I stopped the car across the street from Jack's house - a sleekly modern looking ranch, with large windows and a nearly flat roof. It was hideous. Every light was turned on and music emanated from the open front door. It appeared that Jack was hosting a party.
The music was strange, though, ethereal and vaguely Celtic-sounding. It reminded me of something ... something just on the edge of memory. Everything around me was dimming and slowing down, seeming less real than the music. The music was telling me something if I could just hear it. It was something important. I heard voices speaking near to me but all I wanted was the music. Someone touched my arm and I pulled away.
More roughly this time, hands shook me. "Don't listen to it! Don't listen to the music!" The spell was broken. I shook my head to clear the fog.
"What happened? What's wrong with that music?" I asked.
"It's fey music, child," Mary explained. "There's strong magic in music, especially ours, and not all of it good. It almost got you, dear! But that music confirms one thing: there is at least one fir darrig in that house. Nothing plays the fiddle like a fir darrig."
Before anyone could stop him, the Phouka said, "I'm getting a closer look" and bounded out of the car. He seemed to stumble in front of the car and didn't get up. Instead, a huge black dog with a white spot on its forehead ran toward Jack's house. Rather than go to the front door, however, the dog ran up to a window and peeked in. He did that with every window until he'd gone completely around the house. When he returned to the car, he reappeared in man form and got into the car.
"Let's get out of here!" He yelled, "Now!"
As we sped off, the Phouka turned to the women huddled in the back seat. "It's worse than we thought, Mary. Jack's got a small army of fir darrigs. They were in every room of his house and getting very ... erm ... exuberant. There's gotta be about fifty of them." He cut his eyes to me and then looked away.
"Um ... Phouka," I stammered. "You're a dog, too?"
"Yes," he said impatiently. "I'm a dog. I'm a horse. Do you have anything productive to add?"
I shot him a dirty look in response.
"But what were they doing, Phouka?" asked Annie timidly.
"What fir darrigs and their lot do best and I'm not talking about their musical abilities," he said harshly. Then more kindly, "You really don't want know, Annie. Trust me."
It was late when we arrived back at my house. I put the lamps on while Mary rustled up some dinner for us. I don't know how she did it, but she always managed to prepare exactly what I was hungry for. Tonight it was comforting tomato soup and warm toasted cheese sandwiches. As we settled over our bowls, the Phouka told us what he'd seen.
"Like I said, there were a number of fir darrigs in every room. From the condition of the kitchen, I'd say they've been drinking fairly heavily all day. There were empty liquor bottles covering the countertops and I saw broken glass on the floors. Several of them were in one of the bedrooms and it looked like they were dissecting a cat." He paused and shook his head. "I'm guessing there will be an increase in reports of missing pets until we get rid of them. That's not the worst part, though. There's a tree in the back yard. An oak tree. It's got a big crack down the middle."
Mary and Annie gasped in unison.
"What does that mean?" I asked. I was getting pretty tired of being the last to know what was going on.
"It means that Jack has his own private portal. It means that he can bring anything or anyone he wants over. It means that he can bring as many fir darrigs - or worse - that he wants. And it will all go un-noticed because he's doing it in his own back yard."
"What can we do about it? I mean, we have to stop them, right?" I asked, looking around at the other three. At that moment, I heard a tapping at the front window and noticed a small face peering in. I was just pointing it out, when there was a clatter on the porch and the face disappeared. Without thinking, I ran to the door and yanked it open. The porch was bare, save for a small Y-shaped stick.
The Phouka peeked over my shoulder and scoffed, "Gnomes. I might have known."
"Gnomes?" I asked, incredulous. "You mean like those garden statue thingies?"
"Not like them. Them," he said. "Look across the street. Your neighbor's dowsing gnome is gone. He was peeking in your window and dropped his stick when he ran off. The question is: what made him run off?"
I was getting confused again. "Are you telling me that garden gnomes are real gnomes?"
Mary and Annie nodded yes.
"How do they hold so still?" I was full of questions. "Why are they here? And ... what is my lawn gnome doing right now?" I ran to the yard and, as I suspected, Digby my digging gnome was gone.
"Well," explained Mary. "Standing still is part of their punishment. Oh, how they hate it! You see, dear, lawn gnomes are actually real gnomes. We send them here as punishment for breaking laws in Faerie. We've got portals in most garden centers. They're so mischievous and often get on the other side of the law, so it's easier to drop them in one or two places and let people disperse them. When their sentence is finished, they return to the nearest Lowes and pop on home!"
