Goblinproofing One's Chicken Coop

by Reginald Bakeley

  A GROUNDSKEEPER'S GUIDE TO DWARFS

  A Non-Native Species • Dwarfish History • Rustics and Cider • Dwarfspotting • Stones vs. Stumps • Keep Calm and Carry Off • Where Help May Be Found • The Opportunity for Initiation

  LEAVING OFF FROM the hen cottage, the groundskeeper on a de-goblinised estate daren't step too many paces into the barnyard and surrounding fields without keeping an eye open for signs of at least one other unwelcome and meddlesome creature, a non-native species which has gained a substantial foothold in Britain's rich soil over the centuries. Any hope of employing the common fey deterrent of iron against this foe will prove fruitless, as iron is its foremost trade. We speak in hushed tones of the squinty-eyed metalworker of legend: the dwarf.

  Due to its sly shape-shifting ability, the dwarf is likely to go unnoticed on the modern estate. Seen in its natural form, it resembles one of your sturdier yet stunted crofters glimpsed at the village pub, dour face speckled with soot from a day's toil at the forge, grey beard streaked with ale from an evening spent recuperating. Unlike men, however, these grimy urchins are active primarily at night, spending the daylight hours in underground homes or on the topsoil in the form of stones or tree stumps.

  It has not always been so. From the time of their ancient forging of legendary wonders such as Thor's hammer Mjöllnir, the dwarfs were no villains but rather in fact the most helpful servants to gods and men, clanging about in their smithies as they hammered molten metal into enchanted swords for the aristocracy and perfectly wrought horseshoes for the common people. Their subterranean cities were marvels of stonecraft and construction, carved out from mountain roots by honest industry and the dwarfs' eldritch ability to fashion rock, soil, and iron to their then-noble will. The tragic fall of King Arthur ushered in the twilight of this golden era. It was then that Merlin, the greatest magician of all time, charged the dwarfs with ceaseless toil at their anvils such that they might stock the most magnificent armory ever known, one which would await the king's eventual triumphant return.

  While it's true that the dwarfs of yore are thus bound to work to this day to craft peerless sword, helm, and shield, their descendants, tragically forgotten in Merlin's mutterings, are under no such contract. Purposeless, lusty, and nigh on immortal, the dwarfish population has multiplied with each generation, finally bursting the bounds of its underground halls. Emerging blinking and aimless, the dwarfs now wander the countryside—slowly and in an ungainly manner, to be sure—plopping down occasionally in the form of stone or stump for “naps,” which can last for years. In these inanimate, unproductive forms, the dwarfs block the goodman's plough, mar otherwise unspoilt vistas, and literally stand in the way of progress towards an era when mankind, not some squat mockery of it, can be said to have the upper hand. Worse than the sleeping dwarf is the roused one, who thinks nothing of carelessly using his magic to warp the foundations of nearby stone cottages or to strew sharp swords and cart-endangering helms (albeit of unsurpassed craftsmanship) about the farmer's fields.

  Dwarfspotting

  It is therefore important for the groundskeeper to maintain a watchful eye on the arrangement of stones and tree stumps on the estate. This can be aided by historical maps of the property which indicate such details, yet this approach is no match for qualified, able-bodied help. Judge not the itinerant, goggle-eyed rustic who, taking a respite from his labours, is to be found gazing for hours at the odd standing stone or misshapen oak stump. In fact, befriend him. These countryside wanderers may seem as directionless and undesirable as the dwarfs themselves, but are in sooth guardians of the glebe who can provide an invaluable service to the groundskeeper. An afternoon's ration of cider is a small price to pay one of these rural sages in exchange for a consultation regarding the finer points of their observation technique.

  Any unfamiliar stone (alone or in formation) which you or your pastoral mentor lays suspicion upon may be a dwarf incognito. A test against this sort of trickery involves dislodging the stone to check the underside for any unmetamorphosed bits of the fairy. This is not an inconsiderable task, as dwarf-stones can weigh in at well over the heft of a full-grown man. Brace yourself with a few mouthfuls of the cider and remember to crouch low when lifting the stone, you and the rustic working as one man. With stone safely resting on its side, commence your investigation. The most obvious clue that your stone may in fact be a dwarf will be the presence of one or two stout fingers emerging from its base, caked in soil as if after a morning's dig in the veg patch. By not attaining a complete transformation, the dwarf maintains contact with the earth, the primary source of all its dark magic and unearthly vitality. Never fall victim to the dwarf's not uncommon ruse of changing into a woodland creature and then into a stone. If the investigator, be he proper groundskeeper or simple countryside tinker, catches sight of a hare's ear or a toad's back leg dangling from the base of an upturned stone, it is no less a sign of malicious fey activity than would be a few hirsute knuckles emerging from the same.

