’t difficult because my parents, as most parents in the tiny town of Littlefork, didn’t know anything about the bank in the basement of the building by the bridge over Beaver Brook. You see the swimming hole for all the children in the tiny town of Littlefork was right there by the bridge over Beaver Brook and the children had to walk right by the house by the bridge over Beaver Brook to get to the swimming hole.

It was a ready-made excuse to go to the bank; all a child had to do was tell his or her mother or father that he or she was going to the swimming hole and no one would doubt that! All children loved to swim! There was certainly no harm in that! The older children always watched the younger children and made certain that no one drowned.

But soon the children were all going to the bank instead of the swimming hole. Mr. and Mrs. Popcorny were always there and would greet the children, even the very shy ones, especially the very shy ones, and would ask their business and would usher them down to the basement and to the bank.

In the basement, at the bank (that is to say in front of the large wooden door with the combination lock on it), were little kiosks with official looking pieces of paper on which one would write one’s good wish.

The good wishes had to be sincere or they would be rejected by either Mr. or Mrs. Popcorny with a disappointed frown on their brow and a pronounced shake of their head. One couldn’t wish for a dog or a cat or a new bicycle, for these were selfish wishes and they would not get one an adventure or even the wonderful cookie and glass of milk that accompanied each good wish.

The cookie by the way was a rhubarb and rat root cookie that tasted both sweet and tart and smelled of the out-of-doors and simply reeked of the promise of adventure. The milk was from the Popcorny’s very own cow and had always been produced that very day. It was not cold, but was also not hot, and when one drank it, one was overwhelmed by the taste of the field, if one could actually taste a field.

If one’s good wish was accepted, for example if one wished that Mrs. Anderson’s old dog Betsy would get well so that Mrs. Anderson could stop crying in public and not embarrass her grown children anymore, one was given a rhubarb and rat root cookie and a glass of milk and was ushered into the vault (the room behind the large wooden door that was made of clay and had roots dangling from its ceiling). In the vault, one deposited one’s wish in the bucket at the back of the room, where it was very dark, and placed one’s glass, which was now empty of milk, on the small table there.

Either Mr. or Mrs. Popcorny then placed a rubber inner tube from an old tire over one’s head and around one’s waist and instructed you to walk forward, into the dark back of the vault, until you felt water start to swirl around your feet.

I know this sounds fantastical, but when I tell you the rest of the story you will realize that this is the most normal sounding thing in the entire story.

I am telling you this from my experience, lest you think this is a lie or simply made up to keep children occupied and out of the way. In fact, it is for this very reason that it is an important story to tell, for the Popcornys you see never treated children like they were in the way. They seemed to think that children were very important, but not in a coddling way or in a way to spoil children. They seemed to think that children inhabited the dreams of the future, and not just their parents’ future, but the future of the whole world.

The Popcornys acted like the children who came to their bank were the measure of life. In their view, which they expressed in so many small ways, from their simple frowns, to their smiles and acknowledgements of small acts of kindness, they believed that children kept the balance that nature needed to rotate the earth or keep the sun rising in the morning or setting in the evening.

Children held the power to keep magic moving and alive. In their presence, it seemed like birds could not help but sing and dogs could not help but bark. The wind could not blow and the rivers could not flow without this magic. Children embodied the soul of nature.

So, when it was my turn, I nervously walked into the dark with the inner tube around my waist until I could feel the rushing of water around my bare feet (we had to leave our shoes by the large wooden door with the combination on it). As I tenuously stepped further into the swirly water, my feet were suddenly pulled out from under me by the force of the water and I was hurled into the invisible stream (for it was so dark there that I could not see anything but total blackness). It seemed that I was hurtled for minutes along the stream, carried on my inner tube, which I clutched for dear life, twisting and turning, whether up or down I am not certain, until I was cascaded into a bright light and settled into small circlets of gentle movement.

