Soupkin and the Sprite

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. At least, they hadn’t always been in this valley. Soupkin, standing mournfully over the charred remains of yet another sheep, sighed, said a little prayer on behalf of the dear departed fleecy soul, then unwrapped a pickle and cheese sandwich and began to manfully drown his sorrows in gulping mouthfuls. A particularly well fermented piece of pickle made him sputter a little, and he reached out for the horn of beer that should have been on the rock beside him. It wasn’t.

Instead, standing next to him, stood a small female sprite. This would not have unnerved the average sheep herder, except that not only was this one holding his beer mug with a most disconcerting possessive air, she was also not wearing any clothes. That is, what little wisps of cobwebbed dew she wore around her middle only served to give the impression of a man who had unexpectedly fled his bath due to the sudden shouting of ‘Fire!’ in the streets below. This did not seem to worry her in the slightest - if anything, she had a particularly nasty look in her eye. Soupkin knew that an angry sprite was not, as far as magical creatures went, particularly dangerous - more likely to turn a fellow into a porcupine or a chamber pot than try and tear his head off - but still he felt that this was a subject to be approached with caution.

‘I say’, he began carefully, ‘I do feel quite thirsty today.’

The sprite continued to glare.

Soupkin tried again. ‘It’s really quite awful warm by this here charred chewer. Bit of that dragon fire left, I would say. Might need that beer in case it bursts into flames, don’t you reckon?’ Emboldened by the lack of retort, he cautiously began to reach out a large, ham-like fist toward the tempting mug.

This appeared to be the last straw for the sprite. Suddenly a fierce shrieking began to fill the air, the beer mug was dropped to the ground and Soupkin, instinctively recoiling with his hands against his face (for he reasoned that a chap could still get a lot done with mole’s fingers or sticky toad hands, but a sensible face was somewhat more crucial), suddenly realised that not only had no spell been uttered, but that he was being fiercely and personally berated by a shrill voice.

‘You great, greedy oaf!’ the sprite was screaming. ‘How dare you leave your rubbish all over my nice front door! And your stupid, stupid sheep! You let them roam all over my yard - they ate my trees and my vegetables, and the last of my petunias! They defecate all over the place - and what do you care?! Nothing, you great stupid lump! I am sick to my bones of having to get up in the middle of the night because one of your ill-mannered pets has stuck a hoof down my chimney again, or eaten my washing! I am glad that this one was cooked by the dragons! At least I can have a warming blaze now and again, now that my fire place is crushed to bits!’ She was jumping up and down upon her rock with such vehemence that she slipped on the moss and slid down to the earth, still screaming with rage.

Soupkin, gazing regretfully at the moist patch of earth under his beer mug, had by this time stopped paying attention to such ill-intentioned remarks, and was scratching an itchy spot behind his ear. He suddenly realised that the noise had subsided and looked down to see the sprite, not in the least mollified, but a little more subdued after her fall from the rock, standing at his feet and looking upwards with her hands upon her hips in a most nasty fashion. As he stood, shuffling his feet a little, and wondering whether or not to be embarrassed, the sprite suddenly reached out a long hand with unpleasantly gleaming nails and pinched him, hard.

‘Ow!’ yelped Soupkin, leaping upwards and restraining himself from kicking the little imp on the way back down. ‘What was that for? You know, you’ll never get anywhere being so jolly beastly to folks! I can’t help what my sheep do! Have you ever tried to tell a sheep what to do?’ He had found his topic and continued with an aggrieved air. ‘They just look at you and keep on eating. Have you tried herding sheep? No, I bet you’ve never worked a day in your life, you self important magical bludger! We folks don’t have spells or whatnot to make them type our letters or fetch us our groceries like you could if you wanted, so don’t you dare start complaining to me about inconvenience. I can’t harvest snails or drink dew drops; I’ve got to work for my living and these blasted dragons keep blowing up my only source of income, so don’t you start giving me stick about sheep dung and missing petunias, you jumped up mud sponge!’

A sudden image of a walking chamber pot with frogs eyeballs made him bite his tongue. The sprite, in the meantime, had turned a wonderful shade of purple and was slowly beginning to levitate above the ground as little flickering flames started to emerge from her ears. She took a very deep, foreboding breath and opened her mouth but just at that moment, an enormous roar shook the valley and a dark cloud appeared on the horizon.