  Keep Calm and Carry Off

  It is only natural that one may react with alarm or disgust when confronted the first time with such a monstrosity as a befingered stone, but placidity of mind and action must be maintained at all costs. Do not touch the yet-dwarfish bits of the stone. To do so will awaken the creature and stir up its innate tendency towards bloodthirsty revenge. A dislodged dwarf is a disturbed dwarf, but a damaged dwarf is a dwarf dishonoured, and if there is evidence of a fairy with a looser grasp on the concepts of either “forgive” or “forget,” my extensive research and experience have not yet brought it to light. The gravest crimes against dwarf-stones have involved communities of well-meaning but foolish people who, employing alternately bonfires and dousings of cold water, have caused the stones to crack into pieces small enough for reassignment into the construction of unwittingly macabre village buildings and bridges. It is against my reserved nature to go into detail about the vengeful actions carried out against these hopeless families by the relations of the deposed dwarfs. Some such towns yet await the arrival of these enraged descendants. Woe unto them for the doom they have awakened.

  Therefore, one endeavours in this situation not to harm but merely to displace the dwarf. A dwarf-stone held aloft for too long will wither its inhabitant, so a new resting place must be found. If the relocation process will be a swift one, the only precaution is to avoid human contact with the appendages. For displacement procedures taking more than a day or two, the groundskeeper is advised to pack a good amount of damp soil carefully around the entirety of the protruding parts. The dwarf won't have much of an idea that it has been found out unless it discovers that its connection to the earth has vanished, a perception which can take a few days to formulate, the slug's pace of the dwarf's intellect slowed even more by its lithic form. This time is best spent by the resolute groundskeeper and his mumbling companion in depositing the stone far from the farm, for once the dwarf awakens, it will undoubtedly be in a foul state of mind and attempt to injure its captor through bites, kicks, and practised blows of any handy tools of its vigorous trade. Even if such an attack is defended against before the dwarf wobbles off, the transgressor's identity is bound to be recorded in the dwarf's black-book compendium of enemies once he reaches home, an entry wherein spells disaster for the groundskeeper's family for generations to come.

  The dwarf-stone may be set down outside the borders of the groundskeeper's estate, across the hedgerow separating his field from the neighbour's, but forethought is rewarded when contemplating this tactic. Does the groundskeeper wish to avoid the enmity not only of the dwarf but also that of his fellow man? If the answer is affirmative, other solutions must be considered. Dropping the unwitting dwarf-stone down a mineshaft or into the centre of a lake (tipplers should take care not to tip the rowboat) are two of the best remedies, for neither environment will cause the dwarf undue harm. It will feel quite at home in the shaft and will not drown underwater. Moreover, any subterranean or submerged relocation has the
added benefit of securing anonymity for the groundskeeper—stones have no eyes—maintaining his safety against the dwarf's revenge.

  More sinisterly clever dwarfs mould themselves to the shape of gnarled tree stumps in an effort to more thoroughly embed themselves in the landscape. The groundskeeper must exercise additional caution when investigating a stump he suspects to be a transformed dwarf, as the folds of the bark may conceal an eyelid which may open to allow the dwarf to see him, or a spiteful mouth which can shout an alarm to the dwarf's loyal brethren. What's more, the roots travel far beneath the surface of the ground and are too entwined for safe extrication. When such an enchanted tree stump is found, I'm afraid there is very little the average groundskeeper can do about it on his own.

  No, dwarf-stumps must be dealt with using manners and ways known to scant few, by persons with a lifetime of training and experience tucked safely beneath their natural-fibre belt. Thankfully, there is a class of man whose numbers have kept pace with those of the dwarfs, growing especially prevalent over the past hundred years or so. Each wise worker who walks this path possesses the knowledge of the uses of holly, juniper, and mugwort, along with a pedigree traceable—often quite plainly in his grove's oral history—directly back to that utmost and aforementioned enchanter, Merlin. You know of whom I speak. Enter the Druid.