I realized that I had my eyes closed. When I opened my eyes and looked around, I saw that I was in a pond surrounded by water lilies. Nowhere was there a tunnel of darkness or a swiftly swirling stream or anything but tranquility.

The pond was not large; or was it? It seemed to grow as I gazed at it, around it. The water lillies seemed to grow as well and I realized that each one held a rather large frog on it; each frog seemed to stare at me as if I were instantly intruding. Then they all started to croak at once, but not really croak for I realized suddenly that I could understand them! They were talking about me! How I had splashed into their reverie and disturbed their afternoon parley and then rudely stared at them as if there was something very odd about them, when in fact it was me who was odd!

I spoke to them - the frogs; not to just one, but all of them at once, because I did not know which of them was in charge, if a frog could actually be in charge of anything. Oddly enough they stopped croaking and simply stared at me. Not one of them spoke in answer to my question! Oh yes, my question!

Where am I? I asked to the frogs in general; which was difficult because the frogs were all around me, sitting on the water lillies and it was difficult to not look at just one of them and direct my question to that one. But I didn’t want to appear rude and act like one was in charge of all the rest.

You are in the pool! Came the answer from somewhere.The answer seemed to ring in my head and not from outside my head. That was strange! I didn’t know where to look to see who was speaking!

Where are you? I asked, embarrassed because I thought I might seem stupid for asking a stupid question. The frogs continued to stare at me but didn’t croak. Their silence enhanced my embarrassment and my nervousness.

I’m over here! Came the reply, and this time it seemed to come from a direction to my right and not just from inside my head.

I saw movement behind one of the frogs on a lily pad to my right. A small creature on the same lily pad as the frog was waving its arms above its head. It looked like a tiny, almost miniscule version of a human being except that it was ethereal, almost opaque. It seemed to glitter, as if there was an aura all around it that captured light and threw it back in all sorts of colors. The tiny body of the creature stood out against the aura and defined its opaqueness to make it easier to see the longer one looked at it.

As I looked at it, it got larger until it was almost my size, except that it still seemed to stand on the lily pad without causing the lily pad to dimple in the slightest.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of the creature. It stood in a posture looking at me as if it were waiting for me to do something. I suddenly realized it was waiting for me to speak and I also somehow realized that it wouldn’t speak again until I responded, as if doing so was somehow just not done.

What are you? I asked, stupefied.

It shrugged back as if startled by the question.

Why, I am a fairy! It stated succinctly. Everyone knows that!

My stupidity seemed to know no bounds.

But I can understand you! Do fairies speak English?

The creature laughed joyously at this and wiggled its body like it was being tickled.

You understand me because of the fairies in your mouth!

What fairies in my mouth? I asked, astounded.

The fairy gestured like I was the dullest creature it had ever encountered.

Every human child has fairies in its mouth. It stated simply, again as if everyone knew this. You call them tooth fairies. They protect you like the sniffle worms do in your noses!

Sniffle worms?

Of course! The creature continued. The sniffle worms eat germs that come into your noses. The tooth fairies fight off any germs that come into your mouths. They protect you, to keep you from getting sick!

But sometimes I do get sick! I argued.

Well. The fairy said, somewhat subdued. Sometimes a germ or two does get by and causes you to sneeze, and when you sneeze you blow sniffle worms and tooth fairies right out of your nose and mouth. Then, of course, more germs get in and you do get sick! If everyone was doing their job this wouldn’t happen! The creature said this, implying that it was somehow my fault that I get sick.

I suddenly remembered myself and where I was.

Where is this pond? I asked, again looking around at the pond which had grown even larger during the intervening moments.

The creature’s posture was one of helpfulness, its hands clasped in front of it, its body leaning slightly forward as if to invite the conversation.

The pond is on The Island In The Middle Of The Raging Rat Root River. The fairy responded as if it was obvious.

Oh! I exclaimed, excitedly, for I had heard of the Rat Root River. It was in the middle of the swamp between the tiny town of Littlefork and the bigger town of International Falls, twenty miles to the northeast. International Falls was right on the border between Minnesota and Canada at the bridge that crossed the Rainy River. We would go there sometimes to visit the library, for the tiny town of Littlefork was too small to have a library.

