There once was a community where the fear of death ceased to exist. Deep inside the forest, where the streams were raging rivers, the cedar trees reached the stars, and a single huckleberry fed a family, lived the gnomes. They weren’t the strongest. They weren’t the fastest. And they sure didn’t mess around with violence. But they understood one thing better than any other animal. Connection. 

     At first, they told each other stories about how everything was connected through joy. But then they figured out that everything still grew when they were sad and ran out of fermented juice. Then they told stories about how everything was connected through light. But most things survived the dark ass winter. Then they dug deeper and said that everything was connected through roots. But then they saw that the roots were selfish assholes that were all up in their own business. Eventually, they figured it out.

     They noticed that the fungi communicated with every plant in the forest through an interconnected web of strings they called mycelium. And that’s why they built their homes inside of mushrooms. The mushrooms felt their needs. Then the mycelium would whisper things to the roots like: Grow some berries, let your leaves drip more water, close your flowers before it gets too cold, and make some for ganja, please.

     The flourishing forest allowed the bakers to bake more goods, the healers to find more medicine, the artists and scientists to have more time, and the leaders to make less conflict or do shit all.

     Then the bears came.

     They sniffled, and they snuffled and eventually they detected the gnomes’ homes. They thought the mushrooms were delicious—even when the gnomes were still inside. The gnomes knew that was the way of life. They also knew their loved ones would return through stories.

     Then the green boars came.

     They clear cut the mushrooms treating them like an all you can eat buffet. The gnomes fled into a hole in a tree. Every night, they chanted and chanted and sang and sang and stomped and stomped, hoping the boars would hear them say, “stop eating all our mushroom houses, please.” When all they really wanted to say was, “fuck off, you greedy ass pigs!”

     Prophet, the fox, eventually overheard what he considered to be a prayer. He skittered towards the gnomes’ tree and told them that he was there to help.

     The one gnome leader that was left peaked out of the hole in the tree and asked, “What’s your name?”

      “Prophet,” answered the fox.

     “Why would someone name you Profit?” the leader asked.

     “Because that’s what I am!”

     “You’re the difference between the amount earned and the amount spent?”

     “No.”

     “You’re not the difference between the amount earned and amount spent?”

     “Yes, no. I mean, I am the prophet.”

     By this point, the dozen gnomes that were left crawled out of the hole in the tree.

     “Are you sure?” the leader asked.

     “Yes.”

     Then the baker interjected and said, “Because usually, profit is something I get when I make extra yummy cakes for my friends, and then they give me more than I need. Then I buy everyone fermented juice, and then we get silly, and laugh, and—”

     “No, that’s profit with F and an I. I’m the prophet with a P and an H. The proclaimer of God.”

     “What’s a god?” the leader asked.

     “Not a god! That’s old news. The God! It’s the man that created everything.”

     Then the leader’s sister grew tired of hearing her brother and said, “Are you sure it was a man? Because we’ve been thinking about it, and we thought it was probably a woman. But then we were like nah, women might be smarter most of the time, but they also talk behind other women’s backs a lot, and that’s not always productive. So then we did some star gazing and figured maybe it has to do with something bright. And then we realized that bright things, like fire and sun, are hot. So then we thought maybe the energy—”

     “Just stop, okay. You want to stop the boars and bears from chewing up your mushroom houses, yeah?”

     “Yeah…” the brother said.

     “Well, what if I told you that you are their master!”

     “No way, really?” the brother asked.

     “Yes, because God created everything and God created you, and only you, in his image.”

     “Only me! But what about the other gnomes?” the brother asked.

     “Them too. But nobody else. But if you want me to help you, you have to follow certain laws.”

     So Prophet, the fox, laid out the laws they must follow.

     1. Only worship one God.

     2. Don’t kill anyone unless it’s an animal or they worship another God. By the way, gnomes are not considered animals in the eyes of God.

     3. Don’t steal unless you’re taking stuff from a civilization that worships another God.

     4. You won’t say any bad words like, “fuggleberry, shitster, cun, dickles, etc.”

     5. Don’t do anything on Sunday except worship.

     6. Love your family… unless God tells you to kill one of them to show your faith.

     7. Don’t smash uglies unless you’re married.

     8. Don’t lie unless you’re quoting shit I, the prophet, say.

     9. Don’t check out your neighbours’ wife no matter how fine.

    10. Don’t steal your neighbour’s shit.

     Don’t steal and don’t kill was easy for the gnomes—they had never done that in the first place. However, they weren’t so convinced about the other rules. After all, gnomes were horny little buggers that liked to drink and laugh and swear.

     Prophet, the fox, had to devise a plan.

    He gathered the gnomes together and told them that if the gnomes didn’t follow the rules, they would go to a place called hell. The concept of hell didn’t exist in a gnomes heart. They thought to die meant that your body turned into earth and gave life to something new while the soul would live on in stories.

    “No,” Prophet the fox said. “After death, there are two options: heaven or hell.”

     He went on to explain that heaven was a place where you could walk on clouds, eat all the Philadelphia cream cheese spread you wanted to, and watch over your loved ones that were still on earth. Hell, on the other hand, was a place where you had a perpetual sunburn and little demons would five-star you as hard as they could. And if that didn’t do the trick, they’d stuff pineapples in an area you least expected it.

    The gnomes began to fear death, abstain from sex, and keep curse words hidden in their head. They started to feel ashamed about all their unholy thoughts which only amplified their sexual frustration. They grew hostile and ferocious. They longed for their old way of life that was slowly fading from their memories. Prophet, the fox, explained how he killed other animals through trickery and sharp teeth which gave the gnomes the idea of turning tools into weapons. They created catapults that aimed at the homes of boars and even the dens of bears. They shot giant rocks at them, but it wasn’t enough to kill them.

     Then they remembered the use of fire. They created fireballs that flung through the sky like an infestation of fireflies. The boars and bears had no escape. They screamed and yelled, telling the gnomes that they would limit their mushroom intake, but the gnomes hearts had already grown ice walls.

    Eventually, all the boars and bears were dead. Whether they went to heaven or hell didn’t even cross the gnomes’ minds. In triumph, they returned to their home, screaming, “Yeah!” but in their minds, they were still screaming, “Fuck yeah!” But then they noticed that they had burned all the flowers, grasses and weeds—the things that used to bring them joy. In the middle of what used to be their village, stood a mushroom. A poisonous mushroom that the bears and boars knew not to eat and that could make a perfect gnome home. But the bears and boars would never return and Prophet, the fox, could now roam the forest like a king. The story could not be taken back.

Reflection:

I noticed it was difficult to memorize the story in a short time span, especially the dialogue and specific syntax of sentences. Even though our internet age is full of written memes, I noticed how important (if not more important) it is to have a memetic quality to oral storytelling is. The parts that were easiest to remember were the parts that were most noticeably mutated from our cultural ethos. For instance, I had no problem remembering the structure of my story, how gnomes live, the part that reflected the 10 commandments, and the “prophet vs profit part of the dialogue.” I also thought about how King mentioned that humour is important in indigenous stories. Since indigenous stories were primarily oral, humour made them easier to memorize and share. The people I shared the story with seemed to enjoy my writing style more than the oral story, but the primary reason for that is the lack of time I had to memorize the details of the story.

 

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Works Cited

Fleming, Nic. “Earth – Plants Talk to Each Other Using an Internet of Fungus.” BBC News, BBC, 11 Nov. 2014, www.bbc.com/earth/story/20141111-plants-have-a-hidden-internet.

King, Thomas. The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative. Peterbough:Anansi Press. 2003. Print.