  To be found at Stonehenge at the solstices and at incense-wafted bookstores and hobby shops the rest of the year, the Druid is, to a tee, your man for extracting a dwarf-stump from your property. Seek him out. Offer him mead. Compliment his robes and sickle. Tell him I sent you.

  As the maintainers of magical tradition, the Druids employ arcane ways to protect field and farmstead from the depredations of dwarfs. Their methods are those of what is known as sympathetic magic. By “sympathetic” one should not infer that the outcome of such sorceries is of a harmonious nature to the dwarf. Nothing could be further from the truth. What is sympathetic about the magic is that the actions taken by the Druid on a small scale are reflected in the larger scheme of things. A poppet may be sewn to portray the already manikin-like dwarf, for example. Once ensorcelled by the Druid, this doll may be manipulated, even reasoned with to an extent, leading in most cases to the dwarf's ungrumbling and voluntary wandering off.

  The groundskeeper needs to bear in mind that while it is fine for him to observe the Druid's spell-casting (to the extent this priest of the earth allows), for goodness' sake he should not attempt these magical workings himself without proper accreditation. The Druid will likely be happy to lead you to a nearby bit of parkland for an initiation into these mysteries. But honestly, who's got the time for it? After all, there is much work to be done around the estate now that all the dwarfs are haunting the neighbour's fields or resting peacefully in the depths of a nearby coalmine or pond.

  THE SECOND-SIGHT SMALLHOLDER

  Standard Livestock • Seelie Livestock • Keener's Tale • The Proper Pasture • Appropriate Housing • Allies and Upkeep • Generosity and Its Rewards

  A NY NUMBER OF RESOURCES exists for the industrious person who wishes to take the idea of a kitchen garden or family veg patch a step further and, with the addition of a few pigs or one or more cows, establish a proper personal farm or smallholding. What is not so common on the small farmer's bookshelf is a practical guide for successfully incorporating animal members of the Fairy Kingdom into such a scheme. Intrepid “Second-Sight smallholders” may consider this essay the remedial text.

  If you have not just thrown this book across the room but hold it yet with quavering hands, I commend you. If you have recently returned to it following an anguished bout of confusion and several restorative nips of whisky, I understand. For me to put forth instruction not in beating back the fey but in embracing them as an integral part of the barnyard must look like an admission of defeat.

  It is not, and I shall open your eyes as to why.

  Anyone with proper tools and knowledge, a modicum of courage, and a love of labour rewarded can incorporate fairy livestock into an established smallholding without harm to its existing productivity. In my experience, I have come to realise that the primary distinction between standard and seelie livestock rearing is mainly a simple matter of scale. Done correctly, in fact, the additions can even bolster your farm's worth, with tiny fey cattle grazing upon pastures too small for standard livestock to reach.

  Of course there is the matter of procuring the fairy livestock, which is nearly always unavailable commercially, even from your county's rare breeds supplier. Opportunities must be looked for and seized. A lesson in doing just this can be learned from the story of Howard Keener of Northumberland who, after an exuberant evening at the Beresford Arms one Midsummer's Eve, took a torch from the village green's bonfire to light the path on his moonless walk home. He soon found himself approaching another light on the road, a faint green glow, and realised that he was on the trail of a slowly moving herd of eerie fairy cattle. Although he was surprised to see the cows—each of them no larger than a child's toy—and their ghostly Lilliputian herdsman, the young Keener had enough sense to fall back a bit and follow them on their route to their fairy tump.

  “It were like a hunnert lights was shining out that hillside,” Keener later reported, describing the opened doorways to the herd's home beneath the mound. As the herdsman led the cattle through one of the lit portals, the brave Keener neatly wedged another open with a nearby stone. Pacing back to the herd's doorway, he stuck his smouldering torch in after them, then returned quickly to the held door. Keener stripped off his shirt to use as a net and was soon able to gather up seven of the miniature fairy cattle before fleeing the hill, itself belching smoke, the angry shouts of the spectral herdsman ringing in his ears.