Our farm, which was on the other side of the bridge over Beaver Brook from the tiny town of Littlefork, was on the edge of that swamp and my brother and I often walked the railroad tracks that led into and through the swamp on its way to International Falls. We, of course, did not walk all of the way to International Falls, nor all of the way to the Rat Root River, for I believe it was some miles, but we did journey into the swamp looking for adventure.

We even had a trap line in the small streams in the swamp, hoping to catch mink or weasel, which we were told were worth some money. We didn’t have any other way to make money, for I was only six and a half years old and my brother was only eight, unless we wanted to help my father in the woods or my mother on the farm. In those days, children were not given an allowance; one had to work to get money. You see our farm did not make enough money for all of my family’s needs, so my father worked as a lumberjack while my mother worked the farm.

Our farm wasn’t big, only one hundred and forty acres, on which we had a few cows, several pigs and some chickens. Mostly it supported our family with milk, bacon and eggs, and we grew wheat to feed the animals. We always had a dog, at this time one named Pete, and several barn cats that kept the mice and rats from eating the hay in the hay mow of the barn. We fed Pete, but the cats, of course, fed themselves; there were always plenty of mice for them to eat and they stayed warm in the barn in the wintertime.

I looked around the pond once again (once again it had grown larger) and noticed that it was fed by a stream off to one side, on which stood a large building with a water wheel attached to it. The water wheel turned with the movement of the stream and I could hear a whirling and crunching sound coming from inside the building. I noticed at that moment other noises coming from inside the building, noises that sounded very much like voices.

Are there other people here? I asked the fairy creature.

Of course. There are other human children here. The fairy responded, noticing the direction of my attention. But those are elves grinding wheat for the bread. They always make such a racket when they bake, but the bread and biscuits are so worth the racket.

Is the Island big? I asked, my curiosity expanding. The fairy seemed puzzled by this.

Why the Island In The Middle Of The Raging Rat Root River is as big as it needs to be! The creature responded. And then as if it realized something, it continued. It is as big as you need it to be!

Might I have a tour of the Island? I asked hopefully.

The fairy pondered for a moment, placing a finger at the bottom of its chin and gazing off into the distance.

I think that might be arranged! It declared. But we must consult with The Wise One first to see how best to accomplish this!

With that the fairy took my hand and pulled me in my rubber inner tube to the edge of the pond and helped me to stand on my feet on the shore, with some pulling, pushing and grunting. It seemed like quite an effort but was accomplished because the fairy was now quite my size.

Can you be any size you want? I asked after thanking it for its help.

The question seemed to intrigue the fairy, who was still holding my hand.

I guess so. It said. I never really thought about it before, but I guess I am whatever size I need to be!

The fairy led me, if that is the right word, for its feet never really touched the ground; it kind of flittered in front of me, still holding my hand I think; up a path leading away from the pond. On either side of the path were the most amazing flowers, in every color imaginable and in every size possible.

And fairies flitted about like bumble bees and dragon flies, also in all sizes seeming to fit the dimensions of the flowers.

We passed the building with the water wheel and followed the path to the center of this garden-kind-of-area. In the center of this garden-kind-of-area was an incredibly large and grizzled looking tree, if trees can be grizzled looking. It was the largest tree I had ever seen, and, as my dad was a lumberjack, I had seen some very large trees. Its branches reached almost to the sun it seemed and certainly into the most brilliantly blue sky that I had ever seen. There were clouds in that amazingly blue sky that billowed with whites and grays and were shaped like the faces of our Founding Fathers (you know, those men like George Washington who began this great and wonderful country).