  A fit man, Keener outran the wrathful fairy and made it home with the tiny livestock, depositing them in a copper tub and pouring a ring of salt around it, thereby forming a mystic barrier over which no fey, be they herdsman or heifer, could cross. It was a trick he'd heard his grandmother mention. In the morning he was the proud owner of his own herd of fairy cattle and, using iron garden railing for fencing, built a small addition to his pasture for them. The descendants of the cows are there to this day for any who wish to visit them or to purchase a few, as I did years ago.

  Whilst none of us can hope to be as lucky as Mr. Keener was on that fateful night, we can all prepare ourselves for a successful fairy cattle raid by bringing along a topped-up garden fumigator and a canvas sack to our nights at the pub, especially during the weeks of late spring and early summer, when fairy cattle are known to be on the move.

  Although the washbasin-and-salt method will successfully keep fairy cattle happy overnight, the cows are creatures of the earth and should be moved to a pastoral setting as soon as possible. Do as Keener did and fence them in with iron flower bed railing, taking care to do it adjacent to and not within the fencing for your standard cattle. The fairy cow's build, whilst sturdy for its size, is no match for the misplaced or jealous hoof of even a smallish Hereford. Start them in close-cropped grass, and they will keep their pasture tidy. In grass taller than a few inches, the fairy cattle have a tendency to become disoriented and overwhelmed, and such stress is unhealthy for them. A saucerful of water each morning is enough to keep a half dozen such cows sated and satisfied.

  To prevent the loss of your cattle to the late-night counter-raid of an understandably cross fairy herdsman, all fairy cows, bulls, and calves must be secured inside appropriate shelter before sundown each day. Here, as in other aspects, is revealed the delicious thrift of Second-Sight smallholding. Does your village have a toy shop? The proprietor will be able to supply you with a doll's house version of a cattle barn at a significant savings compared to the cost of one for standard cattle. Explain to him your requirements—the size of your herd, the necessary height for interior stalls, the crucial need for walls and a roof which can keep out the elements and a barn door fitted with a stout lock. I've found that reasonable and scrupulous toymongers w
ill sooner or later be able to find a fully accoutred barn for fairy cattle, although it can take some thorough description up front on the part of the Second-Sight smallholder. Once you've shown your dedication to fairy farming with the purchase of the barn, the toy merchant—full of inspiration at being co-conspirator in your success—will soon be calling you with suggestions for other little outbuildings and implements, not the other way round.

  Just as the traditional farmer needs pay constant attention to his cows, the Second-Sight smallholder must care for his fairy cattle with daily minding. Milking is a delicate process and must be carried out in dawn's first silvery hour, before the herd commences its grazing. Happy is he who, lying prone in the mud before his converted doll's house, begins his day in service to himself and his kine, pinching tiny spurts of enchanted milk into miniature tin pails. I'm firm in my conviction that the only reason fairy cow's milk has yet to catch on as a national trend is that not enough people have tasted it. I find it brings a slight, not unwelcome walnut flavour to my tea, and when the spirit's got hold of me, I squirt some straight into my morning cuppa. And that's not all. I daresay I've got a few seelie cheeses in the works at the moment as well. Fingers crossed!

  All farming is entered into with the end results in mind, and when it comes to cattle, one naturally thinks of beef. Fairy cattle have mercifully remained free from the taint of what is vulgarly known as “mad-cow disease,” although anyone who imagines they can traipse cavalierly into the business of filling freezers with prime cuts of seelie beef will want to weigh the benefits and pitfalls of such an undertaking. It really is up to each Second-Sight smallholder to decide whether or not to go to the trouble of butchery and all it entails on such a small scale. I have tried my hand at it and found that although it is rewarding as an exercise in extracting full benefit and use from your fairy cattle, especially once they are too old to produce calves and milk, one doesn't get an awful lot of meat from each cow. Given the newer, more restrictive laws regarding livestock slaughter, the process is a do-it-yourself one, for better or worse. If you do decide to go through with it, I suggest you propose a summit involving yourself, the toy merchant, and the most sympathetic butcher you're able to find. Enquiries at local meat counters regarding such a project will, I've found, weed out any unfit candidates for the job. A successful bit of butchery in a tiny abattoir built by the toymonger will yield you and your allies a handful of the most mouth-watering beef you may ever taste, but the risk of finger lacerations is also quite high and the negative consequences of frustrated relations between the three of you must be taken into full account before you begin.