The incredibly large and grizzled-looking tree was as big as a house at its base, and in its base was an opening that looked very much like an open doorway. The fairy creature gestured for me to enter the doorway at the base of the incredibly large and grizzled-looking tree. I hesitatingly did this and found that I could enter the doorway without bending in the slightest. Inside it smelled like very old wood; not rotten in any way, but musty and almost cloyingly woody. It was not a bad smell and as I stood there in the dusky, waney, not quite darkness inside the incredibly large and grizzled-looking tree, the smell seemed to become more and more delightful and made me think of all the best things of home. It felt warm and cozy. It felt like the incredibly large and grizzled-looking tree had enfolded me in its arms and held me there as my mom must have done when I was a baby (for that was far too long ago for me to remember). But that was what it felt like; what it must have been like.

Then a voice spoke. Once again, the voice seemed to come from inside my head, but not the same voice as before in the pond. This voice was deep and resounding and resinous. Inside my head I saw, or maybe felt, green and sticky brown and slow arching, aching growth.

Do you want something? The voice enquired.

Who are you? I asked, although I knew from deep inside exactly to whom I was speaking.

I am what they call The Wise One. The voice stated with a hint of humor, of laughter. I am the tree that you entered. I am the oldest living thing in this world. I am five thousand of your years old and I have seen many, many things. You came to ask a question or a favor I think.

Suddenly my request seemed silly. I simply wanted to see the Island, to tour the Island, but it felt so childish in the presence of this archaic being. I should be asking the Question Of The Century, or for Something Great And Wonderful For All Mankind, but instead I simply wanted to tour the Island. I felt embarrassed.

Of course you may tour the Island! The voice echoed in my head, even though I had not asked the question. Your favorite bird is the owl. The voice said this with the certainty of knowing what I knew of myself. I will wake Barny the Barn Owl to take you for your tour.

With that I was ushered out of the incredibly large and grizzled-looking tree by the fairy creature. Once outside, I blinked to adjust my eyes to the light and then noticed an owl standing on the ground in front of me. It was at least my size and did not look happy. Of course, I had never seen a happy owl, or a not so happy owl, so I really didn’t know the difference.

You must be Barny! I said and extended my hand as though an owl would be able to shake my hand. I felt immediately stupid. It simply stared unblinkingly at me and then turned its head completely around. Its body soon followed, and it stood with its back to me. I felt definitely slighted and didn’t know what to do next. Should I apologize to it; or should it apologize to me?

Are you going to get on or not? Barny said grumpily to nothing in front of it.

Excuse me? I looked around for the fairy creature, hoping it would help me, perhaps interpret for me what I was to do, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Are you going to get on or not? Barny said again with no less irritation in its voice. The Wise One didn’t wake me up for nothing, did He? I should be sleeping right now, not taking you for a tour of the Island!

I realized then of course that Barny was speaking to me.

How do I get on? I asked, somewhat embarrassed and knowing that I was the object of its irritation.

Just climb on my back! It huffed.

I did exactly that and tried to hold my arms around its neck daintily, for I did not know the etiquette of the situation and certainly didn’t want to choke it or hold on too loosely and fall off.

Away we went with a lurch and a flutter and, in no time, we were airborne, circling up into the brilliantly blue of the sky. It was marvelous! At first I had closed my eyes, but then I dared to open them and I saw the most amazing thing! We were above the Island and I could look out at the horizon and see the greatness of the swamp, with its green, swirling vastness. I saw water sparkling near and far and saw trees big and small and bushes and birds and deer and even a huge (although tiny from the air) wolf stalking something that I could not see.

The Raging Rat Root River cascaded below me with its swirls and eddies and fast moving currents as it threw itself against the Island In The Middle Of The Raging Rat Root River. And the Island itself was huge, or so it seemed from above, and egg shaped and impervious as it withstood the onslaught from the waters of the Raging Rat Root River. It gave the appearance of having been there forever.

The garden-kind-of-area with the ancient tree called The Wise One, and the pond, and the stream with the building with the water wheel, were on the south end of the Island. On the north end of the Island was a fortress. The fortress was a castle of sorts, with